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Netheril : Age of Magic

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Author Topic: Mama's Boy  (Read 777 times)


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Mama's Boy
« on: October 16, 2019, 05:28:52 am »

Name: Granrak Gorebull
Race: Minotaur
Gender: Male
Height: 7'8"
Weight: 725 lbs

Physical Appearance:

At first glance, this minotaur acts as an imposing and dark figure in even the brightest of lights. He stands tall, taller than many of his own kin, and broad enough to seal a doorway simply by standing in it. An oddity, perhaps, is his distinct lack of armor and weaponry. Instead, he has opted to wear a loincloth when he must, and a satchel large enough for him to carry all that he might need while being entirely unburdened. With that constant exposure, this bestial figure has no way at all to hide his identifying features. In rare cases, Gorebull will dress himself in loose cloth, to be seen as decent for his run ins with cultures that see his comfort as crudeness.

With no helm to hide his head, the minotaurs horns are proudly on display just behind fuzzy, bovine ears. Their natural, off-white bone tones protrude to the side, curl forward, and point ahead to act as the iron sights for a charging beast. His mane is wild and unkempt, curling and draped across his shoulders and down his back like a waterfall of ink. Even his eyes carry that same dark depth, gleaming like polished charcoal and as sharp as an axe. Gorebull’s long face ends in a blunt, flat nose where his nostrils flare with every huff and puff. Unlike his cowish cousins, this monster does not have flat, herbivore teeth. He has chompers. Gnashers. Teeth as sharp and terrible as daggers, capable of tearing meat and tendon from the bones of those unfortunate enough to become his victims.

His body is a marble statue of horror and violence wrapped in the pelt of a black bear. The dense, shaggy fur is matte, reflecting nothing, appearing to absorb the light around himself. There are lines, spots and flecks that break up this black behemoth. Streaks of grey cross his chest and back where arrows and blades have once carved into him. Jagged stripes stand on his forearms where he has been sliced, the defensive wounds earned by the swords of righteous men and burning giants. The senseless pattern does little to hide his herculean physique, the muscles across his body are drawn tight and honed to near perfection. Even his knuckles have been hardened, bone turned to steel from the lengthy battles that he calls training. Truly, a monstrous creature with the capacity for wanton cruelty and devastation with his claws alone.


Not entirely unlike those of his kin, this minotaur is territorial, tribal, and destructive. He has learned to harness his innate traits and often appears as placid and calm as a lake, though he is a coiled snake ready to strike. He is determined, steadfast, goal oriented. Where his kin rage and become a mindless mess of fur and teeth and axe, Gorebull stays steady and strikes with opportunity, with clear and controlled fury to put his claws in the most vulnerable of places.

This monster sees the world as a strange sort of hierarchy, a pyramid to be climbed or to be destroyed. While he seems to seek a unity of monsters, to strengthen their hold on the land above and below, he has no issue at all with slaying those that disagree, that stand in his way, that oppose his ultimate goal. When they are human-ish, he sees this act as furthering his desires and providing himself with food. When they are monsters, he sees this as a culling of the weak and misguided, a strengthening of those who would stand with him in his glorious ascent. When they are animals, undead, or even stones laced with iron and mithril, it is simply training, practice for his body and mind while he coats himself in blood and dust.

On the very rare occasions that the minotaur allows himself to relax and to find comfort, he is oddly paternal. He smiles instead of snarls, comforts instead of kills, offering a firm hand of guidance instead of the iron fist of “leadership.” When found in this state, he listens and speaks plainly though the gleam in his eyes reveal this act for what it truly is: a collection of information, a gathering of facts and feelings that he might use to better tune his mind towards his desires. Even still, those that he finds this comfort with become akin to family to Gorebull and gain his strange brand of affection and comradery.


