Role: Guildmaster of the Adventurer's Guild; former leader of The Blackswords adventuring company
Linage: Human
Class/Profession: Fighter
Faith: No specific deity mentioned; likely respectful of divine traditions, but not devout—leans more toward discipline and internal code
Appearance: Mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair and beard, lined and scarred face; typically dressed in worn leathers or a fur-lined cloak with understated authority
Reputation: Fair, disciplined, and quietly respected; known for past battlefield excellence but now seen as a thoughtful, systems-oriented leader. To many, he is the steady hand guiding the Guild’s rise. To a few, he may seem too bureaucratic or detached from the trenches.
“I don’t need heroes. I need stewards.”
The Man Behind the Ledger
I’ve sat across from Jefferson Blacksword more times than I can count. He keeps his chair turned a little toward the door, like an old habit that never left. His cloak smells faintly of lamp oil. The Blacksword hangs above the window, dull at the edge, clean at the spine. He doesn’t look at it when he speaks.
He’s the Guildmaster now. Paper first, steel last. He listens longer than most leaders. He lets silence work. When he does speak, it’s simple: what happened, who was there, what we’ll do next. No speeches. If you want poetry, go to the bards.
He treats the Guild like a thing that can be maintained: sharpened, oiled, put away dry. Some hate him for that. Some of us are still alive because of it.
Before the Weight Found Him
Before the desk, there was a road and a sword that kept its shape when others failed. The company took its name from that blade. Six of them to start. The Blackswords weren’t famous for trophies. They brought people home who were supposed to be dead. That was the work.
Then Narvan failed. A breath, a shudder, and the floor went soft underfoot. Stone ran like water. They got out with half of what went in. I saw him come back with dust baked into his skin. He untied his scabbard like it was a knot he’d been meaning to fix, set it down, and asked for a ledger.
After the Western Siege, the chair found him. He didn’t chase it. He didn’t smile. He asked for better reports, safer routes, training that made sense. The Guild got cleaner. It also got quieter.
The Candle and the Ledger
The halls were near empty. Night clerks. A snoring hound. Rain ticking on the shutters. Jefferson had two books open. One for the Guild, one for himself. He writes the second one by hand. No titles on the cover. Black leather, cut once, corner worn smooth by a thumb.
A courier brought the news: escort run, wrong bend in the road, a lance through a boy’s side. The team made it back. The family would be paid. The line on the contract was already stamped.
Jefferson read the notice once. He set it aside. He wrote the boy’s name in the small book. A date. Two words: held fast. Then he took the candle from his desk and set it in the window. The flame threw a thin line along the Blacksword’s spine. The edge did not shine.
He waited until the wax reached the brass lip, then pinched the wick. No prayer. No speech. Just a quiet room, one more name, and a Guild that would start again at dawn.
The Measure of the Man
He saved people with a blade. Now he tries to save them with a process. Some days that works. Some days it doesn’t. He carries both kinds of failure the same way: close to the ribs, where no one can grab it.