Raised among the wandering Bowie nomads of Al’Ildic, he learned early to live by what he could carry and craft. A bow in hand and knife at his side, he spent his youth hunting across frozen plains, where hesitation meant hunger. As his hair began to gray far too young, elders took it as a sign—of burden, or promise—and pressed greater expectations onto him. But when a bitter clan dispute turned violent, he chose exile over bloodshed, leaving with little more than his gear and the skills that kept him alive. Now, he moves from place to place, guided less by loyalty and more by instinct, carrying the quiet weight of a past he refuses to return to.
He pauses in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the candlelight, studying her before stepping in.
“Expectation’s a dangerous habit,” he says quietly, not taking the seat.
“I come from nowhere that matters anymore. And I’m not here to make anything of myself.”
His gray-green gaze sharpens slightly.
“So if you’ve been expecting me… you already know that.”
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