Aldric Brineward

Aldric Brineward is not the sort of man sailors expect when they hear the word captain, and that is precisely why the Driftwolf loved him. Broad-shouldered and thick-necked from decades of hauling lines and bracing against rough seas, Aldric carries the unmistakable look of a life spent on deck. His head is mostly bare now, the hair retreating long ago in surrender to salt and sun, leaving behind deep creases etched across his brow like tide charts. His face is heavy-set and weathered, marked by age spots, old cuts, and the constant kiss of brine—but when he smiles, all of that hard-earned wear softens at once. His smile is warm, genuine, and unmistakably kind, the sort that makes greenhands breathe easier and veterans feel seen. It’s the smile of a man who remembers every nervous first voyage and never forgot how it felt. Aldric’s eyes are the true anchor of his presence. Pale and steady, they hold patience rather than judgment, curiosity rather than command. When he looks at you, it feels as though he has time—time to listen, time to understand, time to help. Sailors swore the Driftwolf rode smoother when Aldric was at the helm, as if the sea itself trusted him. As captain, Aldric Brineward ruled not by fear or iron discipline, but by care. He knew every crew member’s name, their habits, their strengths, and the quiet things they worried about. He’d share a mug of grog with deckhands after a hard watch, laugh easily at old stories, and offer calm words when storms turned ugly. Now, as Dean of the Mariners Guild in Saltmarsh, Aldric carries that same warmth ashore. He greets dockworkers and captains alike with that familiar smile, listens more than he speaks, and still smells faintly of tar, rope, and sea air. Though his days at the helm of the Driftwolf have passed, the heart of a captain never truly leaves him. To those who sailed under him, Aldric Brineward will always be remembered as something rare upon the waves.