Barinth

Barinth doesn’t talk about where he came from. He’ll tell you he’s been a soldier, a guard, a hired blade — in that order, roughly. The details change depending on who’s asking and how much he’s had to drink.

What’s consistent: he ended up at Asgenar’s side, and he intends to stay there.

Barinth travels light by habit and heavy by necessity. His longsword has no name and he has never given it one — it is a working weapon, not a trophy. The blade is plain, the hilt unwrapped, but the edge is kept with the kind of attention a craftsman gives to his best tool. He knows exactly where it is at all times. Whatever story the sword has, he keeps it to himself.

He wears fine leather over chain — the leather is the point; the chain underneath is none of your business. Quality work throughout, probably enchanted, though he has never confirmed this to anyone’s satisfaction. He looks like a well-dressed traveler until he doesn’t.

At each boot heel, a dagger. Across his back, a longbow and quiver. On his person, always: a battered flask, a set of playing cards, dice of varying provenance, and at least one toothpick.

He is short-haired, dark, with one blue eye and one green. There is a faint scar on his chin. He is, in his own estimation, well put-together.

Asgenar is Barinth’s oldest companion — the cleric who has been at his side through more campaigns than either of them could count honestly. Barinth calls him a pious fool when he is being affectionate.

Asgenar is clever in ways Barinth respects and principled in ways that occasionally make him want to throw something. The cleric sees the world in rights and wrongs with no room for grey. Barinth operates almost exclusively in grey and resents being made to feel otherwise about it. His faith is infuriatingly unyielding.

Barinth would fall on his sword for Asgenar. He would also loudly complain about it the whole way down. It’s complicated, the way it only gets with someone you’ve known long enough.