A rather ogre-ish, very large woman (7", 400+lbs) with striking green eyes and hair of fire. Lead a solitary life; hunting, fishing, gardening, woodwork. Lived in a log cabin outside of town. Skilled hunter, trapper, and woodsman. A very talented brewer of honey mead, though only her and her husband ever got to indulge, and indulge they did.
Father, Razmagog, Outcast:
Runt Cloud giant (12’ 8", 2500+lbs) typical cloud giant grey skin sky blue hair and eyes. Outcast in adolescence for small size and preferring the valleys and lowlands, though still loving the fog and clouds. He kept the home in a state of perpetual fog, except on the clearest of nights in the summer. He slept outside the home because it was too small, and he preferred it that way. Though he had not quite reached full maturity, he was gathering large stone slabs and objects and materials of particular beauty and rarity for his future cloud castle.
“Treeb” (formerly Treeboy) aka. Miltiades (meaning ‘red earth’), son of Razmagog, Outcast:
8’9", 976 lbs
Fighter, Battle Master
Light ashy grey skinned half cloud giant.
Hair color: the greyest of blues, including his facial hair, he wears it all in a wild mane, unkempt and untrimmed.
Eye color: a peculiar mix of blue and green, the observer can never quite tell if the eyes are blue or green
Miltiades, his parents called him Milli, age 12, was out playing and heard a commotion.
He returned home to see his mother and father bleeding, several bodies strewn about. He hid in the bushes and watched the battle rage on.
His parents were putting up an impressive fight but there were just too many of them.
First to fall was Agatha, a strike from behind while she used a woodcutter’s axe and cauldron lid to slay 3 foes ahead.
The sight of his fallen wife caused Razmagog to enter a frenzied rage and he cleaved through the 5 soldiers before him with his giant’s great axe. He fought valiantly, but again the numbers were too much.
They took out his Achilles tendons but he fought on, slaying 3 more. He let out a mighty roar and just then, a well timed arrow caught him straight in the throat.
Not dead, but close, they loaded his body onto a large cart and secured him down with some kind of magical chain. They left the dead and carted the giant away.
They never saw the large boy hiding in the bushes, but he saw them. And 2 faces would haunt his dreams for many nights to come, the leader of this foul band of mercenaries, and his mother’s killer.
He grieved his mother and father until nightfall and fell asleep next to his mother’s body. He was plagued by terrible nightmares that night as he watched his parents fall over and over again, the men laughing in his face. He awoke to his dead mother’s lifeless eyes staring at him, he shrieked and scrambled away.
Then he cried again.
But Miltiades was very smart for his age and he knew no help would come. He gathered up 2 bundles of items.
The 1st was a collection of valuables and objects that he thought might be of worth. This he hid in a secret spot he made beneath a tree a few minutes from the cabin.
The 2nd bundle was the pack he planned to take with him; some crusts of bread, dried fish and meat, a few fruits and vegetables, a small sack of nuts, several pieces of flint, a small knife, a ragged doll his mother made for him, a healing potion hidden in the cupboards, and a large water skin.
He decided to try his mother’s honey mead for the first and probably last time, it was wonderful.
He put on his newest hunting jerkin, received just a few days earlier. And finally he went outside and grasped his mother’s hand, slowly removing a worn golden ring, a gift from the giant’s courtship.
He grabbed the blood-spattered woodcutter’s axe next to her body and began to depart. He paused and turned back, he couldn’t leave her to rot. So he dug he a grave, shallow, for he was just a boy. He placed some sticks in the shape of an A atop the grave. He put on his pack and picked up his mother’s axe, then he grabbed the spare axe next to the home and departed, tears in his eyes.
He followed the path of the mercinaries for several days, never on the road, but just beyond the treeline. He didn’t notice when the tracks split and the carts trail disappeared in the woods on the opposite side, nor did he care. Either his father was dead or he would crush them all. But his mother was dead and he would make them pay, somehow
Eventually he heard them, and the loud and raucous chatter of drunk men. He stopped, and proceeded slowly, being sure to keep his large bulk in as much shadow as he could.
He watched these men, these terrible, wicked men, carry on and revel. He hated them, he wanted to see them pay. But he knew he was too weak. They had killed his mother and father both. So he had to become stronger.
He followed the band of mercenaries for years. They referred to themselves as the Arrowhead. His mother’s killer, Artem, turned out to be the leader, Leon’s, second in command.
