Wolfgang “Bearjaw” Dranthur

Race: Human
Class: Barbarian (Retired Adventurer – formerly Path of the Battlerager)
Age: 44
Pronouns: He/Him
Alignment: Neutral Good

Appearance

A broad-shouldered, round-bellied bear of a man, Wolfgang moves with a slight limp in his left leg — a souvenir from an old wyvern ambush gone wrong. His right hand bears a permanent stiffness, two fingers curled slightly from a long-healed break. While his physique speaks of a once-formidable warrior, the years (and many pints) have softened him. He wears a stained apron over an old studded leather vest and uses a whittled walking stick shaped like a claw. His bushy beard has begun to gray, and his smile — warm, toothy, and slightly lopsided — is known to disarm even the hardest drunk.

Personality

Wolfgang is a contradiction in motion: intimidating in size, but with the heart of a storybook grandpa. He’s known for booming laughter, soft eyes, and the way he protects the Green Rest Inn like it's the last sacred place in Faerûn. While his body aches and grumbles, his sense of honor still burns hot. He can’t abide cruelty, especially to the vulnerable — and when someone threatens peace at the inn, he’ll rise from his stool with a slow grunt and the words:

“You’ve got ‘til I stand up to change your tone.”

He’s deeply protective of Moira, who fusses over him like a mother hen. The two bicker playfully, but Wolfgang would gladly die before letting harm come to her or the inn.

He avoids talking about his adventuring days — not out of shame, but because he's seen too many friends buried beneath them.

Backstory

Wolfgang once strode the Sword Coast as a feared frontliner in a mercenary band called the Iron Larks — famed for their ferocity and their tendency to end every job with a tavern brawl. He fought trolls in Tethyr, cleared out bandit dens in the Cloud Peaks, and once went toe-to-toe with a fire giant (and lost with spectacular flair).

But the adventuring life took its toll. A collapsed dungeon left his leg shattered, and though magically healed, he never regained full strength. The final blow came in the Underdark — a battle he refuses to speak of — after which he walked away from the life for good.

With nowhere left to go, he limped into Mosstone five winters ago. Moira, owner of the Green Rest Inn, saw something in him: not the wreck of a man, but the quiet resolve of one who still had more to give. She fed him stew, let him sleep by the hearth, and gave him a second chance. He never left.

These days, Wolfgang serves as the Green Rest’s unofficial bouncer, handyman, and protector. While no longer fit for battle, he remains a source of strength and dry wisdom for anyone who’ll listen — and perhaps, if the right cause stirs his blood, he might just step back into the fight.

His adopted daughter, Orla, entered his life not long after his arrival — a streetwise ten-year-old trying to steal from the inn. Instead of anger, he offered her a meal. She never moved in, but she’s never quite left either. Now a member of the Mossbite Rats, Orla is as fierce and stubborn as he ever was, and though he worries about the path she walks, he respects it.

Quirks & Traits

Limp: Slight but noticeable. Uses a carved cane (named Knuckler).
Old Wounds: Fingers on his right hand are partially fused from a fight with a rust monster.
Carves animal figurines for the inn’s children and guests. His favorite is a bear.
Has a tattoo on his back: the symbol of the Iron Larks, now faded and wrinkled.
Secretly writes poetry, though he claims he’s just “scribblin’ nonsense.”
Keeps a worn pouch of old adventuring trinkets in his room. Sometimes stares at it for hours.

Notable Quote

“I used to knock over ogres. Now I knock over bar stools. Still counts.”

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