Role

Chapter 3

Hamashor has a rough time keeping up with people around him on an
intellectual level, but he doesn't like to consider himself simple.
Instead, he's convinced himself he merely dislikes thinking, owing to
the massive headaches it usually brings on. In fact, he's taken his
own disdain for excessive brainwork to a wholly unnecessary level,
accusing those around him of "thinkin' too bloody much" when he
catches them hesitating to enter the fray, pondering one loaf of bread
versus two, or even standing around *looking* thoughtful. No... that
string of drool on his chin isn't indicative of a child's mind in a
giant's body; it means Hamashor is at peace with the world and beyond
such earthly concerns as dribble or rusting armor.

His mother taught him to curse a blue thunderhead, but he only
remembers one swear word. He enthusiastically uses it whenever he
thinks it fits (always), and in as many different situations as he
can, as if to demonstrate the word's flexibility and range.
Remembering little else of his parents (nothing, in fact, of his
father) or upbringing, Hamashor clings to the few morsels of brittle,
crumbling memory he has left. He loves his family fiercely, or
imagines he would if he could recall them.

The earliest thing Hamashor *does* remember clearly is entering the
Warriors' Guild in Galadon for the first time. He was only a young
boy (though he dwarfed most of the grown men there) and his doubly
impressionable mind was instantly swayed. These men knew what they
were doing, and they were willing to teach him. Hamashor greedily
lapped up their knowledge (sometimes three or four times), slowly
accepting it like a very, very small sponge... until he was ready to
go out and work. Brief stints as a bodyguard and bouncer, a short but
happy career as a scarecrow, and an ill-fated jaunt as a cityguard
later, the cloud giant had developed a taste for three things: large
axes, "crow juice," and leaping about getting into fights he had no
business being in.

Every now and then, Hamashor would suspect his own stupidity. He
would see mages and priests (and worse, other warriors) standing on
the fringes of a battle, looking worried, and his own impulse (to dart
past them and draw his weapons, naturally) seemed, momentarily, to be
possibly an incorrect one. This greatly angers Hamashor; both the
propensity of others to THINK rather than ACT and the fact that it
could make even *him* pause, if only for a moment. Privately, he's
begun to suspect that thought itself might be a sort of disease,
transferring itself from host to host like a plague in this fashion.
Hamashor equates excessive thought with self-doubt, and regards
fighting as the only good way to clear your mind and measure your own
worth.