Beremud, the Barbarian
- Intro Video
Beremud, o’ Clan Hairuwulf. Warrior under the sign of Kiltor, God of Metal and Thunder. Sole wielder of the Argent Obliviator, and son of the blacksmith who rose to slay a baron o Hell itself to craft it.
Beremud grinned, reaching over to grab his sword. The hilt was a long, spiraling horn, its crossguard a huge jawbone lined with devilish teeth. The blade was as long as Beremud was tall, deep as his chest, thick as a bottle and hewn from a massive obsidian chunk. “A dragon, eh?”
- Who Am I...
A mighty barbarian warrior on a quest to vanquish a mighty demon and return to his homeland
- Romantic Interests
Sabrenn, my wonderful wife with a heart of gold and eyes as sweet as honey
- Relationship Status
Married to Sabrenn, my wonderful wife with a heart of gold and eyes as sweet as honey
- My Story Is...
Beremud grew up among a tribe of barbarians to the West; a powerful brutish clan even by the standards of barbarians. They use their power not to wage war, however, but to go toe to toe the most powerful game the world has to offer them. They keep wargs and great cats as companions, and the skulls of dragons as trophies. Those with the highest authority in the clan, as is tradition across the untamed wilds of Gorakk (placeholder name for the world we barbarians call home) are those who’ve bested demons.
Unlike many who would employ magicks or siege engines to tackle such grand opposition, this throng of dauntless warriors used brute force and raw aggression. Their weapons were huge and sturdy, if crude in appearance. Even their archers wielded great bows that shot arrows that would be javelins by any other’s standard. Generations of this life had led to their massive, hulking frames and seemingly everlasting endurance. Their reliance on physical strength had made the use of magic strictly taboo,for not only did they shun those who did not use their own strength to fight, they had a deep rooted distrust of the supernatural.
Beremud’s father had been a blacksmith tasked with crafting the weapons for his clan. The land was rich with stout metal ores, with some veins so rich that they needn’t be smelted down to craft swords and axes. The heavy stone and metal slabs were crafted into weapons of such weight and size that they needn’t be sharpened, yet the wise smithy would still do so for maximum lethal efficiency. He had been taught the craft by his father-Beremud’s grandfather- using the ancient techniques passed down from several generations of warrior-smiths. With the blood of great demons and the bones of mastodons as fuel, the forge burned eternally, day and night, year after year, birthing swaths of mighty weapons.
His mother was the lead huntress of the tribe, a tamer and destroyer of beasts. Her tracking skills and knowledge of the terrain made her not only an astounding hunter but also a great teacher. Her experience unparalleled, her wisdom in the ways of violence was shared with fellow hunters both young and old. By the time she’d married Beremud’s father in her adolescence, she offered her own dowry of sorts in the form of a wyvern’s skull. The honor of their union was as much her husband’s as it was her own, even with her husband’s place in such an important role. Her talents and patience earned her a place of great respect and even leadership in the clan, a role that would bring greater prosperity -as well as responsibility- with each passing year.
On the eve of Beremud’s 10th birthday, a horde of demons attacked the village, seeking vengeance for their comrades slain in battles past. Many of the lesser demons fell to the blades and bows of the defenders, but the leader of the horde proved to be a true monster. A demonic lord, a Baron of Hell, a 15 foot tall monstrosity adorned in the classic appearance of demons: leathery red hide, curved horns, spear-like claws, cloven hooves, and a grin full of teeth to rival most dragons. Many brave men fell to the hell beast’s fiery rain of doom, until his father managed to lay the killing blow on the beast. He ripped a horn from the Baron’s armored brow, before slamming it into the beast’s face with such force that it had lobbed its jaw off.
Standing victorious over the corpse of the demon for but a moment, trophies in hand, Beremud’s father collapsed from his wounds, dying as a true hero. His mother was crowned as Lordess of the clan, though she never remarried.
