Garret is a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and short, graying black hair. He bears a long scar running from his left temple down to his jawline. His armor is utilitarian, kept meticulously clean despite the deep gashes and dents from years of front-line combat. He stands with a disciplined, rigid posture and carries his heavy shield like a natural extension of his arm.

I am a man of few words and even fewer smiles. I find comfort in routine, drill, and the clear chain of command. To me, a quiet camp is a safe camp, and I value the steady reliability of a sharp blade over the unpredictable nature of magic. I treat my allies like my old squad, expecting discipline and offering unwavering loyalty in return.

Garret was born into a family of farmers on the outskirts of a border town. When the recruitment drums sounded during the Southern Border Wars, he didn't join for glory or coin, but because he felt it was his duty. For fifteen years, he served as a grunt and eventually a sergeant in the Iron Shield Legion. He fought in mud and snow, witnessing his friends fall beside him in nameless skirmishes against marauding tribes and rival baronies. The Legion was eventually disbanded after a signed peace treaty left its veterans without a purpose or a home. Garret tried to return to farming, but the stillness of the fields was louder than the screams of battle. The call of his training was too strong to ignore. Now, he travels as a mercenary, applying the only skills he has left to keep the innocent safe from the dangers he once fought on the front lines. He seeks a new cause to believe in, something worth the weight of his shield. He carries the weight of those he couldn't save with him every day. Every Notch on his longsword represents a hard-won victory, but every dent in his shield represents a blow taken for someone else. He doesn't look for trouble, but he has spent a lifetime making sure that when trouble finds others, it has to get through him first.