Galloway

"Mask off. Hands washed. Rubbish out. Then you can save the city." —Galloway's Mother The halflings of Old Rook Hollow occupied the lowest rung of all the Liberros. Their district was a maze of leaning tenements, crooked chimneys, and alleys so narrow neighbors could borrow sugar without opening a door. Pickpockets worked openly, cudgels collected rent before landlords did, and every broken window was simply boarded up until someone stole the boards. Galloway spent his days exactly where everyone expected: hunched over ledgers in an office, balancing accounts with meticulous care before returning home each evening to the tiny flat he shared with his mother. By every measure, he was completely unremarkable. Which, in Galloway's opinion, was a tragedy. Each week he watched another merchant get robbed, another drunken bully swagger off without consequence. All complained. All shrugged. And the City Watch arrived just in time to collect bribes and scribble reports. After some thought, Galloway concluded he was ready for a change; that if the world wasn't going to play by the rules, neither would he. So, he purchased an absurdly expensive hat, begged his mother to stitch together a black mask, borrowed a plume from an extremely unwilling bird, and declared himself the Midnight Avenger. He even fashioned himself a crude bow, practicing his marksmanship for hours on end. His first patrol was a beautiful disaster. Attempting to stop a thief, he missed the criminal entirely, shooting the wheel of a fish cart that rolled downhill into three fleeing accomplices. The Rook Times called it an astonishing display of tactical improvisation. Galloway considered it his breakthrough moment. Thenceforth, he returned to his newfound identity, night after night. Before long, Galloway realized his greatest asset wasn't his bow—it was the fact that no one ever looked up. He learned which chimneys carried conversations, which rafters overlooked meetings, and which roof tiles could be stepped on silently. Smugglers mapped their routes in whispers. Ruffians counted their coin in back rooms... and Galloway had access to them all. Word of his methods eventually reached the Grey Blades. Its agents were killers, spies, escorts, thieves, and bodyguards, bound not by grand vision, but an uncompromising code: every contract honored, every debt paid, and every blade drawn with purpose. A seasoned infiltrator was always an asset worthy of recruitment. What they found, though, was a nervous Galloway rehearsing lines in front of a cracked mirror. To his surprise, they extended the offer anyway, no doubt won over by his charm. Galloway accepted immediately—well, almost immediately. He had to check with his mother, of course... Today, the books in his office remain perfectly balanced, while the streets of Old Rook Hollow grow steadily safer after dark. Whether he is a master rogue, a remarkably lucky amateur, or a mama's boy too sheltered to know his limits depends entirely on whom you ask. Galloway, of course, would tell you he was a legend all along.