Story
Night had settled over the docks of Marinth, the kind of humid darkness that made tempers short and knives quick. Most of the Blue Marlin’s crew stayed aboard, but Mbaru had taken the late watch on the pier. He stood near the gangplank with his arms crossed, a stone club resting against his shoulder, and the lantern light casting his shadow across half the dock.
A group of dockside enforcers lurked near a warehouse, watching the ship. One of them whispered that the Marlin carried valuables. Another whispered that the crew looked soft. The biggest of the enforcers, a man named Varro, spat and started walking toward the gangplank.
Two deckhands were unloading crates, young and tired, not fighters, and they stiffened when Varro approached.
“Evening,” Varro said. “We will be taking a look at what you brought in.”
The deckhands shook their heads. “Captain said no visitors.”
Varro grinned. “Captain is not here.”
One of the enforcers shifted behind him, knives glinting.
Then Mbaru stepped into the lantern light.
He did not speak. He did not shout. He only walked forward until he stood between the deckhands and the intruders. His shadow swallowed them. His club hung in one hand like a promise. His expression never changed.
Varro tried to meet his eyes, but the calm in them was worse than any threat. Mbaru did not look angry. He looked patient.
Varro swallowed. “We only want to talk,” he said.
Mbaru said nothing. He took one step closer.
The dock beneath them creaked.
One of the enforcers backed up so fast he almost tripped. Another put away his knife with shaking fingers. Varro lifted his hands in a clumsy show of peace.
“No need for trouble,” he said. “We are leaving.”
Mbaru watched them go until they disappeared behind the warehouse. Only then did he breathe out and look at the deckhands.
“You can finish,” he said.
They nodded rapidly and returned to work. One of them stared at him with wide eyes.
“Do you think they will come back,” the boy asked.
Mbaru leaned the club against his shoulder again.
“No,” he said. “They saw a reason not to.”
He stayed there the rest of the night, silent and steady as a carved idol, the dock lights flickering across the stone club that none of the intruders ever wanted to see again.

Origins in the Jungle Empire

Mbaru was born in the heartlands of Zanakwe, where white marble palaces tower above choking jungle, and children grow up learning two things before they learn their own names: obedience and violence.

His village lay near the capital, close enough that the roar of Ngolo the Tiger’s festival hunts sometimes echoed from the city walls. Life there revolved around the ritual fighting schools, for every settlement offered its strongest children to train, not for sport, but to maintain the empire’s honor. Mbaru was enormous even as a boy, with a body that seemed carved for combat. The masters of the local school took him in eagerly.

Training was harsh, but never cruel. Combat was sacred, an offering to Ngolo, the Tiger spirit. Mbaru learned footwork on hot sand, learned to wield the stone headed club with both reverence and deadly precision, and learned to slip his arm into the barbed vambrace used in ritual duels. The training etched discipline into his bones. In Zanakwe, strength was survival, but controlled strength was respect.

By adulthood he had become one of the youngest instructors the school had ever accepted. Nobles sent their sons to him, not because he flattered them, but because his results spoke louder than his words.

The Duel That Ruined Him

Every noble house in Zanakwe lived in a constant dance of rivalry. Alliances rose and shattered in a heartbeat. Duels were not just tradition, they were justice. They proved who was “right,” who was favored by Ngolo, who deserved to rule.

One of Mbaru’s pupils was a youth of the Lionblood House, proud and brilliant but dangerously reckless. Mbaru warned him repeatedly to tighten his stance, guard his ribs, rein in his arrogance. The boy nodded, smiled, and ignored every word.

During the ceremonial duel meant to settle a dispute between noble families, the boy overreached. A single blow from his opponent’s stone club cracked a rib, driving bone inward. Blood magic healers rushed in, but the wound cut too deep. He died before sunset.

The Lionbloods howled for vengeance.

They accused Mbaru of sabotage. Sabotage out of jealousy. Sabotage out of rebellion. Sabotage out of whispered ties to rival houses. The accusation was absurd, but in Zanakwe, noble outrage outweighed truth. And the more they screamed, the more other nobles nodded. The spirits had not protected the boy, so someone else must be blamed. He had trained the boy from childhood, and some part of him mourned honestly, even as others plotted to destroy him.

