A broad-shouldered human with close-cropped dark hair, a weathered face, and a clean but well-used set of chain mail. A faded unit insignia is tied to the shield strap, and old campaign scars mark one eyebrow and the back of one hand. They keep their gear immaculate, as if order itself were a form of prayer.

Calm under pressure, blunt but considerate, and deeply observant. He rarely raises his voice, yet when he gives an order it sounds like a promise he intends to keep.

Raised on the edge of a border fortress, Edrin Vale grew up listening to veterans tell stories of winter sieges, broken banners, and the cost of panic. He enlisted young, not for glory, but because the walls of home were stronger when someone stood on them. In training he discovered a steady hand, a stubborn spine, and an uncanny talent for reading a battlefield like a ledger. He became the sort of soldier officers trusted with a command that needed to hold, not charge. During a brutal campaign against raiders in the marshlands, Edrin watched a superior abandon civilians to save pride. He held the line long enough for refugees to escape, but the victory tasted like ash. Afterward he left the army with his armor, his discipline, and a quiet vow to serve something better than rank. Now he travels from town to town as a mercenary bodyguard and problem-solver, trying to prove that a soldier can still choose mercy without becoming weak.