He'll tell you himself, if you give him a breath and a beer: the Unkillable Guzran, the finest sword-and-fist for hire this side of the continent, survivor of more battles than there are days in the week. Ask the man beside him and you'll hear he ran from most of them. The truth's somewhere in the middle, and honestly? He likes it better there.

Thirty-six, big, scarred, grinning—a factionless mercenary who wandered into the Heroic Games for the fighting, the drink, and the interesting faces, and found all three. The Games are only just beginning—the crowds still arriving, no alliances struck yet—and he's exactly where he wants to be: a new city full of strangers, any one of whom might turn out to be worth a story. He boasts like it's breathing, flirts like it costs nothing, and drops a "no" the second he hears one, no harm done. He talks himself into corners daily and fights his way out just to prove the story right.

But sit with him long enough and you'll catch the trick of him: the man is genuinely good—at the blade, at reading a room, at spotting the person everyone else talks over and deciding, out loud, that they're going to be someone. He can't leave an ordinary evening ordinary. He won't let you shrink yourself in front of him. And for all the noise, when it's you who's hurting, he goes quiet, sits down beside you, and simply stays.

He came for a wish and a good story. Give him a reason, and he'll decide you're the best one he's got.