Oblítus (Updated June 25, 2013)

[mattbcl]

Hello, again! It's been a while since I've posted any tales, and I think it's high time I get back on the horse and try something new. This isn't Pokémon, much as I would like for it to be, but it's a submission of creativity and I'd like to share it with you, all the same. I've been moved to offer up some writing based on the events of the D&D campaign in which I'm currently playing. I hope you enjoy!

-Matt

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Oblítus

a Dungeons & Dragons tale

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My name is Gargonn.

I have had this name since before I was born. It was my first possession. Perhaps in the end, it remains the only one I have. The name was given me by my father, who felt it would be a good, strong name for his child. He did not care whether I was male or female. Among my native race, the orcs, gender truly does not matter when it comes to naming children. To my knowledge, I am the only owner of this name. It has no meaning, because orcs use words and names that have no deeper meaning. It is just a random collection of sounds, although it resembles the name of a strong, stubborn, bull-like creature that terrifies even the most stalwart adventurer. Whether this is a coincidence or not does not matter.

My name is Gargonn.

Humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, and many other races customarily take no fewer than two names for themselves. Some races have been known to take as many as seven. Orcs see this as a ridiculous practice. It would only be necessary if there were far too many members of the same race, or if they were stupid enough to give the exact same name – or names – to many of their children. Such a practice is a sure sign of either extreme overpopulation or idiocy. Perhaps even both.

This is not to say that orcs only ever have one name. Throughout the course of his lifetime, an orc may take several names for himself, as befits his status, his stage of life, and his experiences. I myself have taken the names Blackmane, Nosebreak, and Neverwinter. But an orc will always be primarily identified, and will identify himself, by his given name, not by his taken names.

My name is Gargonn.

When you live in the Desert of Blood, you learn quickly that it is not your name that matters. What matters is survival. Therefore, there are no names shared among family members. When you survive into adulthood, that is when you are respected. That is when you are family forevermore. There is no need for a shared name, for you have already shared the experience of living through the harsh, unforgiving weather of the dunes.

This is not the practice of orcs everywhere. But it is the practice of the Blood Desert orcs. To them, there is no greater ritual that will prepare you for the harsh life of an orc than learning how to survive and adapt to the climates that nature itself will use to try to destroy you. The heat of day is as if the sun itself were offended by the sweat on your brow... but the cold of night would have you believe the moon scorns you by giving light and no warmth. There is no respite. There is no peace. There is only the will of nature set against the will of the orc.

The Blood Desert orcs believe this is the greatest trial of life. A never-ending battle against nature... a battle suited best to them, for nearly all other races shrink, wither, and die in this place. But when we have lived in this searing hell long enough, we will be rewarded for our endurance, our struggle. Each orc celebrates this struggle in different ways, and pays homage to many gods. The Blood Desert is host to no fewer than seven temples, each of them a house for a different deity – some are moral, some are immoral, some are neither. All demand discipline and sacrifice from their followers.

I always found it simpler to believe in nothing but myself, my own abilities. I trusted that if I was capable, I could see myself through the trials that befell me. Very simply, I would learn how to adapt and overcome, or I would die. I darkened the steps of no temple... I paid homage and sacrifice to no god. I was not the only one who chose to be atheistic, but I was the first of my immediate family to willfully ignore the temples in the surrounding desert.

Orcs do not live nearly as long as most other races. Ours is a violent and brutal culture, in which the strong survive and the weak are left without mercy. Even the strong will not survive very long, when compared to the others. Even humanity, with their brief lifespans, lives longer than my native race – without illness or injury, a few humans have even lived to be one hundred years old... while orcs are venerable elders when they reach sixty years of age.

In fact, I am sure that one day, the other races will live to see the death of orcs, as we know them. Perhaps not the race I was born of, but the majority of orcs will eventually be driven underground, or into other realms of existence. It will never be a dominant race here, on the Material Plane. The time will come when orcs pass on... and it seems the only people who do not already know this are the orcs.

My people have held, since first setting foot in the Desert of Blood, that the extreme climate would eventually make us strong enough to survive anything. Each generation would be better, more powerful than the last. So it was, for a time. An entire age passed, followed by another... and the orcs that lived in the Desert of Blood became their own race. Our eyes and skin turned black as they became accustomed to the sun, and we rid ourselves of this weakness that our cousins in more temperate climes still suffered. The red sand itself became a part of us, built into our skin as a layer of resistance to the realm we had chosen to brave. Some say it was a blessing, a reward for our boldness. Others claim it to be a curse, for not an inch of our flesh was spared this bonding, and everything we touched henceforth was scored by the roughness we carried – even our mates.

The Blood Desert orcs are a relatively small population, when you compare them to the grand vistas that humans, elves, dwarves, and others have built together. Eldht-Khan, Ghren-Dhomin, Nordmere – these are the cities that have thrived for centuries, and welcome all. My ancestral home in the Scar Canyon, however, is filled with orcs that suspect any who would visit. They are not immediately hostile, but they have few friends. They consider it just short of madness that anyone would wish to penetrate so deeply into the Desert of Blood as to find the canyon, let alone do any business there.

But the world is getting smaller, day by day. There will come a time when the Scar, too, is populated by more than just orcs and the occasional strangeling. It has not arrived yet, but I hope that I am long departed from this world... or at least this realm... by the time it does. I have already lived far too long, and seen far too much, to feel assured of anything except the decline and death of the people and home I have loved. I wait for my own passage not with anxiety... but gladness and relief. The burden of my life has been a heavy one, a heavier load than any Blood Desert orc could ever be truly expected to bear.

In truth, I have heard little of the Scar Canyon, these past three hundred years. I only know that my people still survive there, even after everything that happened. Perhaps they may yet ascend to a level of glory that I have chosen to scorn. I can hope for that. Failing this, I can hope that orc-ken will eventually learn to embrace the rest of the world, and coexist in it. They might have a chance for survival.

Why I should still care for them, after they have forsaken and forgotten me, is beyond my ability to understand. It is certain to be that the last nine generations of Blood Desert orcs have never heard or spoken my name. And yet, it was that sense of community among my people that encouraged my survival. Everyone had a duty to himself and each other. That sense of duty inspired me to hone myself into a creature of discipline, respecting the rules and regulations that ensured our continuation above all else.

It is responsible for the lessons I have learned in my very long life. It is how I became who and what I am now. Because of that drive to learn discipline for myself, that desire to be a greater use to my community, I sought out the means I needed to ensure our survival and strength – and upon acquiring those means, I became lost to my people for the rest of my existence.

The humans have a saying. “Be careful what you wish for.”

My name is Gargonn.

It was my first possession. And because of what I wished for, it remains the only one I have.