Bancroft
The jingle of coins in his purse was a happy, heavy sound, a promise of steel and safety. Bancroft, his mind as clear and simple as a summer sky, had a singular purpose. “I have enough,” he’d declared to his friends, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who has counted his treasure and found it sufficient. “We go to Ironguard Motte. I’m getting my plate mail!”
The morning sun cast long shadows across Helix as Bancroft made his way through the town’s winding streets, his mind turning over an intriguing conversation from the previous evening. He had encountered a small goblin wizard—scarred and bearing himself with the cold authority of one who had gazed beyond death’s veil—who spoke of an animated serpent trapped near the rats’ nest in the shadowmaze.
“An animated snake, you say?” Bancroft had mused, his farmer’s practicality already working through the possibilities. “Made of brass and steel?”