Radio

Sold as a newborn, Grender's earliest memories are of the far-folk deserts and training. There was no sense of family given how who he trained with was taught to be his opponent, and them himself respectively. It was what he grew up with, and the praise of winning bouts and duels instilled a sense of pride in his fighting skill, and an ever-growing drive to improve and polish his style. Never in full armor, dexterity and strength were a fine line to balance, though much to his own folly, he was more interested in the 'theatrical' sense of battle than sharpening the finer skills of his weapon. Crowd pleasing, flips, flourishes and otherwise, there were many battles far too close to his last due to his cravings for driving the crowd into a frenzy. During his teenage years, he grew rather ravenous with his crowd-pleasing addictions, the extra mina flung at him was all the more notion to continue his counter-intuitive combat style of pausing to gallivant here and there. It would be his end near the finale of his sixteenth year. A massive, herculean opponent with no glitz nor glamour about his style met him in the gladiatorial arena he called home, and kept Grender barely on the cusp of losing. Whilst Grender himself seemed to struggle to even keep up with his opponent, the massive hunk of gladiator opposing him hadn't even seemed to sweat from how easily this combat came to him. The crowd loved it.. adored it, and as such, all Grender could think to do was turn his back and give his affection to the crowd in turn. As his back was turned, his opponent reared his hammer back, and smashed Grender's face with the flat-end.. again.. and again, and again. He would've died if not for the crowd begging for his mercy, and as such was spared. However, his face was turned grossly deformed, bulging, hideous. Like the coin he so hungered for, the crowd flipped, his owner banishing him to fighting beasts both simple and deadly.. every fight he left being booed for surviving such. He was the joke of the arena, the freak.. ugly, grotesque and worth not a single mina. From sixteen to twenty, his fighting form was molded from simple spear-play to all out survival. Wargs and wolves were his enemy now, and their savagery had a large effect on how he perceived combat onward. With how often he moved from arena to arena, he had became an attraction akin to the many animals that were sent to combat Grender himself. His first proper opponent with another human was met with full frenzy from him.. there was no way they would spare him this time, and Grender himself needed to prove to the others that he still was worth cheering for. The gladiator he fought was adorned in marvelous armor upon his body, most distinguished however, was the warrior's helm.. an array of both steel and brass. The fight was a long and exhausting one, but Grender executed his rival with the chanting hisses of the crowd. As a reward, he plundered the broken helmet.. and fashioned it into the one he wore and still wears to this day. It was a marvelous helm, and the first one he saw with a kalkriese (face-plat fashioned to resemble a face). As such, he grew to treat the helmet as his 'proper' face, the crowd almost seemed to forget he was utterly grotesque with his face hidden.. though his gallivanting was gone by now. His life was such until his twenty-fourth year, still afraid to go back into the style he had once thought mastered.. working the crowd as much as his enemy. It was near the end of his allotted time as a slave in the pits. He had survived far longer than the former brothers and sisters he grew up training with, and as such he had nearly enough mina to pay his way out of the lifestyle. He had one final fight, and it would be his last. The final bout changed him for the 'better' in regards to how he feels about such. His opponent was a disheveled Adunian.. pale and sickly who looked akin to him, in a way. His opponents style was utterly royal.. flips, twirls, pirouettes and countless showcases of crowd-pleasing antics. It melted the cold fears that had frozen over his fiery heart; This creature otherwise scummy acting as if he were a king of the pit he kicked sand upon. Half-way into the skirmish the two had stopped merely battling. They were performing together, for the first time after his horrific loss, Grender had his love of performing the art of combat once more. When asked about the duel, Grender has never revealed how the fight ended out of respect for the fight. As a free man, his first self-imposed quest was to find the roots of his culture. The blood family he never had potentially meeting him and rejoicing was too delicious of a story to avoid. Docking in Sutica, he found the debauchery, degeneracy and otherwise alluring.. and avoided it do to such. His search moving to New Haense proved a story sullied by reality. Most he spoke with seemed disgusted in his horrid attempts at nobility.. after all, he had trained his tone to match that of a noble performer.. though the conversational skills never stuck. Leaving New Haense shortly after a few months worth of searching, he gave himself a family name; Voughswell. It was the name of his spear's smith, and the man who forged it had died without kin. He felt it only natural, given how close he was to his own weapon.

Born into a clan of underhanded orcish mercenaries, 'Gulliver' (Gurliberk being his birthname) learned the ropes of how to be rather uncouth, both in lack of social understanding and in turning tricks with his might and brawn. It was a simple life; Kill..or get your ass kicked and get more orcs to beat the piss out of the thing that shoved your tusks in the muck. Midas weren't worth much when you couldn't pronounce 'I don't think I'll beat you into the dirt and take your shiny baubles', and since it was a regular thing to get beaten around by family, there weren't any heated counselling sessions. As all stories go, things turned sour around the time he was a big lad, and after a failed attempt at stealing the role of leader from his uncle (Jobias GutSmash, third of his name, best in the game), his face was peeled apart and fed to the dogs. He wears a mask to hide his HORRIDLY OBVIOUS family issues. Most of his common tongue was learned from travelling bards that didn't mind a grouchy orc accompanying them along the roads, which always gets him in a bind..mixing his twattish lingo with rather poorly put aristocratic linguistics. He can fight, he loves to get smashed in taverns, and his favorite barmaids are the kind that don't touch his mask. He really doesn't like his mask being touched. Whilst many would consider a wandering vagabond capable of 'jack of all trades, master of none', Gulliver doesn't even really fit that bill. He's loud, and is seemingly addicted to flattening faces. That's about it.