The Rise of Tharos
Karver learned that Might Makes Right while serving as enforcer to the highest bidder. Clad in pilfered scale that is dented and marred, this hulking brute conveys raw menace as he grips the hilt of a fullblade taller than most men.
What is there to say about an outcast among outcasts? Too human for the orcs, too orcish for the humans, and too quick to anger for polite society. Karver’s mother had the misfortune of living too close to the Bloodstone Pass of Damara where orc attacks were far too common and breeding stock was just not common enough. Nine months and a bone-shattering child birth later, Karver was here and his mother wasn’t. It may take a village to raise a child, but not THIS child. If the Bloodstone Orcs were so keen on adding new blood-thirsty brutes, they could take care of the whelp themselves.
Years passed, his clan grew bolder, and a few important things started happening: Karver became very good at killing, and Karver realized he really, really liked it! What he lacked in raw savagery, he made up for in skill and the willingness to trade blows with anyone who crossed his path. As a half-blood, his place in the clan was secured only by strength of arm…and he was tested on an almost daily basis. Finally, when the clan grew strong enough (thanks in no small part to Karver’s blood-soaked blade), it became clear that there was no longer room for ‘weak links’. He was not full orc, and hence not fully of the clan. He would not be permitted to breed, he could not take leadership, and ultimately he would not share in the greater glory of the Bloodstone Clan.
The night he left, all his captured trophies and honors were burned in effigy…along with the winter foodstuffs for the rest of the clan. Leaving only with his weapons, armor, and a hungry gleam in his eye, he put the blazing encampment behind him and made his way east intent on finding somewhere to use his very particular set of skills.
In time he would fall into the company of the small (but mighty) underworld of Heliogabalus, convincing the self-righteous city watch to turn a blind eye lest that same eye be squished like a grape between Karver’s stubby fingers. As his reputation grew, so did his retainer. Hustling protection money led to breaking limbs and torching storage sheds when the citizenry failed to pay the necessary tithes to ensure continued prosperity. He became the Mediator, for his habit of bringing about a swift and agreeable (to his employer) solution to almost any dispute. All good things must come to an end, however, and it became inadvisable (on the penalty of death) for him to remain in that cesspool of piety. Setting sail with the crew of the Sovereign Folly, Karver took his act on the road (sea?) and spread his version of cold steel diplomacy wherever the wind took them.
For years this was his life, until putting into harbor at Arn’s Cove for resupply and small repairs before making the last voyage south to beat the approaching winter. Highharvesttide in a port city was as good a time as any to make some new contacts to keep him busy for the winter, which is how he finds himself at the festival that will likely change the course of his life.