Name: Mermeth
Made of: Steel
Enchantments: Cold Damage, Keen, Massive Crits biiiiiiitch!
Size: Five feet and six inches long
Type: Claymore
Ego score: 38
Abilities: Empathetic Communication, Detect Scrying, and Read Magic
Purpose: Independence
Personality: Stubborn, sarcastic, interdependent, apathetic.


 Mermeth is a fine blade, obviously smithed of some long since dead civilization that only had recently discovered that fine smelting technique to make steel itself. Pounded, bashed, and forged into a two handed hacking blade. With even a fine tapering end that's just perfect for parrying blows, and a wide angled hilt to catch and defend with. The leather that is wrapped around the handle is worn down from years of having mitts hold it and swing that sharp slab of steel at poor sops, it's even easy to make out the grooves of those fingers; honestly it probably could use a repair or at least a new grip. The pommel itself is a rounded thing and rather bland, though it seems to have a few dents in it from cracking open a head or two. It doesn't take much of a nose for enhancements to smell the magic that bleeds from the sword itself, it's honestly like an arcane beacon if one is really trying to see if it's magical. After all the damn thing is like a frozen metal pole in the dead of winter. It even seems like it's frozen itself right into its scabbard and could use a hefty tug to get it free. There's even an encasing of ice holding around the sheath no doubt from all the god damn fucking rain in this place.

Oh, oh shit this should probably be about the man, not that weapon.

 Well, Hibernus is a stacked fellow, almost like he was built for combat and is the living embodiment of a war machine. It's obvious this man was built, given that one can plainly see thick metal stitching at each joint, used to hold this man together, and probably add some extra endurance. There's even bolts in each major joint, to further prove he's not born this way.

 He's also built to be big, probably to handle that over sized compinsation tool on his back. He stands around six foot nine or so, and is wide enough he may have issues with doors. Gods be damned if he's going to be going into a halfling hovel in this lifetime, not unless he's able to shrink down. Built like a brick wall, and he's not been skipping leg day either.

 At least he's tried to hide some of the stitching that's holding him together with tats. Someone has taken what must have been days to weave an armory onto his flesh, stacks of swords, axes, helmets, and even a crossbow or two make up his sleeves. While his legs hold a cascade of skeletal bones that rain down from his torso. On his chest though, is where the main battle of this tapestry rests, with an army of the undead clashing with some nameless paladin force. But alas, it's a good attempt to try and hide the metalic threads that hold him together, they still stick out like a sore thumb.

 It also probably doesn't help that the ink is marred by crude brands stamped into his flesh in the form of runes. These brands are filled with some sort of arcane dust, that give off a faint bluish glow, and they run up the length of his arms, and even into the neck as well as his thighs and calves.

 At least he's got both of his eyes, unlike other forms he's been seen in, though those orbs he's used have seen some use. At one time they must have been a rather nice blue color, but cataract has clouded them, and abuse of the bottle has tinged them yellow.

 His mug is at least somewhat fresh, bearing just one scar on it. It hacks right across his cheek bones and even over the bridge of his nose. If one was to try and give this man an age, it'd probably be his mid thirties, though given he's a construct it's probably moot to hazard a guess at this.

His physical form seems to even reflect that freezing cold aura that comes from his weapon. The man himself is slightly cool to the touch. But internally he must be freezing cold, because no matter the weather his breath is always visible.