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Description

Surname: Ruffolo (roo-fuh-low)
Occupation: Thief
Age: 38

Physical Attributes
Height: 6’2 (though his bad posture marks him near 5’8)
Weight: 180lbs
Build: Slight and lithe
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Black

Appearance(Reference):


A simple blade, and a simple flag, he wields all this and simple rags. For his soul and for his home, this complex wanderer is never alone.

Personality

Personality:
He deals in riddles, in speech and thought, to try and understand be all for naught. Outspoken, unreserved, for what or whom? Ever so curious, so seek he his doom. No question un-asked, nor retort ignored, surprised he is not when his face be floored.

Equipment

2 simple short blades, one holstered on either side of the waist at any given time, one holstered just behind his right shoulder.

History

Back Story:
Born as the sole child to a poor blacksmith and his wife, Ruffolo had spent a great deal of time alone. He had no formal schooling and until a rather old age, could not speak. Though he could easily have been a target for his age-wise contemporaries, Ruffolo was something of a recluse. Though reasons ever ripened for him to be ridiculed, he was not seen enough for such an opportunity to be delivered.

Utterly enthralled in the wiles of sorcery and spell casting from a young age, Ruffolo had long considered taking up the art. During the extremely rare times he had left his dwelling with his father to purchase materials, his eyes would search and search the tents, huts, and other such structures of the market in order to catch a glimpse of magic or some artifact. He would watch for traders with the sly glint in their eyes that told the world they knew something that many did not. It was often these who held books and other such things retaining to magic, he had learned.

Despite the apparent boring wiles of Ruffolo’s mundane life, his story is a tale, and like all tales have their rising actions and climaxes, his follows suit.

On an otherwise normal day, as his father headed to the open market to gather materials for his trade, he saw what he could only conclude to be a mad man approaching the outskirts of town. He walked, he crawled, he ran. What remained of his hair from the remnants of his scalp was frizzled and gray. His flesh, like his clothes, in tatters. One could tell that he may once have been the picture of what a man should be as enormous bags of fat jiggled in pockets of flesh, wrinkled and spotted with cellulite.

Between spats of nonsense and incomprehensible drivel, a poem of sorts was spewed:

“Though mighty he be who discovers me, will find him little ‘lest he use this riddle.”

And so the mad man fell, no longer mad, but dead. As any poor human would do given such a ripe opportunity, he pilfered. Of the spoils, he had found a writing utensil of sorts. It was long, maybe 6 inches and narrow. With it was parchment, on it was written in a gold so vibrant a beautiful, Ruffolo’s father took but a few moments just to admire:

My dearest Leslie, I have found what I have searched so long for. The desire of my heart, second only to you, I will use to write words of gold. We will-

He left it where it was along with the dead man and continued on his way. He pointed to his materials, exchanged what little money he had for it and returned to his home, where he showed his wife and son what he had purchased and what he had found.

“What is it?” his wife asked.
“’Though mighty he be who discovers me, will find him little ‘lest he use this riddle.’” He paused and stared at the object.
“I found it on a mad man after he fell dead. I do not know what it is. On a parchment, I saw that it wrote in gold. Perhaps we can write and se-“

His eyes wandered after he had spoken his last coherent words. He rose to his feet and was on his way out.

“What?”
No response.

“W-what is it?” Roffolo asked in his broken speech to no avail.

“He’s thrown a fit!” his wife exclaimed as she chased after him.

“F-fit?” the boy asked. The object dropped before both parents had left the house.

And that was that.

Ruffolo's Story