Ragpickers are a well-known feature of our civilization, providing a useful service by collecting detritus and selling it on to be used in a variety of products. They are often known for keeping the more interesting items they find by poking through offal and refuse, but some have taken the practice further than most. The Ragman of our story has no other known name, having been birthed into the intense poverty that is the lot of so many in the poorer electorates of the Empire, and made a living like many of his kin by collecting scraps of cloth and bone for use in making cardboard and glue.

One day, the Ragman came across a piece of kingly fabric–Glevna purple, the color of nobility, run through with shimmering gold threads. Accounts differ as to where it was found–the offal piles of Kourtzberg, the banks of the river Pleß, or the old field upon which the Battle of the Grains was fought. In any case, the fabric was worth a hundred times what the Ragman had ever found, and any weaver attached to a noble court would have purchased it for a tidy sum. Yet the Ragman found himself so enamored by it that he refused to sell it, instead affixing it to his tattered cloak in a place of honor and continuing his trade.

Soon, fellow ragpickers noticed that the Ragman seemed to be having extraordinary luck in finding more scraps of fabric. Nothing so fine as that first piece, to be sure, but more than exceeding the rest of them in quantity. They also noticed that the Ragman had stopped selling his rags on. Instead, he affixed them to his garments in the same manner as the first, gradually building up a coat of motley fabrics. Gloves, too, soon followed, as did boots and a mask. Given that he had stopped selling, the other soon wondered how he was able to eat, but the Ragman made his rounds all the same, never mumbling more than a few words to anyone and soon ceasing to speak altogether.

The Ragman was soon avoided by even his fellows due to an intense stench that began emanating from him, which lasted for weeks. All the time, he continued to gather more rags and added them, layer upon layer, with even the original kingly purple cloth long since buried by a husk of scavenged fabrics. Then they began finding bones in his wake. First small bones, but later even long ribs and limb bones. It was feared he had taken to waylaying and murdering others, until a suspicious burgomaster followed the Ragman and saw that the bones were slipping out from between his own rags.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
It is my belief that, as the rags closest to his core rot away, new ones are added to replace them. The Ragman has strangled those tho attempt to impede him, but otherwise not interfered with anyone, and indeed many settlements provide him with rags at a safe distance to ward him off. In my opinion, he might be destroyed with pitch and fire, but that may lead to unanticipated consequences.

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