A mutant glaive who moves like a cat



Tier: 2
Effort: 1
Experience: 4

Might: 14
Might edge: 1

Speed: 16
Speed edge: 1

Intellect: 11
Intellect edge: 0

Armour: 3

Height -7’3 (7’7 including spikes)
Weight -600 pounds
Age -42



Climbing – T
Balance – T
Speed Defence – T
Heavy Bladed – T

Special abilities

Practised in armour
Practised in weapons
Danger sense (initiative reduced by one step)
Mighty Blow
Skill with Defences

Lv: 8

Fallback Clone

Artifacts and Oddities

(cypher) A synth star about 3 inches (8 cm) across that allows one to levitate about 1 inch (3 cm) for about three seconds, usable at random intervals (about once a day)

(oddity) Small metal disk with a crystal at its center that causes a buzzing noise in the ears of anyone holding it


Chained meat-hook (heavy, bladed)


3 rations
Light armour (beastskin)
Explorers pack:
=50ft (15m) of rope
=warm clothes
=sturdy boots
=three torches
=2 minor glowglobes
Espron (Meat)


Poison immunity
Disease immunity
Eat anything
Horribly ugly

Odd lumps on flesh
Yellow skin
Pointed teeth

Extra mouth
Abundance of eyes (perception)



Twarog couldn’t remember his first mutation. All he knew was it sprouted like a boy’s pit hair in puberty — except no one cared for your pit hair. Mutation, however, was a sign to the people of Nihliesh. A sign you were something greater, something godly.

He didn’t find the quills on his back particularly godly. They tore his tunics and made him look like the prickly rodents the gruellers put in the stews. Even so, the day his master caught sight of them, was the day the whippings stopped and every slave and freeman took notice. The Fahat took notice, too.

When his skin grew lumps and turned the colour of piss, Twarog thought he might be dying. He didn’t. The fates had a longer death in mind, it seemed. The following weeks were unbearable.

Twarog hadn’t thought himself a handsome man, but what comely features he had were eaten away by the mutations. He was morbidly obese, his skin smelt of curdled milk. The itch of carapaces drove him mad, and he was ever hungry. Frozen stones, was he hungry.

The Fahat tried to satisfy his hunger. They fed him at feasts, his food and wine laced with a dozen poisons. He enjoyed the flavour. When their subtle methods failed to remove Twarog from the game, the Fahat changed approach.

They threw him in a black cell and bolted the door. Thrice the locks went. Clang, clang, clang.

For five years the darkness kept him. Five years of eating vermin and sitting in his own filth. He thought he’d die covered in shit, when the door screamed open and light burned his eyes.

Dhaval was his name. He was a slave, like him; lost his woman to a master’s cruelty. Brutal story, so they told it. Twarog was just the comrade he needed, he said. Freedom was his, if he promised to join the rebellion. Together, they’d topple the Fahat and build a better world.

Twarog couldn’t give a chirog’s fart for a better world, but adventure he could live with; adventure and food.

‘And you’ll have them,’ said Dhaval.

That’s all he needed — for now.


Numenera: Marauder Kingdom GM_01 Connor_E