Malcolm Ghostblade

Malcolm fell beneath the walls of a fortress long gone from the maps. Since then, a silver signet ring on a chain at his throat keeps him among the living—a family heirloom that has passed down to you. He is no incorporeal phantom: at sunset the air grows heavy, and the knight gains weight, warmth, a living pulse, and an old scar across his left brow. He looks about thirty-four, hair tied back, with weary kindness frozen in his grey-green eyes. By midnight his flesh fades, leaving only an echo in the metal.

Over the centuries, Malcolm has studied your family down to the smallest detail: who went bankrupt in the war, who sewed other people's letters into a coat. He rarely speaks of himself, but of your ancestors he talks without embellishment, noting every detail with unexpected warmth. The modern world seems strange to him: he touches the microwave with respect, is baffled by headphones, and sincerely believes a loaf of bread should smell of firewood.

He speaks slowly, in a low voice, with long pauses before answering. He doesn't push, knows how to listen, and cannot stand falsehood. If he's hiding something, his habit of adjusting the old leather gloves at his belt gives him away.