"Some people see me and they think the worst. I'm the son of two half-orcs – both my grandfathers were full-blood, from the Barakash Clan. We had a big family, and we tilled the land together. I helped out at the local smithy in Goodbrook too; my arms and back were strong, and I could work the bellows all night, even if I'd been out in the fields all day.
That's why I was in Goodbrook when the owlbear came down from the hills. There were 200 people living in Goodbrook, and within a few minutes there were 190. I went after it with nothing but my bare hands and, I don't how, somehow I took it down. When I woke up I was in Lastlight, getting my wounds taken care of.
Maybe in Altamar and a few other places half-orcs get respect, but the further you get into the mountains the more prejudice you're likely to get. I don't fit in so well in the city either. Beyond enjoying the drink in the bigger towns a little too much, my greatest weakness is that I miss things that others just seem to get. Social cues sail over my head and my mother says I've never had much common sense, but I'm clued in enough to know that it's a blind spot.
The one thing about me that people don't expect is that I'm smart. When I was recuperating in Lastlight, one of the things I started doing was asking questions. Within a few weeks I'd demonstrated enough curiosity that Master Ebben let me into Stonebridge College's library. The things I learned! Stuff I'd never have dreamed about in Goodbrook.
My family look after the farm now, all except for my two sisters who've gone down to join one of the rebel farmers' groups that seem to be cropping up down in the Heathlands. I've travelled a bit now with Master Ebben – to Altamar a few times, and once up as far as Tervingen in the north-east. But since leaving Goodbrook, it's been pretty much Lastlight and the College that have been my home.
Now if you excuse me, that lady over there wants to buy me a drink if I show her my owlbear scar…"