I am Bor, son of Bjarn.
Fourteen scars mark my back, one for each man that I killed with my hands before the masters dragged me off in chains.
It is no matter, for my kind cannot be jailed long. The Fates do not let us stay in one place too long – like the masters, they have learned that they cannot control us. We are not born of the gods. Our will is too strong and our blood is too thick.
We are the Breakers of Time. We do not build houses of stone. We do not eat grass. We do not kneel and grovel in the dirt. We sleep beneath the open stars. We ride the great beasts of the plains. We sail on Maeve’s green oceans.
We are the Nomadic Folk, and we cannot be tamed.
The bards sing tales of a great clan of Giants, a race taller than trees and denser than stone. It is said that these creatures roamed the land before the birth of man, that they travelled the worlds even before the arrival of the All-Father himself. By legend, the All-Father tricked the Giants, singing a great spell that made them slumber in the open land beneath the stars – and that time and wind covered them with dirt and rock where they sleep to this day. It is believed by some that these slumbering forms lie at the heart of every mountain, and that if one digs deep enough, the pick will carve through rock and soil to eventually find flesh and bone.
The Nomadic Folk – the savage race of barbarians often regarded as bandits, warlords and reavers – claim lineage from these Giants. Little is known of their true origin. If they hailed from a single world, the name is long forgotten. While this claim is obviously no more than a wild boast, the broad shoulders and enormous stature of the Nomadic Folk do give credence to the colloquial name ‘Half-Giant’ by which this race is known.