“I’m not meant to be nice, I’m meant to put you back together after you’ve done something stupid.”

Anyone meeting Faeril for the first time can immediately identify his two main traits: bluntness and irritableness. Either of those traits would normally make his bedside manner as a doctor questionable, but both of them combined for his penchant for sarcasm make it truly atrocious. His nickname of ‘Stonefist’ refers as much to his methods of anesthesia when his supplies ran out in the early days of his practice in Tyberia as it does to his delivery of news and reassurances of patients. There is a reason his assistants are the only ones to deliver any news from his diagnosis.

With low patience and a quick temper, Faeril is often seen cursing, grumbling, or yelling in his clinic or throughout the neighborhood he makes his home in. The locals by now have learned to take it all in stride, as Faeril’s bark is far worse than his bite and even if he berates you he’ll still help you with whatever you’ve asked him too. In fact, he’ll probably berate you more if you try to rescind your request.

A natural born pessimist, it’s apparently physically impossible for Faeril to see the silver lining in things, or the good that could come from something. If it rains, it's going to flood and he’s going to have to deal with drowning victims or trying to fix people while up to his chest in water. If the Tan’Raga are raising a ruckus again he’s going to have to argue with Asgardian soldiers as they try to crack down on it and hustle his clinic and his patients. If the day is hot, a drought is coming and food is going to be tighter all around. So on so forth. It’s his way of ensuring that he’s never disappointed or caught off guard. Even if it can be grating on others.

His prickly exterior hides a person who genuinely wants to do good. He only takes what his patients can afford and refuses anything monetarily more. Most of the Roots he has after keeping his little clinic supplied go to locals who need help or to local charities. When he’s not working in the clinic he can be seen around the local neighborhoods either making house calls or helping with community projects. More than once he’s used his shop to hide people on the run, be it from Tan’Raga they’ve crossed or Asgardians looking for rebels.

Loyalty and integrity are of great importance to Faeril. If he makes a promise, he’ll keep it no matter what. And if you make a promise to him, he expects you to keep it no matter what as well.

“Not much to tell. Just a stupid boy, trying to prove himself for stupid reasons, going to join a stupid war.”

Faeril was born in the Dwarven city-state and Lesser Kingdom of Kar-Morten, Located deep within the Scaleback mountains, in the northern part of the Asgardian Empire, it is a small but prosperous city, providing valuable ores and minerals to the Asgardian war machine.

His family, unlike most dwarves in the city, was a family of doctors and healers. Whereas other dwarves could put back together broken machinery, or even invent new ones, the Drunners put back together broken flesh and developed new methods to aid in healing. Almost every member of the family went into healing. It was something that was pressed upon them at birth, a calling that couldn’t be greater. Faeril was not an exception to this. From as early as he could remember he would be with his mother and father, helping bandage wounds and hand them what they requested, but gradually taking more and more responsibilities as time wore on. His parents would teach him as he aided them, instructing him in the careful art of healing. This was to be his destiny, another healer in a long line of healers helping keep the people of Kar-Morten running as they kept the machines running.

For the first twenty years of his life, all Faeril did was put dwarves back together and help them return to the health they had once had. On the surface, he was content with his lot in life. It would be his future and it would be a secure one. As he grew older, however, Faeril began to get fidgety. A desire to see what was outside of Kar-Morten, to see if there was something else he was good at other than stitching people back together or fixing a machine.

It wouldn’t be unheard of, to not go into the family’s line of work. His uncle had discovered that he had more of a knack for weapons than anything else, and had gone on to be a successful weapon designer. But his uncle wasn’t an only child, and Faeril was. Still, Faeril felt himself drawn more and more to the idea of leaving the city, exploring the world. To prove himself as something more than just a healer. The best possible way to do that would be to sign up with the Asgardian military, bring peace to the frontiers and security to the Empire. Many of the other boys his age had done so already, much to their family’s pride.

The first few times he broached the subject with his parents it was politely, but firmly, shut down. He was to be a healer, not a butcher, and that was that. He wasn’t going to join the army just so the Zephyr could spend his blood to sate their thirst for conquest, and he wasn’t going to spill the blood of others just so they could either.

Initially, Faeril merely accepted his parents' commands. He didn’t fight their decrees that he wouldn’t be allowed to, no matter what. Then he began to try and show his side of the issue. That turned into quiet arguments, which then turned into shouting matches. Things finally came to a head when he defied his parents and volunteered for the army anyway. Rather than the shock and anger he expected, all he was met with from his parents was silent, crushing, despair. His parents didn’t say a word to him. Not as explained to them that he was leaving the next day, not as he packed everything he would need and was allowed, and not as he walked out the door and left his home forever. Only his uncle saw him off, giving him a warhammer for luck and protection.

The next ten years were one long line of events proving his parents right.

After training, Faeril’s skills in medicine saw him sent to the front line as a combat medic. His days were spent switching between patching up whatever poor soldiers were sent back to him and pushing forward on the frontlines and helping the offensive. He discovered he had a penchant for long ranged combat, and subsequently modified his manalock to be its maximum range and power. While not quite as long ranged or heavy hitting as a Charger, he used it to great effect when covering his fellow soldier’s advance. There was almost never an actual fight from the other side. Just desperate people trying to not be crushed under the inexorable boot of the Asgardian Empire, and him and his fellows making sure that everything they did was for nothing. Each day he could hear his parent’s voices in the back of his mind, condemning him for this and for getting everything he had wanted. Each day the temptation to desert was a little stronger.

