Sword Coast :)

Vahrek is unmistakably goliath—nearly eight feet tall, with a broad, weathered frame shaped by survival more than show. His stone-gray skin is patterned with pale blue marbling, the natural markings of his kind, though many are broken by old scars from blades, burns, and fists. His face is sharply defined: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a slightly crooked nose that only adds to his rugged appeal. His skin is weathered, but his features hold a quiet intensity. Thick, long black hair falls to his shoulders, often tied back or loosely braided—unusual for a goliath, and worn with quiet defiance. His pale gray eyes are heavy-lidded and unreadable, fixed in a steady, unnerving gaze. He wears battered leathers and scavenged armor, nothing decorative. His presence is heavy and calm, like a cliff under clouded sky—not inviting, but impossible to ignore.

Vahrek is quiet, grounded, and unreadable at first glance—calm in chaos, and slow to speak unless it matters. Though intimidating in size and presence, he avoids unnecessary conflict and prefers to let others burn their energy before stepping in. He has a dry, blink-and-you-miss-it sense of humor, often delivered in flat, deadpan lines that catch people off guard. He enjoys drinking, especially games of endurance, and takes pride in his ability to outlast without boasting. While he doesn’t go out of his way to help, he’s protective of those who earn his trust, showing care through action rather than words. He gets along best with misfits and outcasts, people who don’t flinch at silence. Deep down, he’s curious about the life he lost—but doesn’t know if he belongs in it anymore.

Lost as a child during a mountain storm, Vahrek was separated from his goliath clan and found days later by a band of thieves who mistook him for a dying stray. He grew up among smugglers and mercenaries—taught to fight, keep quiet, and survive without attachments. His goliath markings and name were all he had left of his people, and though he rarely spoke of them, he never forgot. As he grew, the group began using him as muscle—guard, enforcer, shield. He never minded. It was simple work, and he was good at it. Now an adult, Vahrek drifts between jobs, taverns, and battlefields, still wearing the cloak of a sellsword, but quietly watching the horizon. He doesn’t long for glory or vengeance—just a sense of place. He doesn’t know if his clan lives, or if they’d accept him, but something in him still pulls toward the cold air and open sky of the mountains.