Rym Marzal
Name: Rym Marzal
Age: 3590
Born: 1565 bc
First Died: 1537 bc
Birthplace: A celtic village in the Seine River
Residences: New York City, Colorado, Scotland, France
Height: 6'9"
Weight: 238 lbs.
Blade of Choice: 5 ft. claymore
Secondary Weapon: Wakizashi
Rym was raised a Celt in Gaul by a moderate-sized tribe. They found Marzal in the ruins of a village they sacked. His tribe took him home, not sure whether they would raise him as one of their own or eat him at the celebratory feast. When the feast was snowed-out, it still took a day of debate over the issue of whether to keep him or eat him. He was, afterall, the largest baby they'd ever seen and it was reasoned it would be a waste to let all that meat go unconsumed. But the argument that such a large infant would make a large man and a large man would be a powerful warrior for the tribe won out. So it was that before he could stand, he was taught how to swing a sword.
As he grew, his skills grew, and he soon surpassed all others in not just strength but also skill, showing an amazing finesse and celerity with any blade placed in his hands. It was he who would lead the raids on enemy villages, an imposing giant at the forefront of the Celtic warriors, rushing to battle with crimson hair flying like a horse's mane behind him. The enemies of what was quickly becoming a kingdom centered around his home village soon banded together and war ensued. A raid led by Marzal against an opponent village was turned in to a trap when the bulk of the warriors of his enemies rushed from the houses. Marzal's band, though outnumbered, fought fiercely, hewing down the first wave without a single man lost. The battle would eventually be won by Marzal's forces, but Marzal would not be there to rejoice with his brethren.
Leading a group of three other soldiers down a narrow side-street in pursuit of fleeing enemies, he heard the other three drop behind him. Turning, he saw that he was surrounded by over thirty. His dying words were something to the effect that he was honored that it took thirty people to kill him. Twenty-five of them met their deaths in that side-street with him. He was the only one to wake up. The Celts had carried his body back to be burned and he awoke upon his funeral pyre. The soldiers sleeping around it never noticed he was gone until the morning light revealed his body had disappeared. It was thought to be an omen from the gods that they should go and fight and that they did, tearing in to their enemies and leaving a trail of destroyed villages behind -- all in the name of Marzal.
Marzal traveled south until he encountered the Roman legions. He bummed off of the Latins for a century before heading back to Gaul. He found that the massive lands his people had held had shattered when the leader died, and that the villages had reverted to being secluded from each other. He found one where the legend of the 8 foot War-God named Rym Marzal wasn't taught to all the children and settled down. He spent many centuries bouncing from village to village, training in many of the basic skills needed. When the first Celts crossed the English Channel he was with them, and he found himself in a new land, a tiny island with a lot of bogs.
He had always thought himself some freak occurence, never felt he'd ever fit in again. Then, in south Britain, he felt the strangest sensation. That was the first time he met another Immortal, and he began training in new ways to wield a weapon. The Immortal pointed him to others, who also trained him. Rym spent five centuries traveling around from Immortal to Immortal, until he could find none who would teach him. In this time, many Immortals who sought to harm him rather than teach him came, and many Quickenings became his.
Rym had died an oafish young man. He spent the intervening millenia developing his physical skills until he possessed the strength of a bear, but the agility of a deer. It was a fine balance between muscle mass and flexibility, strength and speed. He moved as though the world were made for men his size, moved as lithely as any gymnast, but sprang to the attack with bone-shattering force. His sword, which most humans could barely lift, danced in his hands. All he did was shift the fulcrum of his grip and let gravity move it. As a result, it was a thing alive, shifting slightly to the left to deflect, slightly forward to feint an attack, downward to lure in his foe's blade, and then up swiftly and sharply to send his opponent's point skyward, leaving a gaping window for him to stab into.
It was strange, he thought, that he found his wife in almost the exact spot he'd been raised. The town on the island in the river was now much larger, and in it he found an Immortal who was a very attractive lady, for being over a hundred years old. The two of them fell very much in love and traveled throughout all of the known and a lot of the unknown world for two hundred years. Returning from hunting for the day's food in the French Alps, with a good view of the Mediterranean, he felt the tug of two Immortals coming from his cabin, and then only one. The cabin lit up with blue lightning, and Rym rushed in. He found his wife freshly beheaded and a man running out the back door. Taking only his sword, Rym chased after the man. Neither of them ever stopped, one running, the other chasing. For a century, one ran and the other followed. They worked their way through the middle east, north africa, and most of the Congo until Rym finally caught the man. The duel was quick, Rym's opponent must have killed his wife in her sleep.
Worn out to his soul, and tapped of any kind of emotion other than deep sorrow, Rym returned to his people, now settled in the highlands of Scotland, and went in to hiding shortly after a man on the west bank of the Jordan River was nailed to a modified tree for doing good deeds.
The hut he called home, nestled between two craggy highland peaks, five valleys away from the nearest village, slowly grew in to a castle, surrounded by forests. When he wasn't improving his homestead, Rym was raising his knowledge, occasionally visiting a monastery and reading through everything they had. When the Vikings invaded, when the Romans attacked, Rym would appear at the battlefield and rush forth, hewing down his opponents until he became a legend, the Twelve Foot Wargod of the Scots. His hair was fire, His breath the cold north wind, His eyes were burning coals, and He could kill a hundred men with the sweep of His hand. At almost every battle of the Scots, his legend grew, even if he didn't show up, the Wargod did, and slew the English, or whoever would be His unlucky victim. Many Immortals, hearing the legend of the Wargod, would suspicion, correctly, that He was an Immortal, and would come looking. Most the time they found Rym. Some befriended him, becoming a link to the outside world. Others were just out for Quickening, and their heads rolled.
The advent of 'civilization' was quite possibly the best thing to happen to Rym. Using his links to the world, he set up Marzal Industries in the mid-18th century, and deposited money earned from that in banks. Marzal Industries grew, becoming a not-so-small corporate firm in Scotland and in America. The bank accounts also grew, swelled by century upon century of profit and interest.
Tiring of his two millenia long quasi-seclusion, and wishing to use all the resources he had gathered outside, he left Scotland and headed to America.