Last Time On...
Rostam Rose, better known as Rosey, stands 5’10 and weighs in at a tidy 175lbs. He is somewhat swarthy in complexion, with dark hair (kept reasonably short) and slightly hawkish facial features. His eyes are small, yet friendly. On long adventures his tidy mustache and goatee will sometimes expand into a scraggly beard; when he returns home, his wife will scarcely associate with him until it is shaved away.
Rosey’s hands and forearms are littered with minor scars, which are more the result of carelessness than genuine bad fortune. He cannot tell you how he acquired any particular one; they seem to appear without his notice. It is his preference to have his sleeves rolled up at all times. His sturdy forearms are the only evidence you have of his body’s strength.
Despite his jovial and often carefree nature, Rosey walks with a purposeful gait, erect and alert even after a night of carousing. He sits straight, even while telling a joke, even while slapping someone on the back. Of course when a mission requires it, he can be as lithe as a serpent, and ten times as deadly.
It was Rosey’s habit to trot out different, wondrous magical items at the beginning of each campaign. He would rarely wield the same magic blade more than once in a year, and at his peak he was known to have his wife pack his equipment without his knowledge. He would only open his bag when he was days from home, allowing himself then to see what he had to work with. Needless to say, people did not associate himself with any particular item, except for perhaps the gold coins that almost ceaselessly appeared from his purse.
Of course when he was at home, and all the treasure locked away, he opted for simple clothes, perhaps a travelers cloak when he went into the cities, a plain satchel, nothing more, nothing less.
He thought he was done with this shit. He thought he was about to enter a blissful life of retirement. HE THOUGHT WRONG.
One of the more lighthearted members of the group, Rosey was always more interested in the spoils than the action itself. But it can’t be said that his efforts in battle weren’t redoubled toward the end of a fight, when he could practically smell the coins in his enemy’s purse.
Not so much greedy as frugal, Rosey never took more than his fair share, but he somehow always managed to get more out of his slice of pie. Or perhaps he just enjoyed it more.
Having amassed a fortune that would be spoken of in legends (“If it were ever real in the first place,” he thinks), he looked forward to a life of leisure, good times, and idle adventuring, assisting his countrymen by day and returning to his beautiful wife at night. Maybe they’d even start a family.
Of course there was that last little problem that needed taking care of.
Now that it all seems to be gone, he is a bit depressed, unsure if he can even find the motivation to go on. It might even be said that Rosey has developed a bit of a death wish; if 30 years of rich life could be replaced so quickly, he wonders, might it not be best to pull the curtain back on this new world as well, and see what treasures might await behind?
The lone gold coin he finds in his shoe after awakening stirs not even the slightest fire in his blood. He supposes he will look for his wife; he knows wherever she is she’ll be getting by okay. She was always strong and creative like that. And then there’s the matter of Zek. If that mewling, notty-pated hedgepig had anything to do with this, he would have to suffer.