He was a hero once. You wouldn't believe it now, with his bent back, gnarled old fingers and squinting eyes. The long brown cloak he wears hangs off his bony frame like a curtain, loose, tattered and too threadbare to be of any use. But Sorrow refuses to part with it. It is all he has left of his life, of the time when he was young and strong, riding away on epic quests with his companions at his side, fearing nothing and attempting anything.
But those days are gone now. His friends are dead, slain on the battlefields of his past. He was there every time, their last comfort as he waited for their final gasping breath to leave their bodies. His strength is gone too, his bright golden hair faded to dirty grey, his once muscular body hunched and twisted by the cruel hand of time. He's lost everything but the cloak, even his own name. Sorrow is all that is left in his heart. Sorrow for his lost friends, sorrow for the world that has forsaken him, leaving him a cast-off relic as it progresses ever onwards.
Sorrow for himself, and the man he used to be.