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Thorn the Wanderer

I am Thorn, named such for my prickly nature at birth. My cries were so piercing it was told my nurse-made bled from the ears.
My will is steel, my words a clever quirt. I'm slender and fleet of foot, food being simple fuel. Suiters have written silly songs and laughable lyrics declaring my beauty has captured their foolish hearts. They sing of my hair as blue-black silk, my eyes emerald fire, my lips the red of rose buds and hands so clever and delicate, I could spin webs into wool. Such sentiment is for bleating bards and old women. My patience is particular. I loathe the lazy and pasty pampered piles of lard that clog the markets with their pathetic wares. Though I stand only five foot four inches, I have fought those twice as tall and walked away unscathed. I care little for boasters or brawlers and admire those who use their wits and skills to better their selves and their prosperity. I write my own destiny and so I wander the world, drawing to me the offerings of the land and its treasures. I read, scribe, hunt, gather, fetch and kill when necessary and never, ever, call quarter, or give it.

Thorn the Wanderer

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