Thokk stands six and a half feet tall, his frame packed with dense muscle. His skin is a dull mossy green, and two short tusks jut from his lower jaw. He wears heavy chain mail that has been scoured clean of rust, though it bears several deep dents. Over his chest is a tattered blue tabard featuring a faded white tower, the symbol of his old militia unit. His black hair is pulled into a tight topknot, and a single vertical scar runs through his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone.

Thokk is a creature of discipline and few words. He treats every interaction like a briefing and every camp like a military outpost. He values efficiency above all else and has little patience for flowery language or indecision. Beneath his stoic exterior, he possesses a fiercely protective streak for his companions, whom he views as his new squad.

Thokk was raised on the jagged edges of civilization, serving in a border militia where your heritage mattered less than the strength of your sword arm. He worked his way up to the rank of Corporal, leading a squad of fellow outcasts whose job was to protect vulnerable caravans from mountain raiders. He found peace in the rigid structure of the military, a clarity that his mixed blood rarely afforded him in civilian life. That peace was shattered when his unit was caught in a brutal mountain pass ambush by a cultist warband. Thokk fought until he was the last one standing, shielding his dying commander. He survived only because the enemies left him for dead beneath a pile of rubble and debris. The guilt of being the sole survivor of the Third Scout Wing weighs heavily on him. He now travels as a mercenary, not for the gold, but for the chance to find a cause worthy of the men he lost and a banner he can serve without fear of failure.