Like every other Stonechild ever born, Melog is the product of the union of human and earth. Melog’s biological father was an Earth Elemental, and his mother a common human. The details of how this came to be were never made known to Melog. And, sadly, he never met either of his parents. All he knows is that his father left shortly after impregnating his mother, and that his mother died giving birth to Melog. His stone-like skin caused too much damage during the birthing process. Before she died, she told her husband to raise him and love him as his own. But Melog’s step-father resented him for being the cause of his wife’s death. He hated Melog; this motherless bastard who was little more than a monster to him. He never even gave Melog a name. Even though he was only fed water and table scraps, Melog grew rapidly in both size and strength. His step-father treated him like cattle, whipping him or hitting him with clubs in order to get him to work. He saw how other fathers in the village treated their children, and realized that there was no love in his life, only anger and hatred; traits that Melog learned very quickly. One day, as his step-father went to swing his club at him, the Stonechild swiped at the wooden stick with his hand, shattering it into splinters. Without thinking, he then reached out for his “father’s” throat and squeezed tightly. After a moment, he realized what he was doing and let go. But it was too late. He had crushed his step-father’s windpipe with his bare hand. There was no way to save him, nor was there any desire for him to be saved. Melog just stood there, watching as his step-father suffocated to death, reaching out wildly as if trying to keep hold of the world. A little girl from the village had been watching curiously around a wooden cart, hoping to get a look at the “giant stone man” everyone always talked about. She saw everything that happened and ran to tell as many people as she could. The villagers gathered torches and pitchforks to drive the monster out of their home. However, when they got there, Melog was already walking towards the main gate. The villagers lined up on either side of him, as if they were trying to corral him towards the village’s main gate. They dared not attack him. Without a single word or glance at the villagers, Melog lifted the gate up above his head with his own two hands, walked under it, and then let it slam to the ground behind him. He never stepped foot in his home village again.
Melog lived for year out in the wild with no place to call home. He made no effort to hide, but also made no attempt at trying to connect with people. Any who came across him confused him as a Stone Golem. Claiming they had it backwards, Melog decided to give himself his own name: Golem, spelt backwards. Melog fought whatever came his way and threatened him, never backing down from a challenge. Being as strong as he was and raised knowing how to utilize his massive strength, it only seemed proper that Melog fight with everything he had. He would bring down trees with his fists, rip animals apart with his bare hands and cook the meat for his meals, and even lift large rocks to help his strength grow. One fateful day, Melog was attacked by a group of Ogres that were attempting to take him prisoner. They succeeded, but not before losing many of their numbers to Melog’s raw strength. After spending months in a prison, Melog was released into the command of a Drow female that promised him an opportunity to fight to his hearts content, and even have a chance to kill an entire city of humans. The thought of war appealed to Melog, and so he agreed to join, even though he displayed issues with following orders. His impatience and overconfidence proved to be his downfall. In the middle of a fight, a strange looking magic user imprisoned Melog inside of an orange colored gem. Before he knew it, Melog found himself standing in the middle of a strange plane of existence.
No sky, yet he could look up. No ground, yet his feet were clearly planted on some unseen surface. No horizon to gaze at. Everything was blinding white, yet it didn’t hurt his eyes. He could hear voices, the sound of battle. He yelled out to the noise, but there was no reply. After a time, there was nothing. No sounds, no voices. He started to walk along aimlessly, with no possible way of knowing what direction he was moving in. Was he going anywhere? Had he walked several miles, or was he still stuck in the same spot? He needed answers. He threw his smaller sword to the ground and began to walk away from it. After a few minutes, he looked behind him to see the sword unmoved. He took a step backwards. Success! The sword was further away. More steps, more distance. He turned around and began to jog away. After a time, he turned back. The sword was closer now, about the same distance it was when he first tossed it to the ground. He was confused, which made him angry. He reached down, picked up the sword, and threw it away with all his might. He went to walk off in a huff, but something caused his feet to slip out from under him. It was the same sword he had just thrown! How was this possible? In a fit of rage, Melog took the sword in his hands and brought the flat of the blade down violently upon his knee, shattering the sword. The shards of metal lay all around. Melog watched them to see if they would move. Perhaps the sword would become whole again? No. The shards remained. Melog sat down among the scattered shrapnel, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. He needed to think.
