Gruhp Bearheart: A Face Not Even A Mother Could Love

[klinx]

Gruhp Bearheart came into this world under inauspicious circumstances: an ugly, disfigured dwarf babe abandoned to the mercy of hungry bears. Incredibly, he survived. The ferocious Bearheart tribe—so named for their worship of bear totems and savage way of life—found him, still wailing in the brush. Whether by pity, curiosity, or the strange camaraderie they felt through the sickly-sweet odor clinging to him, they took him in as one of their own. Though a dwarf by blood, Gruhp never grasped the difference; he believed himself a true member of the tribe and, bizarrely, identified as one of the “little folk” who occasionally passed through their territory. He couldn’t speak much, only managing guttural grunts and the occasional fractured phrase, with his favorite exclamation, “Gruhp,” echoing through the Bearheart camps. Still, the tribe accepted him, for he was loyal and fiercely protective of his adopted kin.

As Gruhp grew older, his stench grew with him—an odor so potent it masked the wild musk of the Bearheart warriors and became their best inadvertent defense. One day, while foraging for roots and mushrooms (like the “gnomes” he insisted he was), Gruhp stumbled into a cunning trap set by hunters. Lured by the smell of the bait, he clumsily tangled himself in the net. The hunters, at first horrified by his foulness, quickly realized his rarity might fetch a price. Indeed, a traveling wizard soon purchased Gruhp from those hunters, intrigued by his grotesque appearance and bestial ways. The wizard whisked him off to the Sword Coast, hoping to profit from the dwarf’s savage curiosity as a living sideshow attraction in a roving carnival.

Draped in ragged hides and donning a mysterious eyepatch (no one could figure out why, since his two eyes worked perfectly well), Gruhp lumbered about from town to town, letting out his signature grunt. His speech never advanced beyond a handful of halting words, and his social graces were nonexistent. Children often pelted him with fruit, fascinated by both his lumpy, gnarled frame and the pungent cloud that followed him. Some travelers swore they had never smelled anything worse, not even in dank troll dens. Yet, through all of this, Gruhp remains ever-faithful to the memory of his Bearheart family, believing his place is among them—even if he gets confused from time to time about what he truly is. Charisma be damned, he charges onward, content in his misunderstood existence, wearing his single patch over a perfectly fine eye and exclaiming his beloved “Gruhp!” at every turn.