OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION
Name: Muk
Age: 34
Title(s): Warden of The Wastes / Blood Prince of Clan Ghor
Nickname(s): The Blood Giant / The Cannibal / The Berserker Prince
Sex: Male
Magic Affinity: Strong
Appearance: Muk is an enormous, heavily muscled orc, far larger than any normal warrior. He stands well over two meters tall, with a broad, barrel-like chest and arms thick as tree trunks. His body is covered in countless scars, evidence of centuries of battle. Muk's skin is a grey, swamp-born green, mottled with black and brown patches like dried mud permanently fused to his flesh. Veins bulged across his arms and neck like thick roots pushing through soil, pulsing with violent strength. His face is harsh and predatory: a square jaw, deep-set eyes that burn with a wild, battle-hungry intensity, and a permanent expression that feels halfway between a snarl and a grin. He has short, wild hair, raven black in colour; he has the look of an ancient, feral war god rather than a civilised knight. Even when calm, he radiates danger, like a restrained beast.
STRENGTHS:
Physical Prowes
Frightening Presence
Master of Combat
NEUTRAL:
Bloody Rage
No Ambitions
WEAKNESSES:
Stuburn
Lack of Patience
Bound By Duty
BIOGRAPHY:
Muk is the younger brother of Muz Gro-Mak, the current Warchief and head of Clan Ghor, and the blood-successor to the legendary Orc King Mal Gro-Mak who once reunited the scattered tribes and reestablished orc supremacy in the wastelands out of reach of the blackened keeps and cities of Malamac. Under the rule of King Mal gro-Mak, the lands knew an age of rare peace. Orc bellies grew full, war drums fell silent, and for the first time since the dawn of memory, an uneasy truce held between the orcs of and the Mud Elves of Malamac. That age ended not on the battlefield, but at the feasting table. The old king died choking on his own meal, his life stolen by something as small and ignoble as a mouthful of food. Yet few among the clans believed it to be a chance. Whispers spread through the long halls and war-camps alike: that elven poison had found its way into the king’s cup, that the Mud Elves had struck in secret to shatter the unity Mal gro-Mak had forged in his people's blood.
If the unity of the wastelands was to survive, the beasts who ruled them could not hesitate. A throne left empty is an invitation to war. The clans demanded a successor, a hand strong enough to hold the Bone Throne and keep the warbands from tearing each other apart. By law, by blood, and by tradition, the crown fell to the firstborn. It was Muk’s elder brother who was destined to claim the Bone Throne and become Herald of the Clan. Muk, by ancient custom, could have challenged this claim. A Trial of Gore would have decided which brother was worthy to rule. But Muk never desired crowns, command, or dominion. Power over others held no allure for him. His heart belonged only to battle. From early childhood, their father had shaped Muk into something other than a ruler. He was isolated from the rest of the brood, told again and again that he was not meant to live as other orcs did. Where his brothers were trained as warriors and leaders, Muk was forged as a weapon.
In a rite as cruel as it was sacred, the King cast Muk into the fighting pit against all his brood-brothers. The battle lasted until only Muk remained standing. Bleeding, half-mad with exhaustion and fury, he was then forced to consume their hearts and flesh, so that their spirits would be bound to his own and their strength would live on within him. The shamans named it a Rite of Devouring, an ancient and forbidden path to forging a soul too heavy with war to ever know peace. But the King was not finished. Through dark and forgotten rituals, he bound the Berserker’s Blood-Rage into Muk’s veins, an ancestral curse among the orcs. It is a sacred doom, placed only upon warriors who are meant to be living sacrifices, sent into battles from which no return is expected. Those who bear it are said to fight with the strength of ten and the sanity of none, their spirits burning so fiercely that even death struggles to claim them. Such warriors are honoured eternally in the Long Halls, their names carved in bone and sung by war-drums for generations. Thus Muk became a storm given flesh.
He does not seek to rule. He does not seek to conquer. He seeks only one thing: a foe worthy enough to finally slay him. To die in true battle, by a hand strong enough to earn his end, and to be remembered as the greatest and most fearsome orc to ever walk the blood-soaked lands of Malamac. Yet fate bound him to duty. When his brother ascended the Bone Throne, fear took root in the new Warchief’s heart. Muk was already stronger. Already more beloved by the warriors. A living legend in the making. The people whispered that the Berserker Prince would one day take what was his by right, even if he did not desire it. So the Warchief exiled him without chains. Muk was sent to the borders. He was named Shield of Malamac, Warden of the Wastes, and given command of the outer warbands. Officially, it was an honour. In truth, it was a political exile, a way to keep the most dangerous orc far from the throne. Now Muk roams the frontier like a living calamity. He crushes raiders, monsters, rival clans, and wandering warhosts. He is the first and last thing invaders see when they step onto orc soil.
Peace has settled over Malamac, and it sickens him. There are no great wars. No worthy champions. Only small skirmishes, petty threats, and endless patrols. His blood howls for something greater. His curse yearns to be fulfilled.
