Name: Guz’rock
Handle: Mr. Vise
Background: Criminal
Class: Swashbuckler
Ancestry: Hobgoblin
Heritage: Elfbane Hobgoblin
Birthplace: Deskal Stomping grounds –1st legion of Nirgal, The Steelwall scourge.
Heirloom: Blood Soaked Handwraps
Baseline personality:
Survivor – Hierarchal inclined – Strength dictates – Honor bound – Freedom – Fun loving – Loves war and fighting – Like a beaten dog, there lies a good boy buried deep within his scarred chest, just waiting.
Life before civilization:
Guz’rock was born into the warren 20 cycles past on the lush breeding fields at the root of the skyspear mountains. His first 6 months was spent learning not to be eaten by the Warg beasts and how to communicate to get food. This was how the warbands weak pups was weeded out. Survive in the pens and your war training would begin. By 6 months old he had a score of lives scarred on his arm from other whelps, but until scalps would adorn his belt, he was yet to be a warrior, and until he was a warrior, he would remain a runt and not to be considered in the hierarchy, and hierarchy is all.
It was not until after his fourth cycle he would be brought on his first skirmish against the hated elves of the DreadCliffs. 100 strong they went, mostly runts to be tested in battle, and only 30 returned with just 10 runts left. Guz’rock had been amongst them, and the only one to win a scalp and bring home his first great honor, however small the head had been. He had carried the scalp proudly, tied to his belt with a blood-soaked piece of elf linen.
The next few cycles were spent warring with the other Greenskins in the area as well as the damned Elves. The tenacious, Guz’rock refused to die and brought back scalps after each skirmish. Each time he would carry them home tied with the same piece of linen. His resistance to Elf Magicks proved he was of the old blood, and why he survived where other would fall. His tendencies to make his kills with as much spectacle and blood splatter as possible in front of his victim’s allies, gained him much prestige amongst the young warriors of his warband.
Unbeknownst to him he had earned a nickname with the Elves, “Bäirn Ire” “The Loathed”, they called him for his loathsome displays with their brethren. One fateful day they moved from the lush fields of the breeding pens and headed towards the legions Stronghold in the plains of the leach, when their party was set upon by the vengeful elves. It was a slaughter as the Elves had sent their finest. During the mayhem, consciousness left Guz’rock. He woke up hogtied and bleeding. The Elves had recognized “Bäirn Ire” and knowing full well how much stock Hobgoblins put in freedom and honor they had decided a fate worse than death. To be sold as a “worker” in Ghirapur as they always needed new muscle, it would be an easy bargain.
He was dragged, pulled, pushed, whipped, and beaten all the way across the lands, but he was also fed and as they neared the end of the journey, they started tending to his wounds to make sure he would be sold for a tidy profit. All the while he was clutching the blood-soaked piece of linen in his hands.
Civilization:
Ghirapur was unlike anything young Guz’Rock could have even imagined. Towers as high as the mountains of his homeland, streets cutting as deep as canyons scarring it. Machinations, Magick, buildings and maze upon maze of streets, viaducts, passageways, bridges, and gangways formed a bustling, noisy, reeking melting pot of potential for the young blood. Potential that could only ever be realized if he could gain his freedom from the Crate dragging, back breaking work he was “sold” into.
He spent the next few years working his fingers to the bones carrying the heavily loaded crates of stone from one end of the city to another. Sometimes someone would drop a crate and weird rocks, Guz*rock had never seen before would topple out. It reeked, which stone never had before. On very rare occasions, less than a handful of times, the stone would suddenly liquify and a gruesome, faceless stone humanoid would assault anyone near with complete aggression and absolute violence, leaving no choice for anyone near but to fight for his life. Once or twice, he would hear panicked voices from the escorting guards and the word “Thraneborn” uttered. Apart from that, His “Co-workers” sometimes misunderstood his seclusion for weakness making him easy prey. Many tried to take his life, and many met their end at his merciless grip. The guards would have none of it and took to him with baton, whip, heel and knuckle and he waded through life a huddled mess living in his memories of the Warg pens as if that was where he was living, instinct for survival his only sense. The blood-soaked piece of linen now never left his right hand.
One day it all changed. He never understood why, but he and many of the other unpaid workers was thrown to the streets. So, there he stood in clothes that was barely rags and nothing to eat but mud and dust. He did the only thing he knew how, prowling the alleys of low town, strangling his prey, and taking whatever loot they offered, and if they offered none they would serve as meat. It worked for a while, but in a city like Ghirapur you cannot work someone else’s turf without being noticed, especially if you don’t understand the hierarchy. It was a wet day after 2 whole weeks of rain when Guz’Rock was cornered by a band of armed men. He coiled like a cornered beast set on killing as many as possible before his end. But instead of death, a man stepped out and offered him an ultimatum, work for him or die. So, work he did and though the Hobgoblin was more than a little rough around the edges, he understood his place fast, and he worked efficiently, which was noticed by one of the superiors who promptly took him under his wing, both to groom, but also for protection. The blood-soaked piece of linen was now a constant piece of his attire.
Guz’Rock and Kalan Alvaras spent the next few years in close unison as the Hobgoblin was helped finding his stride in the immense city, and Kalan was constantly impressed with the adaptability of the Hobgoblin. He was quick and eager to learn and fast to enact any order given with no sign of remorse or conscience. The only thing that worried the young man was the utter glee in Guz’Rocks eyes when he took a life, especially when he got to savor it, slowly. But ultimately, he had earned his spurs and was given his freedom together with his handle “Mr. Vise”, naming him a member of the Syndicate. The blood-soaked piece of linen was now a part of his signature.
