A grotesque lumbering slab of a man, Hamish possesses the charm, fragrant aroma, and relative intelligence of a rotting beef carcass.

Sheathed on his back or gripped in his meaty hands is a sword that might once have been a finely-crafted and admirable weapon, but appears to have spent all the time since then gathering rust. The mismatched pommel and crossguard seem to be scavenged replacement parts, and the blade's edge has been so worn down it's now nearly as blunt as its wielder.