The clanging sound of metal striking stone fills the air. The
impressionable dwarf runs around in the background playing and laughing.
His parents you see, were ordinary other than being an ordinary miner just
like his parents. His father, the head foreman miners. Growing up around
the mines he had no prospect of the future. No plans in the mine, his
mother a simple nurse relying on herbs and simplistic medicine to deal with
injuries and the like. He was a lucky child, not accident prone or mean
spirited like some kids are. Yet, his desires were simple, he wanted to be
like his father a miner. Thoughts of working stone, and mining gemstones
filled his dreams.
It was many years later, he was a young dwarf now almost considered an
adult. He had his own pick and the desire to use it. He was with a group
of young dwarves deep in one of the deepest mines when his luck seemingly
changed. Him and his friends were working the mine and filling their carts
when his childhood friend struck a weak point, causing a a large cavern had
opened up. His friend of course was crushed, blood seeping out from
collapse. When the dust clear, their way back was blocked but a huge hole
leading into beneath the stones. He was all alone there, and the only way
out was possibly through the new cavern. With that in mind, he set out,
exploring the place. Hours later, tired with thoughts of never making it
out of there in hid mind he stumbled upon it. There was a structure within
the cavern. Carved marble pillars held up what looked like a massive
building. Inside he went, temporarily forgetting his plight, he explored.
Along the way, it felt like a voice was speaking to him, calling his name.
After exploring for another hour, he found what looked like an exit.
Heading towards the doorway filled with light he entered into a room.
Inside the room was a solitary hammer. This hammer seemed to radiate light,
strange symbols adorning it's length, the most prominent a flaming fist.
Without thought he wrapped one hand around the haft and tried to lift it.
Agony raced through his whole being, with a pressure overwhelming him making
him feel like his mind was not his own. Thoughts flooded him sensations of
burning pain, and then beside him on another bed clearly not dead. He woke
up with no idea what had actually nothing. When he came to he was above,
laying in a plain bed not his own. His dead friend happened, but his hand
ached. Upon examination, he found that his hand had been branded with a
burning fist, and the feelings came flooding back. He no longer had any
desire to be a miner, new purpose filling his veins, and it wasn't long
before he bid his hometown, and family goodbye as he set out on his journey.
Bright green eyes regard the world intensely from within a face almost
entirely obscured by curly red hair. Unruly and coarse, the hair falls
untamed saved by a beard that hangs down to his waist. Standing at only few
feet from the ground and as much again wide he cuts an imposing figure.
Most of his width appears to come from his unyielding musculature, bulging
from his immense arms and legs. His sweat covered skin is a darker shade as
if he has spent most of his life in the sun, unblemished save for the
calluses of obvious practice with a sword and an odd burn on his right blue
eyes alert and cautious. His face is blunt with a wrinkled brow, a forearm.
He regards the world with an intensely fervent gaze, his bright round
bulbous nose, and cheerfully red cheeks, but not entirely unkind as humor
lurks at the corners of his wide mouth.