[Jo'Kurr]

Origin of Jo'Kurr

Rain was crashing down upon the soil with dark clouds looming over the small hovel made of logs and mud near the orcish caves in Sosaria.

That’s when it was born, the young orcling who had no name. His mother lost too much blood and was hemorrhaging internally and lost her life immediately after the orcling’s birth. The orcling only cried and screamed with his new lungs, looked through his blurry set of new eyes, and tried to hold on to that last bit of hope that his world was not crumbling.

The father discarded the orcling, placing him in a crudely made satchel and dragging him across the cold, wet grass, until they reached the road a mile north where the father left the crying orcling.



It was a full day before the young human peasant woman found the starving orcling lying on the side of the road, the satchel now in ruins; the orcling had tried to eat it to simply make it through the night.

The peasant woman scooped up the orcling in her arms and immediately took it back to her small home with her husband and their two children. The father seemed despondent and obviously didn’t want anything to do with the orcling brought into his home.

It was only a week before militia men from Yew discovered the orcling held in the peasant family’s home. They arrested the peasant father and took the orcling with them. But they did not kill it; they gave it to their commander who ended up riding to Britain.

The commander left it in the hands of guards at the castle of Lord British. The guards looked at the little orcling with his red eyes and his already jagged teeth. The thing was barely a week old but already looked like it could kill.

No one wanted it until, finally, a young man known only as Jester took the infant and decided he would train the orcling and bring him around the world in an attempt to make him apart of a faire act, an attraction, something to make him money.

When the orc grew to be fifteen years old, and after long training, Jester and he first went to the theater in Skara Brae to perform. The orc was a sensation among the guests and soon word spread and by the third night in Skara, Jester made nearly one hundred thousand gold.

Jester gave the orc his share (which was a measly twenty gold pieces) and told the orc they would soon be going to Nujel’m, the beautiful desert island full of riches. The orc grunted and placed his gold in his pocket while Jester stood proudly, coin on the brain.



In Nujel’m the city was everything Jester said it would be, for him at least. After spending a week there, performing four shows, Jester walked out of the palace with two hundred thousand gold. The orc got even less of his share this time and was told by Jester he’s lucky he got that.

The orc continued this for a full year until he turned sixteen years old. Jester woke him from his sleep as they were in Moonglow that month, giving a show to old mystics and mages.

It was this night, after the show, that Jester gave the orc a name and called him simply Joker. The orc, Joker, was given a new act in which he would dress like a clown and entertain patrons until Jester came on stage. Joker was no longer a sidekick, but a poor opening act just to keep guests happy.



After the last night in Moonglow, Jester packed and when he stepped outside of his tent Joker was there waiting. He swung a heavy war hammer through the air and hit Jester in the kneecap. Both could hear Jester’s kneecap shatter and Joker watched as the human yelled out and topple to the ground.

While on the ground, Jester begged and pleaded but Joker was not listening, all he heard was the deafening ringing in his ears, his heart beating almost out of his chest, the grip tightening on the hammer.

Joker lifted the hammer up high and brought it down with a loud crash onto Jester’s head, obliterating it, leaving only mush and broken bone. Joker slung his hammer over his shoulder and left Moonglow, heading back to the hovel from whence he came.



The road was harsh, but Joker killed many on the way, eating some to survive, while others he simply killed for the enjoyment. He still had his clown makeup on from the shows, but it was running and dirt was visible, as well as some fresh and some dried blood.

When he reached the valley where he came from, he immediately was filled with hatred. He trudged through the mud, the muck, the grassy wetland, until he reached the hovel and he saw the big orc stacking wood. He looked to Joker and sighed simply.

It was the father, Joker’s father. But pain was all Joker felt inside as well as anger and loathing for his orc who left him by the road sixteen years earlier. Joker wanted him to feel the same pain.

Joker brought his hammer down into his hands, walked up to the orc who only stood, ashamed, now realizing what he did wasn’t the way and he didn’t even scream out when Joker hit him up the side of his head, busting it open.

The father fell to the ground with a thud as the blood poured out of his caved in head. Joker put his hand in the blood, brought it up to his own face, and with an index finger he grew a jagged smile around his own lips and up his cheeks.



He slung his hammer over his shoulder once more, and wandered aimlessly for a day until he saw in the distance, the great orc fort, the one that held many orcs.

His new home. And they would soon know him…

… as Jo’Kurr.