A broad-shouldered brass-scaled dragonborn with polished chain mail, a scar across the snout, and a red crest kept carefully braided back. Their shield bears the marks of old campaigns, and their spear and sword are always kept spotless, as if discipline itself could be forged into steel.

Disciplined, stoic, and quietly protective, Kharvax measures people by what they do when the line is breaking. He is slow to laugh, but once his trust is earned, he becomes fiercely loyal and unexpectedly gentle with children, common laborers, and anyone who has been left behind by power.

Kharvax was hatched beneath the iron banners of a frontier legion, where dragonborn children were taught that breath, blade, and loyalty were the only honest currencies in the world. His clutchmates earned praise for speed or cunning, but Kharvax became the one the drillmasters trusted in the shield wall, steady enough to hold when others broke. By the time he reached adulthood, he had carved a place as a line breaker and oath keeper, a fighter who learned that courage was not a roar, but the decision to stand one step longer than fear demanded. During a bitter border war, his unit was betrayed to buy time for a noble retreat. Kharvax survived the ambush, but only by dragging wounded comrades from the mud while the enemy fire turned the night into a furnace. He still carries the names of the fallen etched on a small brass plate beneath his armor. Since then he has wandered as a mercenary and caravan guard, taking coin when needed, but never serving the careless or cruel for long. He now seeks the commander who sold his unit out, and he intends to repay treachery with the kind of discipline that leaves no room for mercy.