Born in the muddy, rain-swept outskirts of a minor fiefdom in the North, John Smith was the son of a tanner. The sharp, acrid smell of lye and curing hides permeated his childhood, a scent he learned to associate with the crushing weight of poverty. His father was a hard man who believed a son's only destiny was to inherit his trade. But John, staring out at the grey horizon, dreamed of a life that didn't end at the workshop door. When the local lord conscripted able-bodied men for a border skirmish against a rival duchy, John didn't run. He saw it not as a duty, but as an escape. He wasn't a hero in the war. He was a spearman in the third rank, standing in the mud while rain mixed with blood. He learned that glory was a lie told by bards, but he also learned discipline, survival, and the value of watching the man next to you. After the war ended in a stalemate, John took his meager soldier's pay and walked away from the tannery forever. For the last decade, he has drifted as a sword-for-hire, guarding caravans and working farmsteads during harvest. He travels now to Uros not for conquest, but for peace—seeking a patch of land to call his own where the only thing he has to fight is the winter frost.