Geinhast. To those who have served for any length of time in the region of Lastwall, the name evokes an institution, an era, a relic. Those that remember him in the days of his arrival are few and far between, but among the rank and file it is well known that he kept vigil over the Gallowspire and tended to Lastwalls dead for over thirty years.

Many remember him as a teacher, a hard nosed instructor doling out lessons and hard won wisdom for combating the restless dead. Others remember him as a chaplain, a solemn voice in the chapel, in the infirmary, on the battlements. Most remember him as the one who presided over the last rites of a loved one, a friend, a comrade.

But even those days are long past. His hiatus for reasons including family, friends and other matters not discussed removed him from the thoughts and happenings of his post, and by the time he returned a new generation sat upon the throne in Vigil, and filled the ever thinning ranks.

The man himself is perhaps in his late forties or early fifties with wrinkles and worry lines etched deeply on a once handsome face. His eyes are fixed in a permanent squint and ringed in purple and black, slits that betray a perpetually tired and almost bothered gaze.

His thinning gray hair is cropped short much like a younger soldiers and his aging frame bears his armor and the faded black robe beneath it with a slightly stooped posture. Tied to his left bicep is a length of black brocade that hangs a few feet by his side, embroidered with names and symbols in white thread and ending in a knot affixed to a thick silver medallion engraved with a bold geometric spiral.

At his hip is a book satchel worn opposite an iron flanged mace suspended from a ring, it's octagonal shaft and leather grip hang to his knee. His voice is sonorous, with a slow measured cadence and a very precise enunciation.