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Ronan is the youngest child of four, separated by a wide gulf from his elder siblings. His mother married young and bore three children before her husband perished in an Abandoned raid. She never expected to marry or bear again, but then Cyprias Stonewood came through the famed rose-gold archway of House Nightgold with a party of surveyors and explorers. Something in that beauty -- Stonedeep as much as the widow -- beguiled him. Cyprias settled, and along came Ronan, pricked by the same awe. With the gaggle of cousins headed in all directions, he tried his hand at several trades before settling on the essential truth he wanted to venture out into the wilds that called his name. The mountaintops begged exploration. He accompanied surveyors seeking fresh ore loads and learned to endure the bitter cold, the biting wind, all with an eye fixed to the north. It surprised very few when he announced he one day wanted to reach the Everwinter for himself. No amount of wailing or scoffing would dissuade him. The call of the north and its mysteries demanded honing himself. Arms were always in fresh supply, but few men or women able to patch up the worst of the wounds. He studied with the Mercies in Stonedeep, learning their craft. These skills proved helpful when he first took to ranging far and wide, but even more so when during the Silent War. By then something of a seasoned veteran of the cold lands, Ronan was plunged into the bloody conflict by chance. He returned to preparations readied for war. His contributions were as much mending his comrades as scouting. But they claimed his mother and his elder sister. Sickened by the loss, Ronan took once more to the sea with his crew. It would be under the banner of Arthen Dayne he turned southward, the Icebound Warden in much warmer lands.

Whittle a man from ivory and he might share that same washed-out severity of a Northlander. His hair at best approaches flaxen blond, worn longer than is fashionable, and always pulled back in some kind of knot or club at the back of his neck. He sports a matching paler gold beard and traces of a mustache, a necessity for the cool climate he occupies. Grown thicker in the winter, he keeps it cropped short and well-groomed. Ronan's graven features almost approach patrician, granite cheekbones vaulted high, his cheeks angular, his mouth equally as thin-lipped and hard. The look might well register as extremely severe but for the softening effect, somewhat, of those walnut-brown eyes that maintain vestiges of warmth. Hale and solid, his body is every bit as hard and honed as the stone that he betimes resembles. Defined musculature gives him ropy, strong forearms stippled by the occasional scar and thin banded tattoo.

Ronan was old beyond his years even when a child. Shamans tipped up his chin and stared into his eyes, declaring him marked by the past. He lives up to that description now, showing a quiet presence of mind where others might be prone to excitability. Every moment he takes in stride, rarely rushed to haste. That isn't to say he cannot be impulsive. Rather like ice, the right force can bring him crashing down into action. But more often he moves when unseen, reaching one point to another in his own way, in his own time. These deep reserves of patience sometimes leave him vexing, but never cold. He is an apt listener and observant, happy to use a few words when twenty aren't needed. He is the consummate heart of the crew, the solid presence who binds them together. He's the linchpin of a group.