Broad-shouldered mountain dwarf with a braided iron-gray beard, sun-browned skin, a scar across one brow, and callused hands wrapped in worn leather. He carries a greataxe with a hand-carved haft and wears travel-stained gear reinforced with metal rivets and old clan runes.

Gruff, loyal, and startlingly patient with the frightened, Brom is most comfortable when there is a road to walk and a danger to meet head-on. He laughs rarely, but when he does it sounds like rocks tumbling down a hillside. He respects courage more than pedigree and honesty more than politeness.

Brom Stonevein was born beneath a mountain ridge where his clan kept the old roads open for miners, traders, and the occasional fool who thought the dark tunnels were empty. He was expected to become a porter, a mason, or a smith, but Brom took to the wilderness instead. He learned to read stone the way others read books, to hear when a hillside was about to give way, and to trust the hard lessons of hunger, weather, and distance. When an underground collapse buried half his kin, Brom survived by tearing through a collapsed passage with bare hands and a frenzy that terrified even him. Afterward, he left the holds behind, certain that if rage lived in him, it needed a better purpose than grief. Now he wanders as a guardian of caravan roads, remote villages, and forgotten shrines, taking work that lets him stand between danger and the helpless. He tells people he is just passing through, but he keeps returning to the places where roads end and trouble begins. Brom is trying to prove that a dwarf can be both a son of stone and a child of the open world. Every mile he walks is part penance, part prayer, and part challenge to whatever in the deep broke his clan apart.