Leomir the Barbarian

Description
Not one estranged from the rigors of battle, the warpath this man is relentlessly set upon are so clearly etched into his features that one might go so far as to call him deformed; the severe lines Kaldorei are known for, while present, are carved and broken by the mauling blows landed. Yet still, his sinister, darkly molded features never fail to answer danger with delight, quick to grin and roar his challenge. The untrustworthy nature this lends to him is matched beat for beat by his molten gaze, glowing and flashing as if it were of a fire's dying embers. Their wicked contempt reveals much about him; his antagonistic tendencies, his volatile, charged aggression that can be brought to light at a moment's notice, and the explosive results sure to come. Though, this turbulent nature aside, redemption is found in his resolute loyalty, this elven man is a steadfast though truculent ally who halts for nothing.

In the name of practicality, his brutal features are not shadowed by the length hair his kindred commonly sport; a cropped bristle stripes the top of his head, a shade short before the blackest of blues. In final tribute and betrayal to his upbringing, feathered ornamentation hands from the length of each of his malformed ears in a scattered arrangement. In visage alone, he owns little sophistication, those who make the mistake of thinking him a civilized man oftentimes learning the hardest lesson of all; natural selection at the hands of a man who follows no warrior's code but his own. There is no insidious treachery to fool his adversaries, methods never underhanded and always bluntly forced upon those he seeks to education upon the first fault they made: drawing his ire.

Even should his features hide behind a plated mask to protect what remains of a Kaldorei's fabled attraction, he is recognizable in his brutish bearing. Almongst his brothers and sisters, he is hulking-- a giant even. Yet he is not just exceedingly tall, but thick. Vast shoulders bear heavy pauldrons that he changes in accordance to the environment he ventures, whether it be the chill of the most unforgiving winters or the relentless heat of the sands. Whatever protects him, it is fashioned to be fearsome, shaped under his watchful eye and steady hand to earn him all of the advantage he can achieve. Dense muscle broadens the body beneath, neck thick and limbs corded. No more mercy than has been afforded for his cruel features is shown upon his body, punctures, lashes, gouges survived rampant and leaving one to drew their own conclusions and spin their own tales upon their origins.

Devastation wrought at his hand is done by blade or fist, reckless yet always seeming to come out in the long run no worse for wear. The gift of a long life has allowed him after all, to perfect his skills in all things melee; whether it be double-bladed, or a paired shield and weapon. He has proven himself in the course of his life to be gifted strategically despite the head-first fashion in which he throws himself into combat. It is to the surprise of few that he is a leader of little fear, retreat rarely seen as a viable option in his eyes. This makes him a beacon amongst the masses, one of proud strength that holds his own against seemingly impossible odds. Like Valstann Staghelm, Kur'Talos Ravencrest, and other great ancient of the Kaldorei, Leomir is a warrior-- for which war on Azeroth has no favorites.

Godslayers
Hither came the Godslayers, a tribunal of the weak, for their mighty weapons and unfeltered destruction both pillage and save. Their numbers are small, but their girth is large for they, warriors under the banner of Leomir, wield only the greatest prowess. To a commoner they are seen as savages, adorned in their foreign furs and strapped tusks, often coated in the dried blood of their foes. But to a warrior, they are a pinnacle. Their code is without flaw, for it is freedom and the rule of strength itself. They respect only battle and follow only one. Those declared champions have fought tooth and nail against the fiercest opponents both good and bad, for the glory of the fight is the only thing they live for-- the adrenaline of taking a trophy from a fallen enemy and holding it high above the masses.

From the maw of giant lizards and the mortars of the schnottz to the ghettos of Stormwind and the brothels it conceals, the Godslayers are but a force of nature that rolls through. Their allegiance is to none, and many cross their warpath unknowingly. It can be as simple as looking cowardly or even the opposite, for heroes make their mouths water.

The fortress in which these warriors call home is a fortified position; a reclaimed tower at the southern end of Elwynn Forest. It is there that they hang their many trophies and make sport of battering one another into the ground. Its walls are decorated with large, abstract spikes and at their tips are dangling skulls that rattle against one another in the wind. Often times are the fresh bodies of gnolls and murlocs splayed over their single entrance for the foolworthy creatures think themselves greater. The stink of death perputrates from these grounds and only the smell of ale somewhat mask its grotesqueness.