Kingdoms of the Second Age
Lonestrand "Hank" the Scrunt
Half-Orc Ranger, killer of monsters
Loner, hermit, yearns to be human. Hates evil monsters who kill people. One with nature and the elements. Likes to swing his axe.
Scrunt was his given name, but he prefers to go by Lonestrand – or Hank to his friends (he has no friends, but if he did, they could call him Hank). He yearns to be human and feels that killing evil creatures of the world brings him glimpses of his less savage side. He probably hunts bigger creatures (or he hunts the shit out of orcs, we’ll see how the rolls go), but he loathes his paternal ancestry. His widow/human/farmhand mother moved to the woods once she found out she was with child and raised him alone to keep him from those that would kill or hurt him. She knew the pregnancy was a result of one of the horrible orc raiding parties that killed her family and friends.
His mother grew ill during his younger adolescence and one day while he was out looking for some medicinal herbs, he heard someone approaching along the path. He saw it was a ranger, and he appeared unaware of his presence. Fearing for his life, he deftly blended into the foliage. After he thought the ranger was gone, he crept out of the bushes. But Scrunt stumbled as he saw, with the corner of his eye, the medicinal herbs he had been looking for. The snapping of twigs was more than enough to alert the ranger and an arrow pinned his sleeve to a tree.
The ranger was so impressed by his mere presence – which until now had in fact gone unnoticed – he gave pause before killing the young half-orc. “What’s your name, beast?”
“Scrunt,” he whined and started to cry.
“That’s a horrible name. Take this hankie,” the ranger said with his arm extended as he melted from the forest. He wore a large hood that obscured his face and flowing robes covering heavily worn armor, making him look almost like a specter with disembodied floating limbs with a handkerchief. For the first time in his life, this lonely greying man knew pity. “My name is Lonestrand, what are you doing, boy?”
A few years later, Scrunt’s mother died from her ailments and the Ranger, who had checked in on him from time to time, took him on as a ward. The years were unkind to the Lonestrand Ranger and as his health faded over the next decade, he taught Scrunt everything he could about fighting, magic, tracking and the like. Before his death, he gave him one final useful tool: his moniker.
“Lonestrand is a name known across these lands, Scrunt. Take it and use it well,” then he died. Lonestrand the Scrunt kicked ass for a few years, did some traveling and worked as a guide to less discerning clients.
Ten years later, Lonestrand rarely leaves his shack. His great axe is used to cleave lumber more than skulls these days, but he keeps it deadly sharp.