Stoic and intolerant dwarven wizard mist-walker.
Thorgrim grew up as most dwarves: hungry, desperate, and knowing that only the order of the dwarven way of life and three days of bad luck stood between him and being torn apart by mist fiends. Or, worse, exposed to the mist himself and horribly damned to a cursed existence of hatred and pain.
He aspired to be a union miner. With a lot of hard work and a lot of luck, he could learn the craft and live long enough to have children of his own. He put in the work and paid his dues. When the opportunity came to prove his dedication by escorting a stone shipment caravan to New Eden, he jumped at the opportunity. He knew that if he accompanied this caravan—and lived—that he would become a full union member.
Then, the stone delivery caravan he was escorting was struck by a mist storm. He’d heard stories that the mist could move like a thing alive with hate, but hadn’t fully believed. He’d thought such tales the ravings of the wounded and weak. When the wave of mist rolled over a low rise and reached out with tendrils to every living thing on the caravan, even those inside the trucks, he knew that his end had come. All their ends had come.
He ran. And as he ran, he felt a terrible cold stinging burn against his back. When he finally collapsed of exhaustion, he realized that his backpack and most of the fabric on the backside of his body was simply gone. He felt his back and the backs of his legs, and felt no injury. A cold dread tightened his stomach. He wondered if the fate he feared his whole life had come to pass: conversion into a mist fiend.
He found a stream and drank from it, not caring whether or not the water was safe. Then, in the reflection from the water, he saw his eyes. His solid gray eyes. And he knew that he would never be a miner. That he would never be welcome in his clan. That he would be feared and mistrusted by all for the rest of his days.
And he wept.