He finally saw his chance a year ago. As they ground another city into the dust, Faeril slipped away in the chaos of battle. He made his way as fast as he could towards the East. The farther he got away from Asgard, the better for his chances not to be shot as a deserter. After a month of miserable travel on Salamander back, he stopped at Tyberia. If nothing else, he reasoned, it would be simple for him to disappear amongst the populace and extraordinarily difficult for any pursuers Asgard cared to send after him to find a single dwarf.

It didn’t take him long to be accepted by the local communities. A healer was always welcome, and one as skilled as Faeril who was seemingly so generous with his aid was even more so. It took them some time to get used to his curmudgeonly nature, but they learned to take it in stride. Faeril felt good helping a community again, rather than breaking it apart.

He spent the fall of Tyberia helping the wounded civilians as best he could. Thankfully, it was a short fall, but his hands were nevertheless full of either innocents caught in the crossfire or fools trying to defend their city with nothing more than an old bolt rifle they barely knew how to use. It was a nervous first few weeks for him, waiting to see if the Asgard patrols would for some reason recognize him and execute him on the spot. When nothing of the sort happened, Faeril quietly relaxed as much as he was able. Then he waited. He wasn’t going to run, not again. Tyberia was where he was going to meet his destiny, whatever it may be, and he was going to fight for it.

With all of his many cousins beside him.

Accomplished Healer:

“Family business and all that. I’ve kept more people alive than I care to remember, and been doing it longer than I can remember.”

Faeril, having spent nearly two decades aiding his parents as healers in Kar-Morten and then another solid decade as a combat medic, is extremely skilled at keeping people alive and fixing whatever ails them. While his bedside manner could use work, no one doubts that Faeril is one of the best in the city.

Professional Combatant:

“The Asgardians ensure everyone knows how to shoot and fight in hand to hand. You pick it up quickly, or you die.”

Ten years of Asgardian training and war have molded Faeril into an effective fighter. Be it at his preferred long range or up close and personal, Faeril can hold his own.

Journeyman poison maker:

“It’s a little bit of knowing how much healing medicine is too much, and a little bit of knowing what will make someone’s final moments go from agonizing pain to quiet sleep.”

While by no means an assassin, Faeril is knowledgeable enough to craft a few separate poisons, should the need arise.

Journeyman Mechanic:

“Every dwarf worth their salt can work on machines. Even my family being a bit odd didn’t change that.”

Faeril is skilled enough to ensure his equipment is in tip-top shape and that any basic repairs needed on vehicles can be done. He can also make simple little trinkets and figurines out of scrap metal. Beyond that, you’re going to need a professional.

Journeyman Salamander rider:

“Look. I hate the beasts. The beasts hate me. In order to suffer in each other’s company the least amount of time, we work together. Barely.”

Faeril loathes Salamanders. He hates the way they act, he hates the way riding on them is, he hates how they look, and they hate him back. He can ride them, skillfully enough to not be a detriment on the back of one. But he isn’t going to like it.

Warhammer, old, well maintained:

“Oh, old Hilde here? She’s a gift from my uncle, a more traditional dwarven engineer. A beauty, isn’t she?”

The gift from his uncle, Hilde, is a solid steel warhammer with a spike on the end. Simple, well used, and brutally effective, she is Faeril’s go to if melee is required.

Manalock Rifle, Old, perfect condition:

“Don’t tell Hilde, but Oristra here is my favorite. Fixed her right up so that she‘s perfect at long range, and can out shoot a Charger any day of the week.”

Oristra is Faeril’s Manalock. Made of steel and wood, with a scope and customised for maximum range and power, she is Faeril’s preferred weapon of choice. Not quite as powerful as a Charger, but fires faster. A boar’s head is carved on either side of the stock.

Bolt pistol, new:

“This one doesn’t have a name. Hasn’t earned one yet.”

A simple bolt pistol, for when Faeril doesn’t need to get into melee range but either Manalocks are useless or the enemy is too close for Oristra to be effective.

Full Suit of Heavy Brass Armor, old, perfect condition:

“Solid Brass and tough as they come. Kar-Morten’s smiths never cheated on quality. Though they did over-charge for it, puffed up rock sniffing fools.”

Heavier than the standard Brass armor of the Asgardian army, this suit has seen Faeril through many a battle. He normally uses only the breastplate if on mission, as a full suit would attract quite the amount of attention, but keeps the rest on hand just in case the protection is needed. The Asgardian symbols are all scratched out and somewhat covered.

-Faeril's favorite animal is, by far, the pig. He has little trinkets of either his own make or he bought when out and about the city all over his home and his clinic. His family in Kar-Morten had one as a pet and he absolutely adores the creatures.

-Faeril has a soft spot for children. Its difficult to tell, unless you notice he doesn't ever really yell at kids. Only gripes and grumbles. He even keeps a small bag of candy on him to hand out at random.

-Faeril keeps a pipe and some tobacco on him at all times, claiming it puts him in a better mood. Most people disagree with that assessment.

-Faeril, understandably, goes to great lengths to keep his past as an Asgardian soldier secret. As such, most people consider him to be a very private individual who doesn't reveal much about himself.