Marshal Torrin Stone-Scale
Fighter 15, Battle Master; Paladin 3, Oath of the Crown
Marshal Torrin Stone-Scale
Species
Bronze Dragonborn
Appearance
Marshal Torrin Stone-Scale is a massively built bronze dragonborn whose body seems assembled from old campaigns. His storm-etched copper scales have dulled to the color of wet pennies, with green oxidation gathered in the seams around his jaw, collarbones, and knuckles. His left horn is broken halfway down and capped with a crude iron sleeve. Three pale scars run from his right eye to the hinge of his jaw, while a blackened patch of scales over his heart never fully healed after a lightning strike. He moves with the deliberate weight of a portcullis descending, yet his hands are unexpectedly gentle when adjusting a recruit’s bandage or fastening a child’s cloak. Even at rest, he gives the impression that he is braced against a gale no one else can feel.
“His voice is deep, resonant, and startlingly clear, carrying across rain, surf, and crowded drill yards. He speaks in clipped sentences during operations, formal measured phrases during negotiations, and low, almost parental murmurs in the infirmary.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
A broken left horn capped with a crude iron sleeve
Three pale scars crossing the right side of his face
A permanently blackened patch of scales above his heart
A crimson cloak frayed into strips that flutter like signal pennants
A brass whistle carved from the horn of a sea-beast
The names of fallen soldiers etched in tiny script along the inside of his shield
Voice
“A thunderous baritone with a gravelly edge, like stone dragged across a bronze bell”
Clothing
Heavy battle-dented plate armor reinforced with overlapping steel plates, its bronze-facing stripped nearly bare by salt wind. A frayed crimson military cloak hangs from an iron clasp bearing the emblem of the Eastern Shield Command. Beneath the armor he wears a dark wool tunic stitched with the names of fallen bastion companies.
Body Language
Torrin stands squarely with both feet planted as though the floor were pitching beneath him. He folds his arms behind his back while judging a plan, taps two claws against his breastplate when angered, and lowers his head rather than raising his voice when delivering a serious warning. Around frightened soldiers, his posture softens by barely an inch, which they regard as an unmistakable gesture of affection.
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