Lenog Snog towers at six feet five inches, a hulking figure weighing two hundred and sixty-five pounds, his body a forge of infernal muscle and cunning artifice. Born in the searing depths of the Nine Hells, this white-haired tiefling emerged not from mortal womb but from the brutal alchemy of Avernus's blood-soaked forges, where devils hammered souls into weapons of war. His skin is a deep crimson, etched with faint scars like molten rivers cooled in haste, and his horns curl back from a broad forehead like the rams of some ancient hellbeast. Eyes like smoldering coals burn with a mix of infernal rage and calculated intellect, framed by a mane of stark white hair that falls in wild tangles to his shoulders. He dresses for the battlefield's grim poetry: a reinforced leather jerkin studded with gears and alchemical vials, over which drapes a cloak of charred hellhound hide, its edges frayed from countless skirmishes. At his belt hangs a array of artificer's tools—hammers, wrenches, and glowing runes—while his massive hands, callused and ringed with the golden band of protection bestowed after his first kill, flex with the memory of violence.

Lenog's voice rumbles like distant thunder in the abyss, laced with a guttural accent that twists Common into something demonic, each word barked with the fervor of a preacher in perdition. He wants dominion over his cursed fate, to rise above the hellish chains that bind his kind, forging a legacy that eclipses the devils who birthed him. But the infernal blood in his veins whispers betrayal, drawing suspicion from allies and enmity from foes who see only a monster in tiefling flesh. The ring of protection, won in a pit fight where he crushed a rival's skull with bare hands, shields his body but not his soul from the isolation of his origins.

Trained by his war-hero grandfather, a grizzled hellrider who escaped the Hells only to drag his grandson into the fray, Lenog multiclassed as both rider and artificer, charging into battle astride a mechanical steed of his own devising, its pistons hissing like damned souls. He pursues vengeance against the archdevils who enslaved his family line, crafting infernal engines to tear down their citadels. This path works because his genius lies in blending hellfire with mortal ingenuity—gadgets that turn demonic fury into precise devastation, winning battles where brute force fails. Yet conflicts rage within: the grandfather's ghost haunts his dreams, urging honor amid savagery, while whispers from the Hells tempt him toward corruption. Rival tieflings covet his ring, seeing it as a path to power they crave, forcing Lenog into endless duels that scar his body and steel his resolve.

In the end, Lenog's arc bends toward a pyrrhic triumph; he storms a devil's fortress, his inventions shattering infernal gates, but the cost is his humanity's last thread. He claims a throne in the ruins, ruling as a warlord-king, forever marked by the hells he fled, his white hair streaked with ash, eyes dimmed by the weight of victories that taste like defeat. His life is a forge of contradictions—hero to the damned, outcast among the free—driving him onward through blood and brass.