Arngrim was a simple dwarf baker and guild artisan, born within the safety of the dwarven citadel of Mountainholme. Long since before he grew his fist hair, he dreamt of a greater life of adventure much like the tales of old.
 
He spent nights in his family inn telling tales of old heroes and wonder, reveling in the grand stories of deeds once done in a different time. His reverence of the heroes' past and his dedication to making artifacts suitable for adventure manifested as spiritual guidance from ancestral artisans: without intent but with a grand purpose, a Cleric of the Forge was born.
 
A happy, well-fed dwarf, Arngrim is one of a kind in clan Silverhearth, yet one of many. His most striking feature may be his lack of a beard, its end so often burned by the great heat of forge and oven alike that he decided to forego his chin hair after the "incident of 2037". In its place is a grand and twisting mustache-mutton chop combo of vibrant red.
 
He's short for his kind but wide as he is tall. Strong, well-bellied, and never without the tools of a chef, he's an accomplished gourmand who prides himself in his clan's recipes.
 
Bolstered with friendships, be they built over decades or a dozen of days, girded in armor forged by himself in the traditions of his people and blessed by their priests, and carrying a small holy anvil into battle as his hammer, he seeks to be a great legend like the tales he once told in his father's tavern.
 
Upon his great stone shield is carved a grudge for every grievance of his Clan and Peoples, and he seeks to go forth and do right by them so he may strike the slate clean.