The Scarred Majin

One of the Majin bearing many scars decides to help his lessers.

A Majin that makes their living being an adventurer, with skills as a Totemist. He is a plain looking, youthful man with a large build and is of normal height. He has orange eyes with a green radiance and white burlap wraps. He is dressed very flamboyantly, drawing attention. Has a large scar, undoubtedly from some sort of beast. Intensely curious about psionics and constantly bugs any user of psionics with questions. Believes they are possessed and have scars on their skin that seem to have been self-inflicted. His voice is medium pitched and his speech is mumbled. He is in a very bad mood at the moment. They seem to have an expedient and curious personality.

“I dun scar up like you do, lil ones.” He mused over the several children in front of him, all of which were captivated with the spiritual forms of several animals that had manifested before him. “My blood ain’t like yours.”

One of the human girls looked up. “My papa says your kind is magic!” The Majin chuckled while stroking the visible, almost glowing scar on his chest. “Maybe. Once. Lon’ time ago.” He moved his finger in a circular motion as if he was luring something towards him and the totemic apparitions vanished, much to the disappointment of the children. One of the dwarven boys stomped his foot disapprovingly.

“Come now, childrens. Is getting late, be on your ways ‘fore you get me in trouble.” The children marched away from the Majin letting out a chorus of disappointment. He sat back in his chair, enjoying the view of the small town as the sun descended in the background. Several men gathered around him, weapons in hand. The Majin took his cigar, inhaled and threw the remaining stub onto the ground ahead of him.

“Alright podnas,” he grunted while getting onto his feet, “Best have yer wits. Tonigh’ I’ll show you all how to kill yer monster.”

Zakharov Sawyer, Zakharov Sawyer