Wyrdtoof is part wild prophet, part junk-scavenger, and all pirate. Once
marooned on a forgotten metalith island in the hinterlands of northern
Thondia, he survived for years on raw cunning, instinct, and stubbornness. His
isolation warped his already volatile mind further, deepening his connection
to Gorkamorka’s brutal mysticism.
His wild mane of hair and beard dance in an unfelt wild, alive with crackles
of unspent Waaagh! energy. His right leg ends in a battered wooden peg, a
rough-cut replacement from his time fighting off the monstrous dead things
that infest the Harrowmark - he still mutters curses about "da bleedin'
grave-things what had too much teefs and not enough skin."
Wyrdtoof wears ragged blue and white striped trousers and a cloak stitched
from the scaly hide of a Thondian predator. His staff is a mismatched
contraption, parts of several Kharadron navigation tools under the skull of a
horned beast, etched with crude glyphs and half-burned sigils, lashed together
with string.
His bags bulge with scavenged relics, mostly Kharadron tech - empty
aether-canisters, battered tools, broken endrin parts - all of which he claims
have “proper mojo if yeh squint at ‘em right.” Some of the Ogresuns are
half-convinced he’s got a working thaumaturgic compass in there, but he just
grins and cackles if asked.
Wyrdtoof rejoined the Ogresuns in the Harrowmark, descending from the sky
aboard the very skyship he lured with a jury-rigged aethergold beacon. Whether
it was luck, fate, or the hand of Gork (or possibly Mork), he arrived just in
time to fry a vampire with a blast of crackling green energy and cackle:
"Ahoy there ladz! Ya miss me?"
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