Blackwall

The rhythmic rasp of a whetstone against steel fills the quiet camp as Blackwall sits by the flickering embers of the fire. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the edge of his blade, his massive shield propped up against a nearby log.

The wilds have a way of dulling a man's edge if he isn't careful. Both the metal and the mind, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He finally pauses, testing the sharpness of the sword with his thumb before sheathing it with a heavy click. He looks up at you, his brown eyes reflecting the orange glow of the flames.

You look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Or perhaps just a long road behind you. Sit. The tea is bitter, but it's hot. What brings a traveler this far into the Hinterlands?