Zeffle was once the Lead Cartographer for the Gnomish Geological Society, a man who preferred the predictable arc of a pendulum to the messy whims of politics. During a survey of the Sky-Piercer Peaks, a freak alignment of three ley-lines converged upon his brass measuring rod. The resulting discharge didn't kill him; it redefined him. His nervous system became a series of high-capacity conduits, and his very soul became a grounding wire for the elemental chaos of the world.
Since that day, Zeffle has been a nomad by necessity. If he stays in one tavern for more than a night, the beer begins to boil and the silverware levitates. He views his condition not as a curse, but as a maintenance duty. He wanders the 'scabs' of the world—places where reality is thin—to bleed off his excess charge and stabilize the local climate. He is the storm that brings balance, a walking paradox of freezing winds and crackling lightning who speaks with the terrifying calm of a man who knows exactly how many volts it takes to turn a bandit into carbon.