Post by DM Cyphus on May 11, 2006 16:03:20 GMT -5
Urthur the Wounded
The young boy had been wounded badly enough that he was taken to the healer to have his wounds tended to. For many of the slaves, this was a rare respite from the various harsh tasks set before them by their master, though it came at quite a cost usually. This one couldn't be more than 18. He wasn't, in fact, much younger than the Ilmatari healer. But the Ilmatari had always felt older than he truthfully was, and no one would have dared question his maturity at 18.
He had not seen this one before. Likely the boy was a new acquisition for Cronabilis, their Wizard master. The healer merely nodded to the men who'd escorted the wounded slave to him and kneeled before the boy, investigating the wounds. The men were slaves who needed to return to their work, and had not the time to spare for words. Of course, that wasn't the only reason they didn't speak to him.
As the boy rolled over on the ground and looked up at the humanoid tending to his wounds, he shied away quickly and tried to roll away on the ground. The healer held him steady, clearly having to spare no extra energy or take his mind away from what he was doing to accomplish this. "Lay still," he explained, "I am caring for your injury."
This wasn't the first time he'd been responded to in such a fashion, especially where a Human was concerned. Humans and Elves seemed to have a special dislike for any and all things Orc...particularly Urthur, it seemed.
"I have heard of you," came the odd reply from the startled boy. Urthur found it hard to blame him for being so surprised. The Gray Orc was massive compared to most humanoids, and even kneeled down on the ground his full height and size was daunting. Standing, Urthur nearly reached seven feet tall and easily weighed 250 pounds. The toned muscle was not pleasantly shaped as those of human knights and warriors who appeared to have physiques built by sculptors. The evidence of Urthur's strength was shaped by the wild. The muscles in his chest and arms bulged and stretched the skin in ways that seemed almost unnatural. His body was draped by a gray robe, and on his head, covering the thick mane of dark gray hair, he wore a skull cap that seemed oddly out of place. Around his neck, hanging by a silver chain, was a small wooden medallion etched with two hands bound by a small wire or cord. The boy recognized the symbol instantly as that of the Crying God, Ilmater. The Ilmatari were well-known all throughout Faerun as caretakers of the sick and the dying.
Still, more eyes were drawn to to the Orc's face. The mane of hair on his head managed to mostly escape the skull cap's covering, and what emerged from beneath it resembled Human hair. It was a darker gray than the hair that lightly covered the rest of his body. The skin not covered by hair on his face and arms looked much like a Human's might if the species tanned gray rather than brown.
There was a harsh contrast in his eyes, however. While the Orc's appearance seemed rather dreary with the massive amounts of gray skin and hair meshed together with the standard gray robes and skull cap of the Ilmatari, his eyes burned brightly and almost leaped out from his face. They were a deep red, an unnatural color to all but the Gray Orcs, and the only hint of color afforded Urthur.
The last remaining facial feature of note was the large scar that stretched from just below the Gray Orc's left eye and descended straight down to his chin along the left side of his mouth. It was a vicious cut, but one that had healed. Clearly, it had healed without the aid of any magics.
"You have to be the strongest slave here," the boy started in with what sounded like more of a question than a statement, "why are you not working as the rest of us are?" Now the tone had become accusing. Less patient members of his race might have been offended at this, insisting that Humans rightfully belonged in the role of "slave," and not the powerful and mighty Orcs. Still, Urthur allowed the boy this uncourteous behavior.
"I am not the strongest, though I understand why you might think that. I believe the Goliath that works for our master is in fact the strongest of us all. And there are possibly many men here at least as strong as I am. Our lives do not often yield to the physically weak," Urthur explained, "And I am often found working as you do. Right now though, I am tending to your wounds. This is where my duty takes me for the present."
Urthur bowed his head and began to speak what sounded like a prayer in another language. As he spoke, the scratches and tears in the boy's flesh were healed. When the prayer was finished, Urthur began to speak a prayer in Common, "Oh, Crying God, aid this boy in his recovery and give him the strength to endure the pains of his labor. I, your wounded servant, humbly request this."
Urthur stood, revealing his full height. Cautiously, the boy stood, looking about to insure no one was near or listening. The Orc dwarfed the young boy by at least a foot and a half. "Will the guards listen to you? I mean...could you grant me some time away from my work?"
Urthur merely sighed. There was nothing he could do for the boy. "I can only heal you and send you back, I'm afraid. Were the guards to catch wind of what we were up to they would surely make life all the more difficult for us both. On the other hand, should the others hear of what I'd done for you, every one would ask for the same favor. Too many of us laid up would draw the anger of the master, which would be infinitely worse than whatever the guards do. I must send you on your way if you are capable, so that I might grant reprise from work for those who truly need it. I am sorry," Urthur explained.
