Name: "My name's Bromgrumli Warmbelly, but call me Brom."
Age: Forty three years of age.
Gender: "Are you fuckin' blind?"
Race: Most evidently a dwarf, pure dwarf.
Class: "If I were to name my occupation, I'd say I am a crusader on a pilgrimage to root out the filth that creeps in the shadows."
Appearance: Short and stout, evidently a dwarf, Brom ties his dark hair in a big braid and takes care of his 'exquisite' beard. His closely set, wide eyes are of a rich blue hue. He wears a heavy, clanking mailshirt under a ragged brown tabard. The pilgrim has a nice buckskin belt and a leather baldric. Brom's armory consists of a big oak shield, a hatchet and a dirk.
Personality: If one was to take a look at the dwarf they'd find something oddly endearing about him. His strong moral code dictates even the pettiest of affairs, though it doesn't disallow his love for mead and women to take over. In the end he is seen as a loyal, true knight who has mastered the power of will, yet a clumsy and cheerful braggart and drunk.
Brief Backstory: "Oh? Fine. Was once in a service of a lord, forgot his name. Daisycattle or somethin', whatever. He was fascinated by dungeons and wanted to find a treasure, barely could pay the men in his service. So he ordered an expedition to a dungeon. The dangers within murdered several of my brothers-in-arms and most of us ran back and deserted his service." Brom would rub his nose, then scratch his arm as he gazed at something uncertainly. He continues speaking. "Instead of marryin' a neighbour's daughter and having a litter of crying babies I decided to continue my escapades and learn the trade of.. Well, the trade of whatever the fuck's we doing."
Equipment: Said above.
Abilities: A capable, though impulsive fighter. Learned traveler and dungeon explorer, knowing at least the very basics of say, surviving a night in a cursed tomb of a mad king.