Zolzaya Togtuun [+]

Zolzaya Togtuun

Time is like an arrow. Its better if you have more and it hurts like a bitch when it hits you.

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age: 23 ... Race: Folk ... Sex: Female ... Height: 5'6 ... Weight ... Level: 1 (All players start at level 1.) Health Points Constitution 24 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y .. ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - Recurve bow - Cavalry Sabre and whicker shield. Cavalry Spear - Leathers (If inapplicable leave blank or mark as NA.) ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Points: 12 (These points are meant to be distributed among the six attributes below. This is to be removed from the CS after points have been distributed. Remember to account for racial bonuses. Do not forget to show your work next to each ability regarding points added and subtracted!) Might: 10 +1 + 2 13 Dexterity: 10 +1 + 4 15 Perception: 10 +1 + 2 13 Wisdom: 10 +1 11 Charisma: 10 +2 12 Constitution: 10 + 2 12

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE A wirey muscular woman from the Huafen plain. Dark of hair and weathered from long seasons in the saddle on the unforgiving plains. She was considered a beauty once, but while young for a Folk, the hardship of tribal life has begun to steal the blush of youth from her cheeks. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY Zolzaya was born into a generations long interncine struggle for control of her tribe. Her grandfather was a great chief who united most of the tribes by marriage and war. Unfortunately all those marriages left an awful lot of heirs when the old man finally died. His concern for keeping all of his various wives happy meant that no clear successor was evident when the Old Bandit finally rode off to the great wind in the sky. The tribal gathering to elect a new leader deadlocked endlessly and eventually broke down into a series of running battles which snowballed into nearly four years of tribal warfare. Zolzaya's tribe lost most of their male leaders in the blood bath of the collapsing tribal compact. Zolzaya's mother rallied the survivors and put her and her sisters in command of the tribes warriors. Over the next several seasons Zolzaya rose to promince as a commander, reknowned for leading lightning raids and audatious all or nothing gambits. Under her leadership her tribe has become the central power on the southern plains. With their heartland secure the time is right for a representitive of the tribe to come south and make formal alligence to the Emperor, a move which will vastly strengthen the tribe, both diplomatically and material in Imperial weapons and trade goods. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Zolzaya is firey and brash, almost reckless. She is overconfident, ambitious and ruthless. She has a concept of honor peculiar to horsethieves and steppe raiders. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Zolzaya wants to make her submission to the Emperor and get back north as quickly as she can before the other tribes, or worse her sisters, get out of control. ____________________________________________________________________________ MISC ...

Bashira [+]

S H I N X I B A S H I R A

T h e D e m o n o f B i a n w e i

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 29 Race Folk Sex Female Height 5’ 11’ Weight 175 Level 1 Health Points 20 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y When the story starts, Bashira is in the middle of a duel. The only inventory she has is her equipment and a few gold coins. If she has time to run home before adventuring, she might grab a bit more money, a flask, and a bag of small necessities (bed roll, rope, etc.). ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - Miao Dao / “Sprout Saber” / Two-handed Saber - Leather Whip - Dagger - Dueling Armor: as much for spectacle as it is protection, Bashira’s dueling armor is lamellar in red and black, featuring a demonic half-mask. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Might: 15 10+1(racial)+4(of 12) Dexterity: 15 10+1(racial)+4(of 12) Perception: 13 10+1(racial)+2(of 12) Wisdom: 11 10+1(racial) Charisma: 12 10+2(of 12) Constitution: 10 ___________________________________ M I S C -Has a large tattoo of a dragon battling a tiger (Yin vs. Yang) -Shinxi is the name of a tiger dragon (according to one questionable source) -Bashira means "bright" or "joy" LOL