After a ceremonial pyre, is father was laid to rest in a lavishing tomb deep in the mountains, his ashes and charred bones sealed in a casket formed from a hefty vein of ore. There he lay for a long while… but his peace would be short lived.
In the footsteps of his father under the guidance of his mother and grandfather, Beremud learned to smith in the place of his father.. His true passion, however, was his mother’s hunting expeditions. The thrill of killing was more powerful than the lust he felt for girls, meat, and even mead. He became a prodigy in the art of combat, using the swords he crafted to slay monsters both living and dead.
On a snowy evening, on the 15th anniversary of his father’s death, Beremud went to the tomb to pay his respects, only to find it plundered and vandalized. Not only had the trophies and ceremonial offerings been ransacked, but his father’s casket was nowhere to be found. The intruders had been sloppy in their work, however. They’d chosen their time of robbery most poorly, as the weather had left an easily followed trail.
The barbarian followed the trail, leading him to a small cave. At first, he thought the trail cold, but as he was about to give in, he noticed a loose bolder that led into a hidden pathway. Down the stone path he discovered a horrifying sight: a group of robed cultists had defiled his father’s casket with runes, drawn with a mixture of goat’s blood and his father’s ashes. The remains of the demon lay arranged at the foot of the casket lid. Enraged, Beremud sprung forth, bludgeoning the robed figures to death with his bare hands… and unwittingly completing the ritual.
The runes that had been painted onto the slab glowed with the fiery intensity of all of hell’s incandescent fury. The bodies of the cultists caught flame and were quickly incinerated, their disintegrated bits swirling with a thick miasma emanating from the trophies his father had taken so long ago. Soon the dark force took shape, and to Beremud’s dismay, the Baron of Hell that had slain his father was reanimating before his eyes.
The horror the barbarian felt in that moment swiftly turned into a monstrous rage. How dare these witches defile his father’s grave? How dare the creature that his old man had rightfully slain so many years ago draw breath once more? Rather than flee in terror, Beremud had gone completely Berserk. With a blood curdling primal scream, Beremud grabbed the horn of the beast on the floor, hoping to stab it with the appendage before it could rejoin its body. His unrelenting hatred, however, had caused something much more devastating to unfold.
As he went to swing the horn, the casket followed it, with the demon’s jaw not far behind. With a gusting WOOSH and an earth shattering THUNK, the Baron’s physical body was cleaved in twain from head to hip. It took a long moment for Beremud to realize just what had happened. The demonic aura permeating the demon’s remains, the unholy runes of occult incantations adorning his father’s slab, and the combined wrath of the unhinged barbarian and his father’s spirit had fused the casket’s ore rich lid to the remains of the hellish beast. The long horn had made a handle, the jawbone fused to its base compose a hilt, and the mighty slab of stone and steel had formed a colossal, rune laden blade.
The massive blade glowed a sickening scarlet as it absorbed the wielder’s anger and the demon’s argent energy. Rather than be consumed by the offspring of his slayer, the demon’s ethereal form took the opportunity to flee the cave. Using what little energy remained, the battered demon opened a portal to a far away realm. After sealing the gateway, the famished, once great demon looked for a suitable host whose soul they could devour and regain strength…
Meanwhile, Beremud sat alone in the grave, surrounded by his father’s tainted ashes, holding a daunting unholy blade twice the size of anything he or his father had ever crafted. The blade seemed to quake with the power contained within, almost seeming to speak to the bewildered barbarian. A blade using the power of an archdemon, of the highest circles of hell’s knights, brimming with enough argent energy to open a gateway into oblivion… Argent Obliviator seemed like a fitting title.
