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Hrold
Hróld Hundi's son; Cheapjack of the Road
| Name | Hrold |
|---|---|
| Occupation | Trading Dwarf |
| Age | Older than he cares to admit |
| Race | Dwarf |
|---|---|
| Residence | Any Inn, lodge, or suitable place to unfurl his bedroll along or near the Old Road. |
| Kinship |
| Outward Appearance | He seems rather diminished and shabby in appearance, for he bears none of the trappings of the Dwarves from tales and stories that concern battle-savvy folk; neither weilding axe and mail, or a temper to match. No indeed, for Hróld appears as hand-me-down as they come, forever carrying a multitude of pouches on his saddle and ragged robe, of which remains dyed in bright rust (albeit now stained with mud) so that his customers may not soon forget him.
Set upon his leathered face, encircled by a dirty white beard and fluffy hair, there are two beedy eyes, ever regarding all folk with the tradesman's eye. And yet his expressions and mannerisms are of one whom favours theatricality. His dramatic personality all plays its part in the eventual haggle he has foreseen.
Not merely blessed with the gift of the gab his pudgy hands can ever be seen at work, busying themselves with strange gestures; the rubbing of his ear, the stroke of his beard, or the twitch of his fingers- each appears as unnoticeable ticks, and yet to fellow Dwarf traders, it remains a secret language of sign for the fine art of the haggle.
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Background
According to the wisdom of Bree, 'Old Cheapjack' simply appeared on the Great East road nearly a generation ago, beyond the memory of the current Men. As such, he has been regarded as something of a jovial myth among traders, only to become a reality once a decade or so.
The by-name was bequethed to him by the Men of that village, for he had garnered fast renown for flogging the most mundane items of dubious quality. Most know nothing of his origin, nor has his tongue ever been loosened to divulge it, no matter the amount of brandy consumed.
Yet, for those whose knowledge or memory can be cast as far back to greater days, they may recall the grand and fell deeds in far-off places in times of yore, concerning a great pilgrimage and wandering of Durin's Folk to and fro the mountains. Of the fabled Dragons and their unruly lot there are many tales, and the terrible war upon the goblins of the mountains; but the tragedy of Dwarves may not only be applied to the noblest and unthroned of their people.
It is rumoured that still, despite the renewed reign of the Dwarf realms in these times, there remains a few remnants of those broken pilgrims, and their sons; forgotten hagglers and nobodies alike who still take to the East Road of their forebears and trade with all that they can...
| Friends | Anyone that's ever turned him a profit, these being especially: Bregir Stoutheart, Fafnr Timberhand. |
|---|---|
| Relatives | Numerous, or perhaps none now alive. It isn't clear, nor does he willingly tell. |
| Rivals/Enemies | Anyone that slights him, for he shall never forget. |
| Loves | The opportune moment. |
|---|---|
| Hates | When that moment has passed without profit. |
| Motivation | Haggling, hawking, and 'breeding gold, from gold'. |
| Quotes | "Eh-eh-eh!" |
