Ang yearned for all things and it crippled his daily life. Only after deep personal confrontations could he truly grasp what it was he so earnestly sought. The lies of his family’s arboreal estates become as indiscrete as mercury. For them most of all, he shall drag the gamey heft of his royal incubators across all who opposed his most trivial wish.

A shattered leg from a filthy Halfling. His family of course sponsored the finest Apothecary, but his nights have become long and the regal bed a constricting trap.

Angs yearning soon included coherent thought. His skull was essentially crushed by a chaos dwarf and ever since he's most comfortable with sputtering gestures.

Ari first fell in love with the rolled eye when he was in gray magicians college in Altdorf. There was the barmaid at the Grinding Knee, who would do it when he ordered his 9th pint of mead for the night. That homeless, wretched snotling he found under the bording house, as it's last breath spittled down his slack jaw. And the nervous princess whose eye roll ended with a white creshendo. Now he seeks his nector from opponents on the field, each ones glaring stare calling his probing, eternal embrace.

Mara just plays that slight twinge in the back of her brain. Its right there, every time her system twitches, her eyes flick. Except now it's her foot she flicks, and her system twitches are lasting for longer and longer times. She crushes the heads of the forest sprites all the same. Inhaled vapors have permitted her focus to achieve a new height of excellence. She would shake the forest empty of sprites into titanic holocausting cauldrons to continue that abuse of natures spore.

Emar just likes to crush people’s faces into a belching mud turf to the point the bubbles stop. He always felt he should have been born an Orc, or Ogre or something with horns. Instead he internalizes and archives arsenals of vendettas and brainstormed inspired carnage. And when no one looks, epochal blood vendettas are birthed in convulsing horrific spectacle.

Tahl was rescued after 120 years of being bound in a sunken lumber transport destined for old world ports through the sea of claws. A toxic flotilla of Skaven blight buccaneered up and down those constricting waterways and scuttled the transport after looting the crew for slaves. Tahl refuses to discuss that long century bound with eroding kinfolk, but can never be mistaken for a normal treeman. Were there any such intuition as flora mental health, this lost soul could be perhaps diagnosed. Without this fancy however, they slap a helmet on Tahl, paint his shoulders team colors, and prod him onto the pitch.