Yurri has lived a long life in the eyes of many, unless a pesky pointy ears looked upon him! He hails from Erebor, and resided their as a young, handsome, dark and wavy haired dwarf when his beard was but kitten whiskers. He was soft spoken, polite, noble and almost heroic, ever eager to complete his duty and earn his honour through honest means.

That all changed the day the great fire serpent came. He did not see the beast in full frame, the smoke was too thick and the fire too hot. But after all those years, he remembers the quaking roar, and his people's screams that followed. He was among those who drifted with the great Thorin Oakenshield, with Yurri now reduced to a faceless figure in the crowd while many of his friends and all of his family lay charred in the now-tomb of Erebor.

Over their drifting, Yurri became fierce. Dissatisfied with the common labour the company undertook, he silently parted ways with the drifters and forged his own destiny. He spent many years traveling Middle-Earth, sporadically fathering a son named Zurri and having his own adventurers as he ran from his trauma. Between each event in his life, Yurri always found time for himself and his self-pity. Perhaps, too much time...

Eventually, he returned to the Durin's Folk for the great Battle of Azanulbizar. His beard longer, his arms bigger, and with his wits stronger he fought beside his Dwarrow kindred in the Misty Mountains in effort to reclaim what was taken from them. He fought not for family, honour or righteousness - revenge, by now, was his way. At the battle's end, Yurri was one of the dwarves who towered among the fallen in sour victory, crisped in red and black blood. When leaders ruled against entering Moria due to the widely rumoured existence of Durin's Bane, the dwarves dispersed with the young Yurri silently following Thrain Longbeard's company, who had initially campaigned to reenter and reclaim their halls. Yurri and the Longbeard contingent came to settle in the Southern Blue Mountains, licking their wounds and biding their time for the day The Lonely Mountain and Khazad-Dum could be reclaimed. There Yurri remained for a time, a broken warrior amongst the Longbeards, the only dwarrows who sought to take the fight further. 

Many years later, a greying and bitter Yurri was still living his solitary life in the Southern Blue Mountains when all of his kind that dwelled nearby received word of the quest to reclaim Erebor. After many declinations of involvement by his fellow Dwarves, Yurri saddled his steed for the first time in many years and rode hard to join King Dain in the Iron Hills in the North, lowly joining their forces as a humble recruit in the battles that took place there. Despite his many years in life, Yurri had not missed a step of warfare, and battled hard in the North alongside the Dwarves of the Iron Hills.

Across the world to Erebor, word was sent by Thorin, son of Thrain, that the Elves and Men did come to sack their newly reclaimed city and steal their treasures. With Yurri now almost renowned for his battle hardened strength and determination, the fierce dwarrow was one of the five hundred who rode alongside Dain Ironfoot to participate in The Battle of the Five Armies. Yurri fought hard that day, his whitened beard returning dark as if young again, drenched in the blood of the Orc enemy.

Upon the battles completion and the mourning of their heavy losses, Yurri long remained in Erebor in order to provide aid with its restoration. Though the battle was won and the halls reclaimed, Yurri's soul did never heal. His anger and rage remained, his words sullied with curses and insults, Middle-Earth's cruelty never unrelenting. Standing in the halls of his fallen brothers, and a king not of Erebor, Yurri discretely abandoned the kingdom and rode hard to the land of Eriador. After many a month of denying help to those on the road, or even speaking to fellow travelers, the old silent Dwarf finally pushed his horse too far in its riding, and it keeled over outside a tall, thick, hedge wall.

The dwarf drowned his sorrows in The Prancing Pony tavern ever since, isolated from his people and receiving no word of them for years. The days blurred together, uneventful as he rotted inside and out, his belly growing and his face and hair, haggard. He heard not from his son, and often sat with knuckles bloodied, members of the Bree guard or drunken patrons incapacitated at his feet. Occasionally he'd play at courier in his old age, and ferry messages from Bree-Town to Ered Luin with word from dwarves near and far. 

In his final years, he was discharged from aiding the dwarven relief efforts about Middle Earth, and closed out his final years in the western mountains in the home of Kithri. Unfortunately, he has since passed away, succumbing only to time.