Rowen Timberfell came to Neverwinter with an old scar down his spine, a vow stitched into his bones, and eyes that never quite stopped scanning the tree line. He rarely speaks of the night that changed him—only that something ancient in the Neverwinter Wood spared his life, marked his path, and whispered a warning he has never forgotten: 'Take only what the forest offers. Give back what you break.' Most see only the tiefling with steady hands and a practical mind, running a tidy lumberyard on the edge of the Merchants Quarter. They do not see the pact he carries like a second heartbeat, or the way the wind shifts whenever he steps beneath a canopy of leaves. Timberfell Yards looks like any honest woodcutter’s operation at first glance—stacks of milled planks, bundles of raw timber, cutting benches arranged with mathematical precision. But the forest’s touch lingers everywhere: saplings planted in perfect rings, tools that never rust, and a faint scent of fern and smoke drifting through the yard even when no fires burn. Rowen’s crews operate with a discipline bordering on ritual. They harvest only fallen trunks or branches culled for the health of the grove. Each outing ends with a moment of silence, a gesture of respect, and the planting of new growth. Other lumberyards scoff at such superstitions. Rowen simply smiles and continues outliving them. Whispers circulate among rangers and druids that the forest itself recognizes him. Animals move quietly around him. Twisted roots uncurl when he approaches. Once, a group of adventurers swore they saw a massive treant watching over the yard at dusk, its eyes glowing faintly before it turned and vanished into the mist. Timberfell Yards refuses contracts from those who treat nature as a resource to be stripped bare. Rowen has turned down nobles, guildmasters, and even the occasional Harper. He accepts only clients who respect the balance, and he charges fairly—though he has been known to double prices for those who lie about their intentions. To the residents of the Merchants Quarter, he is a quiet, dependable craftsman with a knack for selecting the perfect grain. To the forest, he is something else entirely: a keeper of promises. An intermediary. A tiefling who walked into the wild one night bearing fear and desperation, and walked out marked not by damnation, but by duty. Rowen rarely speaks of the power that saved him, but when storms roll down from the Spine of the World and trees bend in the wind like they are bowing, he pauses at the edge of his yard, closes his eyes, and listens—as though the forest is calling his name again.