Grimgore is a mountain of an orc, his grey-green skin mapped with scars from two decades in the infantry. He has long, greasy black hair tied in a practical knot and heavy tusks that he grinds together rhythmically. He wears practical, mud-stained studded leather and carries a massive iron-rimmed kettle drum over his shoulder like a burden rather than an instrument.

Grimgore hates everyone and finds existing a chore. He is cynical, brutally short with his words, and views polite conversation as a form of psychological torture. He does not sing, he merely yells rhythmic commands that force reality to bend to his irritable will.

Grimgore spent twenty years as a signal drummer for the Iron Tusk Legion, pounding out the rhythm of death and retreat. He was never there for the music. He was there to keep his head down and survive. One day he realized his yelling and drumming were manifesting magical effects, probably born from his sheer frustration with the incompetent officers around him. After the legion was wiped out, he realized the 'soft' world of bards paid better than infantry, even if it meant dealing with idiots daily. He treats his adventuring party as a group of disorganized recruits who desperately need a professional to keep them from dying, usually while reminding them how much he'd rather be alone in a quiet cave.