Like many of his kind, Grimmyr is unable to return home.
Grimmyr was born to a family of iivlar keepers of Clan Idrun, one of many small nomadic jotunborn communities within the Fray, that sub-planar realm that lies between the mortal Universe and the Ethereal Plane. A place of silver, shifting sands and insubstantial copies of geographic features and animals of the Universe, the Fray has been the realm of jotunborn and their progenitors for millennia. Grimmyr—and indeed all jotunborn—was told since before the time of his weavingday about the responsibility bestowed upon their ancestors by the gods so long ago: to watch over the mortal Universe that they helped create. This stewardship has been passed down throughout the generations, and during times of chaos and strife, jotunborn must venture to the mortal realms to lend their aid.
Grimmyr knew the stories, knew that he might be called upon to redirect a river or replant a forest, but he never expected that it would actually happen. He was happy tending to his family’s colony of iivlars, watching them spin their silk, shepherding them to patches of ethereal grass where they could feast, and gently pushing aside their claws when they got a little too curious. He could see his life’s path stretching before him. He would meet a pretty girl from a passing clan, fall in love, and be joined. They would have a child, and Grimmyr would teach them the ways of iivlar-keeping. Perhaps one day, he would be considered a clan elder and resolve disputes between neighbors and guide the community through the Fray.
But then, a god died.
The cosmic upheaval of Gorum’s death was felt across the entire multiverse, and the Fray was no different. All jotunborn could feel the havoc being wrought in the mortal Universe deep in their souls, like a spiritual itch that needed to be scratched. Grimmyr was out in a field when the ground began to tremble. Something began to tug at his soul, and he instinctively knew that he was being called elsewhere to fulfill his ancestral duty. Time was short, but the insectile iivlars couldn’t be left unguarded, so he quickly shepherded them back to the clan. His mother and father were waiting there for him. He could see in their eyes that they also knew.
The goodbyes were solemn but not despairing. All three of them understood the weight of this obligation, and while a jotunborn leaving the Fray could be gone for weeks or even months, Grimmyr’s parents believed they would see him again soon. His father presented him with a pair of sturdy gauntlets made of molted iivlar shell to keep him safe, and his mother said a brief prayer to Skode, the giant goddess of heroism. Another violent shudder ran through the ground, as if the Fray was impatient for Grimmyr to fulfill the covenant. Grimmyr nodded silently to his parents and gave in to the pull on his soul.
Grimmyr appeared among lush jungle greenery, the most plant life he had ever seen in one place at a time. It was night, so he concentrated on the silk woven through his skin, creating a soft glow by which he could see. As he began to get his bearings, he smelled the smoke. He pushed past broad leaves and enormous flowers to find a fishing village on a river, one of its huts engulfed in flames. Before he could react, an arrow pierced his shoulder. Several brown-skinned elves—presumably residents of this settlement—trained their bows upon him, with one nocking another projectile. He held up his hands in a gesture of supplication, but his enormous size and glowing skin must have confused and frightened them, so they loosed a full volley at him. He barely dodged out of the way, an arrow glancing off his gauntlets as he shielded his face.
Grimmyr, the iconic guardian.
Art by Wayne ReynoldsGrimmyr’s flight brought him closer to the river, where other elven village folk formed a line to move buckets of water from the shore to the burning building. They froze in fear at the sight of him, but that allowed Grimmyr to notice what he first thought was a log slide closer to a villager knee-deep in the river. The mud-brown crocodile suddenly surged forward, but Grimmyr had already pushed the villager to one side, and its jaws clamped down on Grimmyr’s arm instead. Prying the crocodile off him, he hurled it back into the river, where it swam off to find easier prey.
Though they were initially wary of Grimmyr, they didn’t stop him from carrying barrels of water from the river to help put out the fire. Later, a white-haired elven elder tended to his wounds. She spoke a few words of Grimmyr’s language, and through their conversation, he learned where he was: a settlement on the Vanji River in the jungles of the Mwangi Expanse on the world of Golarion. The elder explained how a piece of burning sky fell from above to cause the fire, a piece of something larger plummeting down far to the southwest.
Since then, Grimmyr has been tracking that fallen star, certain that it is the key to what brought him to Golarion. Other fragments of it scattered along its trajectory, causing minor disasters where they landed. After following one such piece to the hideout of a band of river pirates, Grimmyr realized he required more protection than just his gauntlets and pieced together a suit of armor to fit his frame from various sources. Some he purchased, some he scavenged. To defend himself, he added several striking heads to a stone maul, hoping that its intimidating appearance would deter otherwise aggressive foes.
Despite all this, Grimmyr hasn’t forgotten about home. He believes that whatever powers brought him to Golarion will be able to return him once he has dealt with the catastrophe he was sent to correct. Until then, he will continue to protect those that need it, much in the same way he kept his iivlars safe.
Jason Keeley (he/him)
Senior Designer
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