A local to the hills north of the current port, this Minotaur was pleasantly surprised by the arrival of and empowering of the current Sullivan. His small family, a tribe of mostly feral beastmen, had all but lost themselves to hunger and greed while the more capable and more conscious monsters had taken to this new leader, this strong figurehead, and had flourished. It was an eye opening experience, a revelation that solitary workings often led to self destruction. That weakness could be conquered in more ways than simply fighting for control and power against one's chief or father. But such a collective growth couldn't happen with a unity of weak beasts. There needed to be an effort, a push to perfect an individual to provide an example for others to do the same. And he took that knowledge and applied himself. Burning rage became fuel. Blind hunger became a sharp tool.

He has never had a martial arts master, no sensei, no abbot, no great trainer to teach him. He had to harness himself. He was clumsy at first, still young and lanky when he started his path to self control and violent purity. He was determined to be as true to his Monstrous nature as he could, though, and his early years were a disaster. He'd earned the ire of goblins by battling their hordes until he could truly fling them against their cavern walls. He had gone fist to fist with gnolls until he understood their savage strikes and cunning tactics. He'd honed his strength by wrestling the powerful of his own kin, learning to use those deadly horns for more than a charging gore. Bugbears had shown him merciless cruelty. Hobgoblins taught him something else entirely. To think. To plan. To read and write that he may intercept letters and learn of paths and plans. Ogres and trolls had delivered the message of might, of the right to rule by beating those that would stand opposed. His mind and his body had become a weapon, one he continues to sharpen, to perfect that he might one day become a leading force for those whose land has become trampled, carved down for cities. For those who have become hunted for the use of their fat and teeth and bones by magical meatbags. For those who understand that the only way to make their violent life better is to become better at violence.

Recently, Gorebull has taken to making offerings and praises to Mother, the mythical maker of monsters. While he doesn't seem particularly devoted, he has seen the force it has had in unifying monstrous races and knows that, by utilizing that strength, by harnessing that collective faith, monstrosities could be an unstoppable Force that just might be able to remove the reach of the Empire and leave his hunting grounds unfortified. His actions have followed that same ideal, as well. Clearing the homes of smaller monsters of pests and critters, claiming the hearts of tigers to strengthen Orc tribes, culling infected kobolds so that they can reclaim territory and breed and grow stronger together.


Whispers around Sullivan's Port tell of the Minotaur who can punch through even the strongest of stones and that the goblins who dared to get close to him during such occasions become smears of crimson across stone floors.

Travelers and gypsies may mention a large, black figure looming in the darkness and of caravans who do not complete their journeys. Some even claim to have seen this unknown monstrosity near the outskirts of Hadrian and Southbank.

The gnomes of Runaway's Hole claim to watch him from their windows as he dives into the depths of a nearby cave and emerge covered in an amalgamation of green and red, of shell and flesh without so much as a scratch on his horns.

« Last Edit: October 22, 2019, 02:51:33 am by Solomon »


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Gorebull Takes a Walk
« Reply #1 on: October 25, 2019, 03:46:03 pm »
[Note: While most of these are unwritten, experienced chronicles of Granrak Gorebull's more mundane activities that may help to define him as more than just a powerful monster who slaps things for experience. Feel free to claim to have seen or heard or have noticed these activities; this Minotaur isn't exactly a master of deception or disguise.]

   The towering, bullheaded monstrosity had departed from Sullivan's encampment once again and set forth with the aid of a human boat captain. It's an expensive journey, given his size and the risks involved in taking a beastman as cargo even on a short journey. The old docks, often used but rarely protected, was the destination. One of the few safe landing spots for the less than smooth skinned type. For once, it was a quiet trip. No river raiders. No living pools of water or goop. Not even a stray seagull. It gave the bull time to contemplate, to think things through.

   Hadrian. Gathering supplies. Preparing for war. Sullivan cares not. Not sure what to do. Not sure if I should do nothing. Gonna look. Gonna see. Simple thoughts of concern and wariness. Expectations that something big was coming, regardless of the true purpose of supply gathering, of the need just to supply the basics of shelter and food to it's people. What he'd heard of that place, of all places like it, he didn't care for. People accepting their places and begging for scraps while not daring to lift a finger against those above them. Magic be damned. Metal be damned. They choose to live in subservience. At least, the Minotaur thought so. But those thoughts came to an end as the boat quietly slowed and a call was made, leaving the beast to hop from the deck and onto the surprisingly solid dock.

