Marshal Galfar Ironblade

Galfar Ironblade is known by many names. Korbane's Fall. The Scourge of the North. Grombolar.

A rose by any other name?

Appearance
Galfar is a prime example of his kind. The apex of a Warsong orc, standing eight feet three inches in height and clocking in at a whopping four hundred pounds of pure, unadulterated orcish fury. A greasy head of long, black, dirty hair sprouts from his head, coated in blood and grime. Hygene is not his primary concern. Deep brown skin mottled with hundreds upon hundreds of scars, half ritualistically self inflicted, half sustained in a lifetime of battle. Hand whittled bone spikes are pierced through the thin skin of his shoulders. Yep, that's definitely ritualistic. His armor is simple, he keeps his top entirely unprotected, a firm believer in the ancient Warsong tradition of Bor'gor Orvar Kalimaste, or the Divine battle trance of Orvar, the ever burning Sun. As he sees it, if it is his time to fall in battle, so be it. For a Warsong orc, there is no greater glory than to die gloriously in battle, the end all true warriors strive for. His left arm terminates in a heavy steel blade. The Bladefist, a symbol of his legendary past in the coliseums of Alversia.

History
Darkness. Total darkness.

A hand clasped up in iron. The hand of a champion.

A single ray of pure sunlight shines down into this subterranean prison.

Orvar's gaze, cast down unto those wretches, once champions. Gazing upon...a rock.

The hand of a young gladiator strikes out, reaching for that rock. Straining. Stretching. All that mattered was that rock falling into his grasp.

The hand of Galfar Ironblade, former champion of the Ogguuro Coliseum.

Like most gladiators, and in fact, most Warsong orcs in the Alversian Empire, Galfar was born a slave.

To fight in the coliseums was the only way to freedom.

One hundred lives, the price of freedom, paid in blood, paid in full.

The hand strikes out again, straining, stretching. All that mattered was that rock falling into his grasp.

Lesser men fell before the Ironblade like lambs to the slaughter, bled dry by the insatiable bloodlust of a cornered beast.

Fight. Kill.

Salute.

One hundred times over, the same damn thing. Til finally the gates of that Coliseum swung open, the young gladiator strode out victorious then suddenly. Darkness. Total darkness.

The hand strikes out again, a stretch, a strain, a fingernail catches on the face of the rock inching it ever closer to his palm. Unsettling crackling as the bones in his wrist are stretched far too hard, a wail of agony that dies as fast as it surfaced.

It is said that an orc's undying will to survive could be their greatest weapon.

Galfar held that stone aloft, and swung it down. Blade hits the bone, everybody in that prison hears it sing. Pained grunts, hacking through flesh and bone before finally.

Freedom.

How easily flesh parts with its master. Galfar's final battle for freedom. His own left hand.

He won. As always.

Other prisoners, former champions, begin to look up. Galfar was free? He freed himself? Where's his hand?

He threw the stone down in front of a prisoner, just barely out of reach that tool of liberation clattered to a stop.

A hand strikes out of the darkness, stretching, straining, as if the only thing that mattered was its palm meeting that stone.

The orcs freed themselves in the same way, severing their left hands. They fashioned crude weapons from their captor's blades and from the very bones of their hand. They attached these blades to their wounded arms, becoming one with their weapon.

Every single Alversian soldier in that Coliseum was slaughtered.

And Striche took note. Offered them their freedom in exchange for loyalty in his army.

They accepted.

And thus the Lar'gor Maddok was born. The Shattered Hand.

Warsong Heritage
Like most Warsong orcs, Galfar bears the blessing of Orvar, granting him significant resistance to mana-consuming magic, especially of the Fire school. His body has been trained to its physical peak, part by standard Alversian training, part by his strive for the three perfections of the Warsong, perfection of his iron will, perfection of his prowess in battle, and perfection of his body outside of battle. He is armed with Korbane's Fall, the legendary handaxe that singlehandedly culled the northern capital of Korbane, and of course, the Bladefist, a veritable icon of the modern Warsong clan, a symbol of their defiance in the face of overwhelming odds and their indominable will to live.

Dark Shamanism
The elementally attuned shamans have been the Warsong clan's priesthood since their very inception, they commune peacefully with the spirits of the earth, the wind, the water, the flame, and the ancestors. They ask for their power, and through their heart-to-heart bond with these spirits, they are granted it. The Dark Shaman do not ask for the aid of the elements. They take it. Galfar founded this school of shamanism after subjugating the fire elemental Murari, and using her essence to enchant the Bladefist. His primary use of the elements is to enhance his prowess in battle, his Battle Trance. The wind backing his strikes, the flame coating his blade, the water to mend his wounds and the earth to bind the feet of his fleeing opponents. Though it is said in the heat of battle, even the earth may break before the blade of Galfar.