Age: 264 years old
Appearance: Thorn is large, even for a Runeborn. He stands over seven and a half feet tall, and his skin is the color of stone, tough and thick like the iron weapons he brandishes. His veins protrude through rippling muscles, his body like a boulder. Strong; shoulders powerful and wide, with legs that can shake even the earth as he steps. His bald head is waxed down with special oils every day, and Thorn is proud of its smooth texture and shine. His eyes are deep amber, the color of copper, and remind people of the bottom of a great canyon. They erupt with feeling one moment, as if life suddenly sourged through him, then quickly fade and glaze over, the short waves leaving him drifting between one moment of life to the next. Over his right eye and across his nose are long, intimidating scars from the painful defeats he suffered. A steel colored beard clings close to his thick neck, well-groomed and healthy. Jutting out from his mouth is a mighty, powerful tusk, sharp and brilliant white. The other is broken, fractured clean through the milky marrow.
He wears the furs beasts he has taken down, ranging from tigers to boars and deer, skillfully sewn together and adorned with small jewels. It has fangs attached along the seam and red cord hanging off the hem for decoration. The robe hangs off his left shoulder and connects over his right hip, coming down to his knees. Also carries a necklace made of large beads and fangs from slain beasts. Walks around barefoot most of the time.
Personality: Rarely speaks, but enjoys to show off his skills with crafting. Brilliant at making weapons and clothes, and has the strange ability to make great designs for ceremonial dresses. Thorn is proud at what he does, and will stand up for those weaker than him, but often loses his temper and has the tendency to smash things. He seems to be in a daze half the time, constantly passing along and living in quick cycles of emotion and exhaustion. This keeps him from getting too angry or thinking about too many things at once.
Weapons: Brandishes a large battle axe an Enchanter specially crafted just for him. Its glowing shape looks like two large crescent moons, and is attached to the pole by an intricate web made of metal stars and criss-crossing designs. This is the ultimate pride of Thorn, always carried on his back by a leather strap, but rarely used. Prefers to use spiked knuckles in close combat.
History: Thorn came into the Fog while he was only a small child, and had been growing up there for over two hundred years. During this time, he had made a good place for himself. It was nice there, set away from the outside world, in his own realm with Father, and his siblings. They all lived together, trained together, and he thrived upon their ability to overcome what races they were and be friends.
He had been on many missions in his youth, and had never failed one. He looked up to Ranaag as a big brother, and would do anything to be closer to the other Warriors of Fog. A friendly giant from the very beginning.
Although, he was never good at handling things when he finally did get angry. This even resulted in a serious fight with his Brother of Fog, Ignatius. A Royal. Spiritualist.
He had forgotten the reason long ago, but somehow, they ended up in a Duel. They stood on even ground for most of the fight, but after a while, they eventually came to a draw, both being scarred from the battle.
It was only a few years after this when Thorn was about to experience his next defeat. The battle at the library. His memories fail him after that, all becoming a thick blur of motion and blackness, but, from the glimpses he knew happened..
Ruby opened a book. Lenne ended up injured. Ranaag was defeated. A great beast destroyed Thorn, despite all his power and years of training. His pride broke after this. Nobody could help him as he was tossed aside like a doll. Heavy scars tore down his back as he was cut open, the life pouring from his side. Everything was loud, spinning, fast. Gathering up what was left of his strength after the battle, the once-proud Rune limped along with his siblings, shamed heavily by his grievous failure. Nothing had ever fully repaired him after that, but, twenty years in the natural world had done great help for the male, cursed to never be the same again.
Now, Father was calling again. Maybe, just maybe, he could recover his pride as a Rune and regain the trust and favor of the Figure of Fog. All that Thorn could do was wait, and try his best. All he could do was hope.