Unkilled, if not undefeated, champion of hundreds of fights in pits and arenas throughout the Empire, Makeen is a grizzly veteran who won his fights through sheer force more than any particular skill in weapons or combat. Able to tire his opponents whilst ferociously on the offensive and still retain enough energy was how he fought. Those with a little skill, and keen observation, quickly understood and would beat him in bouts that ended at drawing blood, or scoring most hits. Few ever drew enough to slow him down in death bouts, and none enough to stop him completely.
When not brawling, a sinister-looking oaken club the length of his arm serves him well. A wood so well oiled and used to be near-black, its head is peppered with jagged nails, to help those pesky foes stay down when hit. In the way of protection, Makeen is a little indifferent - usually the arenas would decide his armour for him, and he never fought anywhere that demanded glamorous or decorated breastplates.
Ugly as sin - a look that was not improved from his time in the arena - he stands taller than any man he has yet met, and often much wider. His is not a face to be forgotten, though - and if not admired he was certainly respected by those who frequented the fights. It was his uncanny ability not to fall in a fight that earned him his ticket here. The Empire thought to have somebody formidable on the inside, should they ever arrive. The odd report now and again on trivial aspects of the town, and Makeen is free to do what he likes - which tends to be fighting and drinking. Keeping a room above his favourite drinking hole, in the slightly less than savoury quarter of town, Makeen is comfortable, in a dingy sort of way. The money from fights keeps his gargantuan body well full, and his liver pickled, and even affords the odd trip to the brothel across the street.
Growing up he had just his crook of a father - his mother having died some time in his second year. Getting jobs where he could, Makeen's father would get jobs where he could - and picking pockets and cutting the purses of the audiences at fights was where Makeen was able to see the combatants. As he grew (and grew), his muscle allowed him to work jobs his scrawny father was never asked to perform. Debt collecting, persuasion, even a little protection work for the vainer men they worked for. Never overly enjoying or disliking that life, Makeen jumped at the opportunity to step into the underground pits - and never looked back. Winning his first score of fights, his pride grew almost as quickly as he had in those early years. His club he stole after his first loss, from the victor. He thought it a form of retribution, and scorned the club that beat him. Very soon he was not to be parted from it - and it became his erstwhile companion, a much better friend than his father had ever been - and certainly more useful!