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The three-armed Grok looks, at first glance, like your average Kellid Barbarian, aside from his clothing. He has brown hair that goes down to his shoulders, with striking green eyes to contrast the dark hair. His face and body are marred by scars, both slash scars and burn scars. His clothing, however, distinguishes him immediately from a typical Kellid. He wears tattered Androffan clothes, a Tien Haramaki, and cold-weather gear to keep his weak (for a Kellid) body warm. His clothing has two sewn-on holsters, one for a rapier, and the other for a pistol. He is never seen without both weapons on him. These holsters are placed in such a position to hide his vestigial third arm, brough about by alchemical experimentation. All in all, the two metre tall Kellid tries to look far more like an Androffan than a Kellid, going so far as to keep his stolen technology (a lighter, a flashlight, and 3 batteries) on full display for all to see, at least once the Technic League no longer kept searching for the man.

In terms of personality, Grok is often closed-off to others, owing to his isolation from his own Kellid tribe due to his fascinaton with the technological scraps littering his original home, in Numeria. If you can get the scarred, three-armed Kellid to actually open up, he's relatively outgoing and boisterous, touting his aim and his alchemical capabilities, and the pure damage it can cause when he's enraged. Caught somewhere between a Gunslinger, an Alchemist, and a Barbarian, he has trouble fitting in with any groups, especially given his culturally-transmitted distrust of magic, made even more intense by his intense fascination with technology. He'll happily share tales of the capabilities of Androffan and Alkenstari technology to anyone who will listen, and holds other Brigh worshippers in extremely high regard.

While raging, though, some amount of his Kellid upbringing comes through. Though he can keep a clearer head than most while raging, able to focus his aim to the particular weakspots of an enemy, he is nowhere near as civilized in his rage as some other Urban 'barbarians' are. It's the single-minded focus on slaying whatever is in front of him that keeps him from acting civilize, and not any actual loss of intelligence. Granted, aside from him being able to talk like normal about the values and benefits of technology, this has roughly the same effect on his abilities as a typical Kellid Barbarian's rage, albeit with steady hands instead of increased endurance.

Growing up, Grok had always had a curious mind, which does not well suit one in a Kellid Tribe. He had seen the pure, unfiltered carnage that can be wrought about by technology, and it resonated with him to his very core. He had always been rather weak when compared to everyone else in the tribe he had grown up with. He had ran away in the middle of nights, looking for whatever scraps of alchemical and technological information he could. One fateful night however, at the age of about 13, his tribe was hastily wiped out by the Technic League for someone attempting to steal technology from right under their noses. That was him, he ruined the tribe by stealing a flashlight and a battery. He was always called a coward and a weakling by his family and tribe, and this cemented it in his mind. He didn't die defending those he knew, but was off learning whatever he could, and that was the downfall of his entire tribe!

This broke all sense of Kellid-ness in the man, and he ran, he ran as fast and far as he possibly could. Somewhere along the way, he met a travelling Tien family that taught him the secrets of blackpowder, and gave him the Haramaki he always wears. He was no longer a Kellid in his mind, just some weak, gun-toting coward with anger issues. And so he ran away from the Tien family that had taken a liking to the young kid, some internal voice screaming to not disappoint them as he disappointed his tribe. He ran as far as he could, passing through Brevoy before finally arriving in Iobaria. There, he makes a living as a somewhat-successful alchemist, stockpiling what money he can from selling potions and alchemical items.

Fury can guide a steady hand, as much as a strong one, Grok repeated in his head as he gunned down the enemies in front of him, pouring a pre-made vial of alchemical ordnance down his pistol. He was told such words as a small child, but he never knew what it meant, at least until moments like these. "GET SOME TECHNOLOGY, THEN COME AT ME AGAIN, WOLF," he shouted in Androffan as the Winter Wolf in front of him collapsed to the ground in searing pain, as the bullet struck her right in the temple.

As the rage subsided, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, exhausted from the temporary bout of raging gunfire, to face whoever might raise his ire next. He did not see some evil, malevolent force, as he was accustommed to seeing. Instead, he saw what appeared to be some blind-seer type of venerable old human. The ancient man's eyes were firmly shut, giving off a wise apperance-- Grok, however, didn't care and readied another shot, in case he was some ice witch of some kind sent along with the Wolf with the Freezing Breath he had just struck down.

