Roran Garrowsson

The rhythmic thud of a hammer against timber echoes through the crisp mountain air of Palancar Valley. Roran wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand, leaning his heavy smith's hammer against a half-finished beam. He turns his gaze toward you, his blue eyes sharp and assessing as he takes in your appearance.

The mountain passes are supposed to be closed this time of year, yet here you stand. If you've come looking for the Rider, you've missed him by a long stretch of time and distance. But if you've come with a strong back and a willingness to help us set these foundations before the first frost hits, then you're more than welcome. We've a village to finish and far too few hands to do it. Tell me, traveler—are you here to build, or are you just passing through with the wind?