As Beremud’s rage subsided, so to did the shaking of the blade. It ceased its glowing and seemed, apart from the satanic runes adorning it, to simply be an impractically large blade. Soon it dawned on him that he would no longer be able to call his village home. Whether he had intended it or not, he’d dabbled in magic -black magic, no less- and witnessed the revival of his father’s age old enemy. He knew his victory over the Baron was shallow and short lived, and knew what he must set out to do. The thought stoked the flame of the blade just a little bit. It almost seemed to be laughing at him…
In the dead of night, Beremud returned home to council with his mother and grandfather one last time. He explained as best he could, but while they were sympathetic his elders were absolute in their cultural resolve. Once the ransacking of his father’s tomb and the sudden appearance of the blade were revealed, he would be forced to leave. They knew that he would know longer be able to stay with a magical blade, but he could not get rid of it, for while it was taboo to have magic to adorn their weapon, the consequences of such a blade as the Argent Obliviator should fall into anyone else’s hands would be catastrophic at best.
Beremud’s mother wove him a cloak with which he could shield himself from the elements and his ultra-greatsword from sight. His grandfather crafted a strap for the weapon to be carried under his cloak, for there simply wasn’t a sheathe that could contain the bulk of the 8 foot stone-woven blade. A wrap quenched in sheep’s blood and blessed by the ancestral spirits would have to do.
In the morn, Beremud announced his quest to seek his revenge against the revived demon and find the cult responsible so he may destroy them as well. Donning his father’s armor and his mother’s fur cloak, he set off into the wilderness. In jest, his grandfather called out that he shouldn’t return until he had a wife on one arm and a blade wet with demon’s blood on the other.
After years of travel, he’d grown homesick. With the great demon still in hiding, he decided he’d at least fill one of the criteria for his homeward trip. The time had come to find a personal, permanent wench.
He found his wife, Sabrenn, in a mountain village he stumbled upon in his travels. She holding a contest of strength for her hand. The winner of the deathmatch would be her husband, and Beremud managed to not only kill the contenders but her father and brothers as well. At first she was furious, but Beremud managed to win her over.
Beremud lucked out, for she hailed from a long line of demon hunters. Her mighty crossbow was imbued with the spirit of a monstrous raven from the realm of gods. Together they set off to have an adventure, and to avenge his father so the world may be rid of the demonic menace…
But alas, the sword has a mind of its own. The Argent Obliviator will often teleport Beremud to strange new lands on a whim, usually after shouting “terebravisse” (it’s Latin for BORED). Now Beremud must find his way back to his homeland. But for the time being, he is stranded on Hellifyno, a strange world filled with perils he has no hope of understanding.
- My Appearance
Beremud is a behemoth of a man. He stands 6’9″ and weighs 400 pounds. His chest and shoulders are as broad as a bear, and his core is a massive hairy keg of solid muscle.
His hair is long and fiery red, with braids worn on the sides to keep it out of his way. His beard is thick and braided down to his gut. His eyes are a bright green, and they shine with a fiery primal spirit that cannot be tamed.
His face is often marked with a bright blue woad, and he wears a kilt in his clans tartan, with a strip of his wife’s sewn in to remind him of her always. He also wears thick leather boots and spiked arm bracers, both trimmed with fur.
In warm weather he travels bare chested, save for the harness and pauldron that he uses to carry his sword. In the cold he is draped in the thick furs of beasts he’s slain, as well as a thick gambeson for armor. On his head is almost always the head of a massive bear, his namesake and a wonderful tool for frightening his foes.
-The Argent Obliviator: A massive greatsword hewn from his father’s stone casket and the remains of the demon that slew him. It’s so huge, only a man as massive as Beremud could dream of handling it. The blade feeds on Beremud’s rage and the blood of his enemies, his strikes growing more ferocious the angrier he gets and the sword growing more powerful the more foes he slays.
-A Door ripped off the hinges of the Red Sun Inn. It maintains the regenerative and magic resistant properties of its host location, and has been crafted into a great shield.
-A great dane ax, though in his hands it is a mere hand ax. Great for chopping wood and throwing alike.
-A drinking horn, for meriment
-The traveling essentials. A knife, a sleeping bag, a cooking pot, a waterskin, rations
- My Secrets Are...
Is he wearing anything under that kilt?
- I Believe...
There's nothing better than sitting with a warm woman, next to a roaring fire, eating succulent red meat from the bone while drapes in the fur of a mighty beast.