Roscoe is stocky and wide across the shoulders, standing just under three feet tall. He has thick, russet-colored hair and a short, braided beard. His face is weathered by the sun and marked with a thin scar running across his nose. He typically wears mud-stained common clothes and carries an oversized greataxe that seems too large for his frame.

I am hauntedly polite until the shouting starts. I believe that a sharp blade is better than a long speech, and I find the complexities of city life frustratingly confusing. I have a soft spot for children and small animals, often acting as their silent guardian in the background.

Roscoe was never meant for the quiet life of the shire. While his cousins were focused on the perfect bake, Roscoe was busy wrestling farm dogs and lifting heavy barrels. He joined the Iron Shield mercenary company as a youth, serving as a shock trooper in several bloody border skirmishes. His size was often underestimated, a mistake that cost many enemies their knees or their lives. He learned to channel the protective instinct of his people into a terrifying martial fury. One night, his company was betrayed by a cowardly noble who fled the field, leaving Roscoe as one of the few survivors. He returned home to find that the horrors of war had changed him too much to enjoy the comforts of a hole in the ground. He now wanders the world, seeking a new cause worthy of his loyalty. His anger is not a lack of control, but a tool used to defend those who cannot fight for themselves.