____________________________________________________________________________ A P P E A R A N C E Tall, muscular, and bad-tempered, Bashira can come off as intimidating. She's got a mass of dark hair, black eyes, high cheekbones, and fine features. ____________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y Brash, bold, irreverent, cynical, indignant, loyal, determined. ____________________________________________________________________________ B A C K S T O R Y Shinxi Bashira woke and reached for the bottle. Her hands were shaking, the vestiges of a formless terror-dream still clinging to the corners of her mind like the last strands of spider silk falling from a careless wanderer. She couldn’t quite remember what it had been about, but there had been fire, she thought. Screams. Her mouth still tasted of iron, and her head throbbed beautifully. Bashira pulled a long draught from the bottle but missed the table when she tried to set it down, and it shattered over pale wooden floor, spilling rice wine in rivers. It caught the light of the coming morning, sparkling like a sword edge. A few small sounds of protest came from the pallet behind her, but Bashira ignored the soft figure lying there. It was an exhibition day. There were forms to observe. The room wobbled as Bashira hauled herself up, trying to balance over the mess seeping across the planks. Her belly heaved, though unearnestly. She’d hold onto its contents for a little while longer at least. Bashira closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to slow the spinning, but when she opened them again, it still coiled around her, as unreal as smoke dreams. Gray light spilled over a sparse space: sleeping mat, paper curtain, zither. A small writing desk leaned against the wall nearest the street-facing windows, and in the center of the opposite wall, a full set of red and black dueling armor was on display below a long, slightly curved sword—the only thing in the room worth anything to Bashira. She stumbled forward, slipped, sliced her right heel on a shard of wine-slick pottery. The floor came up in a white-blur-rush, and pain erupted again from her forehead. The girl in the bed giggled, and Bashira groaned. She was naked, and the wine pooling beneath her calves was cold and sticky. This time, when her stomach heaved, it nearly won out. The Demon of Bianwei! Daughter of a War Hero! Duelist Extraordinaire! Bashira pushed herself up from the floor and staggered to a waiting basin behind the paper screen, the eyes of its painted tiger dragon watching her with evident disgust. She ignored it and went about her ablutions, scrubbing her body with cold water and clove-scented bean powder, mopping up the blood from her foot. Half a pitcher of water later, all the various lines of Bashira’s vision were running straight, so she lifted the two-handed saber from its place of prominence on the wall and slipped down to the bottom floor to prepare, wrapping a stained silk robe about her shoulders as she went. It began without the weapon— stretches to pull and strengthen the muscles of her arms and back, lunges to test her legs. She fell at first. Swayed. But sweating cleared her head. She didn’t think about how long it’d been since she had a fight to prepare for, how the townhouse was eating through what had once felt like an endless supply of coin. She resolutely didn’t notice the dust, feather-soft and horrible, that had been building up since she’d dismissed her servants, how the main floor of her home escaped the distinction of messy only by the virtue of being gloriously empty. Whatever. It was easier to practice that way. Bashira reached for her sword, and a knock sounded at the door. Fuck. There were only a few people she hadn’t managed to run off yet. The landlord, maybe. Her agent. The twin prophets of bad fucking news. She could just… not answer it. Leave whoever it was in the dew and last night’s festival leavings, but damn her if she wasn’t a little bit curious. It was an odd time to go knocking down someone's front door. Just please, gods, let the woman in her bed not have an angry husband. It was too early in the morning for murder. When she swung open the door, a middle-aged man stood framed in the portal. He wore his hair slicked back—an unfortunate choice with his receding hairline, and he carried all his gold in the bags under his eyes. Incongruously, he wore a navy dress uniform with general’s knots that Bashira couldn’t quite wrap her head around, considering that the last time she’d seen him, he’d been face-down in a pool of his own vomit, forgotten beer soaking into a straw mattress three years past needing a re-stuffing. She could still smell the lovely mix of sugar, yeast, and bile. “Hello, Dad!” she said cheerfully and slammed the door closed. He came in anyway. Rats, well, she supposed she’d gotten that lovely tenacity somewhere. Maybe mom hadn’t been the only stubborn one. “Do you always answer your door in a robe?” Bashira looked down at herself. She was clean but sweaty, the robe a little loose from the exercise. She’d rather be more clothed in front of a guest, but tightening it now would feel like giving in, so she left it alone. “Wow, first visit in twelve years, and that’s how you open?” “You left, not the way around. Just like your good-for-noth—“ “Better that than let you drag us down with you. Looks like you landed on your feet, anyway. Drowned yourself in alcohol, gambled away our home, and you still get to be a general! Guess that’s what a few months of battle sixteen years ago gets a man these days.” “That war took everything!” “Not us. You lost us yourself.” She didn’t say that she’d lost her mother too, though he seemed to have forgotten about that. Bashira had managed to stick it out with him a couple of years longer than her mother had, not that she’d gotten anything for the trouble other than a few black eyes. The General—she wasn’t going to start calling him father now— stood just in front of the door, his face red and his forehead slick with sweat. Bashira could see a bit of herself in the black of his eyes and the breadth of his shoulders, but she had an inch on him now, like those first few years after the war had left him cowed. “I haven’t come to discuss the past. It’s time you paid your debts, gave back to your empire rather than wasting your life to disgusting hedonism.” Bashira just blinked at him because —and this is the absolutely fucking insane bit— he actually believed it. That man, the one who’d crumbled after the war and left his wife and daughter to deal with his rage, his debts, his perfect disregard for anything but himself, believed that she was such a disgrace to her empire that he could charge into her home and demand that she step away from the only godsdamned thing she cared about to pay it back. “And if I don’t?” “Then you won’t duel again." Well. They say you can’t argue with crazy people. Bashira stepped past him to open the door. “Yeah, sure, Dad. Won’t duel again. If you want to visit, send a note so I can plan to be out of town.” He tried a bit longer. Cajoled. Threatened a bit. But eventually, he did leave, and Bashira lifted her sword, settling into the slow, meditative stances she used as a warm-up, the weight of her blade heavy and familiar in her hands. It was an exhibition day, after all. There were forms to observe.