He watched them. He watched them fight. He learned from them. He swung his axes around day and night.
He ambushed a scout several weeks in, cleaving his axes into the back of the scouts skull. He took the man’s bow and his clothes, leaving him naked back on the road.
Not long after, stories started around camp of the mysterious “Treeboy” that seems to lurk in the trees. Some men were scared and some were only amused. They would call out to him, “come on Treeboy, let us see you.” And they would try to ambush him, but his cloud giant blood helped him to escape them again and again.
He followed them on their missions and their raids. He was spotted a few times early on and the story of Treeboy grew. But as he watched and he learned, he used the hunting skills his mother taught him, and he began to thin the herd.
At first it was a straggler here and there, or a scout. He would surprise them from behind and most never saw his face. Those that did had the most curious looks of surprise and realization. He was not a scared boy or a curious creature, not a ghost or apparition. No wild boy following them for protection or companionship. He was a hunter and they were his prey. He was a messenger, delivering them to Hades for their sins
As time went on there was never a shortage of new men and woman hungry for coin and loot and blood. But he never touched the two he longed to kill. He wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t want to ambush them, he wanted them to see his face as he used his mother’s axe to take from them their precious lives.
He began to eliminate small groups of 2 or 3, ambushing them at first, then finishing his smaller, weaker foes, the younger and less experienced of his enemies.
Occasionally he would select a veteran, using the ambush to weaken them, then he would put his skills to the test. He was by no means a skilled warrior, as the various scars and wounds that riddled his body would attest, but he was stong, and his conviction kept him alive.
He felt the rage of his father many times over the years, but he suppressed it. He would talk to himself and talk to his mother and he would explain that he wanted to be a whirling tornado, born in the clouds, he loved the clouds. But the rage was a volcano, it would poison the clouds with its black smoke, and that he could not allow to happen.
He began to call himself Treeb, for he was no longer a boy in his eyes, and the name of his father was too sacred. This was the time he began to understand the mist and the fog. They were his and he was theirs. It spoke a secret language, that of dampness and silence. And secrets, for he knew that the men could not see in the fog as well as him, for they were not of the clouds. He was careful and meticulous. Never making fire near them, and keeping his axes razor sharp. Always ready for a scout or an ambush, always watching and always listening.
He grew older and he could feel the strength filling his body. And he knew that he needed more so he began to train. He would fell trees in the deeper forests, for hours at a time he would chop. He used only the spare axe for this, for his mother’s axe had a thirst for blood and nothing else.
As he got bigger and stronger and his skills with the twin axes improved, he grew bolder. Dispatching 6 or 8 of the lesser men, even taking on a pair of grizzled veterans. He knew the time was drawing near, he would have his sweet revenge at last.
He began with the great leader of this terrible band, start with the lesser joy so he could savor the death of his mother’s killer. He waited until the scarred and well worn veteran was alone, he thought he was safe in his latest victory. Treeb never knew what the missions were, nor did he care, all he saw was the red death of his enemies. The man, he did not even know his name, for he did not care what name the man had, he only wish for the man’s blood to join the stains of his mother’s upon her axe. He did not ambush the man like all the others. He merely killed the guards outside his make shift command room and walked through the doors, smiling with blood spattered teeth, blood dripping from his axes. But Treeb did not see the look he was expecting in the man’s eyes. Not surprise or confusion or fear, but of knowing and understanding and realization.
The man spoke to him, “Ah, I can see him in you. The king did not know the giant had a son. I see that the playful boy that leads in many a campfire story told by my men is actually the thorn that has been piercing my side for years. Treeboy—”
“Treeb.” He interrupted
The man chuckled, “Of course, Treeb, for you are a boy no longer. Come to get your revenge I suppose?”
“Yes, Mother thirsts for your blood.” When had he started calling the axe Mother? It did not matter because he could feel her thirst. “But not as much as she craves the blood of her killer.” He laughed a dark laugh.
“Well then,” the man rose from the chair he had been sitting in, “let’s see how well you fight with those axes.” He pulled out his large, dark blade and held it at the ready. Suddenly he charged.
It was a vicious, hard-fought battle, with both sides giving and receiving several blows. In the midst of the fury they both paused, blood dripping from their blades. “It’s too bad you won’t be leaving here alive.” The man said breathily, before smiling an evil smile.