   He had wandered often near Sullivan's. The dark forests, the caverns of fire and stone, the edges where people, humans had banded together to find some odd safety from Hadrian. There were some he understood, even respected. Some who lived in ways of tribal comradery, leaving behind those ideas of castes and wealth. Those were the strong. Survivors. The ones who came and changed the land to fit their needs, the ones who built castles and keeps to lord over their own farming kin and hoard riches from those doing the work, though? He had more than a little enjoyment in burning down those buildings, of pulling stone from walls and painting floors red with the blood. Here, though, just a little South of that dock, were Orcs. Orcs who fought Intruders. Even eachother at times. Orcs who band together and find their strength in numbers. Some weak, some strong, but unified even in death. He almost admired them as he'd pass by. The goblins? Not so much.

   On and on he wandered. Never directly on the paths. And always steering clear of any real observers and threats that might show his tracks. The rogues and gypsy magi interrupted his wandering time and time again, and the bull would have his fill of the particularly well-versed ones. He'd even slow himself and breathe deeply, broadening his shoulders, puffing up his chest, giving the spell slingers an easy target so that when their spells simply washed over him, the bull not even reacting to the blinding lights or flying bolts of poison, he could smell the fear and panic rise. He respected their way of life but they always attacked first and never took the time to talk or flee. He respected that, too. But he was so very hungry. And the way that terror seasoned the flesh, the adrenaline, the cortisol, that stringent and gamey bite only made it more enticing. And he'd kill. Rip them apart. He'd end up covered in their blood as he severed limbs with his claws until the sheer shock and bloodloss had them unresponsive. No more release of the fear, no more need to induce it. Gorebull ate his fill, bathed his figure in the cool, swift river, and set to wander again.

   He found the edges of sacred groves hiding the beautiful home of elven kind. He stumbled upon man and the arenas they'd built just to run at eachother atop horses. He'd found keeps. Ruined towers. Mansions fallen to madness. The decimated remains of a battle field and the hidden caverns at the bottom of a chasm. While these journeys and forays into foreign land offered little real chance to train and sharpen his body, he would commit to memory the scents, the sights. The whole world was a maze, a labyrinth, a puzzle to be solved. And while he did not have the capacity for algorithmic deduction of routes and passage ways, of shortcuts and cheating hideaways, he could very well recall how many steps it too to get from one landmark to another. Even the lost woods, the Wonbrie Forest gave the beast little trouble. He may not have found it's secrets, but he recalled with clear perfection how to find, enter, decimate, and take from the cursed keep. How to snake and circle back to become hunter as opposed to hunted. It, in spite of the foul stench and horrid colors of muted, matching greys on greys with a hint of brown, fast became one of his favorite places.

   But the sun was rising again. Lingering much longer this close to settlements of man was dangerous. Dumb. An invitation to become the target of powerful adventurers and of magic he could not simply shrug off. Gorebull traced his way back, his cloven hoofprints doubled over and creating the most odd tracks one might have seen. It wasn't a conscious effort, not really. He was simply following the same path he had taken in reverse. His strides were even, long, hitting the mark every time until he found the old wharf and waited. As the sun crested the rivers banks, the beast having to squint or face a killing headache, he paid his coin and returned to what was his new home with a bundle filled with odds and ends. A delivery, an offering. He dedicated his found things to the Monstrous Mother, found a spot in a dark cave, and settled down where floor twisted to meet wall. It wasn't the most comfortable and he didn't quite sleep, but it was safer this way and his mind put the newly discovered puzzle pieces of the world together. A broader understanding of the waters and land, of the earth rending and giving way. He had a map in mind and this rest, as the sun turned the land from grey to a lighter shade of grey, he began to mentally label.