"I run this rabble of chocobos' arses what call themselves archers."
Son of a hunter, Bowlord Lewin whiled away his childhood tracking game through the Twelveswood, bow in hand. Yet, so true did his arrows fly as to catch the attention of the Gods' Quiver, who beckoned him warmly into their ranks. Lewin turned away their entreaties for a time, until tragedy befell him. The love of Lewin's life went missing but a few days after they were married, only to reappear later in the woods—with an Ixali spear in her back. After a humble funeral, Lewin marched directly to the headquarters of the Gods' Quiver, where he has served defending the wood from foes for over thirty summers. Now fifty and four, the weathered Midlander takes his leisure tending to the lilies of his garden.