And in that moment Treeb thought of his father for the first time in many years. He had never found out what happened to his father or where the cart went. But now his memory told Treeb what he had to do, and so he let the rage in for the first time. And the Rage felt so good, he could feel himself getting lost in it, and he knew that he might not be able to come back. Still, he let it wash over him and it flowed in him, through him, and he was full.
He met the man’s charge and it overjoyed him when he saw the smile turn to fear. And with some unnatural speed and strength he broke the charge and planted his axes in both sides of the man’s heart, killing him almost instantly. When Treeb removed the blades he saw a neat little slice of the man’s heart stuck to mother’s blade, and in his rage he ate it. Somewhere in his mind he knew he shouldn’t but the rage clouded his judgement, and he satiated his hunger for revenge with a piece of his enemy’s heart. He could taste the warm metallic blood as it coated every surface of his mouth, the flesh tough and chewy in its raw state. His deeper mind was horrified by what he was doing, but the rage wanted it, and the rage felt so good.
After swallowing that piece of the man’s heart he began to use mother to hack up the man’s body. He used the parts and entrails to send them a terrible message.
For a while the men were vigilant, much more so than usual. And the killer, that is what Treeb knows him by, again, his name is unimportant. He took his place as leader of the mercenaries, but as Treeb watched from the shadows he could see fear in the killer’s eyes. He questioned his own men, he was suspicious of each of them.
Treeb had his own fear. The rage. It was a feeling so delightful and exhilarating, but at the same time horrifying. He knew he to remember the moment always, so he would never give in to the rage again.
Treeb gave them a time of peace, he knew they would begin to let their guard down. He was waiting for the right time and he knew that time was coming.
The men were hunting a pegasus. They cared nothing for the creature, they wanted only its wings. And Treeb listened to their plan, like he always did, and he knew this was the time. They were going to rain arrows around it so it wouldn’t take off. Funnel it through a narrow canyon carved into the nearby mountain, it had sheer sides that wouldn’t allow the pegasus to take off. Then on the other side of the canyon is a cliff, where the pegasus would try to fly, but they would have men with nets and chains waiting to stop it. It was the perfect place to make his own ambush. The men could fit no more than 2 or 3 across while in the canyon and they wouldn’t be worried about what’s behind them. And best of all, as a show of strength the killer wanted to lead the chase. Perfect.
And so Treeb sharpened his axes to perfection and waited. He called upon the fog, willing it out with more conviction than he ever had before, and it filled the canyon and the area around it. He was going to kill as many as he could before finishing off the killer. Finally they began to get into position, the fog was no obstacle to them, for the plan was almost perfect, almost. They left a few behind to stay with camp, Treeb took them out first. Cleaving heads from bodies, he killed almost without sound in the fog, his axe blades slicing their flesh like one would slice an apple.
He set the camp abaze as soon as all were dead, all but a boy, no more than 14. He appeared to the boy through the mist and told him to go, for this would be a place of great violence. And just as swiftly, he disappeared back into mist. Treeb followed the path of the men,and found the 6 archers foolishly grouped together after their job was done. 4 of them were dead before the others could let out a quick shriek of surprise. Then they too had their cries cut short, like his father. Whenever he thought of his father he could feel the rage creep up, but he suppressed it. He traversed the mist until he found the entrance to the canyon, and the slowest of those that were chasing the pegasus. 2 men side by side, each leaning on a side of the canyon wall catching their breath. He wanted the voices of these men to echo through the canyon, and whisper through the mist. He kneeled behind the men, flipped his axe blades around, and with 2 reverse strikes he removed both of their legs. The 2 men screamed as their legless torsos fell to the ground. He rolled them both over and quieted their screams with axe blades to the face. He knew this would be the final battle and he wasn’t going to let any of them escape with their lives. He began to walk down the canyon, each heavy stomp vibrating across the canyon floor. He wanted them afraid. As a precaution and a scare tactic he planted the axes in the walls behind him while he walked, causing the pathway to become blocked with rocks and rubble and creating a quiet thunder that both roared and whispered through the canyon. He could see some men running towards him, so he stepped through the mist directly in front of them, removing their weapon hands before their heads. This pattern continued, with the walls falling behind him and men running to him, getting dismembered and eliminated.
His flesh bore several wounds from stones and blades when he finally sees the 2 men with nets and hears the cries of the pegasus trapped beneath them. He removed their arms and then their heads. He could smell that it was just him, the killer, and the pegasus. And then he smelled something else, something he couldn’t quite remember. He sees the killer, his greatsword planted in the ground before him. Then he feels a strong gust of wind that blows away the fog, and at that moment Treeb was slammed to the ground by a bolt of lightning. In the brief moment after the flash but before the bolt, Treeb thought, ’that’s the smell’ and he saw the killer smiling.
