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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content"><div style="text-align: center">Name: Norin Gand<br/>
Age: late 30s<br/>
Bio: Raised by humans, Norin developed a chip on his shoulder growing up around young boys who would tease him for his half blood parentage and insult his "knife-ear" mother. As a result, he always felt like an outcast, going out of his way to prove himself superior in everything he did. Not content to be a farmer's son, he became apprenticed to a smith, practicing with the weapons he made until the day he decided to set out on his own in search of new challenges.<br/>
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</div><br/>The waystation was a hub for various organizations that lent their swords to a cause in exchange for gold. It was also a place to catch some sleep in a somewhat comfortable, dry place off the road for only a few coppers and the notice boards were always offering work to those who knew how to hold a blade or draw a bow. Company mercenaries, information dealers, freelancers, sellswords and thugs were all welcome at the waystation. If you made a living with a sword or your fists, these kinds of places would always welcome you. That said, it wasn't without its dangers. Put enough people with the kinds of temperaments to fight for money into one place, and fights are bound to break out. Veterans would ignore the brawls. Newbies would gawk.<br/><br/>Norin ignored the pair of thugs slugging it out in the tavern over some small slight, cheered on by spectators. Some of them were betting on the winner, others just wanted to see some blood. As long as no blades were drawn, no one would try to stop them.<br/><br/>In one corner, a group of burly men in black armor drank and ate venison sullenly. Black Company mercenaries were a sullen lot but their numbers and popularity among those in need of mercenary help made their soldiers feel somewhat superior to the rest of them, often displaying their dislike of freelancers like Norin.<br/><br/>Norin was used to being excluded and ostracized. Humans and elves were not always fond friends and a half-elf didn't fit in with either people. His mother had made a go of living among humans to be close to his father but when he'd died, she'd married an elf and moved to one of their enclaves. Norin was not barred from visiting her but he was a constant reminder to all that she had once lain with a human male of low birth. She said it didn't bother her but he knew it did. She was ashamed of him.<br/><br/>When he was a boy, the other children in his home village had called him and his mother "knife-ear", a favorite racial slur. He'd once been bothered by such insults. Now he wore them with pride. Such a life had made him disdainful of nearly everyone, believing them all to be cruel and unenlightened. It made his lifestyle easy. People didn't hire a mercenary because they were likable. In fact, the more of an asshole you were, the more people imagined you were a proficient fighter. Because what well adjusted person could cut someone down when they didn't even believe in the cause they were fighting for?<br/><br/>As one of the Black Company mercenaries narrowed his eyes at Norin as he drank at the bar, the half-elf shot back a withering gaze of distaste, daring the man to start something. Not even the brotherhood of mercenary culture could supersede his half-breed status, it seemed. Norin didn't care. He didn't need friends and he didn't need anyone to like him. He just needed to show them he could be better than them. And so he silently hoped for someone to antagonize him, to point at his ears and laugh or make some slur against his mother. He would happily rise to the challenge.