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(The physical description section just would not let me continue typing so I will complete it below)

A heathen affront to the portrait of mankind, Salmo is a plump and ugly young man betrayed by his rugged skin and thin black hair. His hands are calloused and vexed with dried spots where they once rotted. His hair is parted by a river of baldness, and its corners filthy with oils. His eyes are both damned as lazy, and the true gaze or attention of their vantablack irises an impossible question to make out. Though seldom marked by any chronicler, he stands in the realm of 5'8'' ft., and weighs no less than 200 lbs. by the judgmental whispers of any pauper unfortunate enough to have seen him. He oft does fashion cheap robes and leather, and is known to refuse any headwear. It is hard to tell if his indignity to hats and helmets comes from a fear of losing what little hair he does still have, or if he holds some twisted sort of pride for his horrible and unseemly vogue.

- - -

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”

. . .

NOTHING-PRIDE. Salmo drummed his fingers at the tattered ends of the tent, basking in the concept of refuge for a second or three. His half-rotted hands swayed to close the ends of the tent, before addressing the old crone in privy. "I come from a place barely worth its ink on a map, and it would be a lie to tell you I remember its name," he began, his voice dry with the draw of exhaustion. "But I know that I was given light to in some graveyard, and that the woman who accursed me with life died in the process." Salmo sauntered forward, pursing his lips and letting his lazy and ugly eyes drift into thought. His legs twisted, and he plopped down into the cushion's comfort. "Gravekeep took me in, Balon Maekar was his name. You'll think of me forgetful but I cannot recall many a memory from that time either," he lamented with a sour expression, but a keen enough eye could make him out to be indifferent. "As far as recollection allows, I worked with him. I tended to the grounds and read the tombs of the fallen for pass-time. Adunians, most of them, and their inscriptions made that abundantly clear," Salmo paused for a second, sucking air through his teeth. "Pride is a funny little thing when you're dead."

"Ten, maybe twelve moons ago, the graveyard was laid assail to by a puissant necromancer. Balor died trying to defend the place, but I would not - myself - die to defend the pride of dead men," he admitted, grimacing at the thought. "That affray gave me a glimpse of ambition's raw essence. If I've been cursed and ailed with downtrodden origins, I now realize, it is by design... it is because no great story starts at the tip of the spire. Folly, it would be, that I allow myself to become some footnote tomb at the lesser end of whatever graveyard lands me. If ever I am buried, I want people to weep and build statues of gold in my memory -- hideous as they may be. I will deserve it."