Name: Grimnir 'Grim' Blackforge Age: 127 [Description]: Grimnir is stout, built like a wall, and chronically angry. A gruff aura surrounds him and it seems he hates everyone and everything, which is probably true; except for perhaps alcohol. He has a greataxe strapped on his back that is almost as big as him, and his fullplate is covered in scratches and dents from 'failed' attacks by his opponents. A rather intimidating sight, it is made even more so when his fullplate is bathed in blood and the heavily notched head of his greataxe is at his hand. His beard is wound into three plaits before battle, and soaked in grease to make it a surprising trap for whoever attempts to grab it. Veins stick out all over his muscular body, the muscles almost matching the ferociousness in his voice. Most, if not all, people find him intimidating and a ruffian, but they can't deny that he's damn good at his job; killin'. [Background]: Grimnir was a normal dwarf that never had any violent traits in him and was generally seen as a nice fellow, but one day he got in a tussel with some invading bandits and was almost killed. He would have been too, if it wasn't for a dwarven holy sign of Vorax falling off the top of its spire and killing the man before he slayed Grimnir. Grimnir took this as a literal sign and thought himself blessed. His outlook changed, he ventured out to a group he once thought fools for their beliefs, and joined their ranks in hopes to become a Kuldjargh (translated: 'Axe Idiot'). They train in the art of drinking heavily and then cleavng people apart, a from that the group excelled at, killing things bigger than themselves, but they wanted practical experience on a large scale, and so joined up as a mercenary unit in the army. They were soon integrated into the forces as a 'shock troop'. One by one, his friends soon died, from either liver diseases or the old classic, bodily dismemberment. Grimnir was still fresh and his training kept him from entering the battles and as the last one of the group, Grimnir tries to carry on his training and the tradition of liqouring up, getting angry, and running at the enemy even when clearly outnumbered. He calls it 'Hgrahg!', or 'the sound your enemy makes as you rip him a new one'.