With his back to the group overlooking the landscape stands a thin man, his dark cloak swirling about him from the wind. A black cowboy hat covers his head. Shaking his head he turns back toward the group of watchmen. "Still nothing. No movement from the Elves." The wind comes again without warning, as his hand flies up to hold on his hat. His face was smooth shaven and his eyes closed as the wind scythed through him. For the hundredth time he wished he had a heavier cloak, and for the thousandth time that he hadn't been drafted into the army. He would soon be an old man, and should have been growing old and fat, instead he was marching across the land into winters colder than he had ever known.

Once the wind dies down he walks over towards the others"I'm Charlie, Charlie McNelly." His crossbow swings beside him as he walks, it's handle smooth from hands gripping it.