MXCoriginal
| |
| Marcus Xan Crug Originalus | |
| Game Name | |
| Race | Orc |
| Gender | Male |
| Class | Warrior |
| Professions | Mining Skinning |
| Guild | Alea Iacta Est |
Mining Skinning
Physical Description
(Work in progress)
Personality
MXCoriginal is an awkward character. For starters, he has a constant fear of sneezing inside his helmet, to the point at which he refuses to wear helms, and stick with hats(preferably his Brown Brewfest Hat). He is also deftly afraid of mages.
He also has a bad reputation with the Blood Elves, which rivals his reputation concerning the Alliance, namely the gnomes. This may be due to several skirmishes with the high elves about 3-5 months before Sylvanas was killed.
A confrentation with a centaur clan left him without a sense of smell.
History
Marcus Xan Crug Originalus was born in a small orc village located in Dun Morogh. It was a peaceful village, who often traded with Dwarf merchants.
Childhood
As a child, Marcus's father taught him how to use an axe in the forest, to which he quickly mastered. He loved to wander about in the forest behind the village, and dreamed of one day venturing past the mountains he woke up to each morning. The Dwarves were what most facinated him, though. They were only slightly bigger than himself, and yet decades older. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. The dwarven translator always had a story to tell with the older members of the village, and young Marcus would sneak under the caravan every now and then to listen to their stories of faraway lands where you didn't need to wear a woolen shirt every day and places where the beasts grew to be bigger than a human!
Of course, eventually he learned of the constant fighting between the orcs and the humans, but his little village was in the middle of nowhere, and the thought of people hating each other to the point of murder confused his young mind.
Early teens
After his eleventh birthday, Marcus began to discuss his dreams of exploration with his father and the village elder. Of course, due to his age they were skeptical and sought out to protect him and the other children from the threats posed by the outside world. However, it was his mother who saw something in him. In his eyes was a longing to explore, not the eyes of a magician or a monk, or a merchant, but a warrior. They were the eyes of his grandfather, who once aided in the defence of his home town for three days from an entire clan of ogres, who fought without remorse. She saw those eyes in her son. Young Marcus was not destined for the village.
Although the dwarven traders begrudgingly refused to take a 14 year-old orc child with them on one of their treks north, after much bribery and a free chicken they eventually settled on dropping him off with a small, northern-borne troll caravan in Loch Modan to avoid and possible confrentation with humans, before being on their way. To this day, Marcus has never returned to his original home.
Late teens
At age 15, MXCoriginal had grown to enjoy hunting for food with the tribe. They mostly hunted boars, but when possible, they would hunt larger game, such as raptors and bears. He also learned how to properly skin animals.
Marcus had his first encounter with humans at age 17. After a long day of trekking through the Arathi Highlands in the rain, they stopped for the night not too far from the side of a road. Unbeknownst to them, they were bieng followed by a band of human mercenaries for some time, and they picked that night to stage their assault. MXCoriginal awoke to a troll sitting on a stool in the tent, broken axe in one hand, the end of an arrow in the other, which was protruding from the right side of his torso. In his agony, he noticed the orc during a loud crack of thunder and kicked a shield towards him, and gestured towards the mountains inbetween skrieks of pain. When Marcus tried to disobey the troll and fight, the troll smacked him across the face with the handle of his axe, and continued to point away from the fighting as he was coughing up blood. After taking the hint, he shouldered the shield, crawled under the back of the tent, and ran, disoriented, away from the now burning camp.
He awoke the next day in a cave, covered in dried mud, and with nothing but the clothes on his back and his shield. The trolls had passed their survival skills on to him, and he knew that he could survive for years as long as the game was good enough and he had a place to hide. He spent the next year and a half trekking nightly west to the Foothills, where he built a shack high in the mountains north of Durnholde Keep, where the game was much larger, at least in his eyes.
Onward
(more to come)