Norbert was a weathered man of forty summers, his frame lean and scarred from endless roads. Clad in patched leather jerkin and a frayed cloak that smelled of woodsmoke and blood, he moved with a slight limp from an old arrow wound. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, darted constantly, and he spoke in a gravelly voice laced with a foreign lilt from distant southern lands. As a mercenary and rogue, Norbert craved the thrill of coin and freedom, yet past betrayals by comrades left him hunted by vengeful lords. He schemed through clever disguises and midnight thefts, his sharp mind turning traps into opportunities. This cunning sustained his wandering life, though it deepened his isolation. In the end, he vanished into the mists of another realm, forever the traveler. Conflicts gnawed at him: loyalty versus survival, and the ghosts of those he had crossed.