Grim Bonewhip

Drogan Basaltcloak wears his beard in a tight black braid. His weapon is a long whip knotted from bones that rides his hip until he uncoils it and strikes with a crack you feel in your teeth. If his foe still breathes, he steps in and finishes them.

He built his whip, piece by piece, from what war left behind: the spines of those who stood against him and failed. He oils the joints, files the edges, and swaps in fresh bone without ceremony.

When Fithe asked for volunteers to stand against the Conclave Arcana, Drogan simply fell in. He'd risen through the ranks alongside many of these dwarves. War makes bonds.

In the Great Lowlands, the dwarves work the margins while Oridum Graybrow's firestorms sweep across plains. Drogan pulls riders from saddles, snaps spells (and teeth) from casters' mouths, and drags bodies into the reach of dwarven blades. When a target staggers, he makes it final.

Food runs short. Gear breaks. With the ground smoldering and air thick with ash, Drogan strips what he needs from the fallen: water, wire, a decent knife. If a bone in the whip splinters, the battlefield has plenty to replace it.

The heat never quits. The dwarves grow thinner by the day. If the mage wagons come, Drogan Basaltcloak will be here waiting, whip in hand, ready to hold the gap. If they don't, he'll fight for the last yard the same way he fought for all the ones that came before it.

With grim determination.