Fujiko of Karitu [+]

"My people say a good woman is worth her weight in jade but I always prefered steel."

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She does not have a tail, you are hallucinating :P ___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 27 Race Honfokun Sex Female Height 168cm 5'6" Weight 56kg (123.5lbs) Level 1 Health Points 28 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y - A bedroll - 5 days of basic dried rations - A couple of changes of clothes - A leather waterskin - Weapons and armour (as below) ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - A simple katana - A one-bladed Kusarigama - Fujiko wear leather armour to facilitate swift and easy movement but it is reinforced with thin strips of iron over her shoulders, clavicles, neck and hip. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Might: 14 = 10 + 4 Dexterity: 13 = 10 + 2 + 1 (racial bonus) Perception: 13 = 10 + 1 + 2 (racial bonus) Wisdom: 14 = 10 + 2 + 2 (racial bonus) Charisma: 10 = 10 Constitution: 14 = 10 + 3 + 1 (racial bonus)

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE Standing at an average height for her race, Fujiko has a slender figure. Her skin is a red-tinged brown, the red hue becomes more prominent in natural light but in darker settings her skin can deceptively appear as a light brown. She has 2 large horns that emerge from the front of her forehead that curl back slightly with the shape of her head. The tips of her horns are painted black and she has a thin gold chain on each horn connected on both ends of the horn causing it to make a dangling arch underneath each of them and another chain dangling from the very end of each of her horns. Fujiko's face has rather sharp features. She has high and well defined cheek bones. Her eyes are small and almond shaped. She has hooded eyelids and her iris' are a almost translucent-appearing Amber. She has thin pink lips and a small nose. She has pointed ears which sport simple gold piercings all down their edges. She has thick, slightly wavy raven black hair that reaches just below her elbow. She usually wears it in a ponytail or a braid and rarely leaves it down. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY Fujiko was raised in a rather traditional Honfokun home by the waters that border the city of Karitu. She is the third of Tarisu and Hineko's 4 children- having an older brother and sister and a younger brother. Although the family weren't quite wealthy enough to be nobility but they were very much well off. Tarisu being a captain of a legion of general he strived for his family to be a golden standard of a Honfokun family, he saw woman becoming ransutor as shameful and against the natural order of their people. While Tarisu taught his sons how to fight, fish and make strategies, Hineko taught Fujiko and her sister how to cook, sew and prepare themselves for their future husband. While Fujiko's sister was delighted to prepare for her life of servitude to her future family, Fujiko was definitely not. She had begged and pleaded her father to teach her the way of the sword many times but both of her parents chided her for such requests. Growing up Fujiko made trouble for her parents. While all her siblings seemed to be content with their future roles, Fujiko wanted to be a warrior. In her younger years her parents tried to quell her sense of adventure with more 'ladylike' tasks, they even found her antics somewhat amusing thinking she was just a cheeky young girl. As she got old enough to properly think about her actions it came apparent to her parents that she was set on playing 'outside her role' as her father would say. This left Fujiko's relationship with her parents being tense. From the age of 10 she used to sneak down to the family's training grounds at night, going over the techniques she saw her father teaching her brothers- and a bit of swinging a blade aimlessly. From her late teens Fujiko's mother pushed her to find a man for herself after she scared off a few young warriors her father had attempted to pair ehr with to which Fujiko gave a lot of resistance. Instead, she found a mentor, Wakumi, an older ransutor who started training her in battle and wit in secret. After a few months Wakumi started bringing her nephew, Tetruma, along to train with her. Tetruma struck Fujiko in a way no man, or person, had before. He was strong, steadfast, kind and brave and as much as she tried to resist it she found herself falling for him. In this time her parents discovered her secret training leading to an explosive argument. This led to Fujiko's parents keeping her under