The cold bit deep in the mine, a constant gnawing chill that seeped into bone and marrow. Even as a child, Arthur Darius felt nothing. Not the dampness, not the darkness, not even the tremor that brought the roof down, crushing my brother beside me. Dust rained down, coating his still form, but I simply kept mining. The other children recoiled, their faces etched with horror and disgust. They whispered about me, called me a monster. But I understood the logic of survival. If I proved my worth, if I showed the Orc overseers my unwavering dedication to labor, I might be granted a less perilous task, a sliver of safety.
I hoarded scraps of food, sharing them with the lowliest goblins and even the Orcs themselves. I worshipped them, not out of genuine reverence, but out of cold calculation. Their trust was a currency, a shield against the harsh realities of our existence. It worked. They saw my usefulness, my lack of sentimentality. They took me away from the mines, a reprieve I hadn't dared to hope for.
Then came the High Elf. A strange, elegant creature who spoke of knowledge and power. He taught me the ways of this world, the intricacies of healing, the anatomy of both Orc and human. By twelve, I was the village doctor, a title that masked a far more sinister reality.
I witnessed the rapes. I saw the women dragged away, their screams echoing through the crude huts. I observed the Orcs, their brutal efficiency. I learned that there was a threshold, a point where the women's blood loss triggered a primal instinct in their captors. They would stop, if only to preserve their breeding stock. It was a grotesque calculus, and I was a part of it.
I delivered their children. Monstrous hybrids, barely resembling their human mothers. They were abominations, creatures that stirred not revulsion, but a chilling detachment within me. It wasn't a question of intrusive thoughts, of a sudden urge to harm these creatures. It was a cold, clinical observation. This… this was the result of their actions. I kept my face impassive, my emotions locked away in a vault deep within my soul.
The High Goblin noticed. He saw my efficiency, my unwavering obedience. He took me with him everywhere, exposing me to the inner workings of their society. I became an observer, a silent witness to their barbarity.
One of my remaining brothers, driven by a desperate hope for freedom, plotted an assassination. I knew of his plans. I reported him. The Orcs were swift and brutal. He was executed, his body butchered and prepared for a feast. They forced me to sit at the table, to partake in the grotesque meal. I stared at the roasted flesh, the familiar features now contorted in death. I felt nothing. Not grief, not horror, not even disgust. My face remained blank, a mask of utter boredom.
Inside, though, a seed had been planted. Not of emotion, but of understanding. I understood their cruelty, their motivations, their weaknesses. I understood the power of detachment, of observation. And I understood that one day, this knowledge would be my weapon. The blankness in my eyes wasn't emptiness. It was a carefully constructed shield, hiding the cold, calculating mind that lay beneath. The Scourge of the Broken Tooth was not born of rage, but of a chilling, emotionless logic.