If you met a young man who tried very hard to fit in as a Breelander and succeeded, then you might have met Tatton. Tatton Wiltswoe, called Tate by most, descends from the Wiltswoes, a family of leather-makers in Bree that are known, but aren’t particularly renowned. The quality of their work is respected, yet they are neither loved nor disliked, despite Tatton’s insistent claims to the contrary. 

Meticulously groomed, fashion-saavy and usually clean-shaven, Tatton makes it seem like he could groom a boar and make it handsome. His flax-blonde hair reaches his shoulders and is always tucked behind his ears; he is usually clad in leather (somehow, he always finds a way to wear it) and burgundy linens. When not wearing gauntlets, one might note his hands and arms up to his elbows are smooth, but scarred and calloused from chemicals and labor. An old but prominent scar trails from his nose, over his lips and to his chin. Anyone passing him would smell a strong scent of rosemary, but anyone standing nearer might notice an acrid, almost chemical-like scent clinging to his clothes that never quite leaves them.

Tatton is ever-cheerful, always looking for some way to spark a conversation and make a friend. Tate could talk to a stranger and charm the saddle off his horse, or so he thinks. His confidence seems quite high. Tatton carries an exuberant, enthusiastic air with him always, save for early mornings when he usually can’t be found among company. If he isn’t on the tables of the Prancing Pony dancing his way to (probably imagined) fame, he’s in the forest scavenging, reading intensely, or otherwise always searching for something, perhaps searching for answers to the questions he rarely asks aloud.

((Portrait used is created in Artbreeder; I claim no copyright on it.))