Thalgrim Gorimsson, son of Gorim, was born among the sound of clanking hammers. His father - a blacksmith whose name was spoken with respect in every hall where steel mattered, was a master craftsman, pragmatic to the edge of cruelty. His work was flawless, his tools unmatched, yet to him every blade was only a blade, every shield merely a function fulfilled. There was no prayer in his forging, no reverence, only the perfection of trained hands and an unyielding will.

From his earliest years, Thalgrim learned at his father’s side. Gorim taught him how to listen to iron, how to judge heat by color alone, how to strike once rather than twice. Praise was rare. Approval even rarer. But Thalgrim learned and honed his skill under his father's watchful gaze.

Then Gorim fell ill, and as he weakened, the burden of the forge passed to Thalgrim. He worked day and night, tending the anvil, keeping the fire alive, and caring for his father between strikes. Every coin he earned vanished into medicines, salves, healers, and anything that might ease Gorim’s final days or delay what he knew cannot be delayed forever.

Yet it was not enough, Gorim died as he had lived - without complaint, without prayer. Grief took over Thalgrim's heart, and debt took over the rest of what he had. Those to whom he owed coin came knocking before the stone on Gorim’s grave had settled. There was no mercy, no patience for mourning. Unable to pay, Thalgrim abandoned the workshop that had defined his life and fled the city, carrying little more than his tools and his shame.

He found work in Diamond Lake, where he repaired picks, forged supports, and fashioned equipment for men who risked their lives daily for coin that never lasted. Though his hands remained steady, his spirit broke a little more with each passing week. He told himself he would never reach his father's mastery, and even worse - he believed he had failed him.

But it all was about to change soon - as a skilled craftsman, Thalgrim was asked by a mine foreman to descend into the shafts and assess the integrity of newly carved tunnels. Deep below the earth, he spotted a massive crevasse overlooked by the miners, waiting hungrily to claim lives. He shouted warnings, ordered evacuation, but it was too late - the tunnel collapsed, and many died.

By chance, miracle or some other stubborn fate Thalgrim survived, and his warning saved lives, but not enough for him. Standing amid the ruin, dust and blood, the old wound reopened once again, he had seen disaster coming and once again he had not been able to stop it.

He returned to the forge that night consumed out by anger and despair, and there, amid fire and iron, he prayed.

Not with words, but with work - each strike of the hammer was a plea, each spark from red-hot iron an offering, each ringing note from the anvil a demand for answers. And in the singing of metal and the roar of the forge, Zammonkerr the Forgemaster answered.
The fire did not burn him, the iron did not resist him, and in that moment, Thalgrim understood...

His anger hardened into conviction, his self-loathing was reforged into purpose, that night, Thalgrim spoke the words that would define his life: “Enough. The strife ends today.”

He forged his holy symbol in the shape of a shield. He donned iron armor not as a craftsman, but as a guardian. He lifted his hammer not as a tool, but as a weapon sworn to defense. He once again looked at the roaring fire, and swore to become The Forgewarden, and then left his forge with new-found fervor, with new-found meaning - to carry Zammonkerr's fire into the darkness, to be the light that will disperse the thickest gloom, to forge a legacy stronger than any steel.

And that's where his story begins - as he looks for fortune, not just for the riches, but but for creation; he looks for people that need help, and those that he could protect; he looks for evil that needs to burn, so good may rise in it's place.