Origg is 4'7" tall and weights 178lbs. His eyes are black as polished obsidian, and all the copious hair on his head is as white as fresh snow. He has a wrinkled and careworn face that never the less communicates his open heart and good nature.
Origg has lived in the lowlands for a decade since his leaving Glitterholm. He has been successful as a travelling healer, moving from village to village tending the sick and mending broken bones. He has come to love the solid practical hearts of the Bruumjar, and he no longer views people though the insular and racist eyes of his old clan. Origg found a burial spot for Kholma in an Oak grove near the town of Tondfjord where he was housed by a grateful family whose son he nursed back to health over the course of a winter. The family, poor farmers, provided the spot for the burial and promised to ever care for it in memory of Origg’s service to them.
Though he has never set down in one place for longer than a winter, Origg still longs to find a home here in the lowlands where he will be surrounded by loved ones. He is loyal, kind, gentle, and has a genuine concern for the downtrodden and marginalized. Though slow to anger, once his ire is raised he is relentless in overcoming his foes by whatever means necessary, be that through reasoning with words or blades. Above all things Origg is practical. He has seen and survived a great deal of pain, and he wishes to be of service in making life easier for all those he encounters.
You will likely never be read, my diary. You are my only companion now that I have fled my home. Perhaps someday a Bruumjar (not-dwarf in the trade tounge) will pry it from my ice rimed hands and leaf through it before tearing it apart for kindling, or using it to wipe his backside. In this slowly dying world so few are bothering to learn skills like reading. We are consumed now with seeking ways to survive Father Winter who seeks to reclaim his lands for the final eternal frost. I suppose I write because it is so unlikely. I don’t think I could countenance a stranger thumbing his way through my past. Here I can confess my sins in peace. Here I can weep tears that will not accuse me. Here I can remember what was, mourn what is, and voice my fears and hopes of what is to come without facing the ever present judgment of others.
I was born Thjonar Craigg of clan Icecrown. Yes I was birthed into that illustrious noble clan that rules the Icegate fortress of Glitterholm, son of Huscarl Dhonar Craigg master of Arms to Jarl Fhmarl Icecrown. My mooir was a handmaiden to Fregga Browen Icecrown, the prince’s second wife. Mooir was awarded in marriage to my father for valor in battle, and died in childbirth giving him his only daughter, my little sister Kholma. Mooir’s name was Mjara Craigg, and of her I refuse to write more so that my unworthy hand will not sully her memory with its simple and incapable scrawl. Mooir was all that was good in my family before Kholma, and she deserves far better than I can ever offer to her memory. Mooir, I miss you still as though you had but died a week since. Most beautiful of the frost-daughters. No, I will write no more.
Poor Kholma, she was a small weak child, the labor that claimed mooir’s life was long and fraught with much darkness and sorrow, and it damaged Kholma’s health as well. She was not expected to live past that first summer, yet she did, and even through the next winter. That was the desperate year which is known now as the coming of the Isabrat Halda (Grey Ice). Her birth portended one of the worst winters the clans had ever seen, and coupled with mooir’s death Kholma was considered the harbinger of a great curse. She was shunned by our father, hated by Dunneg our eldest brother who blamed her for mooir’s death, and she grew up in the care of Glendha our feoa. There was also me of course, and I loved my little sister fiercely. Kholma was my sister in truth you see; gentleness rested upon her heart like a lover arms around her oor (husband). For all she had endured, never from her mouth was ever heard a harsh word. Though small and weak, in her dwelt a courage and a compassion that loomed larger than the Icegate, and she was my succor and comfort in the loss of mooir. Little Kholma carried the responsibility for mooir’s loss to our family on her shoulders as a burden she would never set down. No matter my protests she always thought that she did indeed kill mooir. She was never strong enough to leave her bed for any length of time to take up the duties of a frostmaiden in the Craigg household, and she constantly yearned for a way to give back to the family she felt she had harmed so deeply. This was the bitterness of her soul, and many nights I held her as she cried out her tears over the cruelty of the Gods.
With Kholma, as with you my diary, I could be myself. I could speak of how I longed for a place where life was not an ever present war with Father Winter. Where clansmen would be able to join with each other for reasons other than war, or the necessity of the hunt. Where ties of love were as valued as ties of blood, and the Icegate was open for all to pass through, as the old stories said they once were. A life where the Bruumjar were welcome in our halls, and they walked among us freely as friends and allies. A place where we could learn from each other as it is said we once did, and knowledge from beyond the glaciers was as abundant as the white of a fresh snow. The oldest and most neglected of our grimoires teach that such was once the life of the clans, we traded and even married (!) with the old lowland clans. Those clans are long dead now, as are those happier days. My musings were not appreciated by my clansmen in Glitterholm. I was called a dreamer, a malcontent, concerned with things of no value. Were it not for my skills with healing I would likely have been sent to the northern posts so as not to bring further shame to my clan. Kholma however listened to my silly dreams and we secretly nursed the idea of one day stealing away from Glitterholm and travelling to the lowlands. In the privacy of her chambers we whispered of some day living where there were no dark looks of fear and loathing cast upon us, where friends drank the rich dark lowland beer together with laughter and love. A place where my healing arts could be used to aid the sick, and not spent entirely upon the battleborn. It was a dream we had. It wasn’t to last.
