Maduro

Maduro was raised in the wild lands by a nomadic tribe of half-giant barbarians. He was surrounded by savagery for as long as he could remember. The land was harsh, survival doubtful. Violence and cruelty flourished -- spatterings of blood were as common as rain -- and not just from enemies and unfortunate travelers, but from bitter in-fighting as well. Even the slightest indiscretion could draw a sharp blade, and fate be with you,it was not in your back. Maduro's true human origns are unknown. The tribal elders relate a story that follows this general path. We came upon a caravan, with riches the like of which we have never seen before or since. Royal armor, gold, jewelry, all manner of finery. There were twenty riders or so, and a fine coach pulled by great destriens with gold and white satin barding. They rode tall and proud - too proud, thrashing about the lands as if they owned them -- making all manner of pomp and circumstance. And if that weren't enough, their stinking perfumes betrayed their advance like a decaying swamp goul, beckoning to be investigated and killed. They were pregnant with error and true to ourselves, we slaughtered them. We drank their wine, their blood, and ate their food, celebrating well into the night. It was a glorious battle and we lost many, but they lost all -- save you Maduro. Someone heard a single infant cry from the coach, now tattered and torn, tipped on its side. There spilled out on the ground amongst the contents, covered in blood, was a babe in a dark brown cloth wrapper, as if the coach itself had given birth. Our leader at the time picked you up and examined you closely, trying to decide if you would serve better as dog food or river bait. And then as if by instinct, you spit in his face, took a hard bite of his hand and poked him in the eye, almost in a single gesture of contempt. He howled at the strange electrifing bite and laughed. It's an omen, this one has spunk, we will raise him to fight bravely, and serve us well. He shall be called Maudro Ankanot, meaning darkly wrapped soul-biter. And so it was. Mauduro was passed from one lose tribal unit to the next, never knowing any sense of mother or father, family or roots. The story of his tribal origins changed each time it was told and gave him no succor. He was trained for the axe and killed mercilessly any living thing in his path. His saving grace among tribal factions was his skill and omen status. But deep down he knew this was not his way, not his true path. Even as a lad he never enjoyed the killing, not like they did, reveling in it... it was just what he was trained to do. And over time it ate into his soul and spirit, forging and inner conflict, hammered true and straight on the anvil of hate, violence, bloodshed and death. Indeed, even his name was an omen, for his inner conflict was darkly wrapped and his double edged soul biting axe cut both ways. He had enough, and one day set out on his own. He vowed to walk a true path wherever it led. Fighting only for honour, justice and self defense. Maduro is loner, on a quest to find his true origins and to repair the shredded remnants of his soul. He is silent and introspective. Having no formal training in the arts, he sometimes appears unrefined and a bit naive, but if you look deep into his eyes or feel the rough texture of his hands, you sense and even feel the axe ringing as it cleves through flesh and bone. There is a darkness about him that gives one pause, but no truer friend shall you find if you reach his heart. In his travels, Maduro happened upon a half-giant barbarian named Anroth. Leary at first, this half-giant was like none other Maduro had known. Anroth was fierce and courageous, but gentle, kind and true. They hunted together. Anroth taught Maduro many things of life and goodness, of scorn and deception. They formed a bond and became close friends. They both now call Clan Walker home. Maduro is the QuestMaster at Clan Walker and runs the Maiming Maul where you can find all manner of axes, hammers, and bows. He lives in a modest cottage near the west wall just outside the gates. You can often find him there, alone, sorting through the books and tomes while forming a noble quest or perhaps sifting through the details of some completed adventure, looking for some scrap, the smallest clue, that could feed is own inner quest.

Written by: Maduro on: 11/21/03