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Charakter ProfilDo'urr
Ist zur Zeit offline Beschreibung des Charakters r steht da wie ein lebender Steinblock, massig, breitschultrig und voller Muskeln, die sich unter der Haut wie gespannte Seile bewegen. Seine Bewegungen sind für ein so großes Wesen überraschend schnell, eine plötzliche, animalische Schnelligkeit, die an einem für rohe Gewalt geschaffenen Körper fehl am Platz wirkt. Wo eigentlich Reißzähne aus seinem Unterkiefer ragen sollten, ist nur glatte Haut und flache Zähne, was seinem Gesicht einen unfertigen, fast menschlichen Ausdruck verleiht, den man nicht ignorieren kann. Seine Augen sind scharf genug, um jede Bewegung um ihn herum zu verfolgen, doch hinter dieser Klarheit liegt eine dumpfe, hohle Stille, als wäre der Geist in ihm nie ganz erwacht. Er beobachtet die Welt mit dieser seltsamen Mischung aus Raubtiersinn und einer leeren Seele. Und selbst in der Stille ist da immer das Gefühl, dass er einen Baum brechen oder einen Wolf überholen könnte, ohne wirklich zu verstehen, warum.
Geschichte des CharaktersKeine deutsche Fassung vorhanden  o record remains of the tribe that birthed him, save the shadows of memory and the glint of obsidian. They were a people of fire and forest, who shaped heartwood and volcanic glass into weapons sharp enough to cut silence itself. Their jewelry rattled like black stars. Their warriors carried the night in their hands. Into this tribe, in a season of ill omens, a child came too early. Small. Quiet. And worst of all… fangless. To the tribe, it was a sign that the spirits had turned their faces away. The shaman called for the newborn’s blood, claiming his breath alone could unravel their fortune. His mother obeyed tradition and stepped aside, but his father defied everything an orc was meant to be. Under a moon gone pale with frost, the warrior lifted the infant from the altar and vanished into the wilds. For weeks he carried the child across broken lands, through ash-plains, over streams black with night. Enemies hunted him. Spirits whispered at his feet. But he pressed on until he found the one he sought: a hermit druid, a man who spoke with trees and listened to rivers. The father, weary and bleeding, laid the newborn in the hermit’s arms. The hermit looked into the child’s dark, unblinking eyes and nodded. From that day, the forest raised the boy. He learned the language of wind and the patience of stone. He grew strong on roots and simple stews, and though his mind wandered like a river splitting into streams, his heart absorbed the world with quiet wonder. Crowds made him tremble, a memory too deep to name, yet the open woods calmed the storm inside him. He loved food of all kinds, marveling at every new flavor like it was a hidden treasure left by the gods. He sought knowledge with the eagerness of a child chasing fireflies, even if the lessons often slipped from him before he could claim them as his own. But when he held a blade, something ancient awakened. His movements found purpose, his strength found rhythm. He was born to wield steel, though no shaman had lived to witness it. And in the fields or deep within the earth, working with soil or stone, he felt the quiet pride of shaping the world with his hands. Fishing became his secret joy. He forgot the pleasure of it every time, until the tug on the line, the sudden thrill, reminded him anew. Each catch felt like a gift from the world itself. Thus grew the child who was never meant to live: Some say the spirits spared him. In the end, the tribe cast out a curse,
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