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Zorin Silverquill isn’t really a good barbarian.
First of all, they’re an elf—a high elf, to be specific. He was made for libraries and wizardry and healing and whatever else it is that high elves do, not running into dangerous situations, eyes flashing as if they contained lightning, and returning covered head to toe in blood.
Second, they’re pretty scrawny, at least by barbarian standards, as elves usually are. Whenever they stood next to Kriv, Drax, even Nikk or Cassidy, it was obvious how small they were. They weren’t short—he was almost double Nikk’s height, who was quite tall for a halfling—but they were thin, lanky.
Standing next to Drax, his half-orc brother that stood at about six foot eight inches tall, it was easy for people to mistake Zorin as the cleric and Drax as the barbarian.
It didn’t help that half of his party members more fit the image people had in their heads of what a barbarian is and should be. There was Kriv, who, despite being considered small for a dragonborn of his age, towered over Zorin. And Cassidy and Nikk, whilst being small height-wise, were stalky, and had more visible muscle.
Compared to them, he looked almost frail.
And yet, despite this, it was Zorin who dealt the killing blows. It was Zorin who put himself in between danger and other people. It was Zorin who, though they hated conflict, struggled not to spiral into rage.
And, for the most part, he was aware—they were aware of all of it. He could hear the screams. He could feel skin bruising, bones cracking. He could taste blood.
That’s the part he doesn’t talk about.
Not even to Hazel, their pseudo-twin.
Not even to Nikk, who’s known him since they were young and muddy and small and stupid and still thought everything would always be okay as long as they had each other.
Because he’s scared.
Scared of hurting someone. Scared of being hurt themself. Scared of the creature that they became. Scared of the twisted part of him that liked it.
Because, yeah, it feels pretty damn great when you smash the skull of someone who’d attacked your sibling, or to snap in half the arm of anyone who threatened their safety, or to punch the face of the guy who harassed your brother.
It felt powerful. And Zorin had gone too long without feeling powerful before. They’d gone too long without feeling much of anything, really.
Because feeling was a dangerous thing.
Feeling was vulnerable. And being vulnerable wasn’t a chance that he was willing to take.
⇋⇋⇋⇋
And then they met a little halfling boy, small and covered in dirt with shining golden eyes, sitting on a stone outside of a bakery. The boy was humming softly to himself, nibbling on a roll of bread.
Zorin had stared. Stared at the halfling—who appeared to be around their age, but it was hard to tell—and his bread, and his carefree manner, and his soft smile.
The boy noticed, eyes moving to meet Zorin’s, and blinked, swallowing his bite. He lifted his hand and waved. “Hi!” He grinned. “D’you want some bread? What’s your name? I’m Nikk!”
Zorin didn’t respond. Nikk’s legs stopped swinging, and he hopped off of his perch and approached the elf. He tore the roll in half, and held out the larger portion. After a few moments, they took it.
“Soooo,”
Zorin glanced up,
“You gonna tell me your name?”
They went back to focusing on their food.
“Okay, okay, that’s fine, jeez,” he put a hand to his chest dramatically. “I suppose I’ll simply have to call you…hmm…Vihar, then,”
It took them a second to realize that that was a Halfling word, and blinked. “…why?”
“‘Cause, your eyes look like storm clouds!”
They laughed softly, smiling back at the boy. “Okay, Kulta,”
Nikk grinned, and Zorin beamed back at him. They talked—well, mostly Nikk talked, and Zorin listened, adding in an occasional comment—for hours, until a rather tall halfling woman came to take Nikk home.
And Zorin found himself feeling sad. Sad that Nikk had to go. Sad that they would be alone again. Sad that the joy and comfort he had felt while listening to the halfling ramble on about his two older siblings and the farm that he lived on was leaving.
Nikk stood up with a huff, handing Zorin the rest of the roll. “I’ll see you again tomorrow, right?”
They blinked, tilting their head to the side. “…maybe,”
They came back. And, sure enough, he was there, humming.
They came back the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next. And every day after that.
When he was seven, Zorin met Anakis and Auren Silverquill (and, by extension, their son, Drax).
Anakis had pale purple-grey skin, long, curly dark hair, and two antler-like horns that curved back like tree branches. There were little charms tangled in them (Zorin thought it was pretty). She had bright, striking emerald eyes that seemed to sparkle in the sun.
Auren’s hair was silvery-blond, pulled back into a ponytail, and his eyes were a warm ochre. His ears were pointed at the ends, but not like Zorin’s. Must be a half-elf, they thought.
And Drax, with his pale lavender-grey skin and braided ash-purple hair, looked so much like his mother that, for a moment, Zorin thought they might actually be blood-related. The half-orc blinked his large, turquoise eyes at Zorin, head tilting slightly.
The elf stared back.
⇌⇌⇌⇌
Zorin forgot, sometimes, that things were better now. That they were safe. That they had a home, they had a family.
He still found himself looking over his shoulder for danger. Still stole bits and pieces of food whenever he got the chance.
He’s a collection of broken shards of glass. He’s shattered and been glued back together so many times he could barely recognize himself.
But he was getting better. Slowly, sure, but he was.
It helped that the people in his life were just as damaged as him.
It meant that he would never be alone again.