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to his tribe many thousand moons ago (if you consider that there are 12 moons in Eberron’s sky, this is not as long ago as you might think). His age is forgotten, not for its length on this world, but for his youth when he was removed from his ancestral homeland. A son of the Seawall Mountain range, Swiftslayer was a promising young goliath. One day, out on the hunt at the tender age of 12, Kathamakon found himself separated from his father and brothers. Lost, he laid prey to a weak sense of direction and lack of tracking ability. In the cold mountain night, he fell asleep under the ominous, full moon eye of Lharvion. The sound of wood creaking over stone brought the gentle giant out of his slumber. Wrapped in chains & fastened tightly to the floor of a cage made of the strongest Darkwood, the child of Thakegoa’makuu was now a prisoner of foul-smelling hobgoblin captors.
With little word from his enslavers, they traveled several days, feeding and watering him enough to keep him on the edge of death so that any attempts at resistance were as feeble as his lamentations. Within a week, they came to a great city filled with goblinoids of all shapes, races, & sizes, as well as those not-so-goblinoid in nature. Swiftslayer was awed, even in his semi-conscious state. His time for wonder soon came to a close, though, as he was hauled none-too-gently onto a large wooden deck. Brought to his feet, with powerful half-ogres commanding the chains binding his arms, the goliath youth was displayed in all his pathetic glory before a crowd innumerable in his uneducated mind. Grunts and growls are what came from the hobgoblin that Swiftslayer took for the leader of his enslavers. Eventually, creatures in the audience took to raising claw-covered hands with slips of papyrus, or the wealthier with actual paper. After a short while, the buzzing of the gathering came to a silent conclusion. Kathamakon was dragged down the staging area into another cage, and then locked away until his buyer could be brought back.
Of all creatures, a human (he assumed, since he was weak-fleshed & small, as is father had described, without the grace of the ones called Elves), was led back. Dressed in what might be considered fine attire, but mostly robes with many folds, the dark-haired human smiled with pride up at his recent purchase. Whispering in a language unknown to Swiftslayer (as many languages were), the near-giant could not help but succumb to the weight drawing down on his mind…the last sound in his ears the thud of his bulk on Darkwood.
Thunderous applause & the incomprehensible chatter of a thousand voices yelling all at once woke the goliath. Something metallic weighed him down, but with his inherent considerable strength, it might as well have been cloth. He did notice, however, that he did have his strength…and a full stomach. With this nutrition came keener senses than he had had in…how long was he asleep? Well, in at least a week. He stood slowly, feeling soft dirt over a hardened surface slide as he moved. Beneath the boy’s hand was a wooden shaft which he instinctively lifted, not caring what it might be, only recognizing that it was a weapon and that he might have to reassert his honorific, Swiftslayer. As he stood, he realized he was in a light breastplate armor of mediocre craft, and the shaft connected to a single-bladed battleaxe head. Standing some 50 strides away (he had always been good with judging distance, if not numbers), was a heavily armored humanoid with sword & shield, obviously ready for combat. Looking about, Kathamakon took in his complete surroundings finally: he was in a stadium of some sort…a pentagonal arena with spectators brimming the edges in stands on all sides, howling in maniacal delight at the bloodbath that was about to ensue. Swiftslayer, however, was unaccustomed to anything like this, so it was no small surprise when he felt a slash at his leg, having been caught off-guard by the charging soldier. Grunting more out of shock than pain, the goliath looked with startled inquisition upon his unknown assailant. Before he had a chance to seek mediation instead of conflict, the individual’s shield slammed into Swiftslayer’s chest, knocking him back and almost off his feet. Feeling the anger swell inside, Kathamakon knew the only way to end this would be to fight back. Bringing the war axe ‘round fast, he missed the knight by only a few finger-widths, but on the backswing, he connected solidly with his opponent’s shield, staggering him backwards a few feet. Now the fight was on in full force, blows striking & missing from both sides, each wearing their opponent’s stamina down, spilling lifeblood onto the sandy coliseum floor. Swiftslayer’s anger grew, and with it, his size…a not-uncommon trait among his tribe. Strength and fortitude filled him anew as he allowed the brutal beast to come forth, going starkly silent as he returned blow for blow. And then…it ended. Not expecting the reach of his opponent to be so extensive, the helmeted foe attempted a withdraw to gather himself, but did not escape the axe’s final swing. A gush of blood shot from his shoulder as the weight of iron & enraged goliath drove the dying knight to his knees. Pulling his axe free, Kathamakon set to deliver a more definitive blow, but stopped himself short, realizing his opponent was already dead. Dropping the axe, the boy’s size reduced and he went to his hands & knees, exhausted from the energy his anger stole from him. Crawling over to the now-deceased body, he removed the helmet and looked into his enemy’s eyes…it was a half-orc woman, probably barely older than he, though determining age was not his strong suit, either. Remorse filled his mind, but he did not allow himself to cry…Father had taught him that to defend yourself was no cause for shame, and in victory, you were allowed to mourn a fallen enemy…which was more than they were likely to do for you, so it was better that they die first.
