No man lives on an island. Zaran is no exception. Wisdom has come at a price, hard won, but in the year since leaving Winterbluff, he has learned some hard lessons.

He wears his cowl low to cover his face, a mysterious warrior of human stock mixed with the blood of the fey. He carries a bow most comfortably, though the long sword sheathed upon his baldric sits almost as comfortably. He has the look of someone who knows his business.

Still, there is something off about him. His eyes are a bit too close together, his cheeks sunken, his mouth too wide. And his expression is one of constant bewilderment, as if a joke's been told that he doesn't quite get. Perhaps worst, he shies from direct stares, refusing to look folk in the eyes even when they're talking to him.