You ever meet that one old guy in the pub who has sat in the same seat and drinking the same drink for as ling as you can remember? That is Boris.

A grumpy, cantankerous old git who has been alive long enough to witness most family lines fall into extinction.

Once upon a lifetime ago, Boris served the Dwarven Legion as one of the Surface Scouts. It was his duty to advance ahead of the main force and disrupt supply lines, take notes of enemy encampments and to discover potential ambush locations. He served for three hundred years, advancing in rank from a mere ranger to Scout Marshall.

He had survived most of the horrors the battlefield due to either careful planning or blind luck. But occasionally, the dice roll out of favour. Boris ad his company found themselves victims of an enemy ambush that they did not detect despite their combined skills.

One by one, they were slaughtered, the enemy passed over them as if wind over a field of corn. Boris did not die however. He was severely wounded yes but not dead.

It took all his remaining effort and the tenacity of someone too old to die, but Boris eventually dragged himself to the nearest settlement and collapsed.

He has remained there until this day, technically retired, but he does go and hunt from time to time. Providing food for his new home.