"Given the unmistakable sounds of those loud, deadly weapons from Alkenstar... you must be the Technologist I have heard so much about. Am I wrong?" Grok stared on in some form of shock as the old oracle spoke to him. Even if Grok had no respect for spellcasters, even less after this untimely and plainly supernatural cold came about, he felt compelled to listen. "My visions of late, those concerning the cold, have took an... odd and unexpected turn, you could say." The man spoke in a wavering, shaky Iobarian, which Grok was glad to have picked up right about now.

I have no time for a damn spellcaster's ramblings, Grok silently mused to himself in an internal dialog, a mix of his native Hallit and the stolen Androffan. "Just get on with it, spellcaster. What do your visions have to do with me." The old man laughed hysterically in front of him, tempting to draw the Kellid's ire once more.

"It's not every day I get visions of firearms more advanced than even the Grand Duchy can put out!" This, the promise of advanced firearms, calms the 2 metre tall gun-toting Kellid immensely. Spellcasters normally distrust the alchemical marvel that is blackpowder, so this inclines the savage technologist to listen. The both of them, almost simultaneously, take a seat on the freezing cold ground in front of them. "My visions speak of great technology you are clearly itching to get your hands on, as much as they do of this... supernatural winter."

The young Kellid man sighed, and relented. "Alright, spellcaster," he said, the last word dripping with venom, "What do your visions have to say about this damned cold. I'm as f@&~ing fed up with it as the next person." Grok didn't mince words, it was unbearably cold... even under tattered Androffan clothes, a Haramaki, and cold weather gear. He wanted this stopped as much as anyone else.

"The village of Vurnirn in the Hoofwood forest holds what you seek. While I do not believe you'll meet the technological marvels you seek immediately, I have heard you have a modicum of patience... at least for someone as fueled by rage as you are." Grok's rage was... odd, to put it one way. While most are able to shrug off blows that could kill them otherwise, Grok instead had steady hands he could use to blast a few shots through the temple of the nearest Winter Wolf trying to eat him the moment she saw what a weak excuse for a Kellid he was. The old man, however, continued on rambling: "There, you will meet with the Riders of Baba Yaga." The old man stops to tear some kind of meat jerky, and begins munching on it, before continuin, "A female ranger with a very large companion in the form of an elk, a male cleric of Milani, and some form of dragon disciple bard. The latter I do not explicitly know the gender of, but has a beard. Unless he has some dwarven genes in him, I do not think he'd grow such a beard if he weren't male!"

The tall technologist scoffed. It was getting dark at this point, so he pulled out his stolen flashlight for some modicum of comfort, before continuing: "What proof do you have of these claims. You spellcasters offer words but you never offer proof to me. As a follower of Brigh, I demand your proof for your claim. I need evidence. I am not some Kellid willing to go off of superstition and tradition alone." Even if he was a Kellid, Grok was extremely divorced from his culture at this point, having spent 5 years in Iobaria by this point. Thus, he had no issue saying he wasn't a Kellid, as in his mind, this was just a statement. Genetics may be Kellid, but behavior, rage aside, were far from his old ways.

"I may not offer proof, but what I can offer is reason, Technologist. What do you have to lose, and what do you have to gain? If the knowledge I have of you is right, you risked your life to gather technology, like the handheld technological torches you seem to be known for. Would you not do so again, for the promise of technological weapons this time? Far greater than those produced in a land where magic is outright dead? The choice is yours, of course, but you can always head back here to put a bullet through my head, if my words prove untrue. I will probably succumb to old age by then anyways, so feel free to do so!" The old man, finally finished with his vision-laden speech, handed a hastily-scrawled map to the hulking beanpole of a 'barbarian.' "Besides, the riders should have proof you seek. As for reward? Knowing you, the prospect of weaponry that can shoot oh so ever faster than your pistol is sure to be reward enough, hm?"

And with that, the old man got up off the ground to head back to whatever village he came from. Damn spellcasters, Grok thought, why do you have to be so cryptic? Even with his hatred of spellcasters, even with what little knowledge he had of the Queen of Witches herself, the allure of firearms was far, far too great for the young man to resist. And within the hour, he found himself packing up his meager belongings, and following the map into the Hoofwood forest. He even smiled a little bit more than usual, imagining what kinds of Brigh-pleasing creations could be found on this newfound quest.

Grok the Technologist is primarily motivated by one thing: Technology. Wealth means little to him if it can't be used to enhance what he already has. This leads him to be... relatively weak-willed against anything that isn't a spellcaster, c.f. the abysmal will saving throw. But when fueled by technology and/or the use of technology, however, he will not stop for almost anything else.