[hider=Kerenatam Ap Tadhg]
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[i]Kerenatam is 24 years old. Although the Rhaead consider themselves distinct from the overall Angaturiz peoples, he holds allegiances both to those whom he has been crowned [i]Grand Warlord[/i] of, and those that share their blood and sinew with the stones of the mountains and earth of the valley. Tall and built like a warrior, he adorns himself with little that is not practical- his hair cut short to fit under a helmet and his skin bereft of piercings that might tear in combat. A superlative commander and with capable men under his command, Kerenatam is a fearsome foe on the battlefield, whilst also not being entirely useless in discussion. He has a great love for music and woodwork, being proficient in the latter but not the former.[/i]

If Kerenatam was a small tribal chief, he would still be young, but not unusually so. For him to be the Grand Warlord of the Rhaead peoples at his age is unheard of- and because of this many believe that it is the destiny of this man to guide the various tribes to greatness under his command. The backing he has from the druids- both in the prophecies they tell of him and his taking of a druid as a wife have done nothing to reduce the myths already swirling around him.

Born to a tired and redheaded mother in the forests of the Rhaead home, his early life was spent not in languid play, but in the harsh realities of life. Despite his father having held a prominent position, his death had left his wife and four children to be expelled from their community, overthrown by an uncle who left them to die. As a child, he spent his time learning how to use a sling, track prey and ride the wild horses that trotted through the scattered trees.

Although his mother worked hard and could teach the young boy much, their lives were still hard. Every failed hunt of his was another day his family went hungry, and in times of desperation he often had to attack from and steal from his own people- unthinkable to most of the Rhaead. When he was caught he would be beaten and shunned, which only served to make his family more desperate as he recovered.

Through these hardships however, a man was forged. In part, this was thanks to the environment, but at the same time something else kindled an ugly flame inside of him. Often, when the family ate well, his mother would tell stories- of what life had been like with her husband and of the fineries that came with such a privileged position. When he finally reached adulthood and left his home he was consumed by a burning desire to overthrow his relative and take back what his family had lost before he was born. Swearing himself to another chieftain’s retinue, he would prove himself rapidly to be a capable leader of men, being trusted with his own group of skirmishers and launching countless raids against his uncle's troops and homes.

Five years later, his spear would drain the lifeblod from his uncle's neck as he finally took back control of his father's tribe, and with his death, his mother and three sisters could return. No longer were they isolated  fringes of the society, but instead in the centre, where they could enjoy the life denied to them as they had struggled to survive in the woods. Now at the head of a significant force, and with his previous chieftain having turned from overseer to staunch ally, he would make a visit to the Godswoods, where the oldest trees lived, having started growing since before man had even arrived in the region. There, he met with the druids, who would describe tales of exploits yet to come and victories yet to be won. 

It was also here where he met his wife. Perhaps a druid would not be what was expected, but nonetheless the pair would be wed, the rawhide wraps encircling their arms and joining the two together. From there his already rapid rise would turn to a meteoric one, the man coming into his own with ruthless, yet calculated and cunning attacks that left his foes disoriented and overwhelmed, ripe to be picked off one by one. Perhaps if all his foes had come together to overwhelm him they might have succeeded, but instead with every victory his forces would grow larger, bolstered by the conquered tribe's numbers and those of the increasing number of people flocking to his cause.

It was at the age of 22, having been a man for a mere eight years, when he would become the High Warlord. Crowned with a wreath of holly in the Rhaead capital (and the only permeant settlement they had) of Andrelian, he would spend the next two years subjugating the last few tribes that insisted on rebelling.

Yet after all this work, this tireless struggle to unite the Rhead, there now comes a new threat. A ravenous, slaving horde intent on conquering them. Kerenatam will not allow this. He will not allow his work to be tossed aside, his peoples crushed and held in distain as he was when he was a child. He goes to the meeting not to stir up trouble, but to gather support for the cause, with the chants of his blue-painted warriors behind him.
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