Kiakara's Story

I never want to know the pain and fear I felt those nights again. I'd never felt so alone, so helpless. It only hurt more to fight back, and my life wasn't worth fighting for. I waited in a small crate for the only thing I had to leave me.
I don't remember anything about my family, if I'd even had one. My earliest memories reflect my days in an orphanage, and even then I was never too happy. I shared my small room with three other children at a time, each moving in and out as families found them. I used to envy them, the homes they received, but I grew to love the rooms I created in the forest- places where I could be alone and draw in the earth. When I turned 50, or when I was told I was, I gave up my bed to a small child name Elinore, a sweet little girl who cried often. For as long as I'd been there I'd been delegated a small bunny toy named Floppins. Floppins had kept my company for a long time, but I entrusted him to keep Elinore happy from then on. I left the orphanage some time later.
I didn't really know where to go, and I didn't care as long as I was alive. I drifted along, literally following the winds until I reached where they took me. I looked for work, and found it.  They were always painful and tiring, and I earned little; what I did earn bought me the smallest amounts of food necessary to live. It wasn't too bad. I made homes in trees and found abandoned crates to sympathize with. In each place kind library staff lent me books they could spare, and I learned a lot. I drew a lot in the dirt too, but just like my jobs, they disappeared in the mornings and I had to move on.
The years went on, and I tried my best to manage. I stayed in some places longer than others, but what kept me there never seemed to stay. I guess I'd done pretty okay by myself, I'd reached my seventies after all. But that's when things started to change. As I grew older the economy grew weaker, and small jobs were becoming scarce. The only things available were quests, and I had no experience with anything. I wanted to become an adventurer so I could get paid enough to eat regularly, but I didn't have enough to buy even basic equipment. Eventually I got over it and kept looking for the things I'd always done.
Around when I turned 78, things got really bad. I had to manage eating scraps and small berries I found in forests to stay alive. I couldn't find work, and the people I was meeting were no longer gracious or kind. I'd been thrown out of several shops when asking for work, and libraries refused to even lend me ruined books. Times were really tough. I couldn't find any trees suitable for living, and I was forced to sleep in a crate in an alley in the middle of town. One night some drunks wandered out of tavern next door to the crate, and somehow found it amusing to beat me brutally. I was weak from malnutrition and starvation, but I tried to fight back. The more I fought, the harder they kicked. Each night they came back, and my body deteriorated and bled. After the first few days I stopped fighting back, but they kicked just as hard. I had no work, no money, and nowhere to hide.
I couldn't help but cry. I was bruised, broken, bleeding, starving, and alone. I was terrified of everyone and everything, and what little words I had left me completely. It'd been over a week since I'd eaten anything. I drank from the fountains when I had the strength to move, but often left blood trails citizens complained about. The drunks had kept coming back, and each day I grew nearer to someone I regarded as friend. I'd hoped that he'd take me away soon so I wouldn't feel pain anymore. That night, as the drunks found my blood once more, I didn't get my wish. I couldn't see or hear, but midway they stopped. The next thing I knew their blood was mixing with mine on the ground. I don't remember a lot of what happened after. When I finally woke up a few days later I was in an inn with a stranger, the man who'd saved me from death. I was mortified. He was an orc that seemed to me twice my size, and I hid in the corner for many days after. I couldn't hear anything said to me, or speak, but what I assumed what was a cleric came and dressed my wounds often. I couldn't eat very much, and regurgitated half of every meal, but with time I started to heal.
After a week of this I started to be able to comprehend what I was hearing, and the cleric told me I was lucky to be alive, but I didn't understand why I was there or what was wrong with me. I still couldn't speak, but he told me I had broken several ribs, suffered from internal bleeding and blood loss, severe bruising, but starvation had nearly killed me first. One day the cleric told me there was nothing else he could do, and that the rest of the healing was up to me, and left.
I don't know how long I stayed in that room until that point, but the orc had never left me, as far as I knew. He tried to talk to me, I think, but I never replied. He didn't seem offended I never spoke, and his simplicity puzzled me. He often told me his name was Grog, and to eat more. He told me he was a fighter, and he'd fought lots of things. He said he saw a pretty elf and bad guys, and he beat them up. It was hard for me to believe that this was why I was saved from death, and by the simpleton orc no less. It didn't take me long to realize I was much more intelligent than Grog, but I was eternally grateful for his help so I didn't question it.
One day he stopped telling me about himself, and asked me my name. After a minute of trembling I muttered that I was Kiakara. He asked if I had a home, and I shook my head and started crying. He scrambled about, unsure of what to do, but ended up hugging me until I stopped. He said, "You be with me, pretty elf. Train, eat." He gave me a ridiculous outfit, a metal and cloth bikini top and slit skirt. I didn't know what to think, but gladly accepted them over my blood-stained tatters. We left the inn and wandered to a shop where I nodded that I wanted to be a ranger, and I was given a longbow and a full quiver.
We traveled together from then on, doing quests and wandering about. I was wary of his lack of intelligence, but Grog seemed to deeply care about things, so I trusted him and followed his every instruction. I finally started to regain weight, and my ribs were becoming less visible. I grew stronger, and learned a lot. Even though I'd made progress, coming from being a homeless, starving peasant, to a servant of an orc and becoming a ranger, I still can't speak more than 3 words. Grog doesn't seem to care. I eventually figured out that although he wasn't smart he could read facial expressions fairly well, and I get around the need to speak that way.
I've finally started to live since then. Even though I've only been following Grog for a short time, what I feel is my debt to him causes me to never stray from his side. I dislike walking around in the outfit he gave me, but whenever I'm stared at or approached Grog threatens the intruder and I feel safe. In battle he protects me, and I do my best to help him. I know I'll be a good ranger someday, and one day I'll pay him back for his kindness. For now I'll silently follow him wherever he goes, and we'll fight what crosses us.