Faolan’s a dockhand now, though you wouldn’t guess it by the way he talks—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, always ready with a comment that’ll either make you laugh or want to swing at him. He doesn’t flinch either way.

Red hair with a thick beard and freckled skin browned by sun and salt. His clothes are patched, boots worn thin, but he carries himself like someone who’s survived worse than poverty—and he has. He escaped a Danish slave ship half-dead, fevered and starving. Now he hauls crates and curses spiders like they owe him money.

He’s stubborn as a mule and twice as clever. Change his mind? Not likely. Earn his trust? That’s something else. He doesn’t give it away, but once it’s yours, he’ll stand by you even if the sky cracks open.

Funny, loyal, and always watching with those sharp brown eyes—Faolan is the kind of man who talks too much until it matters, then says exactly what you need to hear. Just don’t ask him to go somewhere dark without a torch.