Even before his exile for crimes he did not commit, Baharash wore the tattered deep crimson long coat of a field commander. It was his way, if his clan was engaged in a fight then he would be there on the front line, keeping his people safe. At his sides are the twin hand axes his father forged for him the day he entered service, Well kept and maintained, precious reminders of his duty. Across the battlefield the deep roar of his voice would shake the resolve of any monster as his imposing 7 foot figure loomed over them. With his left hand, the sorcery of his draconic bloodline would bend reality to his will. Bolts of fire, gusts of impossibly cold shards and the crackle of lightning flowing freely from his fingers. With his right hand the shield. Almost as tall as him, he carried it as if it were made of paper and not hardened hyperborian steel.
He was weak once, when his friends needed him the most, when it mattered most, and those events cost him everything. His clan, his family, his pride. Never again. These new friends, this found family, its all he has left. Nothing will take them away from him. So let the monsters come, let them climb over the bodies of their fallen to reach him, let them bite and claw and fail...because he is the wall that the night breaks against and he will not fail again.
