Tamel doesn’t remember his parents—only that he was found curled up in a coal bin at the back of the Gilded Anvil Guild, a dwarven smithing hall deep in the mountains. Around his neck hung a cracked forge-stone pendant, and tucked under one arm was a scroll case filled with strange blueprints, written in looping script no one could read.
The dwarves, bless their bearded hearts, didn’t know what to make of the tiny, soot-smudged gnome. But they took him in. Gave him a place at the bellows, a bed near the hearth, and a name: Tamel the Blue, for the cobalt-stained overalls he wore—and never outgrew.
Even in the warmth of the forge, though, Tamel never quite fit in.
He was smaller. Lighter. His hands weren’t built for warhammers, and his voice squeaked where others roared. He toiled alongside them, learned to swing a hammer—but it was always the small hammer he favored. The one built for precision, not power. Some dwarves treated him like a brother. Others saw him as a joke. Tamel the Tiny, they’d snicker. Or worse.
So Tamel learned to laugh first. To be the fool. With grease on his cheeks and goggles so thick they magnified his eyes into shiny little saucers, he leaned into the oddness. His overalls are singed and patched, his sleeves stained with soot and alchemical burns—but they’ve got character. He’s always a little dirty. Always a little offbeat. And always tinkering with something.
When the forge went quiet, he studied in secret—alchemy, enchantments, the mysterious blueprints left behind by the parents he never knew. He dreamed quietly of becoming something bigger.
Now 43, he’s still that sweet little chap with the crooked smile, greying tufts of hair, and a voice that cracks when he’s excited (which is often). He’s awkward, sure—but beneath the soot and silliness lies a brilliant artificer with a dream: to build a magical suit of armor. A walking forge of arcane metal that makes him feel brave. A suit that lets him stand tall—not to harm, but to help. To become the shield he always wished he’d had.
Tamel is lawful good to the core. Gentle. Loyal. Fiercely devoted to anyone he calls family—whether by blood, by bond, or by the grit under their fingernails. He still talks to his old pendant sometimes, wondering who his parents were. He carries their blueprints everywhere, chasing a connection through creation.
And when the gears grind, or the alchemical tubes bubble too fast, or something scary’s around the corner, he repeats the mantra that’s gotten him through every setback, spark, and failure:
“Righty tighty, mighty fighty.”
Silly? Maybe. But to Tamel, even a bolt turned just right can be the start of something powerful.
He’s never seen a real battle… But gods help anyone who makes the mistake of thinking he can’t.
Thanks for letting the rest of us know that the messages have been sent. With so many entries, I was not expecting to be selected, but it's nice to to be left hanging. :-)
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Character name: Tamel the Blue
Species: Gnome (Rock)
Class (and subclass): Artificer (Armorer)
Background: Artisan
Backstory (optional but nice):
Tamel the Blue
Tamel doesn’t remember his parents—only that he was found curled up in a coal bin at the back of the Gilded Anvil Guild, a dwarven smithing hall deep in the mountains. Around his neck hung a cracked forge-stone pendant, and tucked under one arm was a scroll case filled with strange blueprints, written in looping script no one could read.
The dwarves, bless their bearded hearts, didn’t know what to make of the tiny, soot-smudged gnome. But they took him in. Gave him a place at the bellows, a bed near the hearth, and a name: Tamel the Blue, for the cobalt-stained overalls he wore—and never outgrew.
Even in the warmth of the forge, though, Tamel never quite fit in.
He was smaller. Lighter. His hands weren’t built for warhammers, and his voice squeaked where others roared. He toiled alongside them, learned to swing a hammer—but it was always the small hammer he favored. The one built for precision, not power. Some dwarves treated him like a brother. Others saw him as a joke. Tamel the Tiny, they’d snicker. Or worse.
So Tamel learned to laugh first. To be the fool.
With grease on his cheeks and goggles so thick they magnified his eyes into shiny little saucers, he leaned into the oddness. His overalls are singed and patched, his sleeves stained with soot and alchemical burns—but they’ve got character. He’s always a little dirty. Always a little offbeat. And always tinkering with something.
When the forge went quiet, he studied in secret—alchemy, enchantments, the mysterious blueprints left behind by the parents he never knew. He dreamed quietly of becoming something bigger.
Now 43, he’s still that sweet little chap with the crooked smile, greying tufts of hair, and a voice that cracks when he’s excited (which is often). He’s awkward, sure—but beneath the soot and silliness lies a brilliant artificer with a dream: to build a magical suit of armor. A walking forge of arcane metal that makes him feel brave. A suit that lets him stand tall—not to harm, but to help. To become the shield he always wished he’d had.
Tamel is lawful good to the core. Gentle. Loyal. Fiercely devoted to anyone he calls family—whether by blood, by bond, or by the grit under their fingernails. He still talks to his old pendant sometimes, wondering who his parents were. He carries their blueprints everywhere, chasing a connection through creation.
And when the gears grind, or the alchemical tubes bubble too fast, or something scary’s around the corner, he repeats the mantra that’s gotten him through every setback, spark, and failure:
Silly? Maybe.
But to Tamel, even a bolt turned just right can be the start of something powerful.
He’s never seen a real battle…
But gods help anyone who makes the mistake of thinking he can’t.
Thanks to all who applied, neat bunch! Those selected have been messaged. And happy Mother's day!
Thanks for letting the rest of us know that the messages have been sent. With so many entries, I was not expecting to be selected, but it's nice to to be left hanging. :-)