Once a fallen dwarven hero, Thalgron was torn from the afterlife by a curse. Now undead, he roams in search of the necromancer who bound him, seeking justice, peace, and long-lost love.

 “They took my death. They will not take my soul.”
— Thalgron Stoneward, before razing a tomb to reach its defiler

 
There was a time when Thalgron Stoneward died well.
A paragon of dwarven honor, his name rang with glory in the halls of stone. He fell at the peak of a great battle—his axe bloodied, his voice whispering his wife’s name, his oath fulfilled. The Mountain wept for its fallen son. His body was entombed with reverence, and his soul passed into the Halls of Rest, where warriors sleep beneath the ancient roots of stone.
 
But peace is not a gift all are allowed to keep.
 
By foul magic and a name never spoken, a necromancer clawed into the sacred slumber of the dead and dragged Thalgron back—not as a puppet, nor a hollow, but as a cursed sentinel bound by chains unseen. His body remains—withered, cold, unfeeling. Yet his mind and purpose remain sharp. He has not aged. He has not rested. And he has not dreamed of her face since the day he was torn from the afterlife.
 
He does not eat.
He does not sleep.
He remembers.
 
Now clad in rusted armor and bearing a crown cracked in battle, Thalgron roams the realm in silence, seeking the necromancer who defiled his death. Not for vengeance. But for release.
 
He does not crave war. He craves silence.
The quiet of earth.
The warmth of rest.
The dream of her.
 
Until then, he will not kneel.
Not to gods.
Not to death.
Not to time.