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Within the city of Arx there are the Ulbrans, the Cullers, the Grayhopes and there's the Thornburns. Ripley is one of the latter, that family with a long history of dedication to Crown and to crafting. Ripley is no different and took to the forge and the working of metal just like his father and some of his siblings. Sandwiched between Eithne and Aurora in the heirarchy of the offspring, he took the middle road when it came to crafting and long fingers were far better at making pieces of jewelery than armor or weapons. It wasn't uncommon for him to shove on Eithne some crudely made piece that he had finished as he was learning or beg of her to help him fix it, or wearing Aurora's badly made pieces as she learned her craft. He was prone to fits of melencholy though. If a piece of jewelry didn't turn out right, metal didn't work as it should, a customer was unhappy, Ripley was unhappy. He would sulk about the house or lay in bed and mope until his ass got kicked by family or inspiration struck again and he was back at the bench working. Such is the life of Ripley Thornburn, with it's highs and lows. Inspiration however, needs to be found elsewhere sometimes and isn't always within the walls of the city. So with kisses to cheeks and his tools on his back, Ripley took off into the wilds of Arvum. Off to seek inspiration, everything he needed at his back. Letters would come filtering through as he traversed Arvum with tales of moments of danger, moments of despair, of the forges and other artisans that he would stop and spend time at the benchs of and learning their unique ways. Little pieces of jewelry as well, tokens of familial affection would wend their way back home as his skill improved till one day there was no letter but Ripley himself striding in through the door with a wild smile on his face and a little more learned. Hair in need of a good cutting and clothes mended. He had traveled far but had found his way home.

With a wide smile, long face liberally sprinkled with freckles and generous nose, Ripley stands as tall as his father but lacks the muscles that his father and other smiths might bear due to their profession. Shoulders hunched over part in thanks to the nature of his profession, and brown eyes the shade of tree bark, his state of personal care vacillates with his moods. He can be shaggy and unkempt one week, wearing whatever he picked up from the floor and the next a trimmed beard and hair, wearing the finest clothes made by his sisters hands. His appearance is as mecurial as his mood.

For the most part, Ripley is a happy-go-ucky sort of individual with highs of passion that can at times be a little manic. An exuberance for his work, his family and his city. But there is and are times when it is the opposite and the man can barely get out of bed and melencholy strikes which leaves him moping around the city like a kicked puppy and grasping at ways to drag himself out of it.