Almiron Sylvarith is a male goblin paladin and an unlikely hero within Bromocorah Inc., his paradoxical existence as a kind-hearted goblin devoted to the god Helm making him a standout in the guild. Standing at a mere 3’8”, Almiron has the wiry, compact frame typical of a goblin, with mottled green skin covered in faint scars from his sacred rite—a castration performed to prove his unwavering devotion to Helm, allowing him to train as a paladin despite his race’s monstrous reputation. His large, amber eyes are wide and expressive, often darting nervously in social settings, and his pointed ears twitch at every sound, a sign of his skittish nature. His sharp, toothy grin, while meant to be friendly, often unnerves those who don’t know him, adding to his awkward demeanor.
Almiron hides his goblin features not out of shame but to let his actions speak before prejudice takes hold. He wears a battered steel helmet with a dented visor, which he calls his “shiny bucket,” keeping it lowered to obscure his face. A tattered red scarf, a gift from a child he once saved, wraps around his neck and lower face, muffling his high-pitched, raspy voice that often cracks when he’s nervous. His armor is a mismatched set of plate and leather, pieced together from scraps but polished to a shine, engraved with Helm’s holy symbol—a gauntlet with an eye—etched onto the chest. A small, dented shield hangs at his side, and his short sword, glowing faintly with divine energy, is sheathed at his hip. Around his wrist, a simple prayer bead bracelet jingles softly, a constant reminder of his faith.
As a paladin, Almiron is a paradox of awkwardness and divine fury. In daily life, he’s skittish and hilarious, often tripping over his own scarf or stammering through conversations, his attempts at small talk resulting in unintentionally funny remarks—like asking a villager, “Uh, nice cow… does it… pray?” But in battle, he transforms into a radiant fury cloaked in divine justice, his small frame glowing with holy light as he channels Helm’s power. When using his divine smite, he yells with surprising ferocity, “Ye who throw flames, beware the fire of judgment! And the wicked shall be smite by THIS TINY GREEN HAND!”—his voice booming as he strikes with a glowing blade, the contrast between his size and his power often catching enemies off guard. Almiron’s kindness shines through in quieter moments; he’ll argue with ignorant villagers who call him a monster, only to silently heal their sick, walking away without a word, his scarf fluttering in the wind.