Stitchwort Greenhill was born and raised in the small halfling village of Briarburrow, nestled in the rolling green hills far from the concerns of larger folk. Briarburrow was a peaceful place, known for its fertile farmlands, warm hearths, and strong community. Among the villagers, Stitchwort stood out not for his size or strength, but for his skill with the hunt. He had a natural talent with daggers—quick, precise, and deadly. While others farmed, stitched clothes, or brewed ales, Stitchwort would slip silently into the surrounding woods, returning with hares, game birds, or wild boar to help feed the village.
He was always happiest in the woods, with the sounds of birds overhead and the scent of pine on the wind. He often went alone, honing his skills, and developed a keen sense of survival that made him one of the most capable hunters in Briarburrow. He had always been a protector of sorts, though the threats he faced were small – a lurking wolf or a wild boar, nothing beyond his capacity. He never imagined that he would need to defend the village against anything more dangerous.
But that all changed one fateful autumn night.
The orcs came under the cover of darkness, a raiding party from the nearby mountains, hungry for plunder and blood. Stitchwort had been out hunting when he saw the first columns of smoke rising from the village. Sprinting back as fast as his legs would carry him, he arrived to a scene of horror – flames licking the edges of the familiar, cozy homes, the air thick with smoke and the screams of his people. The orcs were ruthless, tearing through the village, burning homes, slaughtering livestock, and dragging captives away.
Stitchwort fought back as best he could, but his daggers, no matter how fast or deadly, were no match for the sheer numbers of the orcs. In the chaos, he managed to save a few of the villagers, leading them through the woods to safety. But by dawn, Briarburrow was little more than ash and ruins. Many of his kin were dead, and the survivors were left with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the memories of a peaceful life lost forever.
In the weeks that followed, the survivors of Briarburrow became refugees, wandering from village to village, seeking shelter and aid. But the world was a harsh place, and though they found temporary refuge, their future was uncertain. Stitchwort, wracked with guilt for not being able to save more of his people, swore he would do whatever it took to help rebuild their lives.
With little left to offer but his skills as a hunter and fighter, Stitchwort made a bold decision. He left the remaining survivors in the care of kind strangers and traveled to the nearest city, seeking out the adventurers’ guild. He had heard stories of the guild—mercenaries, treasure hunters, and monster slayers who earned gold through dangerous work. Though he had never sought glory or wealth before, Stitchwort now needed both. Every coin he earned would go toward helping his people find a new home, a new start.
Though small in stature, Stitchwort was determined. He trained relentlessly, sharpening his dagger skills and learning new ways to fight. His years as a hunter made him proficient at tracking and scouting, and his speed and agility allowed him to slip in and out of danger with ease. His heart, though scarred by loss, remained fiercely loyal to his people, and his determination to see them rebuild grew stronger with each passing day.
Now, as a young member of the guild, Stitchwort takes on dangerous quests—tracking bandits, hunting monsters, and delving into ruins—whatever it takes to earn enough coin to help the refugees of Briarburrow. He is driven by the hope that one day, his people will have a home again. Though outwardly cheerful and unassuming, his daggers remain ever at his side, ready to defend those he cares about.
And if fate should bring him face to face with the orcs who destroyed his village, he has vowed to make them pay for every life they took.