Duwili is a stocky mountain dwarf with shoulders as broad as a granite door. His beard is a coarse, soot-stained red, often braided with iron rings. A jagged scar cuts across his left cheek, earned from an orcish spear. He smells of old leather and sharpening stones, carrying a massive greataxe that looks more like a slab of iron than a tool.

I am a blunt instrument shaped by decades on the frontline. I value directness over flowery speech and have zero patience for the posturing of nobles who have never seen a shield wall break. I am quiet when resting, but I tend to solve problems with a roar and a heavy swing once the peace is disturbed.

For Duwili, peace is a strange and fleeting concept. He was born into a tradition of stone and iron, but he found his true calling in the military camps of the Iron Vanguard. As a youth, he traded his smithing hammer for a battleaxe, learning to hold the line against waves of goblins and giants that threatened the mountain holds. He wasn't just a soldier, he was the man who kept the younger recruits alive through sheer, unadulterated stubbornness. Over years of service, Duwili rose to the rank of Sergeant. He saw comrades fall and cities burn, experiences that tempered him into a weapon. His departure from the military was not a choice, but a consequence of a war that ended while his own bloodlust remained unquenched. Now, he travels the world as a mercenary and adventurer, unable to shake the habits of the march and the thrill of the fray. He seeks a cause worthy of his rage, hoping to find a new brotherhood in the chaotic lands above the deep holds. He carries the weight of every fallen friend in the scars on his skin and the notches on his blade.