Allister MacKenna stands six feet tall, broad in the shoulders from marching and hauling gear rather than showy training. His red hair is cut short with a blunt fringe, and his clear green eyes are a recognized family trait. Cold winds have roughened his cheeks and reddened his nose; he smells faintly of woodsmoke, oiled steel, and the peat he uses to keep his clothes dry. A small hammer hangs beside his sword, and his battered armor bears careful repairs in contrasting thread.

Measured and watchful, Allister listens longer than most people expect before answering. He respects practical skill and plain dealing, but is unexpectedly patient with apprentices and anyone trying to repair what others have broken.

Allister MacKenna was born the second son of a family whose red hair and green eyes made them easy to recognize across the northern glens. He was still young when tragedy scattered him from his three brothers. Fostered among soldiers and raiders in Caledonia, he learned to march, keep watch, and take what a hard season would not give. The work made him steady, but never quite at ease with the men who called pillaging a way of life. His mother had taught him fragments of the old ways before they were separated: signs to read in weather and water, names for useful herbs, and a few guarded lessons in magic. He kept practicing in secret, first with small cantrips and later with spells he learned by watching and questioning the rare scholar who crossed his path. Between campaigns, he took to repairing blades and shaping simple metalwork, finding a quiet satisfaction in making something that would last. Now he has left his old company behind. Allister wants gold, but not another commander’s promise of a share. He means to win his own renown, choose his own causes, and learn what became of the family he lost.