Borg

Description:

The Lieutenant’s Sons
In the City of Etaynnon, there was a certain Noble woman by the name of Nessa. She was beautiful and clever, perchance the most in both categories in the whole of the kingdom. It was customary, then, to marry such a creature to a man who would lend his reputation and career well to her estate. There was no other candidate for her hand more suited than Lt. Borg. A light haired man, tall for a human, who had dedicated his youth to training and his adult life to the defense of Etaynnon.
Constantly rising through the ranks, was he. Soon to be the youngest of the Kingdom’s generals, some said.
Nessa’s parents saw his progress and his impressive lineage and pledged their daughter to the young Lieutenant. She was to be immediately sent to him by carriage to Piper’s Gorge, where he had been recently accepted to serve (despite being only at the age of 19).
The carriage ride to the Gorge was short and could be elongated only by the savage weather.
Borg waited for his betrothed for almost a day, when she was to only take hours. Scouting from the uppermost level of the Gorge, he saw nothing in the distance. Then, after two more days of waiting, a woman was found near the gorge.
Brutalized, was she. Her dress torn to rags and her jewels pulled from her neck, leaving long red cuts in her throat.
Twas Nessa, Borg recognized. Even with her clothing tattered and her skin bruised, her beauty was intact. She looked up to him through swollen eyes, asking, “I have come for you, my dearest Husband.” And with her strength usurped with one sentence, her head fell to the side in unconsciousness.

Once Nessa had recovered, she recounted her tale to the men in detail. She had been ambushed. It was as if the savages had known where she would travel and had waited for her. The ground had been soft and wet, impeding the horses and frustrating her guards.
The flashes of lightning masked their approach, but not even the thunder rolling across the sky could silence their howls and roars.
Her guards, all well trained and well paid men, began to fall from crooked arrows from the trees. Those that remained alive attempted to run, falling into the swords of those assailants hidden along the road.
The noble woman was alone and unprotected, and a man entered into the carriage. It was an Orc.
A tall grizzled looking beast of a man with long tusks and a breath that stank of liquor and rotten meat. His stench filled up the carriage like a fog, seeming visible and corrosive to all it touched. It was as if the grotesque smell that touched every bit of Nessa’s skin was even more invasive than his hands upon her arm and throat.
The night was loud with rain and thunder, the frogs chirping and the crickets screaming. The rumble of the pounding droplets of rain atop the carriage’s metal top did well to conceal the laughter of the Orcs outside to Nessa’s ears. The shower did nothing, however, to dampen her screams.

The warriors in the Gorge stared wide eyed as she showed her scars and boasted of her survival. She had used her wit and charms to turn the Orcs against one another and escaped, collapsing hours later from her wounds the warrior had given her.
Lt. Borg was enraged and immediately led a small platoon of men to find her assailants, but the orcish war-band was gone, lost to the savage Northern Hills.

Lt. Borg was left distressed. His bride had been deflowered and defiled by savage hands, would it be appropriate for him to marry her? Would the nobles begin rumors of her tainted flesh? No. He would have mercy. She was still beautiful, and still of very wealthy lineage. The addition of her Signet ring to his estate would prove to be essential in his quest for more influence. She would be his, and they would breed a stock of child to rule kingdoms and slay hordes.

Once again, the lieutenant’s plans would not come to fruition. Months after their engagement, his fiance’s navel began to grow out. He had vowed to his parents never to touch her before they wed, and had stayed true to his word. This child must be of the beast that took her that night.
The pregnancy was shorter than most, ending with Nyssa’s middle section being quite larger than most women’s, even in the peak of pregnancy.
The child came one winter morning, with no complications on the birthing table.
As Nessa gasped for breath in the hospital, Borg took the child from the midwife and wrapped it in his official occasion commandant’s coat, given to him for excellent service. The child was male, with dark hair and light green skin. His eyes were expressionless and he uttered not a single whimper or cry when expelled from his mother, much to the surprise of the mid-wife. This child had no eyes of a beast, nor the cry of an animal.
Borg took the child out of the medical tent and pulled the coat from off his face, allowing the light of the winter sun and the eyes of the lieutenant’s men to see the newborn.
“Hear me!” cried Borg, his face filled with the pride of a father and the ferocity of a warrior wronged. “This child is my son, regardless of his Blood! I shall raise him as my father before me raised his children. He will grow to be a warrior as I am, and as all my forefathers were. He shall lead armies and destroy the hordes.”
The men were shocked by this turn, and whispered amongst each other. Was this child to be a nobleman? Was he to receive the armaments of those of purest lineage?
Borg look to his men, sensing their disbelief, then found himself gazing into his Son’s eyes.
“His Name will be Trent. And he will be the great fighter he was born to be.” He spoke half to the men, half to the boy. “And one day, when he finds himself in the ranks of The 6,000 Strong, we shall take him and his first platoon to meet his birth father. And he will smite him down like the savage he is!”
The crowd of men nodded their approval, truly this child (borne of nobility and savagery, alike) would be best to lead them against the barbarism of the orcish tribes.

