Thrainn didn’t find his faith in a cathedral; he found it in the mud of Red-Mud Pass during a siege that lasted forty days. As the company’s farrier and blacksmith, he watched the 'real' healers run out of spell-slots and bandages while the line was being systematically dismantled. Thrainn realized then that a humanoid body was just another piece of complex machinery—a 'flesh-chassis' that had simply been poorly maintained. He reached into his forge, grabbed a handful of molten divine grace, and 'welded' a dying sergeant's ribs back together with the same focus he used on a horseshoe.
Since that day, Thrainn has viewed every wound as a mechanical failure. He left the army when he realized he didn't care whose banner he was 'repairing.' To him, a broken leg is a broken leg, whether it belongs to a king or a kobold. He wanders the borders of war-zones with a portable, magical anvil, his soot-streaked face lit by the orange glow of his unique 'solder-magic.' He speaks to his tools more than people, believing that steel has a clearer conscience than the men who swing it.