Grotargh Stonecleaver

The skirmish played once more like flashes behind heavy lids - The scouting party had come to warn the elves, had entered the newly erected village with the intent of speaking peaceably. But, a young elven archer had let fear cloud his judgment, greeting the orcs with suspicion and letting his arrow fly before the scouts had gotten past rough introductions in broken elvish.

The arrow had struck Grotargh, his surprised bellow shaking the birds from the trees. Chaos ensued, and the orcs had been outnumbered - fighting for their clansmen before being pushed out and forced to retreat. Grotargh had been wounded worse, at a disadvantage with an arrow piercing his shoulder just right, and had at some point had grown dizzy from the poison lacing the arrowhead. He fell unconscious, watching as his brothers left him in the dirt at the mercy of the jumpy elves.

Grotargh groaned, the small elven bed protesting under his weight. His feet hung off the edge of the bed, and he felt groggy, met with pain as he tried to sit up. He grunted, reaching for axes that were not there as he tried to get his bearings, slowly coming back to full alertness. The fear then crept in, as he realized he’d been abandoned - wounded and split from his clan. He growled curses in orcish, falling and hitting the wooden floor as he tried and failed to get out of bed, his legs asleep and tingling from the position in which they’d draped over the bedframe.

“Where am I?” He rasped in elvish, trying to control his temper as he searched for any sign of the one who had tended him. “Why mend me?”