Urburg Armbreaker

CR: 13 XP: 25,600

CE Large humanoid (giant)

Init: +1 Senses: low-light vision Perception: +10

AC: 27, touch 8, flat-footed 26 (+9 armor, +1 Dex, +10 natural,, –2 rage, –1 size)

HP: 218 (16 HD; 10d8+6d12+134)

Fort: +21 Ref: +7 Will: +11

Defensive Abilities: improved tolerance*, rock catching, scarification*, tolerance*

Speed: 30 ft.

Melee: +2 greatclub +24/+19/+14 (2d8+15/19–20) or 2 slams +21 (1d6+9)

Ranged: rock +13 (1d8+13)

Space: 10 ft. Reach: 10 ft.

Special Attacks: rage (20 rounds/day), rage powers (body bludgeon*, knockback, superstition +3)

Str: 29 Dex: 12 Con: 27 Int: 6 Wis: 12 Cha: 10

Base Atk: +13 CMB: +23 CMD: 32

Feats: Awesome Blow, Cleave, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (greatclub), Iron Will, Power Attack, Vital Strike, Weapon Focus (greatclub)

Skills: Climb +17, Intimidate +11 (+14 against non-tribal humanoids), Perception +10

SQ: terrifying visage*

Languages: Giant

Combat Gear: potions of cure serious wounds (2)

Other Gear: +3 dragonhide breastplate, +2 greatclub, amulet of natural armor +1, belt of giant strength +2, cloak of resistance +1, salve of slipperiness * See Ultimate Combat. Urburg Armbreaker was born into a tribe of hill giants residing in the Kodar Mountains near Southmoor in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. Cursed with an unusually small stature, he was deemed a guff by his peers and tribal leaders. The true implications did not hit him until during a hunt his own people abandoned him, leaving the young hill giant to die in the wilds of the Grungir Forest. After nearly 20 years of fending for himself in the untamed wilderness, he reemerged from the woods and tracked down the tribe that had abandoned him so many years before. His people hardly recognized the battle- scarred Urburg, but soon found themselves in a state of dread and admiration when the vengeful giant cleaved their current chieftain’s head off with one swing of his mighty club, claiming the title for himself. Anger still burns within the betrayed hill giant, and his people know to fear Urburg’s frequent bouts of violent, indiscriminate rage. Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Giants Revisited Marsh Giant BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON, THEY DANCED AND GIBBERED IN THE MIRE, MISSHAPEN BRUTES SWAYING WITH AN UNNERVING GRACE THAT BELIED THEIR SIZE. ONE OF THEM POURED BOWLS OF DARK FLUID INTO THE ROILING MUCK, WHICH DISGORGED RUNNELS THAT RAN TO THE WATER’S EDGE. IN THE SEA, GRUESOME ABOMINATIONS SURFACED FROM THE WAVES. THE DANCERS SPUN FURIOUSLY, THEIR LAMENTATIONS BLENDING INTO A PITCH THAT BROUGHT ME TO THE EDGE OF MADNESS, ROARING SO LOW THAT MY HEART SHOOK IN MY CHEST. MY COMPANION ROSE FROM THE BRUSH THEN, QUAKING WITH COMPULSION, AND JOINED THEM IN THEIR HORRID DANCE. —FROM A JOURNAL RECOVERED FROM THE WRECK OF THE HAUNTED ROOKERY OFF THE COAST OF RAPTOR ISLAND Marsh Giant T he swamps hold numerous perils known to experienced vagabonds and novice adventurers alike. Quicksand, creeper vines, giant stirges, and worse await the unwary, but these dangers pale in comparison to the deformed brutes that lurk in bogs and fens near the sea: marsh giants, the misbegotten offshoots of long-forgotten hill giant tribes. With their slimy and hairless bodies, their webbed fingers and toes, and their bulbous black eyes, marsh giants resemble a grotesque cross between fish, frogs, and humanoids. Standing 11 feet tall and weighing around 1, 500 pounds, these swamp-dwellers convey both sloth and power with their towering, fat bodies. Occasionally, they cover parts of their bare flesh with animal skins or hides, both for decoration and to show off their kills, but most simply disregard clothing completely, as their thick, blubbery skin provides all the protection they need from the stinging insects and harsh elements of their environment. Marsh giants’ moss-green coloring allow them to move stealthily through the swamp without being seen, despite their girth. When they emerge from the muck to attack, the giants prove surprisingly agile for their size, more like lumbering cats than swift cattle. While not as strong as most of their giant cousins, they can hurl logs and tree stumps the way other giants throw rocks, striking with devastating force and accuracy. To casual observers, all marsh giants are equally ugly their breasts and genitals being the only ways to tell females from males. Yet inbreeding among tribes and families pollutes their gene pool with deformities and mutations leading to a wide range of appearances and abilities. Some legends among the peoples of swamp-neighboring communities claim that the race is a bastard branch of the giants’ evolutionary tree. They say that a tribe of hill giants in the ancient past committed an unpardonable sin against all of giantkind, one serious enough to unite the other giants against them. The desperate hill giants fled far before settling in remote swamps where they were safe from reprisals. Over the centuries, their bodies adapted to life in the filthy mire, and only their language served as a remnant of their former lives—they still speak Giant, though their dialect is colored with bits of Boggard and the languages of other swamp races. Even if such folklore is true, marsh giants are not to be pitied. They are hateful, violent, repulsive creatures that desire only to fill their bellies, mate, and revel in the degenerate worship of Dagon, their Abyssal patron. Tribes carry out awful rituals to the demon lord and make bloody sacrifices in the open water, part of the reason they prefer to live near coasts or rivers that run to the sea. This vulgar fealty to the lord of deformities is common to all marsh giants on Golarion and is the central force that binds them together in mutual perversion.