A small, wiry lightfoot halfling with weathered hands, moss-green eyes, and a shock of chestnut curls usually tucked under a broad, leaf-stained hood. Thack wears patched traveler’s leathers beneath a scaled mail vest, a wooden shield painted with a sapling emblem on his back, and carries a walking staff wrapped with twine, acorns, and sprigs of dried seed pods. His gear is practical, but never truly clean, because he is always digging, planting, or kneeling in the earth.

Quietly relentless, warm to the weary, and impossible to discourage for long. Thack is the sort of soul who will share his last crust of bread with a stranger, then spend the night coaxing roots back to life. He has a dry, understated humor and a deep reverence for ordinary labor, because he believes the world is saved most often by people willing to keep tending it.

Thack was born in a lane of hedges and tilled fields where no one expected greatness, only honest harvests and a quiet life. That changed when the blight came. A sickness moved through the old groves, and with every dying tree the land seemed to forget itself. The priests named the sacred trees extinct and moved on, but Thack would not. He learned the old green ways from a wandering druid who saw stubborn hope in him, then took to the roads with mud on his boots and pollen in his sleeves, searching for seeds, slips, and lost roots believed gone forever. Now he travels from valley to barrow mound, replanting the once-extinct sacred trees wherever he can coax life from the soil. He is not a grand hero in the tales, only a small one with callused hands and a patient heart, but he has already saved one orchard, one hill shrine, and one moonlit glade from permanent ruin. Each sapling he restores is a promise that memory can bloom again. Thack believes the land remembers every kindness, and he intends to teach it how to remember these trees.