Tholin Foulbeard Lore: Official Story
‘They say if you stare into the abyss long enough, it stares back. I did more than stare. I dived in beard-first. I throttled it to death. Then caved in its head for good measure.’
Tholin’s early years were devoted to Siroth, and the blending of dark magic with depraved engineering to fashion grotesque engines of war. A series of terrible events caused him to renege on his vows to his master, abandon his kin, and commit his existence to the destruction of the Shadow God’s followers.
Few figures in Teleria despise Demonspawn and the followers of Siroth more than Tholin Foulbeard. The Dwarf is a ferocious, nomadic hunter of them, who has stalked the dark places of the world for his quarry for many years. He offers no mercy and gives no quarter, just a clawed hammer-head to the face or a fire-etched pick to the skull. Killing worshipers of the Shadow is all he truly cares for.
The events that fueled this hatred occurred long ago, when Tholin still lived with his Painsmith kin. Painsmiths are Siroth’s Dwarven followers, and Tholin was as eager to serve his dark master as any of his fellows. He spent countless hours at the forge, learning the manufacture of armor and weapons, or reading dusty, rune-filled tomes detailing the foulest shadow magic.
Tholin’s toil ensured evil energies permeated his entire body, reducing his need for sleep or food, bulging his muscles already made strong from years at the anvil, unplucking his patience and stoking his anger. Such were Tholin’s gifts and passion, he was hailed as a prodigy, perhaps blessed by Siroth himself.
These times did not last.
In Tholin’s mind now, it is a blur of terror and death. Demonspawn demanding tribute. More and more, no matter how much was given. Deadly gifts turned upon their creators. Kin dying, impaled on Demonic spears, heads cloven in two with infernal axes, stomachs sliced open with blades forged in hellfire. A god who ignored it. Then ordered it. All followed by the bloody fightback. Final stands. Self-sacrifice. Last-ditch efforts. The unleashing of dark, incomplete experiments. All in the name of desperate survival.
From this nightmare, Tholin emerged alone. Beard and hair matted with Demonic ichor, eyes afire with shadow magic, the horned head of his nemesis in his gore-encrusted grip, the flesh-matter kept from being banished to Anathraad by the arcane weapons Tholin used to slay it.
Tholin’s trust and faith were broken, but he had learned much of weaponry, killing, dark magic, and arcane engineering. His body burned and seethed with the power of shadowy incantations and surgeries, granting him enormously long life and fueling his already billowing hatred. It even warped his grim sense of humor.
When Kurosa the Covetous launched her attack against Teleria, Tholin was deep in the under-tunnels around the Skyiron Dominion, felling the Demonspawn that slither and crawl there. So attuned is he to dark magic he felt Kurosa’s portals open, and smiled.
He’d find plenty of new heads in need of caving in very soon.