Freddy Wright, the One-Handed Wonder of the Royal Stables
“Freddy’s got a grin and a nod for everyone—from the lowliest stablehand to the highest lord—and they all damn well love him; rumor is he knows half the realm by name and the other half by sight.” — Sorek Redmarch
Few in the kingdom haven’t heard the name Freddy Wright—and even fewer have walked away from a conversation with him without a smile. A retired adventurer turned royal stable master, Freddy is a man whose laughter can be heard across the paddocks and whose tales of yesteryear stretch from the borderlands to the stormy cliffs of the Eastern Reach.
Once a roguish swordsman with a knack for getting into—and out of—trouble, Freddy spent over three decades on the road. From skirmishes with desert raiders to spelunking through wyvern-haunted caves, his exploits are as numerous as they are outrageous. Just ask him—he’s got a story for every scar.
“Did I ever tell you 'bout the time I arm-wrestled a troll priest for a magic ring and a bottle of plum brandy? Spoiler: I only got the brandy.”
After hanging up his blade and boots, Freddy found a second calling among the royal stables of Gorundia. His gift with animals quickly made him indispensable. Horses thrived under his care, the kennels grew more disciplined and spirited, and the once-finicky royal hounds now sit on command—most of the time.
But his legendary patience met its match a few years ago in the form of
Valor, a young royal griffon with more pride than sense. A feeding mishap ended in a brutal swipe, and Freddy lost his left hand to the beast’s talons.
“Aye, lost the hand, sure... but kept my job, my humor, and most importantly—my punctuality. Never been late to feed Valor again, have I?”
Rather than slow down, Freddy adapted. He learned to work one-handed with astonishing efficiency, modifying his saddlery and smithing techniques to suit his condition. His custom-designed harness lets him tack a warhorse faster than most two-handed stablehands, and he’s still got a grip strong enough to wrestle a mule into a bridle.
In the last year, Freddy was reassigned to
Fort Stormarrow, an isolated outpost nestled in the harsh, rocky badlands of the western frontier. With few hills and even less grass, it's a stark place, all wind-carved stone and dust, where only the hardiest survive. Freddy was sent there to train a fresh batch of green stablehands and oversee the care of
Valor, who was claimed as a prize by
Sir Beringer of the West in the grand jousting tournament at
last Brewfest. The griffon, proud and wild, has only warmed to Freddy—and even that took time, patience, and a fair amount of blood.
“She don’t suffer fools, that one. But I’ve found if you whistle soft and offer her the red apples, not the green, she won’t try to bite your head off. Usually.”
When he’s not leading drills or patching up saddles, Freddy can often be found by the
unnamed river that winds, narrow and stubborn, through a nearby gorge. There, he fishes from the rocks with a crooked rod and a jug of cider, trading hooks for tall tales as the water trickles past.
“Truth is like a saddle strap—tighten it too much and it’ll snap. Leave it loose, though, and the story rides better.”
To the royals, Freddy is a trusted caretaker. To the castle staff, he’s family. To the new recruits at Fort Stormarrow, he’s a grizzled legend with one hand and a thousand stories.
And if you ever need to know how to keep a griffon content in the dust and heat—or what kind of bait the fish in a nameless river prefer—there’s only one man to ask.
“Animals don’t care if you’ve got one hand or ten—as long as you feed 'em, water 'em, and talk to 'em like you’d talk to your ma.”
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