He was stunned and everything hurt, but he knew he had to get up. He grabbed his axes and rolled away from the killer, just in time to miss a mighty downward chop. He got to his knees and blocked another cleaving strike with Mother. His eyes widened as he saw the notch in Mother’s blade where he caught the greatsword.
The man laughed, “Hahaha, I see that the giant had a son. And is that your mother’s axe? The king would find that very amusing. It’s too bad you’ll die here today.”
Treeb smiled his own bloody smile, “Mother has been thirsty for your blood for so very long.” He said it not to the killer, but to his axe. He rose to his feet, an 8 foot mountain of a man, covered in his own and the blood of his enemies. The real battle began.
The killer kept up his gust of wind so the fog and mist could not help Treeb. Still he held his own. The killer was a master with his blade, striking with both his downswing and upswing. And Treeb was his own masterpiece, swinging and twisting and twirling his axes with uncanny deftness. Each side landed their own minor blows but neither of them made another sound. If one were somehow witness to this great battle they would hear nothing but the clang of metal and the occasional cry of a pegasus.
The killer swung wide and Treeb went in for a death blow, but he realized, too late, that it was a feint, and the killer carried through with the swing, spinning around entirely and driving a great blow to the back. It was after this moment that Treeb began to lose the battle, taking more blows than the killer. After each blow he felt the rage rising, but he thought of mother and forced it down. He was breathing heavily now, not making his own attacks, only dodging and blocking, and resting when he could. But the killer was relentless. Treeb jumped back from another mighty sideways blow but the tip caught his chest and he dropped to a knee. Again he felt the rage rising, but before he could suppress it the man spoke, “Your father would be disappointed.” Instead, he thought of his mother and father’s great battle and in his mind he saw his mother smile. He let the white-hot fury of Mother’s revenge and the blood boiling rage of his father intertwine within him, and he let it into every corner of his being. The killer saw his eyes grow wide and bloodshot, and the peculiar color shift to black, as he rose to his full height, somehow taller and larger than he was just moments before. He bellowed a mighty roar. “Ah,” the killer chuckled, “there it is.”
Suddenly Treeb struck, the blows coming hard and fast. There was rage but it was focused. With the memory of his parents driving him, Miltiades, their son, was a whirlwind, a raging tornado of death. He swung blow after blow, some being blocked and dodged, some drawing blood. The killer drew nearer and nearer to the cliff edge when a sudden back swing caught square him in the side and he landed face down on the ground, unmoving.
Treeb stood above the man, kicking his sword away. He needed only Mother for this final blow. With a great swing he planted his other axe in the ground beside him. Then he brought Mother high in the air…
Unbeknownst to both men the lighting bolt had caused the cliff to crack. And the great battle taking place above weakened it even further. Treeb cleaving his axe into the cliff was the final straw. And as he was raising Mother up, the cliff side collapsed, sending both men tumbling to the forrested valley below.
Treeb woke up sometime later, for a moment, it was night, then he passed out again. He awoke the next morning in agony, his left leg was broken as were several ribs, and everything hurt. He had to splint his leg but he had to set it first. He put a stick in his mouth and wedged his foot under a root. He pulled himself away with speed and heard a loud crack. He passed out again. What happened? Where was he? How did he even know what he was doing? This wasn’t the body of a 12 year old boy.
The last thing he could remember was burying his mother’s body. A flash of memory; his mother’s axe stained with blood, a notch in the blade from something… Oh no! Where was Mother?! He got to his feet despite the pain screaming at him not to move and started to look around him. He found an axe, but it wasn’t the right one. He began to search frantically, shoving rocks and tree branches around. He came upon a particular rock that looked to be split in half, but it was large. He pushed off with his good leg and pushed with all his might, it wouldn’t budge. Without thinking, he put his broken leg down and pushed again. He passed out.
When he woke up he looked around him and there was Mother in the crack. He thought again; What happened? Who attacked my family? Another flash of memory; “…The king didn’t know the giant had a son…”, “… The king would find that amusing…” The king? What king? The king of where? He didn’t know. But what he did know was that the king had to die, and if he had to kill every last king in the world, then that’s just what he would do.