A sturdy dwarf, who can appreciate a proper mug of ale.


Grogborn is a 4’1 tall dwarf from [[Dumatrescal]]. Like most dwarves, he worships Moradin, though his life is not centered on his god. A sturdy dwarf of one-hundred-ninety-four pounds, he can dish it out with his Urgrosh, and stare down most with a look of his deep brown eyes. Though his hair is already gray, he is 106 years old, and his beard contrasts strangely with his dark-tanned skin.

Because of Grogborn’s constant drinking, his mind is clearest in the normal ‘tipsy’ state, and inversely, tipsy when in the normal ‘sober’ state.

In addition to this, as a fighter who lived underground for half his life, Grogborn is wary of magic. He does not enjoy being in mage shops, and keeps a close eye on any magical company. However, because a cleric’s magic is delivered in prayer, and meant to heal, he is not at odds with being blessed or healed through magic.


Long ago,

A young dwarf of sixty-odd years made his way home from a long day at the smithy. To his surprise, laying on the counter was a flagon of spirits. Upon closer inspection, he managed to spot a large tag hanging from the side;

“My son, I’m afraid my time has come. As a final gift to you, I leave you the finest spirits I have ever found on my adventures. Nowhere in the world have I found a greater taste then in this flask. May the hammer of Moradan guide you.”

Having read the note, Grogborn pored himself a mug of the spirits, raised his glass in honor of his father, and brought it to his lips. It was at that very moment that he knew what he must do. That evening, he gathered his belongings, grabbed what little liqueur remained, left his home land and set out upon the world to find where his father had passed away.

When he first set out on his adventure, our Grogborn was hired on to a cargo ship as a body guard. Having never seen the ocean before, he heartily accepted, and boarded the vessel; a decision he would soon come to regret. Partway through the voyage, a storm appeared. Having failed to ready his sea legs, our stout dwarven friend found himself cast about the ship, quickly becoming seasick. Leaning over the starboard side, he cursed his misfortune as he tried in vain to steady his stomach. With the waves washing higher and higher, Grogborn soon found himself clasped to the railings, shouting unheard curses through the heavy rain. As the storm passed, a crewmate came to offer a hand to the still-shouting dwarf. Being a prided ol’ goat, Grogborn swiftly shoved away the hand, and stood up. At this very moment, a small wave hit the boat, and sent Grogborn railing into the sea. Needless to say, as a mountain dwarf, his swimming had suffered a massive penalty, and as the crewmen cast their eyes down to the water, all that could be seen was a thrashing speck on the face of the ocean. Grasping on to a floating barrel that had been wrecked in the storm, he was shortly rescued by his crewmates. Drenched from head to toe, he stomped off towards the crew’s quarters muttering curses under his breath. Because of his awkward stumbling and thrashing about, Grogborn became known to his crewmates as “Groggard the Grogmonger,” a name thanks to which he will always remember his strong loathing for the sea, and all that dwells within.

In the present time, while lumbering about in a drunken stupor outside of the newly colonized Viscica, Grogborn made his way to a pond. Uttering a curse, he stooped over, only to notice his reflection drowning in the water. Taken by fear, he stumbled backwards flailing his arms wildly, only to knock into an object of some sort, and the being holding it, to the floor. This being was a half-elf named Vril,

And so our adventure begins.


Unnamed in newland ContagiousId