My name is Garrok Halforcen, and I am a son of two worlds. My blood, a blend of orcish strength and human ingenuity, pulsed with a relentless determination to forge a path of my own. It was the discovery of a newfound power that would set me apart, a power born of fire and smoke—Black powder.
It was the Dwarves who discovered the explosive potential of Black powder, a byproduct from mining certain ores. In the past it was often discarded as useless debris, until one of their alchemist discovered it's explosive properties when mixed with certain other compounds. They found that the resulting explosives made of "Black Powder" made it easier to extract raw ore and create new fissures, they harnessed it as a tool for mining. It didn't take them long to use the same explosives in the form of their bombus or bombs when defending their settlements from intruders. But during the previous great war the dwarves invented a new weapon that focused the explosive power of black powder. They called it the “Gunnhildr” or Gun for short. With their giant siege guns and handguns, they called pistols, used in tandem with their shield walls, they defended their mountain citadels. Now bands of Dwarven Rangers with their long guns patrol the Dwarven lands, defending their territory and enforcing the Dwarf King’s law. After the war this innovation spread beyond their realm, finding a home among the gnomes and goblins. Yet, amidst the races of the world, Black powder remained an enigma, met with skepticism by some and even disdain from staunch traditionalists who labeled it a coward's weapon.
I was born into a traditional Orcish clan, my father was as a formidable warrior. He taught me the ways of the hunt and leatherworking, skills that would serve me well in the years to come. My mother, a human slave, had been a merchant's assistant. In her apprenticeship, she had learned the art of reading, writing, and mathematics, knowledge she passed on to me. Little did I know how much her teachings would help me in the future.
I first bore witness to the awesome power of black powder when a band of human bandits, armed with crude pistols, spears and nets. They descended upon our clan's camp, their shots ringing out, killing our warriors with terrifying efficiency. My mother died being hit by a rouge shot, my father in his berserk rage manages to cut down several bandits before he died. His body riddled with shot. Those of us who survived were captured, including myself. The memory of that day, etched forever in my mind.
Several days later I was separated from the other captives, and sold to mining camp, where my days were consumed by the harsh labor of the mines. However due to my half-human heritage I was given slightly better treatment than the other slaves, and allowed the “privilege” of running errands for the camp. I would often accompany the camp hunters, carrying and skinning game, tanning the hides, crafting and mending leather equipment to be used by the camp or sold to passing merchant caravans. Or working in the camp’s forges, and performing tasks for the workshop.
It was there that I met him, A dwarf everyone called “master Caveshield”. He was a Dwarven engineer whose job was to make explosives for the mine, and craft guns for the hunters and guards. Due to my status as a trusted slave, I was often ignored, so I was able to observe the master work and listen in on any discussions and arguments between the master and his apprentices. Through observation and eavesdropping, I began to grasp the rudiments of the craft. No one knew I was literate, so I was able to “borrow” several manuals from master Caveshield’s collection, and copy notes using writing materials I stole. The master just assumed the missing manuals and writing material where being used by his apprentices, not knowing the half-orc slave was the culprit.
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In secret I studied and labored tirelessly. After much trial and error, I eventually managed to craft my first Gun, using salvaged tools and scrap. A crude pistol that was more akin to a pipe with a handle. Inspired by my success an idea started to form. Deep in one of the nearby mines I discovered a small chamber with a crevice letting air in while digging. Over time I was able to make the crevice big enough for myself to squeeze through. I spent weeks smuggling supplies into the chamber. Finally, when I felt it was the right time, I started my plan to fake my death and escape.
Making sure I was seen heading for the mine and using some explosives I made, I orchestrated a cave-in and hid in the chamber. Waiting for the shaking to stop I went through the crevice, with my pistol and supplies, and escaped to the wilds.
From that moment on, my life became a tapestry of survival, exploration, and development. For years I lived a solitary life. Wandered the wilds, hunting game, and mining precious ores where I could find them. I would trade wild game, pelts and ore with passing goblin and dwarven merchant caravans for supplies. In my wandering I would often stumble upon the remains of failed caravans and abandoned wagons salvaging what I could. This provided me with the tools and materials I needed to for my travels and to continue my experimentation with Black Powder.
Fortune smiled upon me one day while I was searching one of these ruined caravans. Most of the wagons had been ransacked but I found an untouched blacksmith’s wagon, a traveling forge, along with several boxes of ore. While searching the site I discovered some old tracks which I followed on a nearby cave. Inside I discovered the remains of a dwarf riddled with arrows, he was clutching a fancy chest. Inside was a beautifully crafted metal hatchet of dwarven make, with a thin handle. I later showed it to one of the dwarven merchants I often traded with and he identified it as a Mithril hatchet.
With my salvaged traveling forge I would continue with my experiments. I would often offer my services to the caravans as a blacksmith or as a guard. It was during my watch when a pack of dire wolves attacked a caravan I was protecting. I thinned their numbers with my rifle from afar, when they got too close, I scattered them with one of my grenades. I finished off the Alpha with my hatchet while the other guards dealt with the other wolves. Several of the caravan's hunters and I chased the last of the pack back to their den where we finish them off. In the den I found a pair of Dire Wolf puppies which I adopted as my beast companions and hope to train as mounts one day.
After that day, my reputation grew. Whispers spread among the caravanserais of a traveling Orc blacksmith who uses guns. With my Dire Wolves I could scout and hunt game, and my expertise in both blacksmithing and combat made me a sought-after mercenary for many caravans.
And so, I wander this vast land, my possessions tucked away in my salvaged wagon and traveling forge, pulled by mighty wild oxen I had tamed, accompanied by my loyal Dire wolves. My attire bears the marks of my craft— several pouches housing the paper cartridges and grenades I painstakingly create. I wear leather armor which I crafted from the beasts I have slain, and a cloak made from the pelt of the Dire wolf alpha. The constant use of black powder guns and explosives has left its mark, with powder burns adorning my hands and face like battle scars. But it is my trusty rifle and pistol, guns of my own making, that never leave my side. Alongside them, I carry my trusty hatchet—a mithril testament to the ingenuity of the dwarven smiths. With steel rings adorning my left thumb and forefinger, I conjure sparks to ignite fuses and unleash the destructive potential of my grenades.
This is my story—a tale of innovation amidst tradition, of a half-orc who defied the beliefs of his kin and set forth on a path paved with smoke, fire, and the unyielding will to shape his own destiny.
Living life my way.