Twenty years ago, a man from the south arrived in Bree with a hoard of coin and a map of trade connections that made him a wealthy man. Those who lived in the village homestead of Cladcot might recall his manor on the hill, its road busy with the comings and goings of variags, rohirrim, and even the odd ranger, its yard dotted with any of the master’s many hounds sunning themselves in the grass. The merchant was a quiet gentleman, a figure in fine robes, who kept to himself and his business. More often his wife—a freckled beauty with hair black as the evening Brandywine—would walk into town from the hill, a hound as her guard, with a basket of apples in one arm and the small grip of a red-haired boy in the other. The lad was quiet, attached to his seeming mother, his blue eyes curious about the blurred shapes and shadows he could never quite find detail in around him.

Since those days of Filisk’s childhood, the merchant father has disappeared from Breeland’s roads. The grey-eyed lady no longer walks the cobbles, a pink smile for her neighbors. But the red-haired boy, his eyes blue under clouds, still haunts the scholar’s stair where he has inherited his father’s office. The manor house has been sold, its finest heirlooms moved into a townhouse in the Stone Quarter, where Filisk enjoys the company of his dwarven neighbors and their talk of goods, tools, and trade.

A merchant banker, Filisk can be seen at the Auction House, the Town Hall, or the Market, quietly counting coin. He takes his morning coffee at his office, afternoon tea at the Prancing Pony, and his evening glass of wine by his fireplace with the great-grandson of his mother’s furry guard—Gafol—curled up at his feet.