A Human warrior whose life has been characterised by loneliness and revenge. A fighter who hits the hardest, and is the last to fall.
Icy GreatAxe +1 (1d6 on crit, 1d6 slowing daily power, converts all dam. into ice)
Dwarven Scalemail (+1 Mundane)
Viking Helm of Charging (addtional 1d6 charge damage)
Gauntles of Battle (+2 Damage)
Bearing a highlands-like demeanor, Tanngrisnr can be seen as any Scottish warrior during the rebellions under William Wallace. (Braveheart for movie-goers) His hair is unkempt and wild, yet it has a strange organization to it that would lead one to consider them dreadlocks, although not done nearly as uniformly as Caribbean dreadlocks would be. A fan of braids, he will commonly have war-braids scattered throughout his hair. A muscular man, he has the look of a practiced warrior and the strut of one who can handle themself (and a weapon). He prefers his armor to be well fit with a battle-skirt for lower leg protection. His complexion is average, and he wears his facial hair trimmed at an average length. (unless of course growing out his beard in the front to braid) His eyes are a grayish-blue and his hair is a dirty blond. His teeth would be moderate at best, and he disguises this by not smiling. (consciously that is) He is a loud man among friends, but quiet and observant among strangers. Quick to laugh and even quicker to make a joke, Tann can be the life of a party. Ultimately he is a reflective man, prone to silence spells and moments of quiet thinking.
Height: 6’1” Weight: 205
If Tanngrisnr was to be summed up in one word, it would be power. Raised solely by his father when his mother was slain and eaten by Orcs in a village raid, Tanngrisnr learned early on the difficulties of life. His training began from his father at the age of twelve, with no day was let go without some form of physical and mental conditioning. Being a inhabitant of a highlands-like terrain, he was constantly pitted against rigorous terrain, leading to his inhuman constitution and strength. Regardless of his seemingly Spartan-esque training, he learned that the most important muscle in a fight is always your mind, and remains a firm believer in tactics and placement.
One of the most important days of his youth goes something like this…
The cold water of Smallcreek nipped playfully at the toes of a fifteen year-old boy; and like any fifteen year-old, he discovered that he could not restrain a painful smile as the water washed the thick, black mud from his feet. A worn and roughly-made water bucket lay near his side, haphazardly discarded as if someone had suddenly lost all interest in the object, trading their puzzlement with a daily chore for the fascination of a unique experience. Even as the icy water lapped at his dirt-sodden feet, Tann (as his father lovingly referred to him as) winced in pain; the callus and bruises formed from yesterday’s conditioning burned ever so painfully, seemingly taunting him with the promise of the week’s work to come. “At least today is a day to rest,” he sighed tenetively to himself, “Perhaps Hrothin won’t have me run the hills today.” The words seemed to relax the atmosphere for Tann; he hesitantly calmed, letting his shoulders droop and fall onto the still damp blades of grass. One by one his muscles fell to the earth, finding a solace and peace in the lichen and dried clay that he had never found in his earthy sod bed. As he began to close his eyes he realized that there was only one course of action for him to pursue now, sleep. When Hrothin roughly awoke the boy it was almost noon, the sun sat high in the sky and the day birds had all but immersed the world in a cascading orchestra of their diurnal sound. The man had a concerned yet relieved look about him, which quickly hardened to that of a stern command: “Water.” The boy knew his place, and hastily filled the bucket with water. The hike back to the wooden home was spent in silence, the boy not daring to risk angering Hrothin any further. He had never fallen asleep while performing a task for his father before. Upon entering the earthy home, his father curtly motioned for Tann to be seated, and upon his completion of the task, briskly and silently began to assemble a meal. The meal was eaten in silence, Tann’s eyes nervoused darted from the blank and sullen wood of the table to the tip of his father’s lips, anticipating the word ‘hills’ to form into being. Suddenly, which made Tann jumped quite readily, Hrothin pushed back his chair and stared fiercely into his son’s eyes. “Do you understand why I am upset with you?” Silence filled the room, not even the once cheerful sound of birds was able to permeate through the now constricting void. “Because I fell asleep at the creek.” Tanngrisnr replied, his voice shallow and full of apology. “That is completely wrong.” The silence returned again, This time an air of confusion fronting the awkwardness. “Do you know what your mother was doing when the Orcs came?” The words were like a poison on Hrothin’s lips, and he spat them out with pure malice. The silence continued. “She had gone to fetch water for our breakfast.” The silence again. Hrothin sighed, and clasped his son’s hand with his own. “Boy, you have to be more careful when about in the woods, Kord only knows what sort of ilk ranges about in that labyrinth of pine.” He waited a moment for his son to respond, and then concluded with a heavy sigh. “I felled an oak yesterday, you are old enough now to help with some of the more demanding chores, go fetch the axe and quarter the tree.” Tanngrisnr stood up slowly, and walked quietly out into the sunlight. His pace was quick and purposeful as he strode towards the wood shed where the axe was kept. The axe was a great thing, hefty as it was broad, and masterfully made. He pawed around in the dark for it blindly, searching for a reflection of sun on it’s maintained metal curve. Finally, after a several minute seach, the axe was located and he hefted it, somewhat uncomfortably, over to where his father had felled the giant pine. The process of quartering went slowly at first, the axe seemingly ungainly and bulky in his hands, but with every fell of the blade he felt some passion surge within him. Even as he swung at the wood, it was like his hands were being guided by rage, a fury building up inside him, coursing through his hands like water held back by a dam, eagerly waiting to burst upon the next section of pine, leaving a heap of splinters in it’s wake. He chopped and swung, going faster and faster until the axe leapt out of his hands, leaving him trembling and winded at the foot of the tree. It was then that he noticed that his father had been watching, quite wide-eyed, and went to reclaim the source of his fury. “Son,” Hrothin said with slight wonder, his hands overlapping his sons, “you have a rare gift.”
At the age of eighteen, Tann’s training came to an abrupt end when he awoke one day to find his father gone. In his father’s place Tann found his adventuring gear and a note which boldly declared that he had “gone into the wild”. Tann set out to claim his own fame in the world, bent on finding the tribe of Orcs which had slain his mother and plummeted his father into a void of depression. While searching for the Orcish tribe, he encountered two slaver scouts who attempted to net and capture him, he slew one and crippled the other, giving him the chance to flee into the depths of a large mountain, running for his life from the rest of the angered band of slavers. As he navigated the twisting and narrow corridors of the mountain (Thunderspire Mountain as he later was informed) he stumbled across a large and foreboding statue of a tall, darkly enchanting woman. A vision came to him then, compelling him to listen to her seductive voice of cold, urging him to descend from the light of day and down into the pits of the labyrinth. He listened, following the flickering figments of a ghostly phantasm, until he reached a dimly lit underground city, where he was instantly compelled to find a particular group of traveling adventurers…