Time. Its sculpted Burrai Steelborn’s weathered features, getting trapped in creases of age and the scars of living. The marks are clear, if you know what to look for.

Burrai is tall for a dwarf, but short for a human. Traditional dwarven shoulders and thick arms tell of time working the forge, the familiar white speckled burns on his biceps of are just garnish on the facts. There are longer, deeper scars there too – a blacksmith’s hammer isn’t all he’s swung. His hands are a mass of callouses from both. Several fingers have clearly been broken, but the strength in them is palpable.

Look a little further, and details speak a little deeper. Burrai hasn’t got the typical barrel gut of a dwarf, instead he’s thick like a tree, almost square. Dwarves of his age have usually been swimming in ale and brandy for decades, but Burrai shows only the signs of hard living, not hard drinking. Other details are there, hinting at a deeper discipline. His beard is neat, short, little more than a heavy goatee. His hair too is cropped close – not the flamboyant Mohawks of a berserker, or the shaved skull of a thug, but a clear sign of a man who appreciates neatness. Both are black, striated with grey. Anyone who’s ever served can spot a fellow military man. Burrai may never have been more than a mercenary, but clearly he’s picked up the habits of a soldier.

And like any Soldier, he’s been scarred. What once would have been a proud Dwarven face – heavy square jaw, bold nose and dark brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence – way marred by injuries. Running from hairline to chin, the scar is ragged and poorly healed. The skin either side is ruffled and raised like a burn, almost like a fault in the skin. His left eye is almost closed; the socket little more than a deep pit with a dark jewel folded inside. His nose has been broken at least once, deviating sharply. Other shallow gashes, white lines and shirt creases, adorn his chin and right cheek. Violence has carved it’s name into Burrai’s skin.