The massive creature known as Scalesert was still wrapped in his thick coat and cloak, the fur bristling and swaying from the breeze that was blowing down from the dip of the depression he now found himself in. The ground appeared as if it were made from an old lava flow, the rock below was brittle as he took a single step sideways. It supported weight, yet a quick twist could dislocate portions of the top layer while also flicking up flakes of blackened dust. His tail still weaving back and forth as his red forked tongue tasted the air about him.
As an Iksar, the blood of Cazic Thule flowed in him if even in the smallest amount. He was able to resist fear based attacks and extremes of temperature. However he was only a half blood not marked with the traditional crest of horns on his head. Cold was especially harmful to half-bloods. He had to work hard to overcome is lesser resistance.
His ruby red scales that coated his reptilian body were accented by odd areas of paper white bone plates that grew from his first and secondary skin layer. Scalesert liked to think that his god had caused the mutation that gave him armor like plates on portions of his body as an act of mercy for his lack of royal blood. However it had been nothing but a thorn in his, causing him to be ostracized. Despite its benefits the other Iksar used this to target him for the most grueling tests and lack luster magical training.
Tearing himself from his mental anguish he planted his spear into the rock with a display of strength. The well crafted weapon was more like an instrument in his hands. It took years in the wilds of the swamp to master its uses. Made of an ancient metal compound from long forgotten and enslaved elven ancestors, it was one of a kind in his world. It conducted little heat, stronger than dwarven steel, and light enough for a gnome to wield. It proudly displayed the rise of his people from slaves, to the rulers of their continent.
It wasn’t his only weapon on his person, his bone hilted doas were hidden beneath his cloak as well. One then he had learned from the elves, keep your tools concealed. A bag of various shaped throwing discs and stars were safely tucked onto his waist. His armor, enchanted bone plate strapped on from shoulder to hand on his left side. Brown, light leather trousers run from belt to mid-calf and are met by bone plate boots.
He appreciated the colors and a beauty of battlefield that had been chosen for them. The stone reminded him of Kazadeem, the carved halls of Dwarven cities. The colors gave way to memories of the tree top city of Keliethen of the Wood Elves. But these both had one thing in common; these were cities that were taken by his troops. He had led the skeletal archers to the forests of Keliethen, he had charged with the zombie horrors into the ranks of the Dwarven resistance. These would simply be a new area to conquer, to paint with the blood of his enemy.
Mentioning his enemy, it was standing in the distance watching in his movements. He couldn’t clearly make out details, yet the enemy facing him looked familiar. The odd stance reminded him of the mechanical monstrosities the dwarves had created to help ease the flow of the undead horde at his command. Thinking deeply it was only due to his bone plate scales that he hadn’t been ran through by one with a lance in one of the final battles. It was only the thickness of that plate and his Tarskin ability he had acquired inside the Tower of Kurns that allowed him to soften what was sure to have been death blow.
Looking to his opponent he took a few guarded steps forward, he decided to keep his form covered as much as possible. His fierce yellow eyes locked onto his target, tail barely moving, he kept his spear out in front of him acting much like his native tribesmen people of old. Best to seem like a savage for now, let his opponent think he was a barbarian then to let him see any strategy coming to pass.