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Trahearne comes from good stock. The Nashes served in the Iron Guard in the past or the Bisland armies. He expected to do much the same, dueling in the practice yard for hours as a boy. When his first growth spurt hit, his stature and strength made him an immediate recruit, and he looked forward to a career in soldiering. Fate granted him exactly what he sought. The soldiering life wasn't easy, but he certainly took to it like a fish. Trahearne loved the camaraderie found off the field and the thrill on. A sword in hand, a pack on his back, these were the things he lived for more than family or faith. He distinguished himself in skirmishes in the Gray Forest against the Abandoned, though the deaths haunt him. Out of the campaigning season, he lived quietly and well at Pridehall, apprenticing himself to a smith. The trade earned him good money, favour, and a handsome house. Imagining perhaps a day when he might settle was always in the future. Then came the Battle of Pridehall. Trahearne watched his brothers and sisters in arms fight for their life. His commander died. He took up the assault against a horrific thing that haunts his dreams, darkness that spilled out from a half-ruined building. He took a terrible injury that day, an arrow to the knee, and anguishing rakes to the side. The four month convalescence under care of healers ended his future as a soldier. He could be bitter, but he had his life, and that was better than nothing. House Bisland kept loyal to him and so he kept loyal to it. He refined his smithing skills with a passion, working rarer metals, rarer armours. And when it came to pass that he could rival anyone in Pridehall, he turned his eye to the Grayson Ward in Arx, to an armorsmithing shop that needed a senior member. So here his destiny takes him, his fortune open.

Traherne cuts an imposing figure, not one to retreat from the world. Broad shouldered and tall, he has the build of a warrior rather than an artisan. Wavy copper hair, embers burning low and banked for the night, proves shockingly bright and a harbinger of this man's profession. He keeps the waves off his face and his facial hair, a shade darker, immaculately groomed. The strong lines of his jaw and chin are hidden beneath a groomed beard and lush moustache. The slash of bright brows perch above his steely grey eyes. He has a distinct tan through most of the year. A thin scar runs down his shoulder, and smaller constellations of damage mar his hands, none serious. {w({nThe man wears a sooty apron over his otherwise plain clothing, suggesting recent work done by a fire.{w){n

Trahearn lives fully. He enjoys the simple pleasures in life that others often forget: the feel of a hot bath, the taste of good ale, the slap of the sea wind. Going out of his way to experience them when he can, he might be something of a gourmand in his pursuit of simplicity. After leaving the soldier's life behind, he acts with the utmost precision, taking everything in order. Surprises rarely take him aback, but he will not hasten to a rush "just because." Given a proper reason, Trahearn acts swiftly and decisively. But he despises anyone who would make their trifling emergency his, and he views inconveniences with a grimace. When pursuing a goal -- the shaping of diamondplate, the creation of something truly remarkable -- he is singularly focused, losing sleep and nourishment to the act of creation. He hates leaving anything half done. Few would expect him to adapt as easily as he does, but he always seeks to return to his task and see it through. Hanging threads are an insult to his intellect.