Borg, satisfied with himself, covered Trent in his coat again and walked him back into the tent to see his mother. Entering the tent he heard the groans of pain and the screaming of a baby. There was Nessa, upon the table, giving birth to a second child.
The lieutenant nearly dropped Trent before handing him off to a nurse.
“What is the meaning of this? You gave me no notice of twins!”
Nessa cried out and expelled the child, once again screaming, into the midwife’s arms. The child was darker than it’s brother, and already had small tusks coming from it’s lower jaw.
Borg didn’t know what he could do. He barely any time for one child, let alone two. This plan to raise Trent had been impromptu to say the least, he had no plans for a second half-beast child.
The Doctor declared it a boy. Of course, it was. Why would the gods bless him with a daughter who may have a chance at being more easily nurtured than a small sized savage child?
Perhaps the fates were testing him, thought the lieutenant, (but like all tests) he would pass with flying colours.

This second child he dealt with rather easily with the help of the cleric of Hieronius who baptized the two boys with holy water.
“Why not let me take him to the College with me? You and Nessa may visit when convenient, and he will prove that our laws and society and transform even a child so tainted with barbarism into a scholar or gentleman.”
Borg had his doubts, but conceded. He could not raise two twin half-orcs, it would be impossible if he had any desire to advance in the ranks in the army or the Gorge. He wrapped the second boy-child in a shredded towel that had been used for washing the birthing equipment and handed him to the priest, promising that he would visit often with the Boy’s mother.

The First Child, Trent, became an instant success. His prowess with a spear became legendary among his fellow students. Although he left many tutoring sessions early, and showed up for very few of them, his power grew and grew until he held the esteem of every war-tutor in Etaynnon at the age of 10.

The second child, (later named Durg, after the ancient Orc Paladin of Heironius), was sent to the Genesis College. Despite hard work and hours of Study, the child learned little of the clerical arts until allowed to examine a greater selection of Gods, after which he did moderately well, but did not exceed in any studies until he was in his early teens.

Nessa assisted the Lieutenant’s career for years, working hard to influence nobles and acting as a diplomat and liaison on behalf of The 6,000 Strong. She and her husband, within a mere five years of their marriage, had built and empire of influence among the citizens and nobility of Etaynnon.

As he did every time he met with the boy, Borg (Now called General Borg, thanks to his own genius and his esteemed wife) began noticing the exceptional prowess with which their son Trent commanded his spear. He excelled in every combat exercise without attempts to practice. On the fifteenth anniversary of his son’s birth, the General offered the boy a chance to participate in the trials at Piper’s Gorge. This would make Trent the youngest warrior to enter the Gorge, beating his Father’s record of age 16.

As General Borg entered the training ground, what he saw shocked him. Trent was surrounded by his peers, all with drawn weapons. He alone stood against them with spear in hand. His eyes were shot red and his voice roared at them, making many of the other cadets lose their nerve and drop their weapons.
As the General watched the exchange of blows that followed, he laughed. Those that had dropped their weapons were the first to be stricken down by Trent’s spearhead. He struck without mercy, aiming for the spots not protected by their armors.
Once all but Trent lay unconscious or had been wounded terribly, Borg began clapping. The boy was magnificent, and would bring his father great honors in the near future.
“Well done, Son. Very good!” He cheered, watching from the medical tent where the boy’s victims lay groaning. “We’ll have you taking the fight to those savages soon enough!”
Trent looked at his father and started towards him with the spear, raising it above his head.
Borg barely had time to dodge left as the spear came flying towards him, barely missing his face.
The trail of blood led from the spear’s tip to the wound on the General’s face. When he looked back towards his son, Trent was already rushing towards him and past him to retrieve the spear.

Borg was already calling his guards as his son picked up his spear and began running out of the yard into the woods.

He had lost his son, and been wounded by a child. His men could not find him anywhere.

(To be completed later)

Bio:

Borg

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