Granthak Throval

Granthak Throval hauls a battered field shrine in a hand built for grapples: long, clawed fingers stained with kiln-ash and old blood. His bugbear fur is the color of wet clay, matted where he’s slept on stone, and a soot-smudged holy symbol hangs from his neck by butcher twine. He chants over bandages, then snaps “No hymns in front of the knife”—and keeps a list of debts owed to his god, written in charcoal on his shield.