If you ask him his name he will simply disregard the question as if you never asked it, and proceed to sell you a used spatula. His breath smells of rank, aged Bogril cheese. He is known by sight only (his mountain of junk, so effortlessly stacked with reckless precision, is unmistakable) in over twelve different counties. They simply call him: The Junk Monger.
Little is known about the fellow beyond what you see in front of you. His strange, unplaceable accent, his ramshackle clothing. But perhaps the key to understanding this odd Bogril lies in the conglomeration of odds and ends that sits atop his back. A fine rug of Shrym design, woven from the thread of glowworms, now soiled and wet and worn. A coat hanger, stolen from the wardrobe of a fabled Bogril prince. A weird ball of crystal, that if caressed with a specific succession of finger taps, would scry the edge of the world. An old pot. A dirty old boot. What is that, a bear trap?
Actually, this really tells us nothing about the man. He is simply a hoarder of the highest degree, and a nomad. Don’t ask him for favors. Don’t ask him for help. The Junk Monger is a nigh elemental force, a living metaphor for the lost things in your life that will be gone from it as quickly as they arrived.