Many centuries ago, the Seriph of Al-Ybi was experiencing a 'sudden cash flow crisis' after backing the wrong camel (or 8) in the All-Klatchian Derby. He needed instant wealth pronto (or face the bookies' wrath), so he stated out loud that he wished everything he touched was turned into gold (metaphorically, of course). Unfortunately, a rather literal minded and easily confused minor deity decided to grant his wish. Soon after, the Seriph was sharing his palace with a considerable number of rather short-tempered dwarves - all called Glod - who were not exactly happy about being distracted from their typical activities of singing about going to work and strong-arming impressionable human maidens to keep house for them.

Nowadays, there are lot of Glods. Family gatherings are generally awkward and confusing affairs.

This particular Glod is from the Stonehaven Glods; this branch of the Glodosphere have decided that since there is a multitude of Glods, then it's a sign of a higher purpose for Glodkind. Or something like that. Hence the emergence of the Cult of Glod Almighty, dedicated to spreading the Word of Glod to Glods and non-Glods alike. The Almighty Glod is (allegedly) a beneficent deity, but not exactly a friendly one. This is why this particular Glod treats being stern and grouchy as his Glod given duty, his way of being one with his Glod and ultimately attaining Glodliness. He's not adverse to passing around the collection plate in busy taverns and haranguing patrons about submitting to the Glory of Glod - or face a bump on the bonce with a mace.

Like all Glods, Glod Glodsson is roughly 5ft tall, has a grey and brown bushy beard and is built like a dwarven outhouse.

Glod bless you.