Rosro

this is, uh, Rosro. no one in the Court knows how long he's been like... this. he just kind of showed up one day. when he first arrived in a confused daze, the self-pronounced monarch Lenere took pity on him and gifted him with a toy king's crown, which he has treasured ever since. it's unclear whether Rosro is even aware that it's made of plastic, as he refuses to take it off. a rather strange fellow, but Lenere and his court nevertheless welcome a jester who loves his job.

Rosro spends his days daydreaming and sharing happy tales of his life, which may or may not be true, but when he lies, it is not with ill intent; he either chooses to believe in the small delights or has simply forgotten the truth in the first place.
a great jokester, this fool loves a good riddle, able to brighten one's a day with a single smile. Rosro is everyone's friend, whether they like it or not. if he doesn't win someone over with his always-sunny personality, then by Mother, he'll be more than ready to whip up a platter of his signature seven-filling Ehomaki to win over their stomach. (not the court chef, though still a surprisingly tasteful sushi connoisseur!) he may not always understand, but he will always listen to a dragon's worries when no one else is there for them. those closest to him attest that indeed he is wise beyond his years, if you can figure out the cryptic meanings behind the words he weaves.
though, as much as they love him, the rest of the clan silently thanks the Gods that his slime doesn't entirely cover his paws.
his favorite daydreams involve being king of a make-believe kingdom of his own, spreading glad tidings across the Wastes.

the injuries lying under the bandages often seen on his body are of unknown origin, and when questioned, Rosro seems not to notice they were ever there in the first place. they come and go frequently with no discernible pattern.

...at least, that's what he believes!

when torpor falls over the Rim, and the purple sunset of dusk is most vibrant, Rosro the Fool rises in a trance. eyes glazed over, sleepy grin alight, he steps past the archways of his chamber, through the High Court, out of the Manor, skirts along the Rotrock Rim, and sets his lucid sights on a glow in the distance.
when the moon is high, Rosro joins the Circus.

mind you, this Circus does not solely recognize the trapeze artists and the chimera tamers and the weightlifters and the living pretzels; oh, no, many of the Carnival-Folk perform their best work as crowds file in and out of the enormous, neon-lit tent. this is where Rosro shines.

while others lay on nail-lined beds, another predicts impossible fates, one struts across blazing coals (though she herself is a shameless child of the Flamecaller), the obelisk grins, opens his jaws, and swallows gleaming silver blades.
passers-by grimace and gasp, some pick up their pace, both unable to keep watching but too weak to tear their gazes away from the horrid sight they were seeing.
of course, many dragons were no strangers to war. swords and teeth and claws and daggers were common sights around Sornieth, especially in this lawless place that was the Scarred Wasteland. however, it was the choice of weapon which caused even the most stone-faced imperial to flinch.

Rosro would swallow sickles. those beautiful, crescent-moon, harvest-bearing sickles.
now, the astute of you may have knowledge of the shape and size of the throat, and wonder what sort of trickery could possibly allow such a stunt to safely take place? to that, I answer, you ask the wrong question. to that, I answer, there is no such trick.
to that, I ask you, might you by now understand the origins of those fleeting wounds-breaking-scales the jester collects every eve?

then again, it should not worry you. after all, it causes him great joy to entertain his subjects as they wander his dreams. all the more worth it when the occasional ridgeback loses his appetite and leaves a generous heaping of seafood in Rosro's tip basket.