Guz’Rock didn’t understand this freedom and still followed whomever his current superior at the time around like a shadow, but they didn’t understand him the same way, Kalan had done, and whenever they showed weakness, he would pounce on them. Some would beat him back, but those that didn’t, died. A way of hierarchy that was so engrained in him it was second nature. The weak is weeded out. This of course didn’t sit well with the top as they were the only ones allowed to pass death judgement. Unless rules had been broken. But because of the value he proven to have, Kalan was charged once again with getting him in line.
That is how a Hobgoblin was taught basic humanity and comprehension, but however long it took no one remembers. One day though Kalan called upon the now hulking Hobgoblin.
Kalan: “Things are changing, and I have to leave. There are things I can’t get into, but I am needed, and I don’t know for how long”
Guz’rock: *Low guttural growl* “I will come with you. You need protection. It’s settled.”
Kalan: “You don’t understand, Mr. Vise. There is no way you can come with me, and I will not allow it in any case. This is personal, this is private, this is my task”
Guz’Rock: “But I am still not allowed to follow the other lieutenants. I don’t understand what I shall do”
Kalan: “It is time for you to put everything you have learned into practice. I have arranged work for you in the Union. There you will act as liaison between our parties and help them with what you have helped me with. I also know they need arms and I know you can secret things through the gates, something I know you do well. For this I have set up a meet with my contact outside the walls. His craft is as reliable as he is, and most importantly, he can be trusted. He is mixed blood, and his name is Roy Ragna”
Guz’Rocks: *Looks visibly confused* “So who will be my boss now?”
Kalan: *Chuckled slightly* “Silly me, I should have led with that. Go to the WU and ask for Bolgar. He is their leader and is always willing, if not eager to give people a chance. But mind you, don’t fuck up or he will give you the boot and knock out your teeth.”
Guz’rock: *Smile broadly* “I think I already like this one. I understand. I will succeed.”
A few moments pass
Guz’Rock: “Don’t die”
Kalan: *smiled broadly* “Don’t plan to. But on the notion of not dying, I have something for you” He handed, Guz’Rock a nasty looking short sword, serrated edges with holes to lighten it for easier handling, and singular rune was etched on the pummel. “I received it instead of payment, and to be honest it seemed more like a slicer for you. Regardless, I like my blade, it has saved me one more occasion and I would hate to replace it”
Guz’Rock: *Sniffed the blade* “Elf Magicks on a Goblin weapon. Strange. Thank you. This is a great honor.”
The WU:
Bolgar proved to be a worthy boss. In the beginning, Guz’Rock had played the part of the reliant worker and go-between for the WU and the underworld of Ghirapur in whatever unsolicited activities might be needed. Guz’Rock never failed in delivering quality weapons to the WU when needed, but that was not the only place he shopped off the Orc-Elfs craft, as the young craftsman’s reliability was a rare commodity in those circles. They had started to bond over a good professional relationship, and they always shared a good laugh and seemed to be somewhat kindred spirits. As the years rolled on, he had found a deep sense of admiration for the Dwarf. He was strong, but he bore it without intimidating others. He was shrewd but hid it behind his thick accent and slow speaking pattern. He demanded respect from all those around him, not by word but by action, by being dependable and caring for his men. These were all new things for the adult Hobgoblin, together with being accepted at face value for the first time. Even in the Syndicate, he had always been a tool and always felt estranged, but here he had med real respect and had for the first time bonded in friendship and had a bossman he wished good things for. After years he found himself wanting to work, wanting to do more, and be praised. He didn’t just want it, he sought it, which made him even better and more eager at what he had to do.
It all come down:
Guz’Rock had heard the explosion and the rumors that most of his friends had died in the cave in had already run amok. Guz’Rock was furious and everyone had left the room so he could deal with his anger. The door burst open, almost falling off its hinges when Bolgar stormed into the room. Guz’Rock spun around ready for a fight, but upon seeing the steaming dwarf, the Hobgoblin sunk unto his hunches.
Guz’Rock: “yes bossmann. I’m calm now. I will behave” thinking the Dwarf was there to remind him of manners.
Bolgar: “BLYAT, BEING CALM!! Do you know how many of MY men just died? Bernst, Donny, Brick, Tang, John, Dusty, Grewst, Gork, I could go fucking on! BLYAT! And I know they were all your druz’ya. What is word, your friends to.”
Guz’Rock just stood and looked, not knowing what to say or who to strangle.
Bolgar: “Prys’yad, take seat, listen and listen good. We were fucked by Skylords. Scum lied, told tunnels safe. Now all dead” Bolgar leaned in “I need you; I need revenge. Will Guz’Rock, will Mr. Vise help tear Skylords from fucking sky and avenge friends?”
Guz’Rocks nostrils flaired and his brow deepened “I will NOT help! I will JOIN! As long as my blood flows I vow to kill them all.”
Bolgar: “This can’t come back on WU, they can’t know about anything, and if we fail, they can’t be blamed. But we need help, we need people. Do you know anyone?”
Guz’Rock thought for a while. He couldn’t use the Syndicate, they wouldn’t want to get involved with something like this, or at least not for money they could afford. The Blood Scarfs were just thugs, and The Noose might deal with information, but that would flow both ways. Then it suddenly it dawned on him, and his red beady eyes glinted. “There is this one group I have delivered weapons to many times. They are a little bit crazy. But I have heard them talk about toppling the powers on top. Something about tearing down the cogs that run the city. They seem to be bent on sowing chaos and not be afraid to go up against the system. Arcane Supremacy they call themselves. No idea why”
Bolgar considered for a second “Set up a meet. We need crazy. We do this now”
Guz’Rock tightened the blood-soaked hand wrap on his right hand followed by a low guttural growl of consent.