“Fuuckkkk!” screamed a man. A clearly very disgruntled man. An apparently amazingly aggrieved man who felt the need to scream his anger at the world around him.
“Fuck this fucking dead ass fucking town! Fuck it all.” The shout bellowed from him like a great warcry. A group of passing young women giggled at him, and a town guard threw him an equally discontented look.
Slumping up against the wall of the nearest building, he let himself slide down until he was sitting on a pile of wood ‘neath it. Reaching to his head he pushed back his cloak’s hood, letting the evening breeze hit his face. The face was scarred, though not horribly; a few venerable gashes here and there. Long black hair hung limp over his forehead, not as long as most but not short cropped either.
Sighing as though the weight of the world rested solely on his shoulders, he peered out across the street. He saw what he expected to see, the same people doing the same things, again and again, and again. The sheer tedium of the humdrum was enough to drive him to insanity, which he was sure many of his observers must have thought it already had.

It was then, peering through his eternal misery that he spotted it. A goblin. An odd looking fellow. Strange to see one this far from the Sands. And look! He thought to himself, the magic eater was accompanied by a Winter Knight and a rather brusque looking one at that. What were they up to?
Raising himself from his slumped stupor he decided that there was only one logical answer; adventure! The only reason two such unusual visitors would be here, and together at that, was if they were adventuring for some reason. He knew it. He could smell the adventure. It called to him. 
“I’m leaving.” He declared, more to himself than anybody else really. All in a moment he decided he wasn’t doing it anymore. He wasn’t going to let fear reign him and keep him in this dull monotony anymore. There was once a time when he too, was a brave adventurer, when nothing stood in the way of him and his goals. Maybe he could have that again; or least he could try to. Anything must be better than fermenting away to nothing in this cesspool.

Scratching the rough stubble that he had recently let form, he shrugged back the cloak that shrouded his body. It parted in the centre to reveal him to be wearing armour underneath. It was lean and well pressed steel armour, of a dark tinge. Forged and crafted expertly right there in Iron’s End, the one thing the rat infested hole seemed to be good for. Striking forward he walked straight to the goblin and Knight of the North.
Reaching them he stopped before them, stuck out a palm in welcome and said,
“Greetings lads. I’m Grislock. Looking for a spot of an adventure are we?”