The boy seemed to understand this, though anger was seeping in and out of his expressions. Finally, he nodded in acceptance. Whether it was because the boy truly understood the point Urthur had made or simply because he was afraid to argue the point with the Orc, Urthur wasn't entirely sure.
"I can buy you a short respite, though," Urthur added with the hint of a smile, "but it will not be long."
The boy smiled and nodded his thanks, "I would appreciate that, though I wish it was longer. What is your name?"
"I am Urthur the Wounded, but you may call me Urthur. Few do, I'm afraid. Most refer to me as the Healer. They do not see it fit to call me by my name because I am an Orc, yet they do not refer to me as they do the other Orcs because I am their healer. They are unsure if I am a friend or an ally because I remain so complacent in my servitude."
"What do you mean?" the boy asked.
"I do not complain about my lot in life, and, as you were in a way, they are angered that I do not grant them more time away from their labors. They believe I aid their master and captors because I do not aid them the way they wish I did. I merely accept my place for now, and know better how to handle my trust and responsibilities placed before me," Urthur's voice was deep but not scratchy or guttural. It was smooth, like that of a great storyteller, not that he ever told stories of any sort.
"Why do they call you 'the Wounded'?"
Urthur nodded at this question from the now-inquisitive young man. "It is because of this physical scar," Urthur pointed to the long scar on his face, "and because of the scars of my past. I have fought many battles, for my soul and for my life. Where once I brought suffering to others, now I ease it to make penance for my sins. The Crying God grants me the ability to make this penance and do what is right."
"Why do you not rise up against our master and the wrongs he commits against us all?! Is that not the teaching of your god and your saints?" the boy asked in outrage.
Urthur did his best to calm the young one, "Were I to rise up against our master, I would surely be struck down. My powers do not match his, by any means. While the Lord Ilmater teaches that a meaningful death is a wondrous and worthy thing, I have struggled with this issue for some time regarding my own situation. For if I, one of the 'strongest' amongst you, were to rise up and be beaten down without a thought...would not it discourage the rest of you from organizing and ever fighting back for your freedom ever again? This is the matter that I concern myself with. Time and prayer will reveal the truth."
The boy did not seem to accept this. "Why do you not call on the aid of the church? Surely they would be outraged if one of their own were held in slavery? The mage would not fight against a whole church!"
Urthur held up his hands in an attempt to silence the young man. "Calm yourself. That would depend largely on who they sent, young one. But it matters not. I chose this path. It is my destiny to be here."
"You chose this path? How is it that this came to be?" The boy was confused and angered by this idea. How would one like Urthur willingly give into slavery.
"I was in Damara when I crossed paths with Cronablis for the first time. For all the great wizard's wondrous powers, he knows not how to heal the wounds of others...nor did any in his employ possess the ability. He left the healing of his slaves to nature and the gods. My god intervened. I spied a woman in the Wizard's number that was badly injured. A miracle had stabilized her, but still she lay unconcious. I begged the Wizard to let me treat her wounds, and he willingly granted my request. I brought her back..." Urthur paused for a moment.
"That doesn't explain how you got here?" the boy said, either ignoring or missing Urthur's pause.
"I have not told this story to any before," Urthur explained, "Most do not care to hear it."
The boy was just buying time, Urthur realized, but still it was nice to speak to someone. "Please, go on," the boy said anxiously, looking about to see if anyone was coming to fetch him.
"She was a beautiful woman," Urthur continued, "though none would have realized it because of her station. When she regained consciousness, she did not flinch from fear as most do. I did not need to hold her to examine the wounds further. She let me willingly. Her eyes...they..."
The boy just looked curiously at him, clearly uninterested in the tale, and simply relishing the moment of peace from labor. Still, Urthur continued on anyway.
"They were accepting. And so...I offered my life for hers. My case was easily made. I was stronger, and clearly capable of healing magics he needed amongst his slaves. He agreed...and my freedom was traded for hers."
Urthur went silent for a moment and closed his eyes. After a brief moment, he spoke again. "Guards are coming. You must be prepared to return to your work."
"How do you know?" the boy asked.
"I can smell them and hear them." As urthur finished speaking, two guards, as he'd said, appeared behind him.
"Is that one ready to return to work, Healer?" they asked him.
"Yes, he is," Urthur explained. The two guards escorted the man back to wherever it was he'd been before, as the scent of two guards and another slave caught Urthur's attention. Someone else was in need of healing.
