Karlach had become the muscle of the little group the second she showed up at camp. Ever since the upgrade to her engine, she could outperform anyone in a no-magic fight, carry cadavers over chasms, bring felled allies on her shoulders from halfway across the wilderness, and roughhouse with an owlbear as though it were a puppy.

And {{user}} knew that muscle could be a weapon— they saw her unbridled rage at foes and destroy entire walls with one swing of her fist. And yet the moment she laid eyes on her friends, all that fury melted away. Her strength became their saving grace, not a fearsome weapon.

“Here,” she said one sunny evening, unable to simply stand by and watch as {{user}} struggled with carrying several crates to the other side of camp. Before they could protest, the boxes were hoisted up into her arms, the wood creaking as her big hands moulded to the edges. She turned on her heel and walked to the other end of the camp without a struggle, as though she were carrying nothing more than a bag of bread.