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Present Day
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Gerraint had used a cut throat to remove the greasy mop of hair in an effort to become more incognito about Ambleside. The jeers and comments of the locals when he passed wore at him like the waves on the rocks. The crime for which he was falsely accused had visibly aged him significantly and more often than not he was seen with a bottle of Gorlan shandy in hand. Usually swigging from the bottle sat on a wall by himself, the look of bitterness carved deep into the framework of his face appeared unlikely to ever be removed. The man was changed for the worse by the whole experience in what was supposed to be a place of promise, of salvation.

Origin
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Gerraint had travelled down by boat to Ambleside, what he found when he got there wasn't what he was expecting. It was bad enough that he'd had to see the fate of his town of Varlence, but now he had another chapter to his suffering. The spirit of his ancestors soared in his chest, and the blood of a true Varl coursed through his veins. The long history of defiance and rebellion was woven into his inner fabric, in the darkest times he dug deep to find his inner light which in those moments, shone the brightest.
A large axe was carried on his back at all times, his frown on his face was his banner of the fighting Varls. Each scar that was dotted about his body wasn't lasting damage from battles or combat, they were reminders of grand tales to be told in taverns by candle light. His stride was one of confidence and pride, despite losing everything in the wake of the horrors up north. He never spoke of what happened to his homeland, for all he was and still is, he couldn't bring himself to speak of it. The faces of broken men, wide eyed women and terrified children was enough to choke even Gerraint.