About

Pol is a spear-wielding, one-eyed hunter with more charm than sense. Once known as a reliable soldier for the Twin Adders, he now lives a quieter life with his husband, J’lihr, and their daughter, Naoh. Raised in Proud Creek in the North Shroud, Pol lived deeply steeped in Keeper tradition until his late teens. He lost his eye defending his family during a Garlean incursion at 17, and entered military service to repay a life debt to those who saved them.

Nowadays, he’s all rough hands and soft smiles. His eyesight is fading, and he never did learn to read or write, but he makes up for it with deep emotional intuition. He’s the kind of man who can joke around and still be the one who charges the front line when no one else will. Pol thrives in adventure and slice-of-life scenarios alike, keeping morale high while calling out nonsense without hesitation.

Short Story

The ziz is already wounded. Pol crouches low behind the ridge of mossy stone, twitches his fingers along the haft of his spear. Wind stirs the canopy above, and he waits. Listens. Watches. The beast limps, feathers bristled, snapping its beak at shadows. It’s panicked. Perfect.

With a breath, Pol rises. He moves over roots and leaf-litter. The spear whistles as it spins once out of his grip, then flies. It pierces the shoulder joint just as the ziz turns, screeching. It launches toward him. Pol grins like a madman.

The fight is fast, brutal. A rake of claws glances off his side; he counters with a shoulder-check and a sweep of his leg. They both fall. Dirt and feathers. Blood. Silence.

Pol drags the limp carcass back to camp, half-limping himself. He spits out a leaf, wipes his spear clean, and mutters, “Told J’lihr I’d be back before dusk.” He glances at the setting sun. “Gonna be close.”

Still, the beast is down. The tribe will eat well. And Pol is reminded that even with one eye, fading vision, and a few more grey hairs, he still belongs here.