When you're in a tavern at Port Prodigal, nobody cares why you're there or how you got there. Why would they care? At the end of the world, trivial things like where you came from don't matter.
The only thing that matters is survival. For some that means tending the fields, for some it's transporting the crops, for some it's defending the towns from the occasional beast coming out of the Forest. But for a few at this tavern, survival means a hefty purse of coin and the freedom to go as you please. So when you hear rumor of a stash of riches left by an ancient adventurer from the founding of Brinkland here (yes, here!) in the bowels of Rector's Peak, your ears perk up. From this day forward, you'll never forget the name you heard: Reslin Kine.
"Reslin Kine!," bellowed the aged dwarf several tables down. It was Uzfalt, the loudest drunk in the Hidden Clam. He was trying to sell some worn papers to a tired looking traveler. " Ya heard of 'im? Big time adventurer from the way back. Reslin had a son, too. Mighty bloke with a beard as coarse as iron, if I recall me history right…couldn't tell you his name if me life depended on it , but then again, dun s'pose he did anything worth rememberin'."