Dorn is a broad-shouldered dwarf with the posture of a man who has spent most of his life braced against weight stone, steel, and worse. His hair, iron-gray and pulled tightly back, reveals a scarred brow and a face carved by years of heat and hard decisions. A heavy beard, dark with silver threaded through it, hangs thick across his chest, braided close and kept with the same care he gives his armor.

His eyes are a muted steel gray, calm and appraising, rarely surprised and never hurried. Dorn does not fidget. He stands still when others shift, as though the ground beneath him were an extension of himself. When he moves, it is deliberate measured steps, practiced motions, no wasted effort.

His armor bears the marks of repair rather than ornament: plates reforged, edges reinforced, holy symbols worked directly into the metal instead of worn as decoration. The scent of oil, iron, and ash clings faintly to him. He carries his shield like a promise, not a threat.

Dorn speaks little, but when he does, it is to the point. He believes most problems are solved the same way steel is made through pressure, patience, and the willingness to endure the fire. To him, faith is not something spoken aloud; it is hammered, tested, and proven. Moradin’s will is found not in sermons, but in work done properly and protections that do not fail.

When danger comes, Dorn places himself where he is most needed and does not move again until the danger is broken or he is.