Dyst0piatic

Iblees' curse drove a young Felmar far from Axios, for it was said that the Dwarves would delve deeply in search of that they'd long desired. Felmar, however, knew in his heart of hearts that the hearth and forge were no place for a third son of the Stonemason Clan. Young and filled with a fire that matched the deepest flow of the world's most primordial lava, Felmar denied tradition by only completing one of the three Trials. After trekking up the mountain's windswept cliffs, he found himself struck by a staggering realization. Why prove myself, he thought to himself, to my clan, when I can prove myself to the world as a whole?

Stifled by tradition and requirement, the young dwarf draped a notched pickaxe across one shoulder and turned his back on familial comfort before striking out in the unforgiving wilderness. Kal'Urguan was not for him; he'd slipped the yolk of complacency, or so he thought, and continued wandering, seemingly at random and can be found in the strangest of places to this very day. Wanderlust strikes; this road is as good as the next, where does that path lead, to what end would those caves lead? Conventional acceptance felt like a prison cell, tradition and age old society were a noose by which his proud race would eventually swing, lest they strike out and rekindle the old blaze. And so, before long, he'd crossed the known world and uncovered a trove of knowledge he'd never bothered to speak of at the roadside inns in which he was the recipient of curious stares and awkward silences.

He's quiet, often aloof and brusque, even for a dwarf. Years of wandering have created a sense of paranoia matched only by the wide world's open spaces and forests that aren't quite as empty as they appear to be. Never one to linger long, he's rarely been known to form fast friendships, though those who've earned the Shortaxe's trust have only to send word. It's known that distance and mountain, stream or ocean mean little to the wandering dwarf. Loyalty to a trusted companion has always meant more than a namesake's seemingly required obedience. 

Years and years ago he'd intended to raise his Clan's stock in the eyes of the world. Age leaves the heart hard, the soul jaded. Felmar's only true ambition is simply to understand. To know, to see, to explore and to wander. Ruins hold secrets, things that're often best forgotten or assumed lost and unknown. These moments, that heart stopping realization that none have seen these valleys in a hundred years, that these ruins sat unknown for time untold, those are the moments that flavor his life.

Hardy and dour, he's learned a casual skill with axes through repeated practice, often with failure surely to result in death. Able to scavenge and scrounge his food from the most barren environs, he's become a survivor, almost an instinctual creature more at home when lost, more comfortable when there's no thoughts for tomorrow. While his travels have left him a seasoned, experienced warrior and hunter, he's spared little times for social graces. Impatient even for a dwarf, he lacks social skills, he trusts slowly and he's never had a formal education. Barely able to read and write, he'd sooner stare at a map than a book, though he's collected rare tomes a time or two before, so long as the price was worth his time. Everyone has to have some coin, after all.

Worn down by weather and time, Felmar's four and a half feet of tanned skin seamed and creased by the wind and elements, while auburn hair rests above obsidian eyes that settle among the crevasses of a craggy, windswept face. Known for his gunmetal, almost black plate armor, he's rarely seen in anything but travel stained, utilitarian clothing, often skins and leathers. At least one axe is always slung across one shoulder, a much shorter version than most. Able to be thrown as easily as it can be hacked with, it's a versatile weapon that's served him well enough in the past, be it during the Eternal Cold or in some cave's gloomy, murky darkness.