Weigrim Darkhelm

Stocky wide-eyed mountain dwarf from the far-future.


Weigrim (pronounced Way-grim) Darkhelm stands 4’ 7", pale bronze flesh, dark brown beard and hair, deep brown eyes; he is 67 years old. Due to endless traveling over 30 years, his body is lean and without most of the characteristically dwarven pudge. HIs beard settles heavily on his gut, thick braided strands hang from his upper lip and around his ears. Topping his head is a thick, bristling, albeit poorly maintained mohawk. His scale armor was found in a trunk sunk under 3 feet of water in an old church near Old Beregrin, his warhammer and shield pieced together from junked-out pre-war vehicles and parts. Under the shield on his back is a small leather pack with various knick-knacks, a small chest hangs from his waist, a weathered bolt caster hangs over his shoulder.

Exact stats coming soon.


Weigrim of the Darkhelm Clan, was born to Nor and Elna (deceased) in the Sulven District of Grand P’landris City. His parents and siblings were born with innate magical abilities, generating old magic through their sheer will. Weigrim was without, merely a dwarven boy with a profound imagination and desire for knowledge. Being without natural magic in his family was rough. He felt no pressure or bullying from his kin and lead a fairly normal childhood, spending most of his time reading up on old magic and quietly searching for ways to imbue himself with such power. It was around a youthful age of 20 that Weigrim felt his pull to travel; the subtle mentionings of a powerful relic were growing as he poured over hundreds of old books in the guts of the Grand P’landris Library.

His father’s connections to the guard and City Leadership allowed him access to the library, his cunning granting him access to the unmentioned and untouched halls and dungeons. The lower bowels looked unkempt and neglected. Water trickled from the crude stone walls. Soft torches lit his way, the weight of time wearing on the magic that had lit them so long ago. Various rooms throughout were collections of books and art piled up in towering columns, the dank environment diminishing the integrity of each tome and painting. This dungeon was older than any estimation Weigrim could envision.

On the night of his 31st birthday, he left his home and loving family. They couldn’t understand his desire to have magic in a world that exploits and abuses it, hiring or imprisoning known magic wielders. He was to take up arms in the Sulven guard, as his lineage would have it. However, his calling was a darker, stranger path.

Weigrim sped across Grand P’landris to meet his ride through the Dust Wastes. He approached Quinn Harbor. A shanty of a transport vessel hovered above the sand, barely surviving the weight of itself. The captain of this vessel was a half-orc named Asubak. They have become close friends over the last decade as Weigrim began planning this trek into the mysterious world of Alevar. His studying would send him on a breadcrumb trail for more than 30 years, visiting various trade posts, ruins, major cities, and even the Underdark.

A soft whisper of fate brought Weigrim to a rotten hollow in the Thistledown Swamps. A rough-hewn, stone portal was hidden beneath the moldy skeleton of a giant tree. Tangled in the vines of the tree, near the top was a weathervane, on it a skull and scythe. He descended below the tree. After hours of walking alone down a dark stone hall, he approached a large open hall. His torch’s light could not reach the ceiling or the far walls. The light played softly off the dangling decorations and closest objects. The walls near him were bone. Hundreds and thousands of years worth of skeletons, all races, all ages, stuffed and stacked in the mud. The floor was black obsidian. Vast, monolithic structures stood in a line trailing off into the distance. The dust and decay crept up the sides of these structures, rooting them to the floor. Small debris and insects danced in the torch light.

The hall was cold, but he did not shiver. He took a step further into the room. A small inlaid impression sank into the floor several inches. A loud clang came from above him, he felt this was it. As quickly as his heart sank, a lantern dropped from the ceiling, catching itself on the old chain attached to it. A cool green light poured from the sides. “The lantern!” he whispered. He approached the lantern and unhooked it. The silence of the room began intensifying, his ears ringing loud. Then nothing. The light collected in one window of the lantern and shot a long beam through the mist and dust. He followed the light, shifting his path as the light moved. Weigrim began thinking of his family, how he’d let his father down, or how his siblings would never know why he left. Memories of his lonely travels floated through his mind.

Weigrim was in a void, his legs hurt, his back was stiff, but his drive was persistent. The ray of light pooled on the wall ahead of him. He only stopped moving when he heard the scale on his gut clang against the wall. The wall fell forward.

Weigrim Darkhelm

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