Furgil Grogansson

Skilled and cynical dwarven thief, with a particular knack for opening locks


Furgil Grogansson surveys the world from behind a cynical eye, a dubious expression, and a nose that looks like it’s been broken more than once. He’s not heavily built, by dwarven standards anyway, and his hands are surpsingly quick and agile. He keeps his beard cropped, though not neatly, a rarity among dwarves, and his hair is an unkempt rats nest. He looks like he grooms his hair and beard with a dagger.

Furgil seems to be a gruff, no-nonsense fellow dressed in plain, sturdy, nondescript clothes. When he’s working, he keeps a dagger in his belt, and a crossbow strapped discreetly across his back, under a hooded cloak. Everything about him seems designed to deflect attention.


Furgil doesn’t talk about his past. The watchful eyes, scars on his knuckles and face, and the mashed bulb of his nose suggest he grew up on the streets – grew up fast and hard.

He fancies himself a hard-headed realist, with cynical disdain for the noble ideals of men and dwarves alike, ideals he believes are most often honored in the breach.

His cynical outlook is hard-won. His grandfather was Grogan Safekeeper, the master locksmith of his dwarven hold. His masterful locks and clever traps kept the deepest reaches of the hold safe from the depredations of the greenskins for many years. But one infamous day, a revengem-minded dwarven chief orderd Grogan to open the locks that held fast the gates barring some of the hold’s deepest tunnels, so that one of the grudges of the hold could be avenged. Grogan protested, arguing that it was not safe,and in the time it would take the whole hold might be vulnerable. The grudge-bearing warlord refused to listen to the master locksmith’s advice, and compelled him to comply. Well, Grogan’s prophecy came to pass, and a war party of greenskins, lying in wait as they perpetually do, fell upon the dwarves. The losses were heavy, but the raiders were beaten back, the heavy armor of the dwarven defenders proteting them from the worst blows of the goblins and orcs. But Grogan Safekeeper wore no heavy armor, and the body they bore back to the hold was a terrible sight to behold. Not only did Grogan Safekeeper fall while on an errand he considered foolish, but the grudge-bearing warlord who had ordered him to his death blustered of his incompetence. Grogan’s son departed the hold for the cities of men, no longer willling to place his trust in a leadership he considered blinded by grudge from seeing sense.

But Alaric Grogansson – who decreed that his son Furgil would also carry his grandfather’s name in memory of the great man – placed his trust in men, and that trust was equally misplaced. He plied his trade as a master locksmith, but cared more for his craft than his business, and found himself swindled, riddled with debt, and dying, unable to afford a doctor, in the worst slums of the city.

Furgil had learned the family craft well, but he would not follow his father’s path. From an early age he had begun using his knowledge of locks and strongboxes and safes to enrich himself, and when he found himself an orphan he moved full time into the activities which had caused his father such worry. It was hard at first, and he took his share of beatings. But he proved his mettle to those whose opinion mattered, and carved out for himself a modest reputation as reliable and skilled, if cantankerous and contrary. He owes fealty to no one, he works for who pays him, if he knows they are trustworthy. If he accepts a contract, he fuifills it unstintingly. But woe betide anyone who crosses him. You don’t want as an enemy a fellow for whom no gate is truly locked.

Furgil Grogansson

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