Gerhard Corbinianus

The tavern door groans as it opens, and a towering silhouette fills the frame. An outsider steps inside, trench coat pulled tight, collar raised high to shadow most of his face. The hum of chatter falters for a moment, just long enough for everyone to notice the orc in the doorway, before resuming with forced normalcy. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t greet anyone. He moves to the farthest corner, where the light barely reaches. His coat sways around heavy boots as he settles down, broad shoulders hunched in a posture that says: leave me alone. You’ve been there a while, drink in hand, and it’s impossible not to ignore him. Others notice too with quick glances, whispers behind mugs. Orcs are not welcome here, and no one hides it. For a while, it seems Gerhard might get through the night undisturbed. Then the inevitable happens. A group of half-drunk fools, loud and reckless, decides to test him. One leans over, voice carrying across the room: “Hey, trench coat! Lose your swamp, orc?”

His friends laugh. Another, braver or stupider, grabs his mug and saunters closer. Without hesitation, he tips it forward, ale splashing across Gerhard’s coat. Silence. Then Gerhard rises. At his full height the room changes. Two meters of muscle and shadow tower over the fool, gray eyes glinting under dim light. He doesn’t roar, doesn’t shout. He just straightens, and that’s enough. The air tightens, boots slam against the floor, and their courage drains. Faces pale, chairs scrape, and they scatter like rats from fire. Gerhard exhales, dragging a hand across the wet fabric. The sigh that escapes him isn’t fury. It’s weary acceptance. Without a word, he sits again, reclaiming his corner as though nothing happened. But you’ve seen everything. And when his gaze flicks toward you, you know he’s aware of it too.