Once, Jormvo Garess was a man of standing, a minor noble of Ashlar who had studied rhetoric, law, and the arts in his youth. His life unraveled in the quiet cruelty of politics: framed by his own kin for a crime he did not commit, his title was stripped and his name cast from the family registry. With nowhere else to turn, he accepted exile in the duke’s service, sent east to the hamlet of Pebble Mill, far from the courts and games of nobles, to “repay his debt to the crown.” There, beneath the steady churn of the Tanu River’s great watermill, he learned to live as a commoner, hauling grain and stone instead of ledgers and oaths.
Now fifty-five and stooped by years of labor and cheap ale, Jormvo is a fixture of Pebble Mill, half a cautionary tale, half a source of quiet wisdom. Each morning, he walks the river’s banks collecting the smooth stones the Tanu offers, selling them to Languard’s merchants alongside the children and elders of the village. By dusk, he can be found near the tavern, telling stories of honor and folly, or dispensing advice to those willing to listen. His hanbo, once part of a dueling set from his youth, now serves as both walking stick and memory of discipline; at dawn, when the mist rolls in off the river, villagers sometimes glimpse him running old drills in the yard, each movement slow but purposeful.
Though drink dulls his tongue and years have bent his back, Jormvo still carries the quiet dignity of a man who once stood among the proud. He has come to love the rhythm of Pebble Mill, the turning of the wheel, the laughter of children, the rush of the river, and though the duke’s crest no longer bears his family’s mark, Jormvo still believes service, however humble, can be noble.
character connection:
Among the forty-one souls of Pebble Mill, Jormvo is as familiar as the turning of the Tanu’s tide. Everyone knows him, the old noble-turned-mill hand who drinks too much, talks too loud, and somehow still gives the best advice in the hamlet. Children know him as the man who buys their river stones and tells them stories they only half understand. The workers know him as the fellow who shows up late but never shirks the hardest tasks when he is there. The elders know him as a man carrying quiet heartbreak behind a tired smile.
Most days he’s found by the river sorting stones, humming old melodies, or at the tavern with a cup of something cheap. But everyone in Pebble Mill has also seen him at dawn, moving through slow, deliberate hanbo drills with the precision of someone who once trained for more than farm work. The villagers never mock it; it’s simply “Jormvo being Jormvo,” equal parts mystery and routine.
Among the hamlet’s small population, he’s the closest thing to a communal uncle: a wise old drunk whose flaws are known, whose stories are loved, and whose presence is as steady as the millwheel.
