Caedmon Sceindubh

None can be exactly certain of Caedmon Sceindubh's actual age. He looks to be in the prime of life, but he wraps his years about himself as a mantle of power that lends him a seasoned sense of age and wisdom that younger men do not possess. Most attribute this to his druidic longevity.  Others claim that he is descended from all sorts of immortal kin – dryads, demons, fairies, even the Gods themselves. That is not to say that he does not change, though. A life of fighting can be read in the battle scars that mark his strong body. Even more telling are the vivid blue tattoos, etched into his skin with hot knives and then brightly dyed with woad. They present a tapestry across the flesh of his torso and back, detailing each battle that he has won with and for his clan. Circling his hardened biceps are engraved bands of power; the intricate knotwork tattooing reveals many runes upon careful inspection that most would not recognize. The impact from the ink is striking on a man that needs no help making an impression. It is not uncommon for warrior Celts to exceed the lesser height of the farmers, sometimes even exceeding six feet. Caedmon’s six and a half feet is nearly unheard of, though. He is a monster among his men, weighing in at nearly two hundred and forty pounds and all of it toughened muscle.

It is not without justification that he has earned the title of “Battle Terror” for himself. Though he has received many wounds as he has fought for victory, never has he fallen. He is rumored to fight like a demon, screaming his battle rage in tongues that no others comprehend and rending a path of destruction through his foes’ ranks with his claymore and battle axe. Many men have beheld the legendary blood-lust in the madness of his frenzied eyes and fled in terror. And yet, war is but one aspect of the Druid life. His large hands, while capable of great violence, can be gentle in healing and deft in writing and craft-work. Diligent care is taken in his daily appearance, for he is a leader among the proud. His flaxen hair is plaited daily into complex patterns and his black and emerald leine is woven from fine wool and embroidered with gold-spun thread the same hue as his vibrant amber eyes.  The heavy adamantium torque that rests always about his neck is a status-symbol of his house, as surely as are the two imposing cnónna mac tíre that are always by his side, ever vigilant and impeccably trained.