Weak, sickly, cold, skinny, and pitiful.
These were the only words the old master Zuzjana could find to describe the little orkish boy he saw day after day begging for food out front of his deli. Long gone were his days of adventure in service of the Tir Tairngire military. Not only was his body too old, but his spirit too weary, too hardened by the things a soldier sees over a career, especially a career as long as an elf's tend to be. He had years ago let go of all the misery and anger from what he called "the bad ol days", and had finally started to enjoy life again. Of course, there was no real meat in the deli, but he was a master of seasoning and could fool even the most discerning of palettes into thinking there MIGHT just be some actual ham or turkey in any sandwich he made. He'd forgotten about the killing and made peace with himself when that freezing cold little ork boy on the streets brought him RIGHT back. How many kids like this had he seen in his life and done nothing to help? Well hell with it, THIS one, he was going to do something, by the GODS, he was.
The little boy was only 6, already nearly puberty for an ork, but he was showing no signs of it, due to malnutrition. His name was Jimson. He had no parents and rarely spoke, never having been taught much more than "Shut the fuck up!", "Get outta here!", and "Stop crying!" by his parents before they disappeared. The kid was too young to understand was cram was or what it does to people, but from the few stories the kid would tell about them, Zuzjana became fairly certain the boy's parents were junkies. It was about a year later his suspicions would be confirmed.
It turned out that Jimsons father had owed quite a debt to his dealer and had sold him his son to repay it. The dealer immediately put the boy to work, panhandling on the streets for him, along with a small army of other children in similar situations, so it took a while before one of them was noticed, and a bit longer before he was tracked down to Zuzjana's deli. Three rough street types came to the apartment above to take back what was theirs and teach the old man a lesson about who owns what around here. Zuzjana tried to speak with them, to work something out, but by the end of the conversation, weapons were drawn and blood was spilled. Jimson had watched as the old elf had quickly and efficiently dispatched all three of them in a blur of motion, taking less than 4 seconds between when the guns came out and when the third man hit the floor of the deli. Zuzjana tried to shield the boy's eyes from the carnage, but it was too late. He had seen the fight. He had seen it and he had loved it more than anything he'd ever seen in his life.
It took nearly another year, but Jimson finally convinced the old master to teach him. He was near frantic to learn about the sword and the gun, to become a great warrior, and in the end, Zuzjana only agreed to teach him the sword, and even then, it was masked as "helping the boy catch up to the level of physical development of his peers" even though both student and pupil knew this was a lie. The little ghetto kid wanted the power to defy those who sought to oppress him and the the old master wanted his legacy, no matter how tarnished, to live on. They both got what they wanted.
Seven years later and the wild as the streets he came from boy was now a master of the elvish curved blade, not only it's physical style, but its accommodating and introspective philosophy as well; "Observe before acting. Give when you can and take when you must. See yourself in the world and it in you." He's odd for an ork. Not only is a bit smaller than the average, but also calmer, kinder, gentler. He rarely speaks although he's usually smiling. He tends to try and find the humor in everything, the silver lining if you will. He's not very smart, but he is well read and has a great respect for intelligence.
He still keeps in regular contact with Zuzjana and the two of them are closer friends than either have ever had, but he doesn't live at the deli anymore. He decided that although he would be eternally grateful for everything the elf had done for him, it was time to make his own way in the world. He's fifteen years old now, already a man.
Since then, he's been squatting in a condemned mobile home, trying to figure out his next move. He keeps his boots on the street as often as he can, making certain he knows what's going on in the city.
I finally came up with a handle for this guy, "Skinny Jim"
