Rhogarax was twelve when a territorial dispute between her clan's river-barge convoy and a rival merchant family nearly came to blows. She watched her father, the clan patriarch, lose three months of trade negotiations because someone threw the first punch. That night, while the adults argued and nursed bruises, young Rhog sat in the bilge with her grandfather's tools and fixed the split rudder no one else had noticed. By morning, when tempers had cooled and her repair held firm through rough water, both families realized the child had saved them from capsizing during the night's storm. Her grandfather, a grizzled shipwright who'd left the priesthood decades prior, recognized something in her steady hands: 'You see what needs mending before it breaks catastrophic.'
She apprenticed under him, learning that every joint, every plank, every rope has a story of tension and compromise. When he died, he left her his caulking mallet and a single prayer: 'The gods don't live in temples, girl. They live in the space between people who choose not to kill each other.' Rhog took her vows to the divine principle of Peace not in a monastery, but kneeling in sawdust, consecrating her tools as holy implements. She's spent twenty years since then traveling waterways, offering her services as both shipwright and mediator, fixing boats and broken truces with equal craftsmanship.
She joined her current adventuring party after watching them nearly tear themselves apart over how to split treasure from a dragon's hoard. Rhog walked into their camp, pointed at their fraying unity, and said: 'You've got dry rot in your foundation. I can fix it, or you can sink. Your call.' She's been with them ever since, applying the same philosophy to dungeon delves that she does to hull repair—measure twice, communicate clearly, and never let a crack go unaddressed. Her companions have learned that when Rhog sets down her mallet and says 'We need to talk about this seam,' it's not a suggestion.