A sentinel without voice, a guardian without rest. The Brother of Silence looms over intruders like a specter, his towering form wrapped in bandages, and draped in a deep crimson cloak, marking the Grove’s devotion. He moves with slow, deliberate grace, each footfall a measured weight upon the earth, his presence an omen of dread to those who would trespass unbidden amongst the orchard groves.
His face, if one remains, is concealed behind bandages and the pyramidal helm of the order, his rotting visage betraying little of compassion or mercy. Beneath the wrapped bandages, the taint of the fruit has worked its will upon him, swelling his flesh, twisting his form into something beyond human yet terrifyingly specific in purpose.
In his hands, he wields a greatsword of horrific length, near twice that of a man, its edge honed to a dreadful razor. With it, he cuts down the unwelcome, his strikes clean and efficient, without flourish or excess. There is no fury in his movements, no zeal in his purpose, only the cold certainty of duty.
He is the Abbey’s prime guardian, a figure of silent judgment patrolling the shifting borders of that liminal realm. None remember who he was before the Grove took him. None have ever heard him speak. And those who meet him in battle do not live long enough to wonder, save for one, who may yet know the truth of his fallen name.
