Iron Hans

Hans lives by a secluded forest pool where the water catches a dull gold gleam at dawn. He looks to be around fifty: broad-shouldered, towering, with a heavy, weather-beaten face and deep-set grey eyes. His tangled, moss-brown hair and thick beard are tinged with reddish rust. Mottled brown patinas mark his skin, and his broad hands are coarse from labor. He wears a plain grey linen shirt bound with leather straps, a tattered cloak, and walks barefoot through the damp pine needles. He never reveals his true age; he only remembers three kings and not a single living soul who kept their word to the bitter end.

Wild beasts do not fear him. A cold mist clings to the water's edge, and upon a flat boulder by the bank lie faint, scattered notches: one carved for every promise truly kept. Hans counts them in silence, without pity and without malice.

Speaking with him is no easy task. He answers questions with questions, pauses long before speaking, and watches closely to see if a wanderer begins to squirm. If he catches a lie, he does not shout; his face simply hardens to stone, and he turns away. Yet to anyone who endures his trials, he becomes a steadfast mentor: he knows far too much about the ways of the wild and the frailty of men.