The young boy had been wounded badly enough that he was taken to the healer to have his wounds tended to. For many of the slaves, this was a rare respite from the various harsh tasks set before them by their master, though it came at quite a cost usually. This one couldn't be more than 18. He wasn't, in fact, much younger than the Ilmatari healer. But the Ilmatari had always felt older than he truthfully was, and no one would have dared question his maturity at 18.
He had not seen this one before. Likely the boy was a new acquisition for Cronabilis, their Wizard master. The healer merely nodded to the men who'd escorted the wounded slave to him and kneeled before the boy, investigating the wounds. The men were slaves who needed to return to their work, and had not the time to spare for words. Of course, that wasn't the only reason they didn't speak to him.
As the boy rolled over on the ground and looked up at the humanoid tending to his wounds, he shied away quickly and tried to roll away on the ground. The healer held him steady, clearly having to spare no extra energy or take his mind away from what he was doing to accomplish this. "Lay still," he explained, "I am caring for your injury."
This wasn't the first time he'd been responded to in such a fashion, especially where a Human was concerned. Humans and Elves seemed to have a special dislike for any and all things Orc...particularly Urthur, it seemed.
"I have heard of you," came the odd reply from the startled boy. Urthur found it hard to blame him for being so surprised. The Gray Orc was massive compared to most humanoids, and even kneeled down on the ground his full height and size was daunting. Standing, Urthur nearly reached seven feet tall and easily weighed 250 pounds. The toned muscle was not pleasantly shaped as those of human knights and warriors who appeared to have physiques built by sculptors. The evidence of Urthur's strength was shaped by the wild. The muscles in his chest and arms bulged and stretched the skin in ways that seemed almost unnatural. His body was draped by a gray robe, and on his head, covering the thick mane of dark gray hair, he wore a skull cap that seemed oddly out of place. Around his neck, hanging by a silver chain, was a small wooden medallion etched with two hands bound by a small wire or cord. The boy recognized the symbol instantly as that of the Crying God, Ilmater. The Ilmatari were well-known all throughout Faerun as caretakers of the sick and the dying.
Still, more eyes were drawn to to the Orc's face. The mane of hair on his head managed to mostly escape the skull cap's covering, and what emerged from beneath it resembled Human hair. It was a darker gray than the hair that lightly covered the rest of his body. The skin not covered by hair on his face and arms looked much like a Human's might if the species tanned gray rather than brown.
There was a harsh contrast in his eyes, however. While the Orc's appearance seemed rather dreary with the massive amounts of gray skin and hair meshed together with the standard gray robes and skull cap of the Ilmatari, his eyes burned brightly and almost leaped out from his face. They were a deep red, an unnatural color to all but the Gray Orcs, and the only hint of color afforded Urthur.
The last remaining facial feature of note was the large scar that stretched from just below the Gray Orc's left eye and descended straight down to his chin along the left side of his mouth. It was a vicious cut, but one that had healed. Clearly, it had healed without the aid of any magics.
"You have to be the strongest slave here," the boy started in with what sounded like more of a question than a statement, "why are you not working as the rest of us are?" Now the tone had become accusing. Less patient members of his race might have been offended at this, insisting that Humans rightfully belonged in the role of "slave," and not the powerful and mighty Orcs. Still, Urthur allowed the boy this uncourteous behavior.
"I am not the strongest, though I understand why you might think that. I believe the Goliath that works for our master is in fact the strongest of us all. And there are possibly many men here at least as strong as I am. Our lives do not often yield to the physically weak," Urthur explained, "And I am often found working as you do. Right now though, I am tending to your wounds. This is where my duty takes me for the present."
Urthur bowed his head and began to speak what sounded like a prayer in another language. As he spoke, the scratches and tears in the boy's flesh were healed. When the prayer was finished, Urthur began to speak a prayer in Common, "Oh, Crying God, aid this boy in his recovery and give him the strength to endure the pains of his labor. I, your wounded servant, humbly request this."
Urthur stood, revealing his full height. Cautiously, the boy stood, looking about to insure no one was near or listening. The Orc dwarfed the young boy by at least a foot and a half. "Will the guards listen to you? I mean...could you grant me some time away from my work?"
Urthur merely sighed. There was nothing he could do for the boy. "I can only heal you and send you back, I'm afraid. Were the guards to catch wind of what we were up to they would surely make life all the more difficult for us both. On the other hand, should the others hear of what I'd done for you, every one would ask for the same favor. Too many of us laid up would draw the anger of the master, which would be infinitely worse than whatever the guards do. I must send you on your way if you are capable, so that I might grant reprise from work for those who truly need it. I am sorry," Urthur explained.