lock and key. If she left the house, her younger brother or mother followed her. Salvation came in the form of Tetruma. He had remained in contact with her, at first privately through windows but soon he asked her father to court her. Coming to the conclusion of she were to live her life in servitude to a man, Tetruma would make it bearable- maybe even make it enjoyable. The pair were married when Fujiko was 22. Fujiko struggled to adjust to the traditional wife role but Tetruma made it easier. Unlike the men Fujiko knew growing up, Tetruma valued Fujiko's fierceness and wit. They'd often be engaging in witty banter or faux sword fighting. Tetruma would often come home from battles excited to show his wife new techniques and moves he'd seen. Their marriage was short-lived, however, when after nearly 3 years of marriage Teturma was enlisted to join a skirmish against a Kulner gang. 3 weeks later all that returned was a jar of ashes and a letter he'd written her just in case he didn't survive. 3 days later Fujiko declared her intent to become ransutor. Initially her family kindly encouraged her to turn away from it- thinking it was an ill-advised choice made in grief but that didn't stop her. 5 months later Fujiko had proven herself. At this her family swiftly disowned and disinherited her. She then spent a year working as a guard in the outer towns. In this time she met Yazju, a travelling Zauri who taken a short contract in the town she guarded. In their many shared patrols Yazju had told Fujiko about the places he had been, igniting a will inside her to see what lies beyond Karitu. So when Yazju was to leave to his next adventure she asked to accompany him. Fujiko sold her house and most of her positions and left with him, unsure if she ever really wanted to go back. Since then she has been accompanying him on his travels- taking small guard and mercenary contracts on longer term stops. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY It would be easy to say that Fujiko has been hardened by her past, and although that would be somewhat true, even from her childhood she had a contemptuous attitude. She is brash, sarcastic and slow to trust. She has a rather short temper and little patience for people's incompetence. She's used to being alone and in small groups and rather enjoys the limited company. Fujiko is very witty and clever. She doesn't have much of a filter between her thoughts and her speech. As many Hofon warriors she is diligent and heard working. She's extremely loyal to those she holds dear and those fighting for her cause. She feels some form of connection to other ransutor Honfokun and will treat them with utmost respect but everyone else needs to earn it from her. She is courageous and strong and won't back down from a fight. She does have a small form of a gentle and caring nature but it only really seems to come out for those closest to her and only in moments rather than consistently ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Fujiko seems to be on a constant mission to prove her worth as a warrior. A part of her wants to storm back home one day and boast a large run of achievements to her parents. She truly believes that life gives no handouts but everything should be worked for. Although she doesn't fit the stereotype she does follow the Honfokun belief in the return of Kizunatsu. Her faith in Kizunatsu isn't the most prominent thing in her life but she does try to do things that would please him. ____________________________________________________________________________ MISC - The bottom half of the left side of her hilt is cut out and replaced with thick glass creating a 'window', inside holds some of her husbands ashes. -Fujiko is left handed

Scuffed Budget Robin Hood [+]

"𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘷𝘢𝘴."

The vermillion sky is so scary today.

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 18 Race Folk Sex Female Height 4’8” • 139cm Weight 84 lbs • 38kg Level 1 Health Points 22 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y Bag of Glass Marbles Pouch of Talcum Powder Pouch of Pulverized Charcoal Rice Glue Scraps of Pilfered Food Climbing Gear Lockpick Waterskin (Full) ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T A single kunai, tied to strong cord. A pair of tanto, one is intentionally dull. Embossed leather tunic beneath her cloak. Waxwood Armguards. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Points: 12 Might: 10 + 1 + 1 = 12 Dexterity: 10 + 1 + 4 = 15 Perception: 10 + 1 + 4 = 15 Wisdom: 10 + 1 + 1 = 12 Charisma: 10 + 1 = 11 Constitution: 10 + 1 = 11

