Thoradrin Mightstone

Few things in life are as important as purpose is to a dwarf.  Purpose is what defines their lives.  Without purpose a dwarf becomes lost.  A lost dwarf is a sad dwarf, and a sad dwarf will find trouble.  For the Mighstone family, the purpose was clear.  While some dwarves mine, some dwarves smelt, other dwarves forge weapons and armor, and other families carve stone, the Mightstone defeneded.  They defended the miners out searching for veins of mithril.  They defended the caravans throught the under lands.  They defended the traders meeting with merchants above ground.  They defended their homes from invaders.  They were defenders.  And while the Mightstone would have gladly died defending what they loved, they were really good at making sure the enemy would die doing what they loved.

Thoradrin was no different.  Thoradrin Mighstone – son of Thoradane, son of Thoradorn, son of Thorandine – was a defender.  A hardened warrior who had seen countless battles.  His shield was well used, well bruised.  His hammer, his family’s preferred weapon of choice since time began, was notched across the handle and head.  His armor, earned at his coming of age, did not shine bright in the mid-morning sun.  It did not reflect the light from a torch proudly proclaiming it’s dwarven make.  It was a real dwarf’s armor.  Hard and well-worn.  Dull from use, dull from age.  Thoradrin could tell a tale for every mark in his armor.  Every dent had a story, every scar had tale.

Like all the Mightstone warriors, his head was shaved bald, and tattoos were inscribed across his head.  Black to represent the defense of his comrades, red to represent the blood of his ancestors.  His crimson beard is carefully braided into long braids, each wrapped in thick leather bands.  Each band tells a story, a great story of a great battle that his ancestors have fought.

He is Thoradrin, son of Thoradane, son of Thoradorn, son of Thorandine, of the Mightstone house.