Rondimbi was born the strongest child of the Mnavli grove, a hidden clan of plant-folk who lived deep in the forests that are now called the Verdant Ruins. His people grew their food from their own bodies, shared everything, and had never known war. Rondimbi was different. His hunger was always larger than the harvest. As a young man he was cast out of the grove's inner circle for eating the ceremonial fruit meant for the whole clan — an act his elders called a curse, and he called an appetite.
The famine came the year the sky changed. Crops withered, the groves browned, and the clan began to starve. Rondimbi watched his kin grow thin and weak, and something inside him — something that had always been there, waiting — whispered that the solution was walking around on two legs. The first friend he ate, he convinced himself it was mercy. The second, he didn't bother convincing himself of anything.
Over the course of a single terrible season, Rondimbi consumed his family, his friends, and finally the last survivors of his race. When it was done, he sat alone in the empty grove, stronger and fatter than he had ever been, and discovered that being the last of your kind is the loneliest meal of all.
He turned then to the bananas — the sacred crop his people had tended for generations — and ate them to extinction across the whole region. To do it efficiently, he acquired the Desert Eagle from a dead smuggler he had, of course, eaten. The gun became his identity: the last banana-man, armed like an action hero, hunting the last bananas.
When the fruit ran out, the hunger did not. He started small — a bite from his own arm, justified as 'trimming the ripened parts.' The bites became a habit, the habit became a ledger of scars, and each morning he wakes a little more afraid that one day he will eat himself to the core.
Then the dinosaurs came, and the world ended, and Rondimbi woke in a cave with no memory of the last month — only ash on his boots, a dream of a glowing figurine, and a gnawing in his belly that, for once, was not hunger. Theron's tale of Partoon and Gambro gave him something he hasn't had since the grove: a purpose bigger than his appetite. He joined the party without hesitation. The others may not yet know what he is. He hasn't told them. But he keeps his hands where they can see them, and he never eats in front of strangers.
Now he walks the Verdant Ruins with a hand cannon and a longsword, fighting dinosaurs alongside people who might, if they knew, run screaming — or worse, offer him a shoulder to bite. He is trying, desperately, to be the hero of this story instead of its monster. Every day he resists the hunger is a victory. Every bite-mark scar is a defeat he carries on his skin. And somewhere deep down, Rondimbi Mnavli knows the truth the DM whispered: he isn't sure he's going to survive — and he isn't entirely sure he wants to, if surviving means staying hungry forever.
