Browse wiki

The winter Muiryn came into the world was said to be the bleakest and most brutal seen in well over a generation; he survived it to see his first spring despite the fears to the contrary. Never let it be said the man is anything but a born fighter. As a boy he played, hunted and learnt alongside his older brother Marcel, the tribe's then future leader, and their other siblings and stumbled himself through a remarkably average Abandoned childhood. Their paths eventually deviated as Marcel took his place as their leader while Muiryn turned to the defence of his family, his brother's lands and their way of life. For all the attempted training in his youth he never really got a handle of weaponry, not even the two-handed sort he was strong enough to wield effectively; it felt clumsy and stale. Why use a weapon when he had a pair of perfectly good hands? This preference lead to rumours that dwell in the Greenwood of the berserker who tears through axes and arrows alike unflinching, and could rip away a man's jaw or split another's skull between his hands. Bullshit, in Muiryn's well-formed opinion. Just make-believe tales from the battle fields that got out of hand. Certainly the generation that grew beneath him, like his nieces and nephews, could not imagine the man that sat begrudgingly to have flowers weaved in his hair or carried them upon his shoulders to reach fruit from out-of-reach branches would be capable of the things their parents spoke of in low voices. The last eighteen years of his life has been spent in a most unexpected role, as a father to Neve. He pulled away from battle, answering the call when his older brother needed him, but otherwise remained in the Greenwood to teach the future of Greenmarch. He told them to be proud of who they were, of their history, and their way. When Marian went on her whirl-wind adventure and came back with a Valardin Prince and his brother Marcel agreed to bend the knee --to the surprise of the family-- Muiryn was the first to support it. But supporting it didn't mean he'd packing up and heading off at dawn, much to Neve's dismay. Only now some five years on has Muiryn resentfully set foot out of his homelands and into Arx.

Savage finds itself wanting when describing Muiryn Greenmarch. If his stature wasn't enough the array of scars left by who-knows-what might be the tipping point; he looks, by no means, civilised. Shoulder length hair is most often a wind-torn mess, only ever tied back if he needs it out of his eyes, and his blond-auburn-flecked beard frames thick set features has seen no maintenance. Set beneath dark brows are eyes of haunting tempests; dark, ocean blue, flecked in with silver-grey. The man is broad shouldered and his life of hard labour has done him justice at least, more bulk than lean muscle. Muiryn's posture is one of a man that has grown accustomed to stooping beneath door frames for most of his life, seen in the forward roll of his shoulders and a casual slouch. It is a rare occasion that he draws to his full height, being quite comfortable trying to blend in with the crowd; despite how ridiculous that may be. His voice is akin to a distant, rumbling thunder that calls attention to the speaker even if he doesn't mean to.

Due to his stature and physique, Muiryn is not exactly the approachable sort and in the presence of strangers he can seem antisocial, or just really pissed off. To those that know him though he is man of simple pleasures, easy going and occasionally even wise, if not unflappably blunt. Of his better qualities there is fierce loyalty and passion in what he deems worthy of it. These outward appearances are the still surface of a body of water with a wild undercurrent just below; out of sight and dangerous. For all of his nonchalance Muiryn is a turbulent man and can be, too quickly, brought to rage. On the battle field this could very well save the life of his kin or the very least see more foes slain. In civilised society it is something akin to letting loose a wild stag in an antiques shop.