Rag is a young adult orc in his mid-20s, lean and wiry for his kind, with the kind of quick hands and quieter step that most orcs never bother to develop. Born into a violent warband that prowled the rugged borderlands, he learned early that charging headfirst into battle often ended with a quick death. While his larger kin smashed through shields and roared war cries, Rag discovered he had a natural talent for moving unseen, picking locks on captured strongboxes, and striking from the shadows when no one was looking.

A disastrous ambush on a heavily guarded merchant caravan changed everything. Most of the warband was slaughtered. Rag survived only because he stayed hidden, quietly slit the throats of two sentries in the chaos, and made off with a pouch of coins, a fine rapier, and a set of thieves’ tools. That night, he decided he was finished being expendable muscle for brutal chieftains. He slipped away and began surviving on his own, as a scout, cutpurse, and occasional hired blade for anyone who paid well and asked few questions.

Now Rag has drifted into the dangerous West Marches, drawn by rumours of rich ruins, forgotten treasures, and fat merchant caravans ripe for the taking. He still carries the brutal strength and darkvision of his orc blood, but he prefers stealth, speed, and a well-placed dagger over loud frontal charges. Gruff, cynical, and always watching for the next opportunity, Rag trusts almost no one, but he’ll work with others if the coin is good and the risk is shared.

He speaks with a rough, gravelly voice and often flashes a toothy, slightly crooked grin that makes civilised folk uneasy. Rag carries twin daggers, a rapier for more elegant work, a light crossbow, and the thieves’ tools he “acquired” years ago. A faded brand of his old warband’s symbol is still visible on his left shoulder, a reminder of the life he walked away from.