Ratriff

This wiki is a WIP. I am learning to make them and it will be expanded on heavily over time.

## Description

Ratriff is a weathered yet young-looking goblinoid, bearing light olive scars scattered upon her body most namely on her back where it looked like cross-stitch cuts melded together. She has similar markings above the midriff. Her knuckles are usually busted and her palms are bruised, her hands calloused as well as her feet. The female greenskin's cheeks are stained a pale color and the streams trailing down from her eyes to her chin are slightly caved in, a sign of constant erosion. Sunken shoulders bear indents, four gnarled caves on both left and right hidden under her hair upon her trapezius while two rest on her collarbone. Her ears are slightly tattered, the ever-visible right only holding a few nicks, the left hidden under raven locks near the base meeting her cheek out towards the middle is torn, it could be barely hanging on. Her upper lip has two deep holes, her tusks on the bottom lip always poking them threatening to fill the gaps.

### Armor

She is usually seen in only a loincloth with silver skulls holding it to her hips and skin graftings as an excuse for gauntlets and covering for her ankles dangling teeth of all kinds. She usually carries a rope on her leather belt, sometimes a pouch or two. None have seen her in anything else.

#### Weaponry

Savagely shaped but intricately painted versions of various weaponry. It changes daily, but, she's usually seen with a maul, shield, and a one-handed sword.

## History

(Small warning! If you are sensitive to torture, do not read!)

Unfortunate is about the only word to describe life such as Ratriff’s, a goblin whose purpose lies within the clutch of others. Born into a tribe of likeminded beasts, a cavern of Orcs and Goblins who worked together for a similar goal, the eradication of all opposers - namely humans. Centuries ago they’d lived ignorantly to themselves pit-fighting, hunting, and eloping in the bliss of a penniless lifestyle until encroached upon by greedy warmongers who’d never thought about any being’s lives more than their own kind. Never once was there an attempt to understand, there was simply war, an attack upon the once open-field fortress of the clan proclaimed as the “Crimsonfall,” one of the largest conglomerates of greenskin sighted in the dawn of writing, named not for their banner representing a black crescent over silver and blood-stained thread but for reputation.

The Crimsonfall clan were known for being formidable, the few rumors of them all foretold of hulking men, tusked and grime colored, rippling beasts who’d shown no mercy to the ‘innocent’ adventurers who’d gone out to ‘learn’ of them. Weary attempts were made from sheepish light-skins bearing weaponry, the humans’ lack of showing quarter turned them to show aggression at the sight of something that could’ve threatened their power; And so war ensued, every tale of the Crimsonfall riddled of grotesque, macabre stories of the local towns who’d become prey of their attacks used for scaring children from going out at night. Numbers remained unswayed despite the imminent strife due to the broad numbers that lived in the surrounding forest caves, namely a large cavern with a natural water system leading through vivid vermillion crystals hidden beneath the waters.

The Ruby Den, as the humans labeled it, is a nest where the goblins and meeker orc women reside. It was an infirmary, the women who’d returned after raids would bear children to leave in the care of those within. Control in the underground is different than that of the forest-dwelling Orclords, instead of being ruled under the Warchief, it is mostly free space to live with male goblins planted as guards for the pregnant orcs while the female goblins take care of them. Parties are chosen to hunt and gather through the forest or mountains bringing home food, trinkets, and baubles; Other parties are gathered together to scout, spy, or pillage smaller towns for the Chieftain. There is a healthy bout of chaos in the Ruby Den as it lacks law and order. Considered akin to the omega of a pack, the weaklings or fearful of a tribe are often dragged out of their hiding spots and forced to do grueling tasks the strong do not wish to, or they're goaded into cruel games to entertain.

Ratriff was one of those few not taught to speak to avoid treachery, one of those few who were lesser than dirt. Though she was an adequate healer and took care of the wounded, she did it begrudgingly for the life they'd forced her to trudge, wishing to avoid any form of conflict thrown her way to not bring harm. Spared using her own feet to snuff their fires and spared the pits where others were given no weapons to fight against groups, she instead was subjected to being bait to chase off rabid wolves and bears among other things. Her "punishments" for lack of pride were still severe in the eyes of any moral being. When she refused to do their bidding she was strung up and beat, lashed by primitive whips untreated like 'modern' leather would've been at that time. To her, the worst of her abuse was not that, for it had happened enough she grew indifferent; it was being blinded and tossed into the lands of the humans, coerced to find her way home every time or else threatened to be sold to the humans. It was always flight over fight as she'd lacked the strength to hold a weapon then, thanks to the vicious environment. Rarely when she was rewarded, she found it to be worth the surroundings as she knew no better, being given treasures from raids and the joy of the wives' children. She enjoyed raising the young ones, tending to wounds, and hoarding warm cloth.

Under many moons' passing, she lived in squalor until a fateful night where the Orcs rumored a great betrayal. Meek and frail, she was not accused, especially from how loyal she was treating them since her youngest days of bright-eyed openings. However, her kin were, almost every goblin left in that tribe except for a group counted on one hand, was shepherded together to be slaughtered like pigs. Halfway through the heap of lifeless bodies piled together, she could not stand it anymore, so she took to the cavern tunnels expertly worming her way through them seeking the light of day. All Ratriff could think of was to run, not the thought of the word run, but, the image in her head of her escaping those villainous Orcs; and so she did exactly this, she ran until her blistered feet could not stand any longer, until half-lidded glazed view turned black, until she collapsed from exhaustion sure she would not wake up again. At least it was better to die there, to die chasing a better passion than blindly serving. It was a cycle from here, running and running for what seemed like eons, living on what little she scarfed up of bugs and digging for water, persistently crawling wherever 'straight' was when she woke in search of an escape.

Briefly, she woke with understanding, the reflective warmth of her eyes dulled, enraptured by the sight of a dying ember shimmering like the moon. She was comforted by this sight, though it was sparking in and out of existence, the leaking hint of the arcane powers beyond her comprehension. Ratriff did not know what it was, where she was, or how long it had been; Nor did she think about the consequences as she used the last of her strength to leap through it, ferried to a new land alone. To a new story endured in The Melded Lands.