Umbralux Terra

Ron looks like someone who doesn’t belong—yet somehow fits perfectly. He wears a thick, weathered coat made of stitched-together fabrics, some clearly scavenged from old uniforms and travel cloaks. Dozens of tiny pockets line the inside, always full of things that shouldn't fit. His hair is long, wiry, and grey, always tucked beneath a battered hood. His beard is uneven, more like he forgot to finish shaving a decade ago. His eyes, though—his eyes are sharp. Too sharp. Bright, shifting between gray and pale green, and always seeming to land on you a second before you look at him. His boots don’t match. One is steel-toed, the other made of some strange hide that flexes unnaturally. His fingers are stained with ink, rust, and something dark he won’t explain. And even when the wind cuts through your cloak and the cold bites to the bone—Ron never seems to shiver.

Ron is friendly—almost too friendly. He greets everyone like an old friend, even if you’ve never met him before. His voice is warm, with a hint of sarcasm, and he talks like he knows more than he lets on. Which he probably does. He never pushes a sale, but somehow you always leave with something you didn’t plan to buy. He’s curious, always asking questions about places you’ve been, people you’ve seen… but never answers questions about himself. If pressed, he’ll change the subject with a joke or an unsettling grin. He never seems scared. Not of monsters, not of storms, not of magic. If anything, he seems amused by danger—as if he’s in on some secret the rest of you haven’t figured out yet. And when no one’s looking, some say they’ve caught him talking to his wares… or that they talk back.

No one remembers when Ron first showed up at the ruined tower. Some say he’s been there for years—others swear he wasn’t there last week. But if you need something rare, odd, or questionably acquired, he’s the one to ask. Ron runs his little stall just outside the crumbling gate, under a patched canvas that somehow stays dry, no matter how hard the rain falls. His wares range from rusted weapons and preserved rations to strange trinkets that hum when you hold them too long. His prices are always “fair,” though no two buyers seem to pay the same. People wonder how he survives out there. He’s never seen with food. He doesn’t light fires. And the monsters? They never touch him. He’s always smiling. Always watching. Always there—until suddenly, he isn’t.