Black Brine

A wiry deep gnome with ashen-blu skin, sharp angular features, and piercing ember-hued eyes that seem to gleam even in darkness. His white-streaked hair is kept short and messy, often hidden beneath the deep hood of his charcoal-black cloak. His armor is light and fitted, reinforced with shadow-dyed leather and muted steel, designed for silent movement and quick escapes. A set of lockpicks and tools are tucked into hidden pockets, always within reach.

Secretive and mistrustful. Resourceful and opportunistic. Curious and obsessive. Ideals Secrecy is survival. Planning and purpose The written word is sacred. Bonds Those who respect his secrecy. Survivors and pragmatists. The unreadable and unpredictable. Flaws Desire for renown. Self preservation over loyalty. Egotistical and overconfident.

He was born to a family so ordinary they barely deserved the mention. One of two children, expected to take up the family trade. His father? A barrister, though in a society without written law, that meant little more than having a mind like a steel trap and a tongue to match. His mother carved tunnels, made the dark a little wider, a little safer. There was honor in it. Stability. A place in the grand, grinding machine of tradition. Pinch wanted none of it. It started with a prisoner. Some drow unlucky enough to get himself caught, tossed into a cell to rot while the elders decided whether to ransom him, use him, or kill him. The children were warned to stay away. Pinch did not listen. He crept close, curious. The drow was doing something strange. Something… “wrong.” He was scratching at the walls. Writing. Pinch didn’t know what the symbols meant, but he knew they meant something. A thing written was a thing unchangeable, unarguable, permanent. And that thought—it stuck.