[Moff Chumley]

THE MOFF

Gender: Male
Race/Species: Human, at least outwardly.
Age: Twenties. He lost track.
Alignment: Pretty much chaotic evil, but not to the extent others might take it.
Class/Profession: Layabout/Rogue
Power Rating: B-
Description: The Moff is on the short and wiry side of average. He has unremarkable brown hair and eyes, but his hair does tend to be a tad long and shaggy. The Moff wears a grandiose, if faded, grey uniform, complete with medals. If anyone asks what army it's from, he stares at them blankly and says They call me The Moff, don't they?
Personality: The Moff is lazy. He doesn't particularly like extended physical exertion, and will go to great lengths to avoid it. Mental exertion is fine in his book, though, and he seems to gain a good deal of pleasure from debating and bargaining. He's cheap, but his flair for the grandiose and appreciation for artistry has him spending plenty of money. Since returning to Nexus, he's gone, as it were, off the deep end. Not all there. Bat-sh*t. Whatever you want to call it.
Equipment: The Moff always carries several concealed knives on his person, just in case. "Just in case" happens to him more than he would care for. Recently, he acquired a pair of Objects. The Cost is an unremarkable looking butterfly knife, but there is not a substance or spell on earth that it can't slice through like warm butter. Synchronicity is a battered old harmonica that facilitates, essentially, the rule of awesome. The Moff doesn't understand how it works, really, but it allows him to get away with all sorts of shenanigans.
Abilities: Despite his aversion to physical effort, The Moff is very fast, and can sprint fast enough to make Rincewind proud, though usually only when someone is chasing him. He's also fairly handy with those knives... he's picked up the ability to travel via the Yellow Road recently, and between that and Synchronicity, he's capable of all sorts of mind-bending or otherwise unlikely feats.
Backstory: The Moff has been loitering around Nexus for a few years; no one knows (and neither does he, to be entirely honest) where he was before. He tends to disappear for months and years at a time; no one has bothered to find out where and why.