Rudolph Weaver

Rudolph Weaver

I USED TO TRUST THE MEDIA TO TELL ME THE TRUTH

Standing at 5'0" and the tell tale pointy ears of a dwarf, Rudolph is no stranger to short jokes. The strange clash of dwarven blood and Eastern upbringing can confuse people when they first meet the surly looking male, not sure what to make of the sometimes weird word choice and Eastern - not dwarven - accent he has.

With a default expression of a zombie about to start a fight, eternal black, baggy eyes, and an everpresent sword nearly as long as he is tall, Rudolph's first impression isn't too great. Wild hair, an assortment of scars, and patched up clothes complete the image of the scrappy vagabond. While the dirt and matted hair are hard to keep tidy with no home, he does make an effort to keep himself from bleeding all over himself and staining his clothes red.


Picked up by a immigrating family heading to Kardia, a tiny Rudolph was given his name and birthday in the back of a wagon. His new birthday became Winter 15th, Rudolph was meant to be a Western name, and the Weavers became his family. It took several years of raising him and someone asking about his 'real' parents for both Rudolph and his family to find out he wasn't even human.

Growing up meant a mixture of Eastern languages and common Norad, of learning about their home country along with the one he was assumedly born in, and some mish mash of rumours and truth about dwarves. His human parents weren't sure whether to send him off to a blacksmith - everyone said dwarves were meant to be blacksmiths or miners - or keep him close at home, working in their general shop.

Rudolph seemed to find a middle ground of sorts - cutting things with a sword matched up with cutting material for sewing, and you needed to know a blacksmith to get said sword... ok, not really a middleground, but he tried matching his family's crafts. It helped that finding a liking to swordsmenship meant his parents and extended family could stop pressuring him to try their specific trade out, and the ever present idea of sending him off to some unknown dwarven settlement was finally quashed. Armed with a some training, a few tamitaya enchanted weapons, and a map, Rudolph's wandering about Norad began.

Selphia is the latest in regions he's ended up in after years of moving from place to place. While cautious of being so close to a Divine Dragon, for now he's sticking around. Maybe he'd go exploring over at the Sechs Empire, a rather big step away from walking around the rather friendly and safe Norad.


It took everything Rudolph had and then some not to scratch at the rash. Now that the rampaging buffamoo had all been sent back to the Forest of Beginnings, he could beat himself up for chasing the last damn cow through that stretch of nettles. It was fun, making sure he had the right footing and keeping pace with the buffamoo. Ok, it wasn't the best decision and he probably could have just tracked the monster safely, but that wasn't the fun option damn it.

Hindsight was 20/20 afterall, not that it made him feel any better. Or less itchy. Or less frustrated. Just... one little scratch couldn't hurt right? Ugh no don't that's how you end up with a raw shoulder and blood everywhere. Again.

Now that he had calmed down from the rush of a fight, Rudolph could start to figure out where exactly he had run off to. A fallen tree, a certain few stumps, and the presence of a chipsqueak meant he couldn't be far from those ruins and water. Kicking the furry annoyance away, he walked off to look for water to wash his rash with, resisting the urge to scratch at it.

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