Physical Description:
At 4’7” Garrim’s stature makes up for his hairline that is not so slowly crawling to the top of his head. He keeps his hair short, but the attention is centered on his thick brown beard that almost reaches his belt. His ears stick out almost comically red from the cold, framing his determined right eye. His left eye was replaced with a glossy large Tiger’s eye stone he found in a river. With enough ale he might just tell the story, or the story that the large scar on his face doesn’t already state for him.
Life Summary:
Born in the dark caves of Kal'Varoth Garrim’s Mother, Lasri Cragtrail was a simple cleaning lady and washer woman with no husband to speak of. Though she did always claim that she was betrothed to one of the dwarven council Members in her youth. Something that Garrim rarely believed anymore. Garrim is pretty sure that his father was a woodsman, for his Mother may be a Cave dwarf, judging by his size Garrim is more than likely half at best.
Garrim spent most of his fifty years of Beardling sneaking out of Kal'Varoth to the mountainside above. Caves always made Garrim anxious. He joined some of the hunting parties that left the caves for game. Learning the cliff sides, forests and land abound. The hunting parties are friendly to Garrim even though his mother and himself are clanless. Though he wasn’t always ostracized in public, that would be dishonorable, he was looked down upon. And he hated even more that his Mother was looked down upon for refusing to say who his father was.
Mother always told him that it was the grace of Yemekar that Garrim was to be hers. That the great maker made him just for her to love. Mother had shrines to him in their small burrow of a cave. Garrim cared and loved the Great Maker, but was always slightly bitter that he was made without having his own maker. His Mother was more than enough, she could love all the dwarves of Kal'Varoth and still have some left over. But Garrim had his own shrine. One day on his adventures through the mountains he came across some elves. Garrim had seen elves before of course, but this elf glowed in the sun. She was gathering water from a stream before she returned to her wagon. They both were the most gorgeous thing Garrim had ever seen. The very wood of this wagon almost mimicked the curves of the elf that rode away. Garrim took his ax and took off a thick branch from a deadfall. He would remember the one that showed him that wood was far more majestic than stone. He would show all of the dwarves that even a clanless could bring class, culture, and dare he say true art to their dreary caves.
Garrim is sure that his father was of the Ireheart Clan. With his brown beard and dislike of outer clothes even in snow. He has begged his mother many times to tell him what clan his Father was from, but she refuses to say. Telling him he will be told when it is time, and all that. Well he’s 85 years old and not a beardling any longer. He deserves to know.
