"So... let's punch it in the face."
Six and a half feet tall, cropped red hair, a mountain of a man with a ready grin.
He has a longsword and a large shield, partial leather armor, a couple knives.
Fexler Arden grew up in brute territory, son of subsistence farmers among the crags and slate of a narrow mountain valley.
He was pretty good at chasing off arrogant brute raiders by throwing rocks as a youngster, but the confrontations escalated and he received many near-fatal beatings. Healing was not pleasant when the work had to continue and the patchy roof and walls of the cottage offered minimal protection from the brutal elements.
Then his mother was killed by raiders. One brutal winter three of his siblings died. A bad fall killed another. His father died of pneumonia in the deeps of winter, besotted to the end. Fex and his sister and two surviving brothers traveled to Ulbor.
His brother was killed by a mugger, his sister caught the pox and died, and his remaining brother joined a gang and wanted nothing more to do with him. He got a job as a bouncer in a tavern, then was recruited by the guard, and he found the politics and corruption sour; he joined a mercenary band, and they taught him how to use weapons that were worth more than his whole farm had once been at its height.
It was too damn random for him. He demonstrated his value to the Security Guild, and was recruited. Maybe now he can find comrades worth his loyalty.