A heavily armored, stocky dwarf commander whose presence makes a room feel narrower. Vane's blackened basalt-steel plate is layered in overlapping slabs, each one rough as cooled lava along the edges but polished smooth where countless hands have saluted it. Iron-grey hair rises in a severe military flat-top, while his scarred jawline pulls slightly to the left when he speaks. His slate-grey eyes are cold and unyielding, yet his armor is covered in tiny practical repairs rather than ornamental grandeur. A heavy iron service chain crosses his breastplate, each link stamped with the name of a soldier he personally buried. His rune-etched warhammer glows with tactical blue-white lightning and furnace heat. Despite his massive armor and broad frame, he moves with unsettling quiet, like a door closing in a stone fortress. The unexpected contradiction is that his gauntlets are lined with soft red wool, a private concession to aching hands and old battlefield injuries.