There was a place, far beyond the normal boundaries of men, where giants
were the ultimate race. The highest and most regarded of all drow and elves
and all manner of creatures, outthinking the dim giant. Moving with a
nimbleness, that played against the giants strength. Races. Serin is not
this place. That place was lost, humans came and Kigrans family was from
this place, having fled from some nameless destruction many years before
Kigrans birth. He was raised outside of Darkhaven, his father a mercenary
to the Dark Army and his mother a shaman of some renown. Hardly a fitting
place for a boy, no matter their race, but Kigran loved the violence. It
fit him. As a boy, hed fight with the human men and leave taverns behind
him in a shambles. Easily twice the size of a human when he grew to his
full height and girth, he took great pleasure in showing how strong he was.
This was, more often then not, at the expense of someone elses health.
Years following the death of his parents, he was wandering the streets in an
alcohol filled stupor, he stumbled upon a temple deep within the confines of
Darkhaven. Wandering in, he looked about with interest, until two guards
set upon him with scimitars at his intrusion. Laughing manically, he killed
both with only his bare hands, leaving both with crushed skulls and
shattered rib cages. As he continued his survey of the temple, a priest
exited deep chambers and found him standing over two guards, licking their
blood off his knuckles.
At first, Kigran thought he would need to kill again. It wasnt until the
priest laughed at the mess and beckoned for Kigran to follow, that he felt
this one could live. He was given a captaincy, for he had killed the
previous one and his sergeant. He ruled with an iron fist, crushing all
those who would oppose his rules and strictly guarding the safety of the
priests.
Description:
A hulking brute is here, glaring with beady blood red eyes from beneath a thick forehead upon which two small red horns rest above ridged eyebrows. He is bald, whether that is hereditary or not is difficult to say. Ridged lines make patterns across his head, seeming to be made by a knife, the whirls and swirls look as delicate as he is brutish. At the base of his neck the pattern stops, sitting just above his broad shoulders. His long arms swing close to the ground, with a huge gut pouring over his waist line. With long strides, he eats up the ground before him as moves on, flashing stained yellow and brown teeth in a twisted grin.
[reply to Ozaru]
[reply to Olyn]
[reply to Andrael]