[Batzorig]

    He's not a fan of crowds. Fire, alcohol, drugs. Batzorig is rarely more content than alone, on a rainy day in a nice den where he can watch the palm trees whip in stormy wind. A melancholy has overcome Tortuga, abandoning the territory where many were born, loved ones lost. A battle fought for no gain-- a war that was never their own. They have a boy-king now, of dead father and mentor lost. Sympathy weighs on Batzorig's heart, but he knows better than to voice it to someone with Bermuda.
    He wishes there was something he could do to ease them. Herbs, like the Brewers do, the words of someone respected. Gifts of glamour to affirm authority no one else has the heart to claim. But, his paws are too big for trinkets and tattoos. He was made to hurt, the lion knows from example of the others that inhabited Tortuga. Gone now, as well.
    The best a brute can do is hope his sheer size drives off any dissent. The lion wouldn't really want to hurt anyone.