Mortimor Tweekson is a tiny Newro (Commonly known as Ratfolk). He stands at 1’6’’ with gray fur and deep green eyes. Though he was originally born with black fur like the rest of his race, it had over time been sun-bleached to gray from his abnormal time spent in the sunlight, in addition to the inordinate amount of stress he has endured since he was 10. He carries with him his prized possessions, a small harmonica, and a wooden flute. He protects himself as best he can with his wooden staff, which is in actuality just a regular stick, but for him it’s a weapon.
 
Mortimor was born in the caves of the Smokemont Mountains, where many of Newro lived. It was a complex tunneling system that housed them all, but due to the mining of the dwarves, his region collapsed in on itself and he was forced to flee from his caves. Being only 10 years old at this point, he wandered the mountains searching for a way back to his home. This was when he encountered a roving band of marauding orcs, who were intrigued by him, as his kind was rarely seen above ground. They captured him and brought him back to camp. This was where he discovered that his luck was worse than he thought, not only was it a camp of barbarian orcs, but they were also worshippers of Erythnul – The Blood God. While Mortimor was initially intended to be sacrificed by the camps Reaver’s, the less ‘pious’ Raiders believed he was an unworthy sacrifice due to how weak he was. That did not stop them from constantly threatening him with it. From then on, he was tasked as the camps undertaker, “Rats love rotting meat, don’t they?” they jeered at him. Every bloody sacrifice, mutilated warrior, usurped leader, thrown onto him as if it was trash. His only command was to get it out of their sight. At first, he would simply push it off the cliff side, it was no longer his problem then, but as time went on, though most of the races of corpses he saw he couldn’t even identify, he began to see himself in them. Every protruding eye showed a hint of green, every haired creature became his brothers and sisters who had not been shown the “mercy” of the cultist. He began to care for them and would always create a proper burial site for even the corpses that were nothing but piles of flesh.
 
Not once throughout his time with the cultists did they ever let their brutality be lost on him though. He was constantly beaten and trampled if he was practically ever seen, he danced when they said dance, and played when they said play, he groveled when they said grovel. Mortimor never went a day when he felt death wasn’t only 5ft behind him, in the shape of a 6ft beast. Constantly surrounded, the blood drop emblem of their god that was on all their cloaks branded into his mind, as if to remind him that he too bleeds. His eyesight and speech are permanently damaged from all the blunt force trauma that he endured, as a constant reminder as to why he should always be afraid.
 
He had very little solace during this time of his life, spending any unburdened moments playing away at his harmonica and attempting to commune with the uneaten wildlife that dared come near the camp. He did not dare try to escape. He learned that lesson after he made friends with a young goblin named Klernt, who he would sneak away with to play their instruments together. Though they could barely understand one another, Mort loved the company and Klernt was youthfully unaware of Morts situation. One day Klernt attempted to help Mort escape, and upon being discovered my some of the Raiders, Klernt was bisected and burned right in front of Mort. The only remaining memory he has of Klernt is his wooden flute, that the orcs did not care enough to burn along with the rest of him.
 
One day on his 25th year with the cultists he awoke to nothing but corpses all around. All of the cultists had been slain, but with no remains left of who had offed them. Mort grabbed the closest pair of clothes that he could find, and ran for the hills as fast as possible, the first time he hadn’t stopped to bury bodies.