How did he get here? Why was he here? What was the purpose? Not even the patience of a Stonechild brought him the answers. How long had he sat there thinking? It didn’t matter, because in the end, he was still there. It was time to turn disadvantage into advantage. If he was going to be forced to stay in this place for a while, he would make the most of it. Melog focused on the one thing he could always depend on: his physical strength. He began by swinging the massive Fullblade he took off of that muscle-bound idiot. The sheer size and weight of it would make him stronger. But it wasn’t enough. Days went by…or was it months…and he felt no improvement. Perhaps he was going about it all wrong. What he needed was something to hit! Piece by piece, he ripped off the Mithral plating of his armor, and laid each one on the ground. Taking out his Lucerne Hammer, he began to beat each plate. One by one, they were either flattened or broken beyond use. It wasn’t long before he had run out of Mithral…or perhaps it took him years. He wasn’t quite sure. Still, he felt no stronger. He slammed the hammer down on the ground in anger. Repeated blows to the Mirthral had compromised the weapon, and the metal head snapped off from the wooden polearm. Melog didn’t know what to do. It had been a long time since he had rested; truly rested. He drove the end of the Fullblade into the ground, still able to see the blade in its entirety, yet it was planted. He sat on the ground, leaning up against the sword and closed his eyes.
Melog would open his eyes periodically. For the longest time, nothing happened. But there were some days when he would see a frozen tundra burying him in snow. Other days it would be a raging inferno that would melt his skin. On occasion, he would find himself in a peaceful field, filled with flowers and small critters that would scamper all around. There was even one annoying little squirrel that would sit on his shoulder and talk to him about everything and, at the same time, nothing at all. But every so often, there would be monsters trying to attack him. It was only on those days that he would stand up, draw his axe and swing to kill. But he never broke their flesh, never drew their blood. Eventually he stopped trying to fight back, stopped even bothering to stand. He just laid there and let them cut into his flesh and rip his body apart. He watched as his blood would spill out into the dirt and his mangled body was cooked and eaten. He allowed himself to be frozen in ice, liquefied by fire, and chattered to until his ears bled. For years and years, he allowed his flesh to be devoured…but didn’t he just get here? Eventually, the illusions became less frequent. Every so often the squirrel would check in to see how Melog was doing. Sometimes Melog would ignore him, sometimes he would yell at him to go away, sometimes he would reach up and pop the squirrel’s head off. It didn’t stop him from coming back though. One time, he even heard a loud banging sound, the clash of metal on metal. He looked over and saw himself beating a Mithral plate with his hammer. He had thought about telling himself not to bother, that it wouldn’t do any good. But he thought: why? He’ll figure it out on his own eventually. He laid there: no food, no water, his strength diminishing, and his mind running amuck. Melog had finally had enough. He refused to be broken by this place. Even though his body had become weaker, he would not allow his mind to diminish any more. When an illusion appeared, he would focus and will it away. Over time, he returned the white void to a place to complete nothingness. But the silence was deafening, maddening. The sound of his own blood rushing through his ears made his head ache. Then…the whispering of voices. No! Just one voice…talking to someone. Strange. Both voices sounded the same. As if that one voice was talking to itself. Melog found it to be as annoying as that damned squirrel. He tried to will this hallucination away as well, but to no avail. He screamed at it to stop, but it didn’t. He held his axe ready, hoping it would appear for him to kill, but nothing manifested. On and on it went. Chattering, arguing with itself, debating and ranting. Maybe this was no ordinary hallucination. Maybe this was the one that would finally break him. He lay there, unmoving. This was truly a miserable fate. And what was worse: he had just gotten there…or maybe he had ALWAYS been there!…To be honest, it just didn’t matter anymore.