Davrock was a man forged in the crucibles of endless skirmishes along the shadowed borders of Lord Darkmoor's domain, a middle-aged human of forty-seven winters, his frame broad and unyielding like the ancient oaks that guarded the moors. His face, weathered by sun and steel, bore a jagged scar that hooked from his left temple down to his jaw, a memento from a goblin ambush in the Whispering Caves, where he'd lost three fingers on his left hand but gained a peculiar habit of tapping rhythms on his belt buckle with the stubs, a tic that betrayed his tension in quiet moments. Clad in practical leather armor reinforced with chainmail that had seen better days, patched and oiled against the relentless damp of the northern climes, he wore a cloak of deep green wool clasped with the silver raven sigil of House Darkmoor. His hair, cropped short and streaked with gray, framed eyes the color of storm clouds, sharp and assessing, always scanning for threats in the flickering torchlight of castle halls or the misty battlefields.

Born in the mud-churned villages under Darkmoor's rule, Davrock had risen from a conscripted farmhand to sergeant-at-arms through sheer grit and an unshakeable loyalty born of the lord's mercy during a famine that claimed his kin. He wanted nothing more than to see House Darkmoor endure, to stand as its unbreakable shield against the encroaching wilds and rival barons who schemed in their gilded towers. Yet ambition gnawed at him; whispers of a bastard son, hidden away in a distant hamlet, pulled at his heart, a secret vulnerability in a life dedicated to iron duty. The boy's mother, a healer slain in a raid, had begged him to claim the child, but Davrock's oath bound him tighter than chains—desertion meant death, and Darkmoor's wars raged without end.

He pursued his dual burdens with cunning ploys: training recruits with wisdom gleaned from a hundred clashes, forging alliances in smoky taverns where his rhythmic tapping disarmed wary foes, all while dispatching trusted scouts to watch over the boy from afar. This delicate balance worked because Davrock's battle-hardened instincts turned personal peril into strategic edge; his loyalty inspired the men, turning ragtag levies into a formidable host that repelled invaders time and again. Conflicts tore at him— the lord's growing paranoia demanded purges that tested his morals, while visions of the boy's face haunted his dreams, pitting paternal longing against sworn fealty. In the end, as Darkmoor's banners flew triumphant over a bloodied field, Davrock chose the shadows, smuggling his son into the household as a squire, his arc bending but never breaking, a loyal sentinel who found fragile peace in quiet vigilance, ever ready for the next storm.