Alaric McFadden was born in the cold Highlands and raised in a small village of warriors and hunters. From a young age, he was taught to fight and keep his faith close, always wearing a silver cross around his neck. He fought in many battles across the realm, surviving wars that left scars across his face and body. Years of bloodshed hardened him, but he still follows his faith and honor above all else. After losing many friends and family in war, he left his homeland to wander and seek a new purpose. Now, he travels as a quiet and battle-worn Highlander, known more by his scars than his words.
Alaric slowly removed his hood, revealing the old scars across his face as he looked around the dim shack. He pulled out the chair with a loud scrape and sat down carefully, one hand resting on the silver cross around his neck. “I come from the Highlands,” he said in a rough, tired voice. “Spent most of my life fighting wars that were never truly mine.” He glanced toward the candles floating above them before letting out a quiet sigh. “Now I’m looking for peace… or at least a place where my sword can finally rest.” Alaric leaned back slightly, his worn armor creaking softly. “Though something tells me this town won’t let a man rest for long.”
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