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE Tomoe is small-framed and frail looking, earning her the title of {Rodent} among the troupe of petty thieves and spies that she originates from. If she was found walking in front of a grown couple, you might mistake her for their child with her youthful expressions and rather large eyes in comparison to the size of her miniature everything else. Her voice peeps out like a shrew, soft, frantic, formulated to dissuade any negative attention that would find its way to her. Tomoe's wardrobe is more of a mixed bag as she has a multitude of outfits to blend in to situations as they arise, but when she given the option, this trickster dons a strange getup of loose cloth, feathers, and furs. This thief is strange and her appearance only magnifies that outlandish exterior. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY "𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮, 𝘛𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘦?" He asked. "𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙗𝙪𝙩, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 — 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙖𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧." Tomoe was born somewhere and was inevitably left to the elements in Shanjing during her infancy. It was there that she was picked up by a group of thieves that called the port town their home. Her earliest years were relatively wholesome and as a babe the company of criminals spoiled Tomoe rotten. But as time went on she would eventually reach an age where she could fend for herself, and thus she was taught the trade. The docks were bountiful for folk of their lifestyle! Unguarded crates often went missing, and unmanned ships were stripped so bare that the local courtesans would even turn red. But with crime comes backlash, and the wealthier merchants and lawmen who had everything to lose — would come down like a hammer. Guards, militia, anyone who could raise a blade, all were paid a hefty pouch of coin to hunt these thieves down. Empty buildings were burned, hounds were sent down alleyways, and any who sought to hide these criminals were to be tried with the same charges as those guilty. These thieves were known amongst the community of Shanjing, loved by some, hated by others, but coin and interrogation goes a long way if you are reputable to any degree. All of these men and women were found, manacled, soon to be executed or imprisoned regardless of involvement. Some of the youths of this troupe were lucky enough to be traded away, for labor, work of other kinds, a few were even adopted by sympathetic folk. Tomoe was not fated for such things, and though she was picked from the many to be sold to a couple of farmers — the small girl easily slipped away before anything could be set in stone. But now she was alone. She was nobody from nowhere with nothing but the clothes on her back and the dust in her pockets. So she ran.. Far from the town that was all she knew, and away from everything that was once attached to her. In the day hours she would hide squeeze between the cargo of horse carriages and at night she would trust her legs, whipping her legs through tall grass and mud until she would eventually find Bianwei. It was a fair bit more developed than where she'd come from, but Tomoe would soon find that there were more people and even more places to hide. If Shanjing was a forest, Bianwei was a jungle, and the young thief put the knowledge she sponged up to use very quickly. For survival of course! ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Tomoe loves her lifestyle. Some call it kleptomania, she calls it abundance & variety. Who's to say whether she needs that jade inkstone or not, you? She takes it anyway! Her choices are her own, and her stubbornness is without rival, and you can challenge that if you want. Tomoe is also manipulative to a degree. Often she will say things with a twist in order to spur a question, bat her lashes and pout to invoke sympathy, or chide and goad to agitate someone she doesn't like. Her education is incredibly limited, but she knows how to worm her way into someone's mind and play with their emotions. Lastly, she is incredibly driven. Ambition is number one for her, but what those ambitions are?.. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK To witness the Hyakki Yagyō. If inquired about what that entails or why, Tomoe will answer with silence and a smile! ____________________________________________________________________________ MISC ☆ No family or clan name! ☆ Works as a spy and information broker! ☆ Picks your pocket. ☆ The dull blade is meant for warnings. ☆ Hates the rain. ☆ Smokes a pipe from time to time.

A sheet.

Zauri Traveler [+]

Yazju Fleetscale

“A frog in a well knows nothing of the sea.”

