Korgun is a wide-shouldered minotaur whose hide resembles burnished iron; his fur is cropped close along his spine and throat leaving the facial ring of coarse hair around his muzzle. He walks with a careful, clockwork patience — each hooffall deliberate as if tuning a metronome. His right forearm is encased in a patchwork armorer plate that hums faintly with trapped sparks: this suit-piece has a seam of copper rivets he soldered himself and a permanent scorch mark shaped like a crescent. He favors a leather apron peppered with pockets and soot, and a chain of small metal charms (tinker's sigils and a child's carved bead) hangs from his belt. Unexpectedly gentle hands, callused but precise, often cradle fragile clockwork trinkets between knuckles the size of a sledgehammer.

Korgun is patient to a fault where craft is concerned but brusque where bureaucracy or waste is involved. He is prodigiously proud of workmanship and will spend days correcting a misaligned gear even when customers plead. He keeps a soft spot for apprentices and street children — often giving them odd jobs and small trinkets — while being strict and distrustful toward fellow merchants who use underhanded shortcuts. In public he is practical, pragmatic and wry; in private he is sentimental and often replays memories of his lost partner aloud when he works. Under stress his precise speech becomes clipped and mechanical, reflecting the steadying rhythm of his trade.

Born in a stone-ringed enclave of minotaur smiths, Korgun apprenticed under his mother, a renowned armor-smith who favored elegant reinforcement over brute plating. He broke from tradition when he joined a traveling band of artificers, learning arcane smithing and arcana from human and gnome craftsmen. A formative catastrophe came twelve years ago: a flood of molten slag breached the workshop where his partner (a half-elf clockmaster named Ralea) was sealing a prototype extrusion engine. Korgun managed to save the plans and many of the workshop's devices but failed to reach Ralea; the memory drives his obsession with safety and redundancy. He settled at the marsh-side crossroads and opened Ironhorn's Moor & Forge, turning salvaged hulls and old ship-keels into an inventive smithy and mooring outfitter. He maintains a strained correspondence with his sister in the ring-city and a lively mentoring relationship with a young tiefling named Pettle who runs the tannery next door. Current problems: a conglomerate supplier wants to buy him out; a guild inspector snoops into his use of salvaged parts; an old rival (a merchant from the ring-city) is spreading rumors that he skims customer parts for arcane experiments.