A wizened old dwarf, how old is hard to tell, and given the grimace and dour stare no one has dared to ask.His armour is battered and dented, from many campaigns, but the edge of his blade is flawless speaking of much loving care. Without his helmet, a scar running from brow to cheek accross a ruined left eye can be seen; when sufficiently filled with ale he loves to tell its story, but those that know him have never heard the same story twice...his iron grey hair, that which he has left is carefully groomed, and waxed into what he calls his war face.

Gorgar has made a trade of death...in his youth he took any contract that came his way, fighting in any war, duel, or petty dispute, the desire for gold and glory driving him. Now he finds himself semi-retired, a horde of gold in the bank, and a reputation...some of which he loves...and some of which he regrets. He no longer accepts any coin, as he can afford to be discerning, but he still loves battle and treasure enough, to be tempted away from the taverns should the right offer come along.

He has no family, and many of those who might have been his friends are carrion food, he has survived them all, and approaching the end of his days as a warrior he wants one noble cause to purge him, of all the wrong he has done. So when he meets his maker, he can at least plead his case...rather than just try to kill him too...

He is fearless, ruthless, and brutaly efficient. Once contracted, there is sure to be a harvest of souls sent to the nether.

He holds no prejudice against any one or any kind, he will kill any one, or any thing for you, and will have the good manners to consider any offer, from any one.

All he misses, is the companion with whom he will finally meet his match...and his end.