Thorgar Iron-Grip is a broad, square-shouldered dwarf whose presence seems to occupy more space than his body does. His weather-beaten skin is the color of dark oiled bronze, creased by years of furnace heat, windblown grit, and sleepless inspections. His square-cut auburn beard is meticulously combed into six heavy plates, each threaded with conductive copper wire that gives off a faint metallic hum when storms approach. His cold grey eyes rarely blink during an interrogation. His entire left arm has been replaced by a compact arcane-steel brace of overlapping plates, exposed pistons, and softly whirring joints, etched with defensive runes worn smooth where his thumb repeatedly checks them. He moves with economical precision, never wasting a step, yet the heavy prosthetic causes an almost imperceptible delay before each turn, like a fortress gate settling into its hinges. The unexpected contradiction is that his intimidating mechanical arm is decorated with a tiny blue glass bead tied beneath the elbow joint, a childish charm made by a foundry apprentice he secretly protected.