Morbil, son of Morgol, warrior of Khaz-Rhuddh is an outcast from his people - a man times forsaken criminal whose return to his ancestral home would surely cost him his life. A savage, brutal warrior, his services are for hire to any who can afford his lofty price around Crater City, where he keeps a fine home.


Bedecked with immense, ropey muscle, and bulging veins, Morbil is a fearsome looking creature indeed. His girth is perhaps twice that of a normal duregar, and while he likes his food and his drink, soft living is far from the cause of his bulk. His grey skin is a shade closer to bruised flesh than the rocky grey of his people. Morbil looks as if he could crush stone with his bare hands - and likely as not he could. His hair and braided beard are wild, standing on end, and his eyebrows are bushy and heavy, giving him a terrible glare. When he is incensed with rage - which is more often than not - his black eyes become terrible, all whites with tiny irises, and his crazed, demonic leer has driven powerful men into retreat before a blow is even struck. His teeth gnash and his mouth foams with spittle and his mighty muscles knot like twisted swamp trees, ready to destroy all who stand in his way. But when he is content his smirk is wicked, and his dark eyes twinkle with mischief.


Exceptional for his propensity for anger and sloth, in equal measure, he lacks the gruff martial sensibilities and rigid discipline that mark other duregar. With a volatile temper, even for one of his own kind, and a flair for violence that might almost be considered a gift, Morbil has discovered that the one thing he is best at in life is killing things - or hurting them so badly they wished they were dead.

Accustomed to being waited on and adored, he chafes under the demands of daily living, especially on the road, and finds that he can vent his frustrations of anything that chooses to cross blades with him. And thanks to a morbid fear of his enemies rising from the dead, his thorough dismemberment of his fallen foes borders on the sadistic to the casual observer. Still, in a good fight Morbil is usually at his most amiable, and for a few hours thereafter he jokes and laughs and makes merry in a humour than he does not attain even when deep in his cups.

Still, Morbil is loyal. He has felt the sting of exile once, and he is eager to make himself liked - so long as it doesn't involve too much undue effort on his part. After the initial shock wears off his bluff manner can even be refreshing, or to a special few, endearing. Although recently Morbil has begun to refer to himself exclusively in the third person - a shift that speaks none too positively about his sanity in many people's eyes.


Morbil was the son of a respected smith in the Duregar city of Khaz-Rhuddh. His father Morgol was a paragon of the community - a craftsman, former warrior and patron of the ruling family. However Morbil soon learned that the lacked Morgol's exceptional skills, and after years of trying to train his son Morgol despaired, and sent him to join the army. Here Morbil discovered his true calling. He excelled in the use of a weapon, in knowing when a foe was the most vulnerable, and where to strike to put a man down permanently. His bursts of temper left many of his sparring partners wounded, but when he was unleashed as a pure weapon at the head of a fighting force few could stand against him. Quickly his name became legend after a protracted campaign against the verbeeg who plagued the passes into Khaz-Rhuddh. And when Morbil was the last survivor, and victor of the battle of Fjelnes Pass he became the most celebrated hero of his home.

Sadly Morbil had two great weaknesses: he was naturally lazy, and quick to anger. While the lifestyle of a celebrated hero left him little work to do, and his savagery was not only channelled, but celebrated, these faults had been easily overlooked. But Morbil quickly tired of patrols, and the duties of the general soldiery. He began to bribe or intimidate his fellows into doing his work, or when he could not, doing a poor and hurried job. Carousing with his admirers and food and strong drink, and sordid liaisons with servant girls began to fill his days more and more.

Things came to a head when Morbil was sent to guard the daughter of a powerful Jarl as she was taken to her new husband in Khaz-Kallar. A mere three days into the journey Morbil had his way with the young girl while the garrison was encamped in a narrow valley, taking her protests as playful. Then, as he lay in a satisfied slumber, verbeeg stole into the camp and massacred the entire party. Morbil survived because in his deep sleep he was taken for one of the dead. When he awoke Morbil knew he could never return to his people, and so, taking what he could from the camp and making sure that the spirits of those he had failed could not pursue him, Morbil fled into the north, and into the lands of the Wound, where he could find anonymity, battle aplenty, and hidden riches to feed his many vices.


Morbil is well known around Crater City. If not well loved. Not only is his presence unnerving at best, the clientèle he attracts are often unwelcome. Morbil has petitioned several times for the right to purchase a home on the ramshackle slopes of the crater, but the town council has repeatedly turned down his request, so he contents himself with permanent lodging at Kashak's Place, where he can usually be found in his own corner of the taproom. He has thus far had the good sense not to cross Tode and the city regulars - no doubt because while they may not beat him in a fight, but they could make his living situation very unpleasant.


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