Narb Magruk

Brick is a towering half-orc, standing at 6 foot 5 and built like the name suggests—thick-boned, broad-shouldered, and heavy with muscle earned from years of labor and street brawls. His frame is imposing, with a dense core and long arms that seem more suited for smashing walls than shaking hands.

His olive-toned green skin is weathered and textured, the kind you’d expect from a life under sun and struggle. Prominent veins and layered muscle dominate his frame, while the scars and wear on his skin tell stories he doesn’t bother repeating. He looks like someone who’s been broken, bruised, and built again, tougher each time.

Brick’s head is shaved down to the scalp, making his heavy brow and squared jaw all the more prominent. His face holds a constant, quiet scowl, as though he’s always halfway through thinking something he doesn’t quite have words for. His tusks curve up from his lower jaw—thick, pale, and chipped—giving him a permanently gritted look.

Aside from his tusks and sheer bulk, what sets Brick apart is his presence—silent, grounded, immovable. His right tusk is visibly cracked at the edge, and there are faded marks of old wounds across his shoulders and arms. His clothes are worn and patched, hinting at a life of survival rather than vanity.

Brick rarely gestures when he talks and often uses silence in place of answers. He tends to square up instinctively when approached, as if bracing without realizing it. His fists usually hang by his sides, already half-closed, even when he’s calm.

Brick has what some would call a divine stubbornness. His connection to The Champion has granted him a quiet resilience in defense of others. He’s able to shrug off pain when standing up for someone weaker, pushing through wounds with an almost supernatural resolve. He may not be fast or clever, but he’s nearly impossible to knock down when it matters.

He wears a simple, sleeveless tunic torn at the edges, its fabric frayed from years of wear. A thick, well-worn leather belt holds his gear. His pants are just as tattered, marked with dirt and wear. Slung over his shoulder is a massive wooden lance, its surface rough and sturdy, towering as a testament to his strength and endurance.

Though he carries no formal weapon, Brick is a weapon. His talent lies in brute force, endurance, and the kind of intuitive fighting that comes from taking more punches than he’s thrown. He has a knack for reading people’s tension—the way they twitch before throwing a punch—and reacting with bone-crunching efficiency.