Up in one of the homes in the far northeastern mountain ranges, a child
was born to this pair of grateful couple and that was him, Masthord. Long
have they hoped for a child to call their own, when the look of envy would
always fill their faces as they look upon the children of their neighbours.
Masthord was their hope and joy, a blessing they would relish to be from the
gods, amongst the chaos that was rampant then. The happiness was
short-lived. No one would have anticipated the pain and suffering that
would engulf him at such a young age. His parents were slain, cold-blooded
and brutal in a raid by some of the guerilla orcs that scowled the mountains
for loot. Having lost his parents at a young age, he was lucky to have been
saved by a roaming traveler skilled in the arts of melee combat. Since
then, he had trained in the skills of the combat arts, joining the halls of
the warrior guild upon arrival at Seringale, the city where he registerd as
a citizen. Still holding on to the bitter cold vengeance that he suffered
since the time when he lost the beloved warmth of his parents, he had sworn
himself to protect the lives of those who seek peace.
Standing before you is a rugged-looking storm giant, towering over most
objects around him. His features are generally common with nothing
distinguishable about him. However, if you happen to take a closer look at
him, you can notice an air of serenity behind that battled look of violence.
He hangs a pendant in the shape of a wing along the left of his waist, a
keepsake from long time past. Despite the worn-out look that he portrays,
you can sense that he is an experienced fighter, adept in his chosen
profession. Noticeable scars can be seen along his arms and neck, some even
stretching up to his cheeks.