Rumors spread. Whispers became threats. One night, a bowl of blood was left at Mbaru’s doorstep, a silent warning that a priest had marked him for judgment.

He fled before the sun rose.

Flight from the Empire of Blood

To be condemned in Zanakwe was not to risk imprisonment, it was to risk being laid beneath Mbalame’s Hand, the giant iron hammer of execution. Mbaru knew what became of those who stayed to argue innocence.

He slipped into the jungle, traveling by narrow hunter-paths known only to those raised in Zanakwe’s wilds. He crossed rivers stained with offerings to Kalundu the Crocodile. He saw temples where blood priests painted the walls with red sigils in the moonlight.

Not once did he look back.

After weeks of travel he reached the coastal trade routes, where Zanakwe’s power faded and imperial influence grew. There he joined mercenary companies, offering his skills as a fighter. Few asked questions. His stone club and vambrace spoke for him.

A Brush with the Karuun Rebellion

Eventually he found temporary refuge among the Karuun rebels, freedom fighters who battled imperial occupation and corruption. They welcomed him readily; a man who knew Zanakwe martial forms was a rare asset.

Mbaru fought alongside them for a time, wielding their short spears with impressive speed. He learned their ambush tactics, their songs, their desperation. But rebellion demanded passion, ideology, sacrifice. Mbaru had no loyalty left to give. He had seen too much blood spilled in the name of causes.

After weeks of skirmishes he realized the rebellion would burn everything it touched. He had escaped one blood soaked cause, and he would not bind himself to another. Mbaru walked away. No speeches. No farewells. Just quiet footsteps disappearing into the dark.

Wandering West

He drifted through ports and cities. Worked as a bodyguard. A caravan escort. A tavern bouncer who threw out drunkards with one hand. He spoke little and observed much. In the Empire he saw cruelty masked by law, so different from Zanakwe’s open brutality, yet in its own way just as rotten.

He avoided drawing attention, but his size made that difficult. Men underestimated his calm, mistook his quiet for meekness. They learned quickly. Mbaru fought with relentless agression, pounding the opponent with attacks.

Always, he kept moving.

Joining the Blue Marlin

Mbaru first encountered the Blue Marlin during a portside skirmish. A brawl had broken out between sailors and local thugs; Mbaru stepped in only to end the violence cleanly. Scarnax recognized the quiet danger of a man who fought hard but with deliberation, choosing restraint instead of cruelty.

Caelin liked him immediately because he did not flinch when she shouted orders.

Yasmira liked him because he helped gather spilled crates afterward with gentle care.

Scarnax offered him a berth. Mbaru accepted. For him, the decision was simple: the ship felt... honest. It smelled of work, not blood rituals or political venom.

For the first time since fleeing Zanakwe, Mbaru allowed himself to stay.

Life on the Blue Marlin

As a marine, he broke fights before they could begin. As a companion, he listened more than he spoke. And as a man haunted by his homeland, he found comfort in the ship’s steady rhythms, the creak of wood, the salt on the wind, the laughter of crew who trusted him without superstition or politics.

When Yasmira ventured into markets, he went with her. She called him her “walking fortress.” He carried her purchases. She teased him. He never admitted how much he enjoyed those days.

Mbaru’s presence became a kind of silent promise aboard the Blue Marlin: No danger will reach you while I stand.

Personality and Values

Mbaru is calm, grounded, and wary of promises. He distrusts politics, noble games, and anyone who talks too much about honor. Strength should serve protection, not pride.

He never boasts, never threatens, never raises his voice. His justice is simple and direct. His loyalty, once earned, is absolute. And though he rarely speaks of Zanakwe, the shadows in his eyes make it clear: he has seen enough blood for a lifetime.

Roleplaying Notes

Speak rarely; when you do, speak plainly. Watch everything; move only when necessary. Show warmth through small actions, not words.

Treat cruelty with cold, final resolve.

Never forget the stone club at your side, it is both a weapon and a reminder of where you came from.

_{Previous Index Next}