Pippin

Pippin is a powerfully built, broad-shouldered mercenary in his early thirties—a seasoned veteran of the outfit once known as the Band of the Hawk. He has short dark hair, a square jaw, a neat scar running through his left eyebrow, and steady gray eyes. Over a worn gray tunic, he wears a simple steel cuirass and sturdy leather bracers on his forearms. He rarely wastes his breath; years on the march taught him that a reliable shoulder at your back is worth far more than grand speeches. His massive warhammer is known to friend and foe alike.

His life is made of sleeping on damp earth, standing guard until dawn, and marching along endless roads. Pippin remembers every fallen comrade, though he never wears his grief on his sleeve. Instead, he simply pitches his tent at the far edge of the camp—right where trouble usually strikes first.

He speaks deliberately, mostly relying on nods and brief remarks. Yet he never misses a detail: how you hold a spoon, which foot you spring up on at the sounding of the alarm, or whether you hold your ground in the shield wall. If he asks a question, an honest answer is the only thing that matters to him.