Born in a small village, on the shores of the Dragon Sea, Jagroth was
raised by a pious and superstitious community rich with culture, but poor in
material goods. This was largely due to the fact that the village was
plagued by the marauding pirates who took great joy in traveling the coast
and raiding the peaceful fishing towns periodically. Jagroth's kin would
make offerings to the Storm Lord Aberdour that they worshiped, for
protection, and their faith was strong, even when the weather seemed to
favor the raiding ships more often than not.
Jagroth's parents were simple folk, his mother a Jotun refugee, escaping
from the vile ways of her kin and his father a humble Storm Giant. They
raised him with strong morals and a sense of stewardship for those who had
less. His father was the local priest, more of a tribal shaman really, who
believed that if they stood as a village, performed the proper ritual, and
made sacrifices to the Storm, the habitat would remain safe. He was
grooming Jagroth to take his place when he died, as the spiritual leader of
A natural born leader, Jagroth knew that if his village ever hoped to
experience long-lasting peace, they would have to do more than pray. His
faith was strong, but so was his arm, and it didn't take long for him and a
number of other young men to adapt their fishing spears to pierce the crude
armor worn by the marauding pirates. They made a plan, and prepared
themselves, floating just beneath the waves as the sun sank into the ocean.
The dhow, its crude colors snapping in the breeze, approached the small
village silently, the evil men on board fingering their blades as they
prepared to ransack the unprepared, undefended village. Or so they thought.
Suddenly, the ocean seemed to explode around them as the group of storm
giants led by Jagroth the half-breed suddenly sprung from the water,
clambering over the railings and onto the deck of the ship, swarming the
surprised pirates, who fell, staining the planks red with their tainted
As calm returned to the ship, the only sound was the lapping of the waves
on the gunwale and the heavy breathing of the villagers who had finally
stood up to their opressors. Then, cheers erupted from the village proper
as the people realized that their plan had succeeded.
Standing at the helm, Jagroth offered a silent prayer to Aberdour, the
Storm Lord, giving thanks for the brisk wind that had risen to blow away the
scent of death and replace it with fresh smell of brine. Then, a thought
struck him. He turned around, grinning down at the ragtag group of
fishermen standing on the deck of the small, but well-equipped ship. His
gaze took in the sails, snapping crisply in the offshore wind, and he
reveled in the sound. This was his ship, now. And he would no longer spend
his days casting his net. He would become a fisher of men, as his Father
hoped for, but not in the sense that his father had expected. He dedicated
his life to forge his body into a weapon of the Storm, he shaped his
dedication to channel the ways of Light and inspire the faithful.
A grey-bearded mountain of a man stands before you, his broad shoulders
undiminished by his advancing age, rising and falling with each huge intake
of breath. His skin, blue as the depths of the ocean, looks weathered and
rough, white ridges of myriad scars like whitecaps upon the wind-tossed sea.
His eyes, oddly pale in juxtaposition with his dark complexion are the
silver-gray of the sky after a storm, with flecks of blue that make them
seem to shimmer in the ambient light. The coarse growth of beard that
covers his chin in a rugged fashion has shades of gray peppered with black
throughout. Although his formidable stature does not seem to lack uncanny
grace and power, he is poised with a sense of prudence and wisdom uncommon
in younger men.