Morwindl | Rising Tide
Warden Edward Kalanthis
this can be a bit about how you look or initial impressions
what you look like, what you might carry, how you might act to certain stimuli.
Edward looks at first glance like many mercenaries you’ve seen. A gruff man with the distinctive gnarled build that only comes from swinging a sword professionally. An ever-present hangover, continuous half shaved beard and the look of weariness that comes from one who is used to not sleeping sound seems to seal the impression of a mercenary out at the heels.
The thick padded cloth that you pack under armor, a sword and shield make up the most notable possessions of a man-at-arms taking leave of his regiment.
While anyone could peg Edward as good with the sword he carries, where he is from and what he is doing is harder to detect. Strangely, none of the other mercenaries know much about the newest in the ranks soldiers for wage. Other mercenaries steer instinctively clear of the man in silent proof of his competence in the realm of violence. But, any with any skill or sight have an unease that goes beyond respecting the threat of violence. Small stories speak the truth.
Once, in a bar brawl, the two men at the center of the fight came to magnificent blows. Their fight slowly escalated with the growing desperation of two men who had long been repressing their hatred. A ring of onlookers formed as they belted each other, at last one man finally stood bloodied over the other. The crowd waited as the man who had clearly won picked up a chair to quench the hatred in his eyes with a final swing. In the brief moment of stillness a stool tipped over and a mug shattered.
In the corner, a man who had sat the fight out stood. The crushed clay mug in his hands was not menacing, the tipped stool behind him was not a promise of threat, the sword on the table that gleamed in flickering firelight did not seem angry. The bloodshot stare of Edward drowned them all. His gaze arrested the winner of the fight. A flick of his eyes at the bent chair and the flare of his nostrils told the man to set it aside. To the crowds surprise, he did. The winner of the fight let the wood slip from his hands and looked around, the hate in his eyes turned to shame. Edward sat. Brushed the clay off of his glove, and held a hand up to signal the serving boy as patrons began to guiltily right chairs and slip out. The image of a drunk mercenary rapidly replaced the solid impression of moments before. It left those who had seen wondering precisely what had happened. And, none dared ask the dangerous drunk man in the corner.
So it was, in the last several months, Edward moving town to town. Followed only by a few strange stories and his own ghosts. At least until the night at the Silver Raven.
Where you come from, what you have done.