Day after day, his hands were calloused by relentless labor, his heart hardened by a deep-seated resentment towards humans. The sun had barely risen over the horizon when he would drag himself from his cot, the chains of his past clinking with every step. Memories of the harsh days of toiling under the watchful eyes of human overseers haunted him, each day blending into the next in a blur of exhaustion and bitterness.
This internal struggle found its reflection in the oppressive air of Purskul, a city where the echoes of thinly veiled slavery haunted his bloodline. The air was thick with the stench of rotting grain and sweat, mingling with the harsh cries of fellow laborers. The city's walls were perpetually grimy, and its streets echoed with the clatter of carts and the murmur of discontent.
It had been a century since the armies of Amn had enslaved his ancestors and forced them into labor camps. Yet, Zogthar often found himself staring into the distance, lost in a storm of recollections. He remembered his father’s tales of a time when his people were feared and revered. Stories of grand battles where his ancestors stood tall, their roars echoing across the plains, their might unchallenged. Those days of freedom, when they were not mere subjugated laborers to the humans who once cowered before them, seemed like a distant dream. The once-proud orcs had ruled their lands with strength and ferocity, but now those days felt like a memory slipping through his fingers as he toiled under the command of the very beings who had once feared his kind.
The face of his great-grandfather, who had once fought against these very chains, seemed to glare back at him in his dreams, urging him to reclaim the strength and honor of their lost heritage. It was not just his ancestor’s stern gaze that inspired him; Gruumsh’s voice wove its way into his thoughts, persistent and commanding. The god's voice was a constant presence, a dark anthem that reminded Zogthar of his bloodline’s formidable strength.
"Rise, my warrior," Gruumsh would growl, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Zogthar's bones. "Reclaim what is rightfully yours. The blood of your enemies shall feed the land. Take what was stolen from you and crush those who stand in your way."
The god’s promises were a fierce call to action. His nights were filled with dreams of conquest and glory, where he stood victorious over the ruins of his enemies, the weight of ancient chains shattered beneath his feet. Yet these visions were constantly juxtaposed with the harsh reality of his life in Purskul. The relentless cruelty of his human superiors, their sneering contempt, and their vicious malicious punishments only intensified his anger. Despite his relentless labor, his human superiors' cruelty never ceased.
The internal struggle grew fiercer as Zogthar’s resentment transformed into a blazing fire. Gruumsh’s constant exhortations fueled his rage, shifting his hatred from a simmering grudge to a fervent drive for vengeance. Each lash of the whip and sneer of his superiors etched deeper into his resolve, hinting at a destiny far beyond the caravans of Purskul.
Then came the fateful day when the Winter Hoard launched a savage assault on Purskul—a chaotic onslaught by a marauding horde of twisted creatures. Zogthar, bound by duty to protect the caravan he was hired to guard, stood steadfastly, his gaze fixed on the chaos around him. As the battle raged, some of the monsters breached the town's defenses, their rampage turning towards the humans who had long oppressed him.
Amidst the clash of steel and the roar of battle, Zogthar stood his ground, his gaze fixed on the unfolding chaos. His human overseers, those who had tormented and belittled him for so long, now faced the wrath of the invaders. Zogthar watched, motionless, as the humans were struck down, their screams piercing through the din of combat. The sight of their suffering—once so distant and abstract—was now vivid and visceral. Each anguished cry, each spilt drop of blood ignited a primal reaction within him. A dark thrill surged through his veins, filling him with a profound and exhilarating sense of vindication.
As the humans fell, Zogthar felt an ancient power stirring within him, as if his very bloodline was awakening from a long-forgotten slumber. The ancestral strength of his people, once a mere echo in his memories, roared to life. The brutal display of vengeance against his oppressors seemed to resonate with Gruumsh’s promises, transforming his simmering resentment into a blazing fire. He smiled, not with malice but with a deep, primal satisfaction that he had never known before. The humans' suffering was not just a moment of personal revenge but a sign of something far greater—a reawakening of his people’s lost glory.
As Purskul was gripped by the chaos of the Winter Hoard’s assault, Zogthar made a decisive choice. Amidst the tumultuous moments when the city’s defenses were being tested, he abandoned his post at the caravan. Leaving behind not just the caravan but the remnants of a life that had offered him nothing but subjugation and false security, Zogthar's departure was not a mere escape from danger but a deliberate break from his past.
With a clear sense of purpose, Zogthar set out to reclaim his people’s lost honor and exact his vengeance. He departed Purskul, into the depths of Western Amn. This marked a decisive break from his life as a subjugated laborer and the dawn of his role as a fierce avenger of his people. Driven by an unyielding resolve, his mission was to rally allies, build formidable power, and expand Gruumsh’s influence, all in pursuit of restoring his people’s former glory and exacting a long-overdue reckoning.
