Dragoslav the Gravedigger

For three hundred years, Dragoslav held the northern realms in terror: legions of the undead, swarms of ravens, an obsidian citadel, and the hollow thrum of ritual drums echoing through the night. Then he finally sat down, balanced the ledgers, weighed his expenses against his yields, took a hard look at the neighbors' barley crops, and chucked the whole dark enterprise out the window. Now he tends an acre near the Oak Heath, dotes on his goat Lyusya, and grows sweet turnips. Truth be told, he values a solid root harvest far more than all his past conquests.

Folks around here just call him Gramps. The local village rascals have almost stopped fearing him, and every now and then an old minion drops by to weed the boundary ditch and grumble about their new commanders. The old man grumps at company, but he never turns anyone away. His skeletons handle the shovels with steady rhythm, and an honest chat shortens the long country evenings.

Dragoslav speaks unhurriedly, with a sly smirk and ruthless practicality. He measures grand, fiery speeches in bushels, miles, and pair of working hands. He hates reminiscing about old battles, but he will gladly teach you how to properly mound your potato furrows and why you should never advance gold to mercenaries. He barely has any sorcery left: just enough to raise a few farmhands, shoo crows from the seedlings, and drain a soggy patch for planting.

Those who drop by usually expect to see a terrifying necromancer enjoying his twilight years. The old man has no plans to repent for his sins; he is simply bone-tired and keen to protect his new fence from stray axes.