The crowd went berserk, yelling in languages he had never even heard before…not one speaking in a tongue he recognized. He was not proud of his victory, but their acknowledgement of his prowess was something he could not put out of his mind. He allowed a grin to come upon his visage, if only for a moment, as he stood and walked toward the now-open gateway, leaving the bloodied weapon & body behind, but in the back of his soul, he knew that soon…this scene would have to be repeated.
With little word from his enslavers, they traveled several days, feeding and watering him enough to keep him on the edge of death so that any attempts at resistance were as feeble as his lamentations. Within a week, they came to a great city filled with goblinoids of all shapes, races, & sizes, as well as those not-so-goblinoid in nature. Swiftslayer was awed, even in his semi-conscious state. His time for wonder soon came to a close, though, as he was hauled none-too-gently onto a large wooden deck. Brought to his feet, with powerful half-ogres commanding the chains binding his arms, the goliath youth was displayed in all his pathetic glory before a crowd innumerable in his uneducated mind. Grunts and growls are what came from the hobgoblin that Swiftslayer took for the leader of his enslavers. Eventually, creatures in the audience took to raising claw-covered hands with slips of papyrus, or the wealthier with actual paper. After a short while, the buzzing of the gathering came to a silent conclusion. Kathamakon was dragged down the staging area into another cage, and then locked away until his buyer could be brought back.
Of all creatures, a human (he assumed, since he was weak-fleshed & small, as is father had described, without the grace of the ones called Elves), was led back. Dressed in what might be considered fine attire, but mostly robes with many folds, the dark-haired human smiled with pride up at his recent purchase. Whispering in a language unknown to Swiftslayer (as many languages were), the near-giant could not help but succumb to the weight drawing down on his mind…the last sound in his ears the thud of his bulk on Darkwood.
Thunderous applause & the incomprehensible chatter of a thousand voices yelling all at once woke the goliath. Something metallic weighed him down, but with his inherent considerable strength, it might as well have been cloth. He did notice, however, that he did have his strength…and a full stomach. With this nutrition came keener senses than he had had in…how long was he asleep? Well, in at least a week. He stood slowly, feeling soft dirt over a hardened surface slide as he moved. Beneath the boy’s hand was a wooden shaft which he instinctively lifted, not caring what it might be, only recognizing that it was a weapon and that he might have to reassert his honorific, Swiftslayer. As he stood, he realized he was in a light breastplate armor of mediocre craft, and the shaft connected to a single-bladed battleaxe head. Standing some 50 strides away (he had always been good with judging distance, if not numbers), was a heavily armored humanoid with sword & shield, obviously ready for combat. Looking about, Kathamakon took in his complete surroundings finally: he was in a stadium of some sort…a pentagonal arena with spectators brimming the edges in stands on all sides, howling in maniacal delight at the bloodbath that was about to ensue. Swiftslayer, however, was unaccustomed to anything like this, so it was no small surprise when he felt a slash at his leg, having been caught off-guard by the charging soldier. Grunting more out of shock than pain, the goliath looked with startled inquisition upon his unknown assailant. Before he had a chance to seek mediation instead of conflict, the individual’s shield slammed into Swiftslayer’s chest, knocking him back and almost off his feet. Feeling the anger swell inside, Kathamakon knew the only way to end this would be to fight back. Bringing the war axe ‘round fast, he missed the knight by only a few finger-widths, but on the backswing, he connected solidly with his opponent’s shield, staggering him backwards a few feet. Now the fight was on in full force, blows striking & missing from both sides, each wearing their opponent’s stamina down, spilling lifeblood onto the sandy coliseum floor. Swiftslayer’s anger grew, and with it, his size…a not-uncommon trait among his tribe. Strength and fortitude filled him anew as he allowed the brutal beast to come forth, going starkly silent as he returned blow for blow. And then…it ended. Not expecting the reach of his opponent to be so extensive, the helmeted foe attempted a withdraw to gather himself, but did not escape the axe’s final swing. A gush of blood shot from his shoulder as the weight of iron & enraged goliath drove the dying knight to his knees. Pulling his axe free, Kathamakon set to deliver a more definitive blow, but stopped himself short, realizing his opponent was already dead. Dropping the axe, the boy’s size reduced and he went to his hands & knees, exhausted from the energy his anger stole from him. Crawling over to the now-deceased body, he removed the helmet and looked into his enemy’s eyes…it was a half-orc woman, probably barely older than he, though determining age was not his strong suit, either. Remorse filled his mind, but he did not allow himself to cry…Father had taught him that to defend yourself was no cause for shame, and in victory, you were allowed to mourn a fallen enemy…which was more than they were likely to do for you, so it was better that they die first.
The crowd went berserk, yelling in languages he had never even heard before…not one speaking in a tongue he recognized. He was not proud of his victory, but their acknowledgement of his prowess was something he could not put out of his mind. He allowed a grin to come upon his visage, if only for a moment, as he stood and walked toward the now-open gateway, leaving the bloodied weapon & body behind, but in the back of his soul, he knew that soon…this scene would have to be repeated.
