Drim is a squat, soot-stained figure who smells perpetually of sulfur, peppermint, and ozone. His once-magnificent auburn beard is now a scorched, uneven thicket of blackened hair, a testament to decades of lab accidents. His skin is etched with fine, silvery scars from chemical burns, and his left eye is perpetually squinted as if looking through a jeweler's loupe. His hands are thick and calloused, notably missing the pinky finger on his right hand. He moves with a surprisingly quiet, nimble gait for a dwarf, though he often stops abruptly to sniff the air for gas leaks. Contradictory to his rugged, messy exterior, he wears a pair of exquisitely crafted, gold-rimmed spectacles that he treats with obsessive care.

Drim is a man of professional paranoia balanced by a desperate need for intellectual validation. He is gregarious and flattering to anyone who shares his fascination with alchemy or the deep veins of the world, but he treats his own family and fellow dwarves with cold, transactional suspicion. He believes everyone is out to steal his formulas, yet he cannot resist showing off his cleverness. In the face of danger, he is a pragmatist who would rather buy his way out of a fight than raise a fist, though he is fiercely protective of his inventory.

Formerly a respected member of the Royal Alchemist's Guild in Joerin, Drim was exiled after his research into blood-runes was deemed 'unnecessarily volatile' by the Crown. He retreated to the fringes, establishing The Obsidian Reliquary near a hidden entrance to the Underdark. He has since spent years cultivating a network of spies among the subterranean orc tribes, trading stable salts and refined ore for information and relics from the ruins of Eldrathor. His current predicament involves a failed batch of 'blood-rust'—a corrosive agent that became hyper-aggressive and semi-sentient—which now threatens to eat through the foundations of his shop and expose his illicit laboratory to the Iron Legion.