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Greataxe Cleave: if you hit a creature with a melee attack, you can make a second attack against a different creature within 5 feet as part of the same action. Handaxe Topple: on a hit, target must succeed on a Constitution save (DC 13) or fall Prone.
When you roll damage for a melee weapon with the Two-Handed or Versatile property, you can reroll a die that shows a 1 or 2 and must use the new roll.
Increased Strength, Constitution, and Wisdom by 1; proficiency in one extra skill (Perception); Heroic Inspiration gained each Long Rest.
Once per turn when you hit with a weapon, you can roll the weapon's damage dice twice and use either total.
As a Bonus Action, regain 1d10 + Fighter level Hit Points.
Behind the character
Brenna Halloway is a mountain given human shape—a broad-shouldered, thick-armed woman whose presence fills a doorway and whose laugh rattles tankards across the tavern. Her auburn hair is braided tight and threaded with iron rings, each one a memento from a fallen comrade of her old militia company. A pale scar splits her left eyebrow, a souvenir from a goblin war-camp she helped burn to the ground. She moves with the unhurried confidence of someone who has never once been knocked backward in a shoving match—and who has tested that claim more than once.
Despite her imposing frame, Brenna is warm, plainspoken, and fiercely protective. She drinks little, guards her friends fiercely, and treats every green recruit the way her old sergeant treated her: with gruff patience and brutal honesty. She believes strength is a debt owed to the weak, a lesson burned into her by the fall of her home village.
In combat she is a wall of iron and fury, swinging a greataxe nearly as long as she is tall with a technique honed through years of drill and battlefield bloodshed. She keeps a pair of handaxes at her belt for closer, uglier work. Off the field, she mends armor, whittles toy soldiers for children, and quietly gives her coin to widows of the war.
Brenna adventures now because the war is over but the debt is not: the bandits and monsters who prey on the frontier are the same breed of scavengers that destroyed her village, and she has sworn on her sergeant's grave that no settlement will burn while she still draws breath.
Before the adventure
Brenna Halloway was born in the highland village of Thornfell, the third child of a blacksmith and a shepherd. From the moment she could lift a hammer, she worked the forge, and by twelve she could carry an anvil across the yard. The villagers joked that the smith had birthed a siege engine, and Brenna wore the joke like armor.
Her idyllic childhood ended the winter the Redmaw raiders came. She was fifteen. The bandits took grain, livestock, and lives, and burned what they couldn't carry—including the forge, and her father with it. Brenna dug survivors from the wreckage with her bare hands for three days. When the local militia arrived too late to help, she signed her name on their muster roll before the captain had finished his speech.
The Ironshield Company made her. Sergeant Dagna Corvane, a scarred veteran with no patience for excuses, saw past the muscle to the discipline beneath and drilled Brenna mercilessly—footwork, axe-work, and above all, when to hold the line. Brenna learned that her strength wasn't hers alone; it belonged to the shield-brother on her left. Over eight years of service she fought border skirmishes, escorted supply caravans, and once held a river crossing against a raider warband for an hour until reinforcements arrived. The iron rings in her braid are each named for a comrade who didn't come home.
When the war ended and the Company disbanded, Brenna drifted. Guard work paid, but it felt hollow. Then she passed through a frontier town where raiders—Redmaw kin, by their tattoos—had extorted the villagers for everything they had. Something old and hot woke in her chest. She put the raiders in the mud, one by one, and left before the town could thank her.
Now she walks the frontier roads as a sellsword with a personal code: fair rates, no cruelty, and no village burns on her watch. She carries her sergeant's old whetstone in her pack and uses it every night, sharpening more than steel—her memory, her promise, and her resolve. Somewhere out there, the Redmaw chiefs still think the highlands are theirs to bleed. Brenna intends to teach them otherwise, one axe-stroke at a time.
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