Slogern

Backstory

Slogern grew up in the farming village of Durnholt, on the edge of the Greywood, where he spent his youth hauling grain, mending fences, and getting into the kind of scrapes that leave a boy with a crooked nose and a good story. He took to the sword late — past twenty — when a band of goblin raiders torched half the village and the militia needed warm bodies willing to stand in front of sharp things. He found, to his own mild surprise, that he was rather good at it. Not graceful, not tactical — just solid. A wall of leather and stubbornness that didn't much like moving when things came at him. He wandered after that, taking mercenary work where he could find it, clearing out cellars and escort jobs and the odd bandit camp, building a reputation as someone dependable if unspectacular. Slogern is friendly in the way that a hearthfire is friendly — warm, steady, and occasionally a little too hot if you crowd it. He has opinions about ale, strong ones, and will share them at length. He is gruff with strangers but softens quickly, and has an embarrassing habit of getting attached to people he travels with. He is not a man of grand philosophies or complicated feelings; he believes in doing right by the people next to you, keeping your shield arm up, and not letting a friend sleep hungry if you can help it. He has little patience for cruelty and even less for people who mistake his easy manner for stupidity. What draws Slogern toward the Sunken Vault is not glory or gold, though he wouldn't turn either down. The wrongness spreading out from the highlands passed through Durnholt weeks ago — he was visiting an old friend when the cattle started dying and the children stopped sleeping. He saw the look on people's faces, the same look he'd seen the night the goblins came, and something in him set like mortar. Somebody has to go find out what's causing it. Somebody solid. He's never been much for destiny, but he's always been good at showing up.