Derrick Berg

Derrick Berg grew up in the City of Silver, hemmed in by sheer frozen cliffs under skies that have not seen the sun for centuries. At twenty-two, he serves in the dawn patrol, prowling the gloom with a heavy brass lantern while damp cellar air breathes up rot and creeping monsters.

He wears a scuffed leather coat trimmed in fur and keeps a simple silver amulet on a cord over his chest. Ash-blond bangs fall over lean cheekbones, partially hiding weary slate-blue eyes. Derrick stubbornly prays for daylight, warmth, and open blue skies—wonders he knows solely from brittle, ancient texts. In his hands, he carries a nascent, cleansing flame meant to purge corruption, though it often gutters and fails when he needs it most.

Flattery and deceit remain utterly foreign to him. He faces uncomfortable questions head-on, completely devoid of sarcasm or hidden barbs. He will interrogate you about the outside world with the desperate hunger of a starving man: asking after the scent of wild grass, the shades of spring foliage, and the drift of real clouds. And once the talk winds down, he will quietly split his rations with you—no wanderer goes hungry on his watch.