The whistle of the wind through the trees disrupted his sleep. He arose, gazed at the sky, and left his hands at his side. He gripped his trusty shovel in his right hand, which was all but a memory. While it was his most treasured possession, he let it drag upon the ground in his weary state. He wore dark brown pants and a sleeveless brown shirt, though there is a rumor that they used to be white before the dirt and grime of his habitat ruined them.
He had spent many years in the graveyard, for this was his domain and where he felt at home. Nobody really knows where he came from, but everyone acknowledged his presence. It is probable that he has forgotten himself. Many a night he spent roaming the graveyard, sometimes to the will of passerby, and unearthing treasures from the ground. Did he know where the Rupees or Pieces of Heart lay in wait, or was it luck of the draw even to him? There is no telling for sure, but nobody has exactly tried to figure it out.
You know what, he may have a limp eye and his mouth is not perfectly straight. Whose is? That does not give anyone the right to give him everything that he's gone through. You should be ashamed for what you've done.
I'm sorry, I digress. This is Dampé, and this is his story.