Going feral

I did not die from old age. Not that I thought it was in my cards anyways. Creatures like me – half human and half orc, warriors by trade are not expected to live long. But it’s clear that I didn’t die either – I think most undead have better things to groan about than to philosophy from their tombs. Not that I expect a tomb. Or a monument.

I expect gnawed sun bleached bones on an ancient forgotten battlefield or the den of some dungeon hollow. After all; I’m not in it for the prancing nobles and the preening glory seekers. I don’t have long speeches to deliver before each skirmish or corny one liners calling out the gods in their favor or curse. I seek fortune mostly, have no use for medals and titles. Gold – or better things to armor myself with or swing.

I have reincarnated. It’s an odd thing this power. You are reborn, with barely a thought of what you were with a slight remembrance, like a distance fog or the many years that preceded it. Out of the chaotic ooze of magic – the bosom of the raw creative force, taller, stronger, wiser…and new. Well, new born is a tall tale. I didn’t have to go through the birth circumstances of my spawning – my father the Orc, raping a human villager and me left for dead, birthed in a bush –  again.

I didn’t have to slay my biological father again. Or the grueling tutelage of my step father – the daily beating and scorn that followed.

One day I gazed in this perfect sphere of light, the soft lingering voice like small bells in my ears. And then – reborn. Fresh faced and snot nosed – almost the same age as when I spoke to the globe, I found myself in a star lit void with ancient marble pillars talking to a woman, recanting my first stumbling steps. My old life, reborn anew.

I barely remember who I was. A fighter. And now – a barbarian. Rage comes natural to me. There was something oddly reaffirming to go back to the bank and dig among the dusty artifacts I’ve collected through the years and find that great axe I once avanged my true father with. Carniflex. It’s razor sharp edge, barely touched by dust – still wrapped in a blue wrapping, with old brittle strings. The well oiled and maintained head and sturdy solid oak handle. Well worn. Well used. And as lethal as ever.

That was months ago.

So much have changed; so little remembered, but one thing remains. I don’t fret. Today my rage is not my bane. As it were back in the day when it fogged my mind. My true (step) father used to berate me for forgetting the lesson of the intelligent warrior. The one that kept their heads straight and clear. Cunning, tactical and improvising. It served me well. But it strained the very nature of my birth and what I was. Maybe that is why my father always shook his head as I gave into the primal side of me. Where my vision turned red and the adrenaline coursed my body and filled me with fury.

Today that is my strength. And others bane. I don’t worry about dazing them or trying to trip anyone. I’m a whirlwind reborn. Always in the thick of the battle, reveling in carnage and laughing as I see the fear bubble inside them. I don’t worry about the small things. The plan that takes me there, the exit strategy that saves me when things go wrong.

To me – at the moment I enter a battle or dungeon, death is my way out and their death my exit strategy. You might think that makes me weak. Easy to defeat,

I suggest you don’t try; there’s no profit in slaying you for mocking my ability, something I’d do without a single reflection. But if that is what you wish, don’t be surprised by the outcome. That’s not mindless bragging. It’s a reality, with my scarred skin as a reminder and canvas for others failures and my dauntless, unrelenting nature.

My name is Dakuulun. If I’m not visiting a local tavern for a tankard of ale and some hot food you’ll find me flushing out the worst hell holes around. Feel free to join.

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