World of Redemption

A stout man whose trade has left its indelible mark upon him. He carries himself with the stolid, grounded bearing of someone who spends their days on their feet, surrounded by the tools of a grim profession. Caucasian, with a ruddy, perpetually flushed complexion from exertion and the mountain air. Small, dark, and deeply set eyes that are shrewd and miss little, often sizing up customers with the same practical gaze he gives his livestock. His hair is greasy, dark brown that has long since begun a retreat from his forehead, thinning and balding on top, with lank, unkempt strands falling to his collar. His face is a roadmap of broken veins and wrinkles, particularly around his eyes and nose. He wears a simple, dark red work shirt, the fabric of which is perpetually strained against his broad shoulders. A thick, bushy mustache dominates his face, and a heavy, hide apron, stained with the history of his trade, is always tied around his waist.

Bob is a man of profound practicality and few words. His conversations are transactional, his patience for idle chatter non-existent. He is not cruel, but the daily reality of his work has sanded away any soft edges he might have once possessed, leaving behind a core of gruff indifference. He communicates more through grunts and telling glances than through actual sentences. He respects hard work and self-sufficiency, holding a quiet disdain for those who can't provide for themselves. While he appears surly and unapproachable, there is a deep-seated reliability to him; if he says he will have a cut of meat ready, it will be ready. He finds a strange, quiet contentment in his work, in the simple, brutal honesty of his trade.

Bob Mattice learned the butcher’s trade not from a fancy guild but from a necessity born of cold mountain winters. He came to Valentine with the first wave of settlers, seeing opportunity in the remote town's need for a reliable source of meat. He built his shop with his own hands and has been its sole proprietor ever since, a silent fixture in the town’s landscape. He has seen prospectors come and go, watched mayors rise and fall, and has provided cuts of venison and beef to them all without judgment. His life is not one of adventure, but of a constant, bloody routine. He feels more kinship with the stoic trappers who bring him pristine pelts than the loud, ambitious newcomers who dream of changing the world he so grimly maintains.