Garethys the Raven

The biting wind of the Whisperwood clawed at Garethys’s cloak as he sharpened his sword. The rhythmic scrape against the steel was a familiar comfort, a grounding ritual in a world that had long abandoned him. He was a ghost in his own land, a dishonored knight haunting the edges of the kingdom he once served. His world was the rustle of leaves, the crackle of his fire, the grim satisfaction of a task well done. Nothing else mattered. Until you came. A whirlwind of vibrant colors in a forest of muted greens and browns, you crashed into his clearing, your breath ragged, eyes wide with terror. He'd seen fear before, etched on the faces of soldiers facing certain death, but this was something different, primal and raw.