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Arin “The Twig”
A 28-year-old lightning rod for bad luck, Arin stands a mere 160 cm tall—slim, wiry, and built like a well-shaken arrow. His dark brown hair is forever in a tousled state, as if he lost a fight with a porcupine and forgot to comb the aftermath. A jagged scar under his right eye serves as a permanent reminder that bar brawls are best left to dullards with insurance.
Personality & Outlook
Dependable as a rusty trap, he’d rather loiter in the shadows than blabber like a court bard. All pompous fanatical zealots—especially those butt-kissers of every god under the sun—make his stomach turn faster than an arrow in flight. Gods, schm-gods: there are enough of those sky-rats to fill a cathedral, and he can’t keep track.
Backstory
Bullied for his height and spindly frame, young Arin found refuge in the woods alongside his runaway brother, practicing archery until his arms ached—and sometimes his pride, when the arrows missed. One particularly ugly tavern brawl nearly cost him an eye—turns out, barstools wielded by drunks aren’t as forgiving as practice logs. Today, that little crease beneath his right eye is both fashion statement and cautionary tale: pick your fights wisely, especially when pint-swilling fools are involved.