Barret Gloffrin is a name whispered in the soot-stained taprooms of the Sword Coast and the fog-laden hamlets of the Shadowfell alike. To the casual observer, he is merely a man of middling years, clad in a threadbare tunic that smells of damp earth and stale ale. Yet, scholars of the occult note a disturbing consistency in his appearances across centuries and continents. He is the quintessential everyman who has looked into the abyss and found it staring back through his own weary, watery eyes. Some claim he was once a simple miller who bartered his soul for a single moment of peace, only to be cast into a cycle of eternal, mundane wandering. Barret haunts the peripheries of destiny, sitting in the dimmest corners of inns or gathering firewood on the eve of great battles. He possesses no magic or steel, yet his presence is a harbinger of the mundane caught in the gears of the cosmic. He carries a tattered rucksack filled with smooth river stones, each etched with the name of a person forgotten by history. A party might stumble upon him at a lonely crossroads where he offers a stone to a hero; to accept it is to invite a streak of uncanny misfortune, yet it also acts as a key to a threshold where the lost are finally remembered.