Monkeyblood, a rat-like Aradan, was born Pkryak of Clan Kychk. His clan lived among a Halfling village. Due to his black fur splotched by patches of dark red, the Clan Elders prophesized that he would become a great warrior. He was well into his training but still a child when he was taken by a circus while wandering the countryside. He had been napping by a rarely used trade route and the passing caravan had thought him mortally wounded. They quickly realized he was not hurt, but they had never seen one of his kind before, and thought he'd make an interesting exhibit, so they kidnapped him and took him far from home.
The circus was made up almost exclusively of humans, who at first just called him "Ratboy", but as word of his given name slowly spread, the nickname "Packrat" was adopted by the crueler among them. During those times, his only companion was a fellow exhibit in the freak show, a bi-pedal hairless cat who was born on the road and who's only name was given to him by the carnies, who called him "Wrinkles". Whenever they were alone Wrinkles would refer to humans as "stupid monkeys", but got offended when Pkryak pointed out that humans were hairless monkeys and he was a hairless cat, and the subject was never brought up again. They spent some of their time when not being watched practicing the techniques that he was taught by his clan, and when they felt confident enough, they planned their escape.
When night came, he picked the lock on his cage using a claw on his hand, which he had been practicing for some time, should the time come. Next he freed his only friend, and they began to thread through the maze of jumbled cages, boxes, and crates that shared their tent. They traced the soft flickering torchlight to the opening of the tent but stopped just short when they heard breathing from the other side of the tarp. A quick peek through the opening revealed a single sentry, back turned to them, and beyond that a short grassy area and then forest...and freedom. Before Pkryak had even begun to formulate a plan, Wrinkles had already leapt out of the tent and firmly attached himself to the guard's back, clawing and biting feverishly, but in vain. It was obvious that he had abandoned all the training he had been taught, and the guard easily plucked the creature off his back and threw him to the ground, pinning the squirming rampage to the ground with his boot. The guard, clearly annoyed by this, took out his knife and kneeled down, placing it to Wrinkles' throat.
"You'll pay for that..."
As the guard said these words, they were being reiterated in Pkryak's head. The guard was so focused on the now-placated still form in front of him that he didn't see the shadow looming over him, and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground, a burning pain in his knee, and a three-and-a-half-foot tall rat standing over him, holding what used to be his dagger. The shock wore off quickly, replaced by anger of being accosted by these freaks of nature who should be taught a lesson about respecting higher life forms. He was thinking this as he got to his feet, but had only managed to think as far as "respec-" when Pkryak lunged forward and plunged the dagger into his torso, then placed a solid kick to the dagger, sending it home. The guard didn't have proper time to register the wound before he had to register the feeling of flying backwards through the air, then of striking a solid object, then of that object giving way, then of him striking the ground. Only then did he feel the pain of the dagger, drowning out the various other pains, until no feeling was possible.
Pkryak was barely beginning to enjoy his first real victory when he heard a soft but semi-familiar noise. He then remembered his friend, and quickly located him. His joy was replaced by despair as he moved towards the crippled body. The guard had struck a vital supporting post of the tent, and the structure had collapsed upon the only positive thing he'd known since he was taken. As he kneeled down he saw that Wrinkles' eyes were half open but glazed over, and his mouth was moving slightly. He tried to console him, but his friend only slowly shook his head. His eyes seemed to focus for a bit and a small smile formed on his face. He managed to say, "You've got some monkey blood on you..." and then he was gone, the smile now permanent. Pkryak followed the dying gaze to one of the crimson spots on his fur that he'd had since birth.
He didn't remember lifting the wreckage off, or dragging the body into the woods, or burying it, or wandering aimlessly for weeks, mechanically taking the steps necessary to stay alive without being conscious of doing so. When he fully came to, he had no idea where he was, and he was alone. At some point while his conscious mind was turned off, he had come to know himself as Monkeyblood, in honor of his friend, and no other name would ever have any real meaning to him again. Also during this time he had decided that every human was responsible for what had happened, and would be thought of accordingly. On some level he must've realized that existence without human presence was almost impossible, and that he would hold his rage barely at bay in their presence unless one even was perceived as provoking him.
At some point he decided to try to find his way home, which meant he had to find out where he was. He could smell habitation not far off, but had been avoiding it, preferring his solitude and paranoid that it might somehow be the same circus caravan he had escaped from. But now, with his new quest in mind, he silently crept within eyesight, and was only slightly relieved to see that it was not humans, but a small band of about 7 Orcs. In the Halfling village where he was born, they occasionally traded with a rogue group of Orcs that were decent enough when business was involved, and otherwise left them be. From that early interaction he knew enough Orkish to get by, but he also knew to be cautious, as even the most placid of Orcs is only a slight infraction away from becoming a dangerous enemy, and he had no idea of these Orcs' temperament.
He was in luck, however, as these particular Orcs were at the moment rather heavily intoxicated and in good spirits, at least in Orkish terms. He managed to learn his location and the approximate direction his homeland was in for the small price of enduring a drawn out and overly-graphic tale of the last caravan they had sacked, which was quite unpleasant until he learned that it had been a traveling circus. He thanked them for their wonderful story and was far away before the Orcs were sober enough to realize they had just let a potential meal escape them.
During his travels he had come across a variety of characters, unfortunately almost all of them human. The majority of them were thieves, and he dispatched of them with glee. He was amazed, however, at just how many of these humans were willing to pay good money to have other humans killed, along with just about any other creature imaginable. He found himself on a few of these adventures, always fighting for different people and different causes, all irrelevant to him aside from the fee. At times he completely forgot about his original destination, the place of his birth, but coincidence stepped in and his jobs eventually brought him home.
Monkeyblood's relatives and clansmen were overjoyed to see him returned safely; they had thought him long dead. They were amazed to hear the tales of his adventure, and readily accepted his new name. He had only been back a short while, however, when he realized he could not be content to stay there. Though he was now barely 11 years old, he had spent more than half his life away from this place. Wandering and going on the various assignments and the ever-changing employers was all he knew, and he yearned to have that life back again. And so, with a brief goodbye and well-wishings from a clan he would probably never see again, he set off to find where his life would take him...