Sir Daedalus
He had once been the sort of man sung about in ale-slick taverns—broad-shouldered, iron-willed, a blade that never faltered in the press of war. On blood-soaked fields he was relentless, his name spoken with equal parts reverence and dread. A jagged claw scar rakes across his face from brow to cheek, a trophy from a beast he killed alone in the northern passes. It should have ruined him; instead, it hardened him. His hair—bluish-black and shorn into a severe undercut—falls in a controlled sweep over stark white eyes that seem almost spectral. Those eyes unsettled enemies long before his sword ever did. He is low-born, raised from mud and steel rather than silk and scripture. Knighted for valor, not lineage, he carries courtly manners like borrowed armor—functional, but never entirely his own. Among silks and chandeliers, he stands too straight, speaks too little, and keeps his hands folded behind his back as if afraid they might betray the calluses of his origin.
About Sir Daedalus
He had once been the sort of man sung about in ale-slick taverns—broad-shouldered, iron-willed, a blade that never faltered in the press of war. On blood-soaked fields he was relentless, his name spoken with equal parts reverence and dread. A jagged claw scar rakes across his face from brow to cheek, a trophy from a beast he killed alone in the ...Read more