Tagaryen - Exiled
As a Half-Orc in a world free of Orcs, you haven't had the easiest life. When you were born as the bastard son to the wife of the Jarl following an orcish raid towards the end of the Purge, many of the tribe wanted you thrown out. The Jarl refused, raising you as his own son, despite your bestial heritage. You have grown up amongst the tribes of the Torjic nation, a loose alliance of groups who follow a more traditional, nomadic livestyle compared to the "civilised" empire of Iserra. As a the son of the chief, you have been taught in the manner of battle to which your people are accustomed and are proficient in leather armour, weapon and shield. As you grew, your fire and rage surpassed the rest of the tribe, something the drew worried looks from some. Still, your life was tough but joyful, and over time many of the tribe found themselves able to ignore your tusks and orcish eyes.
Now over the age of 30, you had settled into the life you thought you would lead, a warrior forged in the fires of battle between the tribes. As time drew on, your father grew old and his time on the world passed, leaving your tribe with a dilemma. Most knew you and did not fear you, but feared the reprisal of letting you become leader of the tribe. Others still took it as the opportunity they needed to take control of the tribe, and they threw chains about you as a "monster". There was talk of your exile, imprisonment or execution, but a level headed voice prevailed in the form of your tribe's Shaman. Ulfgar, a human man who had been your father's oldest friend warned the new Jarl that killing or exiling you would anger not only the tribe, but the gods themselves. He suggested that you be sent as an emissary to the nearby Empire, allowing you to still act as part of tribe without being a threat to their leadership.
And so, you travelled abroad, your few worldly possessions with you, armed and armoured as a warrior on a mission of "peace". In a final twist of the knife, the new Jarl smirked as he laid the cloak of the emissary about your shoulders and decreed to your mission to you:
"I hear the Empire fought against dragons to settle it's lands. Return to us once you have proved your might to them and slain one!"
Ulfgar's face drained of colour as you shared looks with him, and the rest of the tribe looked equally downcast - there hasn't been a dragon alive in over 900 years.
As a member of the Torjic tribes, life in the Empire seems odd. You travelled south out your known world of tundras and plains and as you did, you found your way into the Empire. You knew a little of Iserra from stories some of the more travelled members of the tribe would tell, but nothing would prepare you for the lush fields and plentiful growing lands.
More than anything though, you and your two retainers – Torgadden & Garviel have noticed that the Empire is a soft land, with little conflict. The Purge completed the Empire fell to making itself prosperous and “comfortable”, something Torjic warriors would never let themselves be.
As your travels took you further and further south, seeking out places where Garviel (as the most intelligent of your small group) could find out more about any last dragons, you found your way to Wallowdale. Though the town currently seems to be under threat from the local wildlife, you were recognised as an important enough member of the Torjic tribes to warrant an invitation to the Earl’s Court and his ball.
Though you could make little sense of the courtly manners and dances, you understand food well, and the feast before you is far greater than any you have seen in a while. As you eat, you notice that some of the others near you look over with a mixture of disgust and fear, and you snarl at them as you gather up another turkey leg to tear apart. You do notice that one or two of the younger women are repeatedly looking over at you, giggling and whispering to each other. Content to leave you to your own devices, the conversation continues on for a while, your hunger easily sated well before more food is brought out by the teams of servants this man of the Empire commands.
As you’re picking apart the remains of a roast hog, more out of habit than any desire to eat yet more food, one of the young women stood up and made her way over to you, taking one of the empty spaces right by you. Fluttering her eyelashes at you in a way that makes her look like she’s got something stuck in her eye, she opens her mouth to speak, just as screams erupt from the other side of the chamber.