Bruk Vellitap
Goblin Lord, Skirmisher and Warlord
Bruk Vellitap
Species
Goblin
Appearance
Bruk Vellitap is a small goblin with a head shaped like an overripe pear, long ears nicked by old knife cuts, and skin the color of tarnished green copper. His arms and legs are wiry, but his belly is unexpectedly round from a lifetime of stolen festival sweets and ceremonial pickle brine. He moves with a courtly, heel-first strut that becomes a frantic crab-walk whenever danger surprises him. His teeth are filed into tiny square blocks, except for one silver-capped incisor that glints whenever he smiles. He smells faintly of lamp oil, wet wool, and cinnamon. Despite his ragged warlord clothing and vicious reputation, he keeps his claws meticulously clean and blushes when anyone compliments his handwriting.
“A rapid, nasal patter delivered in grand ceremonial phrases, punctuated by sudden whispers and delighted cackles. Bruk pronounces important names with the stress on the wrong syllable, as if each person were a foreign word he is determined to conquer.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
A silver-capped front tooth engraved with a tiny crown.
A ragged crimson banner covered in stitched names of dead goblins.
One polished human boot paired with a bare, ribbon-wrapped foot.
A habit of tilting his head so one enormous ear points directly at the speaker.
A faint web of white scars across his left palm from the Night of Nine Chimneys.
Voice
“A cracked little baritone with a surprisingly formal cadence, like a court herald trapped inside a kettle. When angry, his voice drops into a near-whisper that forces everyone nearby to lean closer.”
Clothing
A sleeveless coat stitched from crimson tent canvas, velvet curtains, and the hide of a goblin dog, all fastened with mismatched brass buttons. He wears a child-sized ceremonial crown made from bent copper hoops, a belt of stolen spoons, striped leggings, and one polished human boot on his left foot. His right foot is bare and wrapped in blue prayer ribbons.
Body Language
Bruk stands on the balls of his feet with his elbows held wide, as if perpetually balancing on a narrow ledge. He points with two fingers, taps his silver tooth when thinking, and makes grand sweeping gestures that often knock over nearby objects. In genuine anger, all theatrics vanish and he becomes unnervingly still.
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