Bramwell "Bramble" Thorne was born to a bloodline of unyielding survivors who valued absolute freedom above all else, dirt-poor folk who carved out a living in the harsh, unforgiving wilds around Karsov Keep. To his parents, the laws of barons and the safety of stone walls were nothing but cages for the weak; the only true law was survival, and the only true master was the land itself. Raised under the open canopy and sleeping in the dirt, Bramble learned early on to navigate the thickets like a shadow and view the civilized world with a healthy dose of grim pragmatism. But freedom didn't fill an empty belly, and his family was universally looked down upon by the townspeople as shiftless, eccentric backwoods fiercely detached from the rest of the barony.

To scrape together a meager living, the Thorne family turned to the one craft the civilized folk couldn't resist: firewater. Deep within the hidden, briar-choked ridges of the forest, they operated crude, volatile moonshine stills, turning wild grains and foraged juniper berries into high-proof liquor. They quietly supplied the local taverns, including the crowded common room of the Bent Pike, and even occasionally lined the private cellars of the Karsov nobility with their strongest runs. Yet, despite providing the very swill that fueled the keep's celebrations and drowned its sorrows, the Thornes remained destitute outcasts, their clothes forever reeking of sour mash, wet fur, and woodsmoke.