Physical appearance:
Depending on one’s disposition, Tyrgram can come across as a madman, a lumberjack, or a friendly uncle. There is truth to all of it. Tyrgram is pale of colour and broad of shoulder, with copper red hair and a bushy beard, to the extent that some Elven blood must have found its way into his ancestry despite his short stature. Gentle blue eyes contrast the red and his face is marked with harsh lines that soften whenever he laughs. His clothes are well worn and obviously mended in several places with different fabrics, creating a patchwork map of where he has travelled. Boots that are lovingly repaired time and time again complete the ensemble.
One peculiar thing about Tyrgram’s appearance, and one that you could only see up close, is that a couple of insects, mostly butterflies and moths, have made their home in the hems and seams of his clothes with one or two having moved into his beard.
Tyrgram has glasses but refuses to wear them, citing that “they make me look like an old man” and “I don’t need them to hit things.” He only puts them on, begrudgingly, when he is working on clothes or shoes.

Personality:
Tyrgram fancies himself a bit of a minstrel on the one hand, though without the music, and a knight-errant on the other. He has a good memory for the things that interest him but tends to not know much about stuff outside of that. He prefers to solve things without resorting to violence as the first option but he knows enough about the world that sometimes heads need to be knocked. When he is not extolling the virtues of his lady and performing memorable feats in her name, relating a story to whatever is happening or travelling the road, Tyrgram earns his keep by repairing common household items or mending clothes and shoes, occasionally making new pieces if time permits. He takes pride in his work even if some deride it as more befitting a woman. Tyrgram has a soft spot for children and if given the chance he will gladly provide storytime, followed by naptime.

Personality traits:
- Everyone loves a good story. I should know: I'm the hero of one.
- Stories are the lifeblood of society and I have shed a lot of blood. Wait, that came out wrong…

Ideals:
- We need stories. Not because they tell us that dragons exist, we all know that, but because they tell us that dragons can be slain.

Bonds:
- The Lady of Butterflies, Duchess Calpe Belinapter

Flaws:
- Sometimes I don’t notice the thing right in front of me. No, I don't need glasses. Shut up.

Backstory:
Born to a cobbler and a seamstress, Tyrgram grew up in relative poverty amidst his siblings. Yet he was not bothered by this: his mother made their clothes and his father made their shoes so they were able to save a little bit of money. Money that went towards food and drinks but, more importantly, books. Tutoring was too expensive but Tyrgram’s mom and dad managed to convince the local priest to teach him his letters and numbers in exchange for labour. Books thus became the next best thing and Tyrgram spent most of his free time reading and learning from any book his parents brought home. Tyrgram repaid his parents’ kindness by telling the family about the things he learned so that they could also benefit and learn from him, a weekly event that laid the foundation for his storytelling craft.

When Tyrgram grew older, merely reading about stories was not enough anymore to sate him: he wanted to experience them for himself. He was a big lad now: years of manual labour had made him strong and while he might not be the smartest one around, he had a good head on his shoulders. The wanderlust struck him and he figured that by leaving the house, it meant one less mouth to feed. Tyrgram’s parents were saddened to see him leave but they understood that keeping him here would be more harmful. Thus with goodbyes said and blessings given, Tyrgram set out into the wide, open world like so many of his childhood heroes had done in the books he treasured so much.

Several years came and went. Tyrgram wandered from place to place, earning a living by repairing clothes and shoes and delighting tavern patrons with stories during the evenings: some true, some made up and some embellished to make them more entertaining. One of those stories is as follows:

'One autumn night many moons ago I found myself walking down the road in a dense and dark forest under the light of a pale moon. Now walking all by your lonesome self through the forest  at night isn't something you should do, but I was younger then and less inclined to listen to any sage advice, least of all my own. I said to myself: "If I keep walking throughout the night, I can arrive in town at dawn and I wouldn't have to sleep outside!" The thought of a good meal and a soft bed can motivate any man to push through but, as it so often goes at night in the forest, I soon found myself hopelessly lost when I encountered the same tree for the fourth time in a row. I sat down and nearly wept, were it not that I suddenly spotted a light up ahead. Heading towards an unknown light in the middle of the forest probably was not the smartest idea but I was tired, hungry, and getting desperate. So I patted the leaves off my breeches and followed the light. It was weird: with every step I took toward the light, the light moved one step out of my reach. In my desperation I broke out in a sprint trying to reach it. I had almost caught up to the light, remember: dwarves are natural sprinters, when my foot got caught under an exposed root and I stumbled into a clearing. After I finished lamenting my misfortune, I looked up and was amazed. The clearing was decorated with lanterns hung from tree branches, insects of all different colours buzzed around, including a particularly large firefly I had mistaken for the light, and in the middle stood an enormous table bedecked with food and drinks covering every square inch. At the head of this table sat a woman. A woman dressed in silk gossamer garments of every colour imaginable, with twigs woven through her hair and a silver circlet upon her brow. Moonlight reflected in her eyes and I could swear she was engulfed in a soft, warm glow.

“A guest!” She shouted and got up. She helped me to my feet. “I was so afraid no one would show up to my party. Come! Sit and eat and drink with me.”

I was too surprised to refuse and thus I was treated to a most exquisite meal and pleasant company. The woman was as excited as I was flabbergasted.

“I was giving up hope that anyone would come.” She said, “I even made it all formal with written invitations and everything! That way they would have to show up, right? But where are my manners?” She poured me a cup of wine. “Are you a lord? Or perchance a duke?”
 
Her enthusiasm made it so that I would not, could not, disappoint her. She was a noble lady, like the ones I read about, so I followed in the fairytale story and told her: “A knight actually. A wandering knight travelling the roads to see where they lead.”

Her eyes lit up with a twinkle and we got to talking. Her name was Duchess Calpe Belinapter. She told me that she threw a lot of these parties but this was the first time someone actually showed up. She lamented it had to do with her having dominion over insects, spiders and other things that give most lords and ladies the heebiejeebies. Or that most people do not even know who she was. It was not her fault she overslept that one time this bard wrote a play involving all the other lords and ladies so her name does not show up in the play.
“Not even in the appendix!” She huffed and reached for a cup of wine.

We drank, we feasted and made merry. Drunk on wine, courtship and laughter, I pledged to resolve her troubles. I would travel the land as her knight-errant and tell the people about Duchess Calpe Belinapter: The Lady of Butterflies, Mother Moth, the Queen-Mother of Moondust and Starlight, Lady Lacewing, Her Mottled Majesty. Her standing would rise, her influence would grow and the lords and ladies of the court would never be able to turn a cold shoulder to her. And she would be my lady. We toasted to our newfound commitment and the feast turned to black.

When I next awoke, I was outside the town I was travelling to. Was it but a dream? A mere figment of my imagination brought on by hunger and tiredness? Who knows? All I can say is that I have been getting a lot more butterfly kisses lately…’