Farahelm

Gorruk Skullcleaver stands over six and a half feet tall, his hulking frame a mass of corded muscle and battle-forged brutality. His gray-green skin is a patchwork of scars—trophies from countless fights—while a deep gash over his left brow tells of a near-miss that left the eye bloodshot but unblinded. His tusks jut from a heavy jaw, often twisted in a crooked grin or a feral snarl. Oily black hair hangs in uneven braids, bound with bits of bone and twine. He wears mismatched furs, scavenged armor, and a cloak made from a gutted dire wolf, still stained red. Every inch of him speaks to a life of violence—thick, calloused hands, a broken nose that never healed right, and the unmistakable stink of sweat, smoke, and dried blood. Gorruk doesn’t care how he looks—he dresses for intimidation, not fashion.

Gorruk Skullcleaver is a volatile storm wrapped in flesh—quick to anger, quicker to laugh. He’s fiercely independent, trusting only his own strength and instincts, and despises authority or rules that try to cage him. Chaos is his closest companion, and he thrives in the unpredictable, whether that’s a brawl or a battlefield. Though brutal and often cruel, he has a strange code—he respects strength, courage, and those who face danger head-on. Underneath the gruff exterior lurks a twisted sense of dark humor and a hunger for freedom. Gorruk lives loud, fights hard, and never looks back.

Born in the blood-soaked borderlands between warring tribes, Gorruk Skullcleaver was the unwanted spawn of a raider and a captive. Cast out as a child, he survived alone in the wilds, fighting beasts, bandits, and worse. Rage became his language, and survival his creed. He earned his name by splitting a war chief's skull in single combat at fifteen, then walked away from the tribe that tried to claim him. Gorruk now roams the world as a sellsword and savage, chasing coin, chaos, and carnage. He trusts no gods, bows to no king, and laughs in the face of death. Violence is the only constant he’s ever known, and he embraces it like an old friend. Some say he’s a monster. Others say he’s cursed. Gorruk doesn’t care—so long as the blood flows and the ale’s strong, he’ll keep moving, keep fighting, and keep carving his legend into the bones of the world.