Dyylon



=Statistics=


 * Gender: Male
 * Age: 28
 * Height: 7' 5"
 * Weight: 236lbs
 * Eye Color: Deep violet
 * Hair Color/Style: Blue with streaks of purple. Thick and tightly braided.
 * Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (mild tendency toward good. Against his better judgement.)
 * Guild Affiliations: None.
 * Known Associates: Gori-Troll warrior, Cruljin-Troll Warrior

=History=

Dyylon was born..... in fire.

Those are his earliest memories. Fire. Burning bright, crackling in harmony with screams of mingled rage and fear. Even now, years later, he can smell the pain. The terror. The burlap. Ah yes, the burlap. Doesn't seem to fit but there it is. What can one do. Of course, burlap is associated with safety in the hidden mind. Perfectly understandable...

"You must tell him Husarn. It's past time he was told." The shaggy maned tauren shifted his gaze from the piece of windfallen wood he was whittling. He set down the small (in his hands) blade and reached for a brightly painted pipe. As he filled the pipe Husarn's gaze locked on the cloaked and hooded figure seated across the tent. "Why? He knows I adopted him, he knows I consider him my son. Why dredge up the past. It will cause unnecessary pain and serve no purpose!" The great bull leaned toward his guest, deep brown eyes never wavering. "Unless you can give me a reason; ANY reason that I should disrupt the peace that boy has found with us in Mulgore; I shall say nothing. The past is past." The heavily wrapped figure opposite Husarn let out a hissing, breathy sigh. "Husarn... the boy has talent. It's time he was with those who understand that talent. Those who can... shape that talent." A low rumbling growl, so low it was felt more than heard, filled the tent. "If you think I will stand idle while you "shape" my son, adopted or no, your brain has rotted with the rest of you Devin!"