Gurny of the Middlelands

Gurny of the Middlelands

In the corner of a certain bar sits a man talking to a barmaid.

“You want to know about me?” The man in the long leather coat asked as he ran a hand across his scared scalp. “There’s really not much to tell to be honest.”

“I was born in the middle kingdoms. My father was the local blacksmith, my mother died giving birth to me. When I was young my father taught me his craft and we lived a simply happy life—until the raid.”

“The horde descended upon our village like darkness fills the night sky in winter,” he said as he stared at the fire. “My father was killed in the first wave. I picked up his hammer and swung it as hard as I could at the orc’s head.”

A rueful smile comes to the man’s face, “I know in the stories this is the part where I kill the foul beast with a single blow and go on to drive the orcs out of the village but that only happens in the stories.”

“My blow glanced off orc’s skull, he back handed me and gave me my first scar,” he points to the thick scar that goes all the way across his forehead, “knocked me out straight away. When I awoke, I was aboard a slave ship heading east. I had been sold to be a servant to a nobleman.”
“My time in the slave pits were amongst the darkest of my life. 14 years working in metal and learning the secrets of the eastern blacksmiths,” he motioned to his “staff”, “I stayed there until I was rescued by my fief-lord.”

“It was the dead of night when the slave cage door was wrenched off its hinges and there he stood. Flaming sword in hand. I knew then that I would follow him until he decides that he no longer needs my service. That was a long time ago, but it is what brings me here today.”

Gurny of the Middlelands

Once more into the fray chuckm