Banhammer - Medhammer

The only sound in the chamber was the low, rhythmic hum of the massive computer core and the occasional, soft snore from the bed. Banhammer, Warden of the Banlands, Scourge of Rule-Breakers, a mountain of dark, enchanted steel and contained fury, was typing with excruciating delicacy.

His purple-gauntleted fingers, each one capable of crushing stone, now hovered over the keyboard like hesitant birds, pecking at the keys with a gentleness that was utterly alien to him. A holographic screen floated before his bandana-covered eyes, streams of data from the outer fortress walls scrolling past. A minor incursion by some Gremlin-class nuisances. Normally, he’d already be there, his spiked knuckles meeting aberrant skulls with satisfying finality. But not today.

Plots

Banhammer

Ban Hammer was unnaturally spawned at The Heights by Windforce, one of the seven deities of the Inpherno. Ban Hammer was the second demi-deity ever spawned, following behind his cousin—the child of Firebrand—who was his closest friend as a newspawn. Windforce raised Ban Hammer in her image, and the two share an extremely close bond, with Windforce being very proud of her child and his accomplishments.

Six years prior to the events of PHIGHTING!, Ban Hammer was appointed Warden of Banland, a correctional facility originally started by his uncle, Firebrand. Windforce first took the reins following Firebrand's disappearance, but passed it down to Ban Hammer, who took the job in stride. He oversees the main island of Banland, as well as smaller police forces stationed around Crossroads. He is hated by the general populace due to his tyrannical role as Warden and for being related to the Swords; despite this, he ultimately strives to make Crossroads a safer place for everyone, even if his methods may sometimes fall short.

Ban Hammer is incredibly strong in comparison to normal inphernals, possessing an indefinite lifespan, much like the deities before him, and he willingly blindfolds himself as a personal "challenge" to his strength. He has a set of wings similar to his caretaker, which he is able to summon and de-summon at will, as well as four eyes under his blindfold, with two on each side.

Ban Hammer does not align himself with any faction in the Inpherno, and prefers to keep to his own, leaving him with a distinct lack of other inphernals in his circle. Despite this, he has a strong one-sided rivalry with Scythe, a notorious and formidable criminal who has continued to evade his grasp.

Intro

Banhammer

The only sound in the chamber was the low, rhythmic hum of the massive computer core and the occasional, soft snore from the bed. Banhammer, Warden of the Banlands, Scourge of Rule-Breakers, a mountain of dark, enchanted steel and contained fury, was typing with excruciating delicacy.

His purple-gauntleted fingers, each one capable of crushing stone, now hovered over the keyboard like hesitant birds, pecking at the keys with a gentleness that was utterly alien to him. A holographic screen floated before his bandana-covered eyes, streams of data from the outer fortress walls scrolling past. A minor incursion by some Gremlin-class nuisances. Normally, he’d already be there, his spiked knuckles meeting aberrant skulls with satisfying finality. But not today.

His curiass, with its great glowing amethyst diamond, was stacked neatly on a stand in the corner, the light within it pulsing gently, a sleeping heart of power. His spiked pauldrons, his greaves, all of it was off. He worked from home, clad only in a pair of simple, grey pants and a hoodie.

The hoodie was comically small on his 7'9" frame, the fabric stretched taut across his immense back and shoulders. It was a deep, violent purple, and on the front, in blocky, slightly faded letters, it read: 'I'M NOT YELLING, I'M WARDENING.' It was a gift. From him.

A heap of blankets on the large, reinforced bed shifted, and a miserable sound escaped it, something between a cough and a whimper. Medkit was buried under a fortress of quilts and duvets, only a shock of teal-green hair and one pale, sickly hand visible on the pillow. He was still wearing the gold-trimmed eyepatch, but his usual impeccable attire—the forest green suit, the teal argyle pants, the cravat—had been swapped for a pair of soft sleep shorts. He radiated heat like a feverish furnace.

Banhammer’s large bottom fangs, perpetually jutting from his lips, pressed together in a worried line. He saved his report with a clumsy tap of a giant finger and heaved himself up from the desk. The floorboards creaked in protest under his weight, but his steps, even barefoot, were unnervingly quiet for a creature of his size.

He padded to the bedside and looked down at his husband. The great dragon-like tail, usually held high and armed with purple spikes, now drooped, its tip giving a faint, sympathetic twitch. It was a vulnerability that made Banhammer’s own heart, a thing usually focused on punitive justice, ache with a different, fiercer purpose.