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In N2, an ogre/frost giant halfbreed with delusions of grandeur.


  • pale yellow eyes
  • matted white hair
  • eyes, yellow and bulging beneath a hairless brow,
  • Besides being taller than Grunk, his shoulders were broader and waist narrower.
  • and his face, beardless and lumpy, as if boiled, spoke of ogre blood

His masters had ridiculed his oversized cuspids as evidence of his ill-bred lineage, but they made short work of raw flesh. He grinned and gobbled.


Primitive furs at first.


"And at their fore was Skardsen, taller than any of the others despite his hunched back. Now he wore a coat of rough blue leather with a high collar, and dozens of strings of colored beads around his neck. Atop his mane of matted white hair, a crown of pine boughs rested. He stared at Baxter continuously as the mob traversed the last few hundred yards of rocky slope."


Skardsen was born to an ogre slave among the mighty frost giants in the northern Ozgarns, fathered by a drunken blacksmith. His mother, knowing the shrivelled half-breed would likely be tossed in the fire or fed to the dire wolves, smothered him and carried him out into the forest, discarding the naked infant with but a single tear.

But he lived. Raised by yeti until he was able to see how different he was. And then he spotted giants as a boy, and went back.

His origin a mystery, he was grudgingly accepted, taught language and customs. But he was different. His skin and hair, not quite the right color. His eyes were strange, bulging rather than deepset, and his spine was hunched, like a bear.

Skardsen began spending time with a shaman who lived in an ice cave, and heard many stories, myths and legends that allowed an escape from the prejudice he suffered. He seized on one story, an apocalyptic vision of an alliance of giants, and with the collusion of one tribe of humans, a violent and costly conquering of the lower realms. Humans, despite their great numbers and mastery of magic and science, were destined to serve their giant masters.

He spoke of this vision passionately, and was ridiculed for it. Others' protests cemented his belief. He was certain of it, even when the shaman told him it probably wasn't true.

At a great feast celebrating the coming of winter, Skardsen decided to take the occasion to challenge his lord on the matter. Predictably, he was humiliated, beaten, and exiled the next morning. The shaman advised simply, "Go south, go far."

His exile further entrenched his beliefs. Now, he was at the center of the vision. It was his responsibility. It was his destiny.

Adventure characterized his multi-year trek south. He ran from packs of dire wolves, defended against a tribe of rapacious orcs, barely escaped a ravaging forest fire, and was buried for days in an avalanche. He emerged from each experience stronger and wiser.

But it was when he fell in with the monks of the eldritch pool, hidden deep within a tangle of arid canyons west of the Forbidden Steppes, that his plan took shape.