Strongfoot, Bugbear of the Northern Marches
The bugbears at the foot of the mountain were a proud clan, strong and
warlike. All other goblinoids were their slaves. Tributes were paid to the
clan by orcs. Humans knew to avoid their territory. Strongfoot was never
an exemplary member of the clan, his was a mediocre existence of doing what
the chief said, hitting things with a stick, and feasting on his share at night.
Like all warriors, however, he was well fed and treated fairly by both peer
and elder.
Then came the Zentarim. Humans and goblins wearing black clothing. They were not afraid of the fearsome clan and they held private counsel with the chief. After a time, they convinced him to sell some of his warriors. The chief commanded and Strongfoot obeyed. He and about thirty other warriors left the next morning and were led to a rotten place in the mountains called the Citadel of the Raven. Here he was placed in a regiment with some 200 of his race.
Gone was the respect a warrior commanded. Bugbears were deemed to be as dumb as ogres and used as heavy labor. In battle, they were wasted in ill-conceived wave attacks. Always, Strongfoot was made to take orders from humans, hobgoblins and even goblins. After a time, his regiment was transferred to the city of Zhent and there his suffering became worse. Food was always short for his kind: the muscles-with-sticks kind. He fought every day for a place to< sleep and something to eat.
Strongfoot looks up from his meager bowl of squirming insects. Did they say
Fiefs?! The details filtering out from the "secret" great meeting of the
Zhentarim to the goblinoid gossip-mill were sketchy...but that one was
unmistakable. A way to rise above the huddled masses. A way to get out from
under the steel boots of the overseers. A way to gain RESPECT!
Strongfoot tosses his bowl and grabbed his club. There needs to be a vanguard to goblinoid expansion and he WILL be part of it. He will find out who he must talk to to get noticed by the masters. He had heard a rumor that they were looking for "regulators", to supplement the ranks of the brethren. He will find out even if he has to club every information broker in this stinking city. Strongfoot wades through the wave of filthy little goblins that were swarming his discarded food. No more grubs and bloodworms for me, I will eat flesh and drink wine!
The human zhentarim looked Strongfoot up and down with a disdainful sniff.
"From the Northern marches eh? You look strong and healthy enough, but there
are many such bukbarruin as you in Zhent. What makes you the sort we could
use as a 'regulator'?"
Strongfoot slams both hands, palm down, on the heavy wooden table. The force of the blow bows the oak boards and sends shock-waves echoing off the stone walls. He leans toward the human, bearing his teeth. "There is more to a warrior than muscle. There is willpower and, more importantly, there is ambition. The missions you send me on will succeed. They will succeed because I will not allow otherwise. There is no brute within these walls that understands the meaning of loyalty, and there are none who will follow orders with the zeal I will bring. My name is Strongfoot, place it in your book with ink!"
The Inquisitor smiled and said "Welcome to the Zhentarim, Regulator Strongfoot.