Brigid

A soot-streaked dwarf engineer-soldier who pilots a human-sized steampunk war-mech into close-quarters brawls. Her contract-clad look hides sharp competence: tailored vest and brass-buttoned coat over forge-safe layers, oil-stained cuffs that she never fully cleans, and a battered brass headband to keep hair tucked and eyes clear. She wears a grin easily—cunning enough to sell you a safe contract and sharp enough to mean it. Brigid fights from duty and for profit, treating each contract like a chance to keep her clan paid, her machines running, and her conscience clean. Her steampunk brawler mech is riveted and heavy, with gunmetal joints and brass-and-copper hazard-lamps that glow when the boilers come up to pressure; thick knuckle-guards and piston-driven shoulders turn the battlefield into a crowded, brutal shove-and-punch exchange.

Raised around clan forges where every problem had a price and every price had a paper trail, Brigid learned early that steel obeys discipline while people obey incentives. She got her first contract after bargaining down a repair job, then quietly improving the mech’s charging manifold before anyone could inspect it. When a larger employer tried to claim her work as theirs, she fought like a loyal soldier and invoiced like a merchant—buying her freedom one wrecked ledger at a time. Now she pilots her brawler mech because duty keeps her grounded, and profit keeps her fleet fed.

Cunning-smiling scoundrel in the driver’s seat. She sizes people up by how they talk about repairs—who lies about parts, who guesses at costs, who flinches when the bill comes due. Brigid keeps a habit of tapping a knuckle against the mech’s control housing when she’s thinking, then offering a charming half-true explanation. She doesn’t brag about her skill; she suggests you’ll lose unless you listen to her advice.

Brigid underestimates how far trouble will go once someone smells opportunity; if she can profit, she assumes she can steer. She also hoards spare parts and favors, which makes her look kinder than she is—until someone needs her at the worst moment.

Warm, brisk bar-room tones over the comms. She talks through plans like she’s offering you a better deal: a smile in every sentence, clipped reassurance when the mech lurches. When things go wrong, she laughs once—like she’s already priced the damage—then gets to work.

Keep her clan protected by fulfilling her vows, and keep her workshop solvent by taking contracts that fund better armor, safer boilers, and faster repairs. She wants her mech clan to be the one people hire when the enemy shows up at full speed.

• A client offers triple pay—if Brigid will “solve” a rival mech contractor quietly. • Her mech’s copper heat-collars are failing; a rare alloy is rumored to be in enemy hands. • A duty summons her to protect a caravan, but the contract clause would leave her clan unpaid unless the job is completed by a deadline.