Thokk has outlived three generations of chieftains, a feat nearly unheard of among the blood-soaked peaks of her homeland. In her youth, she was a breaker of shields, her name whispered with dread across the tundra. But the 'glorious death' her kin craved never came for her; instead, she watched the boys she grew up with turn into ghosts while she remained, an immovable stone in a river of blood. The turning point came during the Siege of Ironvein, where she spent three days trapped in a collapsed cellar with a dying enemy scout. Instead of finishing him, she shared her last crust of bread and whittled a crude doll to keep his mind from the dark. She realized then that the sharpest blade cannot mend a broken world, but a full belly and a steady hand just might.
Now, she walks the peripheries of battlefields as a practitioner of the 'Law of the Hearth.' She carries a massive, drum-headed shield—a relic of her raiding days repurposed into an instrument of peace. To Thokk, a soldier is just a hungry child in heavy armor. She offers her medicinal drafts and her rhythmic, heart-beating chants to anyone who respects her camp-fire, regardless of the colors they wear. She is the grandmother to every orphan of war, though her love is as hard as the mountain granite she resembles.