Mathoc the Immortal

Locations

 * Lying on the floor next to Zoadran in Orcrest, Northern Elsweyr

Contents
Even in his later years, Mathoc Risor struck fear into everyone who crossed his path. He was a massive Breton warrior with a face as chiseled and scarred as his shield. He never spoke, but others told tales of the fearsome warriors and beasts he'd killed. When he was out of earshot, they whispered other tales. They said the spirits of those he'd killed fed his own.

That as long as he kept fighting, Mathoc the Immortal would never die.

Mathoc certainly always looked like he was ready for a fight. Teeth gritted and bared. Elbow bent to deliver a devastating blow. Fists clenched tight enough to crush ebony. No one ever asked why Mathoc always wanted to fight. They were too afraid.

Even if they did, he couldn't have answered. He lost the ability to speak after a Dwarven automaton crushed his throat. His teeth had been gritted and bared since the time a giant shattered his jaw. He broke his elbow that same day, and it never healed properly. He hadn't been able to straighten his arm for forty-one years. His fists had been balled up like boulders ever since a Wood Elf filled his back with arrows. A healer told him it was a reaction to the arrows' poison, and there was nothing to be done.

There was nothing for Mathoc to do, but keep fighting. Not because the spirits of those he killed made him stronger, but because watching others writhe in pain sometimes distracted him from his own. Because he hoped that one day someone, or something, might finally get the best of him.

Mathoc the Immortal kept fighting because Mathoc Risor was ready to die.