A human barbarian with a kind heart and strong fists.

His cloak is very sentimental. He does not like others touching it, trying to take it, and will go into an absolute rage if it were to be damaged.

Arc grew up in a small town along the edge of the Wasted West - a near uninhabitable area full of aberrations and goblins.

Arc's arrived home atop his trusty mule only to find his tiny village set ablaze as goblins raided the camp. He rushed home where he found his mother deceased and his father's dying words were that he must keep living. Overwhelmed by grief he tried to fight the goblins but was easily overwhelmed, and his panicked mule accidentally struck him in the head, knocking him unconscious.

He awoke in the goblin's dug out slave pits, kept there for days. Though he was trapped, he was no docile prisoner and lashed out or attacked any goblin that dared come within reach. Due to his non-compliance, he was thrown into the fighting pits, forced to grapple with aberrations from the wastes or goblin fighters. Though the fights weren't easy, Arc managed to survive. It was as if the "Fights Arms Bastard" just wouldn't die. Fed up with him, he was foisted onto a less sane group of goblins, The Maimed Ones who would amputate their own limbs or the limbs of others for sacrifice to their dread walker god. Arc's right arm became one of these sacrifices, and as he lay bleeding, cloaked figures swept him away.

Again, Arc seemed almost impossible to kill. He survived the amputation, and awoke to discover some monstrosity of a limb spliced onto his right shoulder. He was kept under observation by these strange cloaked figures, gathering his strength until he finally escaped. 

Lost in the Wastes, he wandered until he collapsed, and was taken in by a giant of a woman. She cared for him, and made his cloak for him out of various bits of scavenged cloth, enchanting it so it might help disguise his freakish arm. They parted ways, and Arc's journey began.

Weapon: Broadsword
Feat: Tavern Brawler