Rollo

Background

Rollo was born in the stone-buried stronghold of Kraaz’Duun, a remote Svirfneblin settlement carved into shimmering caverns far beneath the surface of Manira. His people lived their lives among crystal-lit halls, winding tunnels, and the ever present chorus of murmuring stone. Most deep gnomes felt an unbreakable bond with the deep places of the world, trusting in shadow, silence, and ancient earth-magic.

Rollo, however, felt called by something else entirely.

From childhood, he would gaze upward toward the unreachable ceiling of the caverns, imagining a great world of open space, wind, and light. Where his kin feared exposure and wide horizons, Rollo found himself yearning for them. He believed that somewhere above, a life of clarity, courage, and honor awaited him—even if no one else in Kraaz’Duun understood.

He crafted makeshift shields from rotten wood, drilled with polished stones shaped into practice blades, and modeled himself after half-remembered tales of surface heroes passed down in whispers. His elders found his aspirations eccentric. His peers thought him strange. Yet Rollo held fast to a code that came from somewhere deep within: tell the truth, protect others, stand firm against wrong, and seek the light wherever it may be found.

The Fracturing

When the Fracturing of Manira split the earth, it tore open a jagged crevasse in the heart of Rollo’s homeland, plunging upward toward the surface world. Through that wound spilled something few Svirfneblin had seen:

Sunlight. True, golden sunlight.

It poured downward in a beautiful, terrifying column, scattering dust like glittering motes. The people of Kraaz’Duun recoiled, fearful of the unknown radiance. But Rollo stepped forward, entranced. The warmth on his skin felt like a blessing. Like a calling.

In that moment, he knew with absolute certainty that the light was meant for him.

The Journey Above

Determined to reach the surface, Rollo traded nearly all he owned: family keepsakes, glowstones harvested from sacred caverns, tools he had shaped with his own hands. With those trades, he acquired the two things he believed marked a defender of justice:

A sword and a shield.

Simple. Iron. Surface-forged. And to him, priceless.

He strapped his remaining possessions to his pack—a bedroll, a simple leather sac, his favorite cast iron cooking pot, and a small polished stone to remind him of home. Though his people tried to dissuade him, Rollo climbed toward the crevasse, ascending through broken stone and twisting fissures that smelled of earth newly woken from sleep.

He did not look back.

Life on the Surface

The surface stunned him. The sky stretched endlessly overhead. The air tasted alive. Colors were too bright, too sharp, too real.

He made camp in the Forest of Ruhar, where towering trees filtered the sunlight into shifting patterns he could watch for hours. The forest creatures eyed him curiously, and though they differed from the burrowing beasts of his homeland, he found he could still sense their emotions, still communicate in quiet, druidic ways learned from the spirits of stone and earth.

Here, in this strange new world, Rollo practices with his sword each morning, reciting the virtues he swore to uphold. He prays to the sun in awkward, earnest whispers. He listens for guidance in rustling leaves and chittering animals.

He waits for a quest worthy of his heart.

Because deep in his soul, Rollo believes this: The world fractured so that a single beam of light could reach him. And now he must become worthy of it.