Among the Fauknir, where every villager’s craft is known and valued, Mirrin is remembered not for field or forge, but for the quiet rhythm of locks, lamps, and light. Known simply as the Gatekeeper, he carries at his belt a jangling cluster of iron and bronze—each one cut for a door, a gate, or a chest within the village. Children follow the sound of them through the lanes, certain that where the keys go, safety follows.

At dusk, Mirrin makes his rounds. He checks the hinges of the wooden gates, fastens the bars, and turns each key with deliberate care. By the time the sun dips behind the Dreomere treeline, it is his hand that seals the village against the night. At dawn, it is his hand that opens the way again, greeting farmers and bakers as they step out to begin their labor.

Yet Mirrin’s duties stretch far beyond locks and keys. By daylight he tends to the village itself: sweeping leaves and mud from the lanes, clearing snow and scattering sand in winter, and keeping the paths safe for carts and children alike. He checks the water wells, ensures the communal buckets are filled, and makes small repairs to fences, hinges, and paving stones before they grow into greater troubles. To Mirrin, the glow of order and care is as vital as bread on the table, for a village that is tended will never fall to neglect.

He is also master of the village’s light. Torches along the lanes, oil lamps within the halls—all are his responsibility. He keeps careful stock of oils, trims the wicks, and ensures that no flame gutters unattended. To Mirrin, the glow of a well-lit street is a shield against more than shadows; it is hope made visible, a promise that the village is alive even in the deep hours of night.

Mirrin lives beside his closest friend, Farryn, a woodcutter whose strong back supplies much of the timber that fuels the village fires. Their bond is a simple one, built on years of shared meals and neighborly laughter. Mirrin’s home, though modest, is always warm with the scent of burning pine and the faint tang of lamp oil—a place where a man who keeps watch for all others finally lays his keys upon the table and rests.