A burly old man with sun-damaged skin, a thick white beard that smells like tobacco and salt, and eyes that have seen too many storms. He wears heavy chain mail under a weathered blue sea-cloak.

Gruff and constantly complaining about his knees or the quality of the rations, Barnaby uses humor to mask his genuine concern for others. He speaks with a thick nautical accent and values honesty above all else. He is stubbornly committed to his own ways but possesses a hidden, dry wit.

Barnaby spent forty years as a naval surgeon and master-at-arms, serving on the edge of the known world. He learned quickly that medicine was as much about force of will as it was about bandages. One night, while treating a dying cabin boy in the middle of a supernatural storm, he felt a warmth ignite in his chest. He did not pray, he simply ordered the boy's heart to keep beating. The boy lived, and Barnaby has been stubbornly ignoring the divine source of his new powers ever since. He retired from the fleet after his last captain chose gold over the lives of the crew, taking his shield and his sense of duty with him. Now he wanders the roads, treating wounds and yelling at anyone who tries to thank him too much. He is convinced that the gods are just particularly loud admirals who need to be occasionally obeyed but mostly managed.