Barnaby wasn't just a Watchman; he was the man you called when a Mimic disguised itself as the Mayor's favorite divan. For forty years, he patrolled the 'Concrete Jungle,' the labyrinthine sewers and vertical slums where even the rats carry knives. He earned the name 'Bellows' not for forge-work, but for a voice that could halt a stampeding minotaur in a crowded market. He saw things that would turn a younger halfling's hair white: wererat syndicates in the foundation-stones and grell-nests in the clocktower rafters.
Then came the 'Golden Handshake'—forced retirement. Now, the streets he once bled for feel too quiet. His knees pop like dry kindling, and the City Watch gave his beat to a half-orc half his age who couldn't track a bleeding giant through a snowstorm. But Barnaby knows the city is still teeth and claws. He spends his nights in the damp shadows of the docks, treating every discarded chicken bone like a high-stakes clue. He isn't just an old man in a knitted sweater; he’s a hunter waiting for the city to scream again so he can prove he's still the king of the cobbles.