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 52 Race Zauri Sex Male Height 6'7 Weight 307 lbs. Level 1 Health Points 32 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y Rice Glue Kindling Large carving knife Eight pounds of dried meat String Vial of ink 4 vessels of paint Coin sack Flint & Tinder Sword Sharpener ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - Large Dao - Wakizashi - Gozuko armor (If inapplicable leave blank or mark as NA.) ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Might: 10 +2 +4 | 16 Dexterity: 10 +2 |12 Perception: 10 +2 |12 Wisdom: 10 +2 |12 Charisma: 10 |10 Constitution: 10 +4+2 |16

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE Green like moss, Yazju has the look of a quintessential Zauri. Tall, fearsome, and deceptively lazy looking. On his nose and head are stubs of old horns he's filed away to better fit in with the mainlanders and be more amicable to the locals. Yazju has the appearance many animals have, with the idiosyncrasy as seeming as if he perpetually smiles. Admittedly, much of the time he is trying to smile, but the look only shows his teeth and makes it seem like he's enjoying some dark joke or has seen something particularly tasty to eat. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY Yazju was born to a strange clutch, his eggs hatching during a great sea storm. He heard one of his sisters was blown away, taken by the wind and then the birds. What would her jaracal have been? Yazju still wonders that to this day. A question without an answer was always oddly refreshing, even tinged with sad truths. His people usually had answers, as Runiq watched over them and everyone was always studious of their jaracel. Yazju had one of those once. He grew up as most Zauri did, learning the ways of their culture and faith, and helping his fellows in the community. It was when it was time to learn his path that he was curiously undecided. For twenty days he pondered the question, and at the insistence of his father, he took the life of the shaman. As odd as Yazju was, he admired his people's ideas of Runiq and the after-life. Religion and philosophy played dual roles, and he wished to delve and learn more of them. But his hands were always bored. Always fidgeting. Twelve years in the faith, and he felt restless. His learning had stagnated. Yes, he felt fulfilled, but fulfilled does not always mean filled, yes? Many Zauri came to him for guidance and with great questions, and he would answer what he may and grant them ofuda to ward off the spirits. But he felt an unease. One day he felt like cracking jokes, and other days he felt like learning how to fight with the warriors. Not all Zauri were content with their lot in life, but Yazju had a more strenuous case than most free thinkers of his people. He began to shirk his spiritual duties, thinking he could learn more about the divine plan of Runiq and the realm they lived in, by living it himself. He began to work his body with the warriors and achieve true patience with the fishermen. But what he enjoyed most was that of crafting with his taloned hands. His brother Hakfu had become a salesman of trinkets, and though he had counseled Yazju to remain as a Shaman, he did help his lost brother on learning a few arts of the trade. Yazju spent many nights carving rather than memorizing the stories of old.Oh he still knew many by heart, but a single-mindedness was prized for such things, for without stories, how did one remember the past for later generations? Then came the day the head Shaman was fed up with Yazju. No, he did not scream or kick Yazju out. Zauri are not very unkind to their own often. But he gave Yazju a choice to leave or be dishonored by staying, and Yazju decided he would leave. Perhaps one day he would come back, engorged in experience and would petition to be allowed back in the order. But as it was, Yazju thought this would be a fine experience. What manner of storms or adventures could be had on the mainland, with the other peoples? It would take decades to find out, he thought, and so far the theory had proven true. Nearly ten years on the mainland, fighting and carving and inculcating and eating. It was fun, and friends made it more worthwhile. Fujiko, for example. Yazju had met her on a job of claw-duty. Yazju thought she was good people, and she cheered up Yazju when he failed at selling nick knacks. Somehow Yazju cheered her up, but whenever he did, he did not know how he had. Yazju just supposes he has a way with women, as the mainlanders say. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Yazju is an oddity to the Zauri, but in the view of the average mainlander, he's pretty typical. Bestial but seemingly apathetic in countenance, Yazju has a vast love of life and learning, and does his best to be cordial to those he meets. He understands everyone is trying to find their way in this life, and that comes with its own hiccups. However, he can be snarky, even when he doesn't mean to be. That is to say, he doesn't have the filter many do, and that, coupled with his sense of humor doesn't translate well to many of his would-be customers. Yazju has a vast amount of patience and a heart of gold, but when he is angry, the cause of his ire will see the wrath of Runiq from him. His long life and sturdy body have made him into a capable warrior and threat to any who rubs him the wrong way. Lcukily, Yazju enjoys food and talk more than war and ruin. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Yazju sees life as his oyster, but not the world. The world is strange and vast, and for everyone to find their own Jaracel. ____________________________________________________________________________ MISC ...

Accepted! Post Dax him up!

<Snipped quote by Shu>
He's actually probably the most un-dax lizardman I've ever made! A friendly crafstman and salesperson

<Snipped quote by Shu>
He's actually probably the most un-dax lizardman I've ever made! A friendly crafstman and salesperson