In her twenty seventh year, still just a babe, Kholma was out in the commons market with Dunneg. I had no idea at the time that she had gone for I was in the Rhimvault, studying the ancient texts of the healing’s of Jhord Goldhand. I checked with Glendha later and learned that there had been no consent from her for Dunneg to lead Kholma from her bed, frail as she was. Though she oft begged to be allowed to go on the weekly shopping, she was never strong enough to endure the trip. That Dunneg did take her was pure malice dressed as compassion. That ox ass has not a bone of mercy in his entire body. He took her to the market, where the clans of all Glitterholm could see the cursed child of the Craiggs. He displayed her, the shame of the family, the harbinger of the curse, and he left her there for the crowds to savage. The Isbrat Halda had claimed the lives of many of our people, not one family existed that had not lost a loved one to Father Winter that year. Many believed that Kholma deserved to pay the blood price for the curse she had brought to Glitterholm. Dunneg knew this well, and he reviled her for the shame he felt she brought to the Craiggs, and of course most of all for mooir. Oh he later claimed that she became lost, that she separated herself from the Huscarls and wandered off by herself. He claimed that he sought her in the throng but was unable to find her, the lair. The coward. May the goddess Ertha condemn him to the hottest hell, may he never know peace, may his house forever be warm. He returned without her. Father pretended to be furious, but I now know that for the sham it was. Dunneg was sent back to find her, and I was still ignorant, wrapped up in my cursed books. Her body was located amid the south stalls and brought back to the house. She was trampled they said, killed by a frightened oxen. Dunneg forgets my healing arts. She had been stoned to death, the contusions were unmistakable. Dunneg had left her there to die, he had murdered her.
I accused Dunneg of kinslaying. Among the Iceborn there is no greater crime. Before my father, before the Huscarls I accused him and named him Kinslayer. I challenged him in my rage to the ring of justice. He just stood there in red faced anger, but he denied nothing. He knew his guilt though he pretended to be above the accusation. Dunneg. Coward. Kinslayer. Father was outraged. He was more angry at my accusation that he was distraught by Kholma’s death. He didn’t want to know the truth, he refuse to have the Hearthhealers examine her, he refused my accusations. That night, before the Jarl he renounced me as his son so that should Dunneg kill me in the ring, none would call him Kinslayer. I still name him such. My father now shares Dunneg’s guilt. That he let the Kinslayer live and refused the right of my sister to rest in her grave makes him equally a party to her murder. Before the ringfight, and before the clans that gathered as witnesses, I renounced my given name. I was no longer a Craigg by decree of my father, so I also renounced the name he gave me on my name day. I was no longer Thjonar. I took the name Orrig (sorrow) and the common name of all the clanless was given to me, Blindstone.
I had no illusions about the fight. I was going to die that morning. My brother was battleborn, blooded in a score of fights, slayer of Frost giants, considered by all to be the next member of Jarl Fhmarl’s huscarls. I was a Hearthhealer, though no longer since my father’s disowning of me. I had training in the arts of war true, but no more than any apprentice on this side of the Icegate. All the kin were trained with the spear, francesca, and shield. Dunneg Kinslayer though, he was a master armsmen, trained by my father… no, not my father any longer, by Huscarl Dhonar, from the time he could walk to wield the short broad headed battle spear of our kin, the Askr. With it he could split stones, I’d seen him do it. No, I was not going to survive the ring, but with kholma murdered I no longer wanted to. Life within Glitterholm held no lure to me, it’s ice walls were less bleak than the frozen hearts of the kin who lived in them. Bitter. Dark. Love was at thing that had long been lost in Glitterholm, and with the death of Kholma that last glimmer of hope that it would be found there for me had been extinguished. Better death defending her in the ring to life in that place. But Dunneg Kinslayer would not even grant me that.
I will not bother to write of the fight. It was over faster than the time it would take me to put it down in words. Dunneg Kinslayer stood over me, my shield riven, my spear thrown beyond the ring. How he gloated over me, his Askr at my throat. He said before all the clans that I was unworthy of a warriors death. I was Blindstone, and he would not sully his blade with my life. He didn’t have any such squeamishness with my blood however. He carved the first letter of his name on the side of my head with the tip of his Askr. I was helpless to stop him, my leg broken, my arm shattered. He then used his longkinfe to shave my head to mark my shame and to display his handiwork. I was left laying in the ringe in a pool of my blood. The Kinslayer was unscathed, may his withered soul howl in the fires of the dragon for all eternity.
My mentor, the Heathwier Hugor took me to his house where I was mended and fed. My heart was dead within me, but my body lived on. When I was strong enough, and my hair had grown such that I could be decently seen in public, I took my leave of the Heathwier, and with what small fortune I retained from my past life I purchased all that I would need to leave Glitterholm behind me. As a Blindstone the merchants charged me three times the value of the goods I needed, such is the kindness and mercy of the clans. I took to the road, passing beneath the Icegate and and the hostile stares of the gate wardens, I walked out on to the southern tradeway. Somewhere in these outlands there is a place where the ties of love are stronger than the ties of duty, or blood, or false ideas of honor. Where one chooses his friends, and values them as he does his family. I keep with me a scrimshaw of Kholma, my dearest love, my little gem. Unknown to the clans, before I left I stole into the Craigg mausoleum and took the urn of Kholma’s ashes. I could be put to death for such desecration, but I don’t care. My sister will come with me to fulfill our dream, and I will find this place where love still lives and bury her there. It is all that I can do. It is so little to do after failing her so completely.