Gromak Ironshard

The campfire crackled softly, its orange glow illuminating the rough planes of Gromak’s face. He leaned against his battle-worn axe, watching the blood elf move with effortless precision as she packed her belongings. Her hands, delicate as bird’s wings, flitted over silken fabric and gleaming trinkets—objects that seemed absurdly out of place in the harsh wilderness. He snorted quietly, more to himself than anyone else, his tusks shifting with the movement. "Why send me with one of them?" he muttered under his breath. The elves were beautiful, yes, but they lived in a world of light and finery that had no place in his own. What could this dainty creature possibly know of endurance, of hardship? There was an air of arrogance to her, the kind that made his teeth clench. “Blood elf,” he finally growled, breaking the silence. His voice was low, a rumble of stone shifting under pressure. “We leave at first light. If your shiny robes slow us down, don’t expect me to wait.”