Thorek Bronzeboot

Thorek is a dwarven anomaly—built like a statue carved from storm-forged granite. Broad-shouldered, iron-backed, and every inch of him looks like it was designed to smash through castle doors… or possibly be one.

Long limbs by dwarven standards, but thick with corded muscle. His skin is a deep bronze hue, marked by old scrapes and storm-kissed burns. When he moves, it’s like watching tectonic plates shift—slow, deliberate, and hard to stop.

A rugged, rectangular face with high cheekbones and a wide, flat nose (that’s clearly taken a mace or two). His obsidian eyes are narrow and intense, often scanning for the next bad decision to hit. His beard is long, thick, and immaculately braided—equal parts battle standard and fashion statement.

Wears a storm-blackened beard ring with Kord’s rune etched in cracked silver. His height alone makes him infamous—most dwarves assume he’s the result of divine tampering, and he’s never corrected them. His armor bears battle scars and lightning damage he refuses to polish out.

Rolls his shoulders before combat like he’s warming up to move a mountain. Has a habit of cracking his neck mid-prayer. Sometimes stares at the sky like it owes him a rematch.

Can probably sniff out ale within 60 feet. Doesn’t work if sober.

Reads omens in beer foam. Kord hasn’t stopped him, so it must be fine.

Immune to hangovers, probably. Definitely resistant to responsibility.

Wears customized plate-and-chain armor reinforced for his longer limbs, with storm motifs etched along the edges.

Posesses the Coin of Tempestus Mortem, heavy bronze coin bearing the grim visage of a melting skull, a winged hourglass, and the words Tempus Fugit—"Time Flies." When held aloft, storm clouds seem to briefly gather in his eyes.

A master of frontline chaos—trained to take hits, hold lines, and break sieges. Skilled in brewing, intimidation, and the fine art of not dying when things explode.

Raised in Stonegrasp Hold, where fists solved more problems than books ever could. Left home after "accidentally" blessing a keg with divine lightning. Been wandering ever since, looking for glory, good ale, and stronger furniture.

Cisgender male. But has been mistaken for a statue, a small golem, and once, very briefly, a short orc.

Pansexual, preference for biceps and backbone. Has fallen for warriors, clerics, and one very convincing barmaid who could outdrink him.

Formal: Barely. Learned enough to read tavern signs, weapon manuals, and the word "SMITE."

Practical: Trained in battlefield tactics, divine rites, and how to intimidate someone with a mug.

Former infantry commander in the Stonegrasp Shield Guard.

Current freelance paladin, tavern enforcer, goblin deterrent, and occasional divine consultant.

Has never once filled out a tax form.

Survived being struck by lightning—twice.

Cleared out a haunted brewery using only a warhammer and bad language.

Once held a tavern together through sheer willpower (and his back) until the rain stopped.

Mistook a wizard’s hat for a chamber pot once. Still not forgiven.

Lost an arm-wrestling match to a halfling grandma with divine rage.

Tried giving a rousing war speech—accidentally set the podium on fire.

Flinches at the phrase "divine destiny"—bad hangover memories.

Has nightmares about chairs collapsing under him in public.

Deep, irrational fear of fancy cutlery.

Practical and tactical, but not bookish.

Thinks out loud, often while swinging a weapon.

Surprisingly philosophical when drunk—or smiting.

Chaotic Good. Punch evil in the face, worry about paperwork later.

Believes justice is best served loud and personal.

Respects strength, loyalty, and taverns that don’t water their ale.

Never wastes good ale.

Refuses to bless a weapon that hasn’t drawn blood.

Will not fight barefoot—“My toes are sacred, lad.”

To prove that divine purpose and bar fights aren’t mutually exclusive. Thorek seeks strength, glory, and maybe a tavern that serves something strong enough to outmatch him.

Savvies:

• Excellent at frontline tactics
• Intimidation through sheer presence
• Can judge ale quality by scent
• Surprisingly good at comforting scared villagers (mostly by standing in front of them)

Ineptitudes:

• Subtlety
• Diplomacy that doesn’t involve glaring
• Reading anything longer than a tavern sign
• Remembering names, unless they’re enemies

Likes:

• Storms (especially when drinking during them)
• Loud inns with sturdy tables
• Weapons that make a satisfying crunch
• People who fight with heart

Dislikes:

• Bureaucrats
• Elves who speak in riddles
• Holy texts without pictures
• Enemies who don’t get up for round two

Loyal to a fault

Never runs from a fight

Protects the little folk (literally and figuratively)

Surprisingly honest, especially when lying would be easier

Quick to challenge authority

Doesn’t know when to back down

Has unresolved anger at thunderclouds

Believes “restraint” is a bard word

Talks to his armor like it’s a drinking buddy

Mumbles Kord’s name before every swing

Refuses to sit with his back to a door—unless it’s to stare someone down

Stirs drinks with a dagger out of habit

Reasonably clean for a battle-scarred paladin. Keeps his beard pristine and his armor polished just enough to show he cares—unless he’s trying to intimidate, in which case he rolls in the dirt for effect.

Bathes… eventually.

Sister Dagna Bronzeboot – Devout cleric of Moradin, thinks Thorek’s faith in Kord is a “divine joke.”

Ser Rell of Greytop – An old rival turned drinking buddy turned sparring partner. Their duels are legendary.

The Iron Flagon Tavern – Has an unspoken “no bar tab for Thunderkeg” policy after he cleared out a troll infestation… through the front wall.

Estranged from a long, proud line of smiths who expected him to follow the forge, not the storm. Still respected in his clan—just... warily. His brother’s a miner, his sister’s a priest, and their group texts are tense.

Follows Kord, god of storms, strength, and battle.

Takes divine signs from thunder, lightning, and mugs foaming over at just the right moment. Kord doesn’t mind his unorthodox devotion—as long as Thorek keeps swinging.

Thorek is blunt, loud, and surprisingly charming if you like your charisma with a side of controlled chaos. He speaks plainly, acts boldly, and wins hearts with stubborn conviction and terrifying bear hugs.

Cracks knuckles before talking strategy

Tilts his head before throwing a punch—like he’s listening to divine permission

Shrugs off compliments and chairs with equal ease

Makes long, meaningful eye contact with doors before kicking them open

Hobbies: Brewing, dice games, hammer tossing, and testing tavern furniture for durability.

Pets: None officially, but he swears a crow follows him and delivers “messages” from Kord. No one else has seen it.

Gruff, gravelly, and always a little too loud—like someone trained to talk over tavern brawls. His Common is direct and curse-laced; his Dwarvish is old, formal, and strangely poetic when he’s drunk or praying.

Just enough to buy another round