The boy seemed to understand this, though anger was seeping in and out of his expressions. Finally, he nodded in acceptance. Whether it was because the boy truly understood the point Urthur had made or simply because he was afraid to argue the point with the Orc, Urthur wasn't entirely sure.
"I can buy you a short respite, though," Urthur added with the hint of a smile, "but it will not be long."
The boy smiled and nodded his thanks, "I would appreciate that, though I wish it was longer. What is your name?"
"I am Urthur the Wounded, but you may call me Urthur. Few do, I'm afraid. Most refer to me as the Healer. They do not see it fit to call me by my name because I am an Orc, yet they do not refer to me as they do the other Orcs because I am their healer. They are unsure if I am a friend or an ally because I remain so complacent in my servitude."
"What do you mean?" the boy asked.
"I do not complain about my lot in life, and, as you were in a way, they are angered that I do not grant them more time away from their labors. They believe I aid their master and captors because I do not aid them the way they wish I did. I merely accept my place for now, and know better how to handle my trust and responsibilities placed before me," Urthur's voice was deep but not scratchy or guttural. It was smooth, like that of a great storyteller, not that he ever told stories of any sort.
"Why do they call you 'the Wounded'?"
Urthur nodded at this question from the now-inquisitive young man. "It is because of this physical scar," Urthur pointed to the long scar on his face, "and because of the scars of my past. I have fought many battles, for my soul and for my life. Where once I brought suffering to others, now I ease it to make penance for my sins. The Crying God grants me the ability to make this penance and do what is right."
"Why do you not rise up against our master and the wrongs he commits against us all?! Is that not the teaching of your god and your saints?" the boy asked in outrage.
Urthur did his best to calm the young one, "Were I to rise up against our master, I would surely be struck down. My powers do not match his, by any means. While the Lord Ilmater teaches that a meaningful death is a wondrous and worthy thing, I have struggled with this issue for some time regarding my own situation. For if I, one of the 'strongest' amongst you, were to rise up and be beaten down without a thought...would not it discourage the rest of you from organizing and ever fighting back for your freedom ever again? This is the matter that I concern myself with. Time and prayer will reveal the truth."
The boy did not seem to accept this. "Why do you not call on the aid of the church? Surely they would be outraged if one of their own were held in slavery? The mage would not fight against a whole church!"
Urthur held up his hands in an attempt to silence the young man. "Calm yourself. That would depend largely on who they sent, young one. But it matters not. I chose this path. It is my destiny to be here."
"You chose this path? How is it that this came to be?" The boy was confused and angered by this idea. How would one like Urthur willingly give into slavery.
"I was in Damara when I crossed paths with Cronablis for the first time. For all the great wizard's wondrous powers, he knows not how to heal the wounds of others...nor did any in his employ possess the ability. He left the healing of his slaves to nature and the gods. My god intervened. I spied a woman in the Wizard's number that was badly injured. A miracle had stabilized her, but still she lay unconcious. I begged the Wizard to let me treat her wounds, and he willingly granted my request. I brought her back..." Urthur paused for a moment.
"That doesn't explain how you got here?" the boy said, either ignoring or missing Urthur's pause.
"I have not told this story to any before," Urthur explained, "Most do not care to hear it."
The boy was just buying time, Urthur realized, but still it was nice to speak to someone. "Please, go on," the boy said anxiously, looking about to see if anyone was coming to fetch him.
"She was a beautiful woman," Urthur continued, "though none would have realized it because of her station. When she regained consciousness, she did not flinch from fear as most do. I did not need to hold her to examine the wounds further. She let me willingly. Her eyes...they..."
The boy just looked curiously at him, clearly uninterested in the tale, and simply relishing the moment of peace from labor. Still, Urthur continued on anyway.
"They were accepting. And so...I offered my life for hers. My case was easily made. I was stronger, and clearly capable of healing magics he needed amongst his slaves. He agreed...and my freedom was traded for hers."
Urthur went silent for a moment and closed his eyes. After a brief moment, he spoke again. "Guards are coming. You must be prepared to return to your work."
"How do you know?" the boy asked.
"I can smell them and hear them." As urthur finished speaking, two guards, as he'd said, appeared behind him.
"Is that one ready to return to work, Healer?" they asked him.
"Yes, he is," Urthur explained. The two guards escorted the man back to wherever it was he'd been before, as the scent of two guards and another slave caught Urthur's attention. Someone else was in need of healing.