There was a time when 'Old Joe' didn't stink of mead, pipe-weed, or Scatha knows what else. He was once a proud Northman of the Wilderland, from the village of Firnstayn; the local smith, Torgrid son of Tryggvi.

But his chief fame was the profession that went on to define his life, even beyond trade and fatherhood: Giant tracking and Troll hunting. His love of both legendary creatures grew into an all-consuming obsession. For years he studied the lore of Giants and Trolls; their differing species; their seasonal migrations; their behaviour and habits- and even their languages. He must have succeeded, for the Men and Dwarves of the Wilderland soon gave him the Dalish title Jötun-vinur, the Giant-friend; a name that he brought with him, even over the mountains, to the land of Eriador.

His smith-craft was not wasted, however, and merged expertly with his hunting; with the brilliance of Dwarven mechanics, he fashioned himself a crossbow fit for purpose, including many other bizarre tools for his profession. The most absurd of all his creations was the armoured cart; salvaged and slovenly pieced together, and set with a larger mounted crossbow. He named it The Mother.

Whilst the years have steadily passed, time has stooped Jötun-vinur's once proud stature, and gnawed at his sanity. Yet still he holds to his profession, being likely the only man in it, and has grown to become an eccentric, grizzled, one-eyed hunter. In these times the Men of Eriador name him 'Old Joe'; an ignorant foreshortening of his Dalish title; and if once his skill was known and praised among men living in peace, they now have forgotten or choose to ignore it. Much doubt is cast upon Old Joe's life achievements, but buried beneath the madness of this old dog is a method that may yet prove his genius.