Korg was meant to die gloriously in the Flameridge Massacre—a suicidal charge against fortified battlements that his tribe called 'honorable.' Instead, he watched three hundred warriors shatter against stone walls while mages rained fire from above. He deserted that night, dragging a dying human wizard from the rubble who, in exchange for mercy, taught him the first cantrip. The wizard died anyway, but Korg kept the spellbook. For seven years, he worked farmlands across three kingdoms, learning to read arcane script by lamplight after fourteen-hour days breaking soil. He discovered he had a gift—not for destruction, but for preservation. Every spell was an investment; every ward, a crop that wouldn't burn.
He earned his title when he single-handedly protected an entire harvest season from a marauding band of his own tribe using nothing but abjuration magic and strategic patience. The farmers paid him enough gold to buy his first plot of land—twelve acres of rocky hillside his tribe was evicted from a generation ago. He's been adventuring since, treating dungeon crawls like seasonal work: show up, do the job, collect payment, leave before the next disaster. He dreams of the day he can afford the entire valley and never cast a combat spell again.
Korg doesn't hate his orcish heritage; he just thinks his ancestors were terrible businessmen. War destroys wealth. Magic protects it. And land—land is the only thing that lasts.