Narzok Blueaxe

In the fortified city of Mirabar, where stone is not merely a resource but a philosophy, Narzok Blueaxe was shaped by a culture that worships discipline as fiercely as other lands worship their gods. Among the Axe of Mirabar, where every strike is measured and every breath accounted for, Narzok learned early that order is not a preference but a survival strategy. Chaos, in his view, is the first crack in a shield wall, and he has spent his life ensuring no such crack ever forms on his watch. Now an elite bodyguard in service to the Lords’ Alliance, Narzok embodies the uncompromising ethos of his homeland. He speaks with the bluntness of a hammer striking an anvil—direct, unsoftened, and utterly uninterested in diplomacy. To him, words are functional tools, not instruments of charm. Orders are not open to interpretation; they are to be executed with precision. And threats—whether whispered, implied, or overt—are personal insults that ignite a cold, controlled fury behind his deep-set eyes. Embedded within the underside of his chin is a set of micro‑mechanical claws—tiny, precise instruments engineered to maintain the strict grooming standards Narzok demands of himself. When his beard grows beyond regulation thickness, the claws deploy upward from within his chin, trimming the excess with surgical efficiency before retracting seamlessly back into their hidden housing. It is a strange marriage of dwarven pride and mechanical pragmatism, a quiet testament to Narzok’s belief that discipline must extend even to the smallest details. Yet beneath the rigid exterior lies a deeper truth: Narzok’s devotion is not born of coldness, but of conviction. He protects because he believes protection is sacred. He obeys because he believes structure is the only bulwark against the world’s creeping disorder. In Mirabar, they say Narzok’s discipline is so absolute that even his beard fears to grow without permission. But those who know him understand the truth.