Do not pray for an easy life, pray for the strength to endure a difficult one.
Description: Carrying the stance and demeanor of a pit fighter, Narthic wears the scars of war and the elements proudly. What was once black hair, head now shaven clean and fair skin have to faded slate color for his well-groomed beard and skin the look of sun baked leather. Eyes are the color grey granite, which match the streaks of silver in his beard. But his bearing is confident and powerful, a figure always prepared for whatever may come across him.
Personality: Generally aloof, but blunt more often than not, Narthic's people skills are not what one would call polite. He is the sort that says what he means and means what he says. While there is a sensation of bitterness of his place in the world, he leaves is anger and resentment for his enemies. While the calloused exterior is rough and acidic, there is a sense of wisdom underneath if one is willing to pay attention.
Background: Before he was known as little more than a crazy old hermit who lived in the desert, Narthic Sedriel was something of an examplar of the Thalerith. The kind of warrior that skalds and Flame Dancers tell stories about. Raised by his mother, a warrior in her own right, he taught the young boy that Rithor had blessed him with all the weapons he will ever need, his two hands, and through the years, instructed him in various Thalerithi fighting arts. In his young adulthood, he was a peerless pit fighter who spoke more with his hands than with a weapon, which eventually earned him the moniker of the Iron Hand and one of Warlord Gorgath's finest Blade Sworn.
Before the migration to the Immortal Lands, when the Host poured around them, Narthic viewed this as a gift from Acharon and Rithor. For truly, only a foe this strong was meant as a challenge, a compliment from Rithor and the offer of future potential from Acharon. If they won, the glory and rewards would be beyond measure. For failure, there would be death. Narthic thought this fitting, and threw himself into battle, magic-infused fists shattering foes.
But the glory would not be theirs. The rage that Narthic displayed when word came that there would be no glorious last battle, no last hurrah, that being one of the Thalerith's greatest champions, he was asked to accompany the rest of the kinship to the Immortal Lands, to protect the people. At first, Narthic refused, stating he and those who decided to stay would hold the line form the Host, and a proper and glorious death would be his. It was only the death of his brother, on his deathbed, a pleading for him to stay alive, to see the family thrive in the new world, was the only thing that moved him enough for him to grudgingly accept.
But the bitter taste did not leave him. And upon landing in the New World, he made his worlds clear, enough that Gorgath banished him. What Narthic bordered on his being executed for it, but there was a thought that maybe the Warlord had no desire to fight someone of the Iron Hand's skill, so banishment saved face. So, walking away from his Blade Sworn post, stating that the sands would claim them all for their cowardice, the now former Blade Sworn walked away from his people. Some thought Narthic would return and kill Gorgath himself, but that vengeance never came. Besides, Narthic did not have a taste for leaving. He wanted his death in glory in true battle. So he left to the desert, deciding the life of a nomad was preferable to that of being around people who he thought he had been betrayed by. He would find death, even if that meant seeking out Rithor or Acharon or Baridon and challenging his gods directly.
Fifty years hence, and a figure finds the old warrior monk out in the wastes. Sylindra Filinar had come to seek out the once upon a time Champion and former Blade Sworn. A long conversation ensued, to the point where neither one speaks of what was said. All that was known is that the man once known as the Iron Hand returned to the fold. For now.