
In a quiet corner of Luiren where the hills rolls and the rivers run slow under the watchful eye of ancient oaks—In a home dug into a grassy hillside with a chimney that always smoked and an orchard that always bore fruit, there lived a Halfling. Buck, of the O'Brier clan.
The O’Briers were not warriors, nor lords, nor heroes of great song. They were hunters and tillers of the earth, keepers of old ways and older stories still, content with full bellies, warm hearths, and a life measured in quiet joys. And so Buck grew as all his kin did—barefoot in the fields, wind on his face, a sling always at hand.
Even as a boy, he could find the surest path through bramble and thicket, tell the coming of rain from the taste of the air, and strike a hare mid-bound without a second thought. It was a good life, simple and sweet, the kind that passes like a dream when one wakes to the hard years ahead.
*An older halfling with with a soldier's posture. His well-trimmed mustache frames a worn and tired face.
Tanned skin and faint scars hints at years of service on the road. A leather sling is loosely wrapped around his wrist,
always within reach. At his belt is a pouch full of pebbles, gently clacking against one another as he wanders barefoot.*


Buck was young when he first felt the weight of things, though not so young as to be careless, nor so old as to understand it fully. He had followed a stag deep into the autumn wood, its flank torn by an old wound, its steps slow and labored. It stood upon a ridge as the sun bled into the horizon, its breath coming shallow, its dark eyes holding the weary knowing of a beast at its journey’s end.
For a while, Buck sat beside it, listening. To the hush of the forest, to the wind shifting through the branches, to the distant calls of birds, solemn and knowing. The woods had borne witness to the passing of one of their own, and he, too, felt bound to silence.
That night, he dreamt of a black hound pacing the ridgeline, eyes shimmering like faded stars. It did not bare its fangs nor give chase—only watched, patient as the grave. Morning came with the uneasy sense that something had changed and from then on Buck spoke the old prayers with greater care, and whispered the names of the fallen with a newfound reverence.
"Every soul leaves a weight behind. Some are but whispers, no more than dry leaves stirring in an autumn breeze.
But others—others settle like stones in your pockets, burdens you carry whether you like it or not."
- A saying amongst Vassals of the Black Hound
But others—others settle like stones in your pockets, burdens you carry whether you like it or not."
- A saying amongst Vassals of the Black Hound


Somewhere along the road, Buck found his way to the 3rd Pebblewatch, a company of old hands and sharp eyes, slingers and hunters who had once stood proud amongst the now-dismantled Luiren Loosers Battalion.
They were not an army, not anymore. Just a ragged band of mercenaries and wayfarers, folk who knew the weight of duty and the whistle of a slung pebble. He took to them like an old dog takes to a well-worn path, finding within the company a purpose and a calling.
They were a hard lot, fought true, ate well, and at the end of a long day, always made room by the fire. For years now, Buck travelled and served under their colours, trained hard and laughed harder still.
Now older and grumpier, O'Brier is quick to frown, reticent to changes, but steadfast once his mind is set. His prayers go to Arvoreen in battle and Urogalan when the dust settles, and he certainly never lets a meal go cold.
He does not dwell on the past, but he does not forget it either. And when the wind is still, and the world quiet, Buck swears he can still see the black hound, watching from over the hills...
*Sewn onto his beret, is an old embroidered soldier's patch displaying the numeral "III"
over a pile of pebbles, circled by laurel branches and a braided golden sling.*
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