Legend: Champions of Geram
Rakish expert marksman with an Imperial complexion and accent
“That’s him over there, flirting with my help,” Tairis grumbled testily.
The dark-haired woodsman leaning back in his chair at the table the innkeeper indicated is dressed in soft leather and pelts, and a grey cloak is draped over the chair next to him. Right now, he’s chatting easily with the barmaid, a pretty young blonde, who seems to be taking a break from the raucous patrons at the large table near the door.
“Mina!” Tairis shouts at her. “More mead for Sir Klevak’s table!”
The girl starts as if caught red-handed, and with a guilty wave back at Graemas, she comes back to work.
That brings the hunter’s attention up toward the bar, which gives you a good look at him.
His olive complexion gives the man an exotic air, and when he sees you looking at him, he flashes you a handsome, devil-may-care smile that’s doubtless charmed many a young maiden’s heart.
Hmph. Cocky bastard.
He keeps his dark locks trimmed close to his head, and his face is shaved clean of any stubble. He’s certainly one of the cleanest woodsmen you’ve ever seen, but you suppose that may just be in deference to his planned recreations for the evening — plans you’re intending to cut short.
As you approach, the man stands from his chair and salutes you with a low bow. “Salaam, my friend!” he calls to you with a suave Imperial accent. His big, brown eyes are smoldering. “Won’t you join me for a drink?”
You shove out the chair beside him with your foot and snort at his bravado. “Stow it, Windel. I’m here on Guild business, and you know it.”
He shrugs expressively as he plops back down in his chair and checks the level of his pint before taking a measured sip. “You cannot blame a man for trying.”
Graemas Windel is an exceptional archer — half the country is in agreement over that, and the other half wants to kill him. Rumors abound as to where he learned marksmanship, but no one seems to know. If you ask him, he says a few words about a tyrannical master and then quickly changes the subject.
Based on his accent, it’s plain that his origins are Imperial, and by questioning barmaids across the country you can piece together that his father was an apothecary and his mother a midwife. He served some time as an imperial regular, but a disagreement with his superior officer led to his eventual desertion.
Naturally, this led to a falling out with the entire Empire of Man.
During the next few years, no one knows exactly where Graemas was nor what he did, although several high-ranking marshals still put him in connection with notorious underworld elements. No matter what he did, no one disputes that his archery improved dramatically. From being a bowman in the Imperial Regulars, Graemas went to being a rather famous sniper and assassin.
About three years after his break with the army, Graemas took a contract on a minor noble away on holiday in the south. When the contract went horribly wrong, he found himself on the run and had to flee the country.
Always one to land on his feet, the intrepid adventurer turned to mercenary work, something to which it happened he was better suited anyway.