Throm Flint-Step
Ranger 5 / Fighter 3
Throm Flint-Step
Species
Dwarf
Appearance
Throm Flint-Step is a stocky, weather-beaten dwarf built like a gatehouse foundation, with broad shoulders, thick wrists, and a compact stride that never seems to waste a step. His iron-grey beard is dense and wiry, braided into three cords with heavy lead road-seal weights that click softly against his breastplate when he walks. His face is furrowed by sun, ash, and years of squinting into canyon winds. One eyebrow is permanently raised from an old injury, giving him an expression of skeptical patience even when he is pleased. He moves with a slight hitch in his left leg, yet crosses unstable ground with startling grace. The contradictory impression is unmistakable: he looks like a battered old surveyor, but he carries himself with the alert stillness of a hunting wolf.
“His voice is low, dry, and rasped by years of ash storms. He speaks in short, load-bearing sentences, with long pauses before decisions and sudden bursts of precise detail when discussing terrain.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
Three lead road-seal weights braided into his beard, each stamped with a different prefectural mark.
A permanent limp in his left leg that vanishes whenever he crosses dangerous terrain.
A brass prefect pin repaired with a visible iron rivet after being split during the Red Ash Collapse.
A white scar around his right wrist from a failed restraint harness.
His measuring wheel bears cross-hatched engravings that double as a private memorial code.
Voice
“A gravelly baritone with the resonance of stone corridors, usually controlled and clipped, but capable of sudden thunder when he shouts warnings across a canyon.”
Clothing
A soot-darkened leather coat sits beneath battered scale armor, while a thick ash-stained travel cloak hangs from one shoulder and is secured by an official brass prefect pin. His gloves are patched with red canyon leather, his boots are steel-capped and wrapped in replaceable ash gaiters, and his belt carries route chalk, pitons, signal flares, and folded road maps sealed in waxed leather.
Body Language
Throm stands with his walking staff planted like a boundary marker and often angles his body between danger and whoever he is speaking with. When doubtful, he rubs the brass prefect pin with his thumb. When angry, he stops moving entirely. His rare laughter begins as a gravelly cough and ends with him looking embarrassed.
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