Wynmore Wendall washed up on the shores of Cryndoria with nothing but splinters in his hands and a shipwreck behind his eyes. The storm that destroyed his vessel was no ordinary squall—it screamed, twisted, and seemed almost alive, as though the sea itself had decided he did not belong upon it. He was the lone survivor, dragged ashore half-dead and changed in ways he still doesn’t fully understand. Once a sailor who trusted wind, tide, and routine, Wynmore emerged from the wreck deeply superstitious, forever uneasy. Even now, years later, he mutters charms, avoids certain roads on unlucky days, and believes the world is constantly sending him signs—warnings, omens, or calls he doesn’t yet know how to answer.
With no ship to return to and no desire to look back, Wynmore began moving inland, away from the coast and the memory of the sea. He traveled slowly across Cryndoria, attaching himself to merchant convoys and wandering caravans, earning his keep by hauling crates, guarding wagons, and throwing his weight around when trouble arose. Though Cryndoria was still recovering from a brutal civil war that had ended fifteen years earlier, Wynmore felt no attachment to its history or politics. Whenever the subject arose, his response was always the same: a shrug and a flat, “I’m not from here.” Eventually, his wandering carried him to Oakbarrow—a fertile, agricultural town sustained by farms and fields rather than trade routes or ports. Travelers passed through often enough, but Oakbarrow was quiet, grounded, and far enough from the coast that Wynmore finally felt safe enough to stop moving.
Life in Oakbarrow settled into a routine that both sustains and suffocates him. Wynmore earns his living hauling goods to and from the local tavern, lifting sacks of grain and barrels of ale with the ease of someone who has never let his body go soft. By night, he supplements his income in Oakbarrow’s underground fighting circuit, where his size, stamina, and sailor-honed toughness have earned him a respectable win–loss record. Still, whenever a fight doesn’t go his way, Wynmore is quick to complain—about rigged matches, bad luck, cursed opponents, or unseen forces working against him. His whining has become part of his reputation, and the locals—especially the town’s children—have taken to calling after him with the mocking chant, “Win more!” a nickname he pretends not to mind but never truly shakes.
Despite his small, solitary life, Wynmore is convinced he is meant for something greater. He lingers in the tavern long after his shifts end, listening closely whenever travelers share rumors of monsters, lost relics, ancient ruins, or distant wars. Every whispered story feels like destiny tapping him on the shoulder—yet he never quite acts on it. Fear, doubt, and superstition keep him rooted in Oakbarrow, trapped between the comfort of familiarity and the promise of legend. Wynmore Wendall is a man standing at the edge of his own story, waiting for the world—or fate—to shove him forward.
And when that moment comes, one thing is certain: Wynmore Wendall will venture forth...
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