Honest Abd al-Rahman is well known for his blunt honesty in all matters. He does not hide behind words, if you ask him his opinion, you shall receive it; whether you like the response of not.
Reliable Abd al-Rahman made his fortune on saying what he believes, and following through on what he promises. If you hire the man to find you something, or to carry a cargo of yours, you know that it will arrive as promised (Baring unforeseen circumstances of course).
Leader of Men Once a soldier, like so many other travelling merchants, Abd al-Rahman learned to lead men into battle, and now through the dangers of running a merchant caravan. He will never ask another to do something he will not and leads by example in all things. No task is below him. His ability to pick out those who strengths compliment his own, or make up for his short comings, has provided him a skilled and dedicated crew.
S K I L L S E T
Charismatic As skilled with words as he once was with a sword, Abd al-Rahman has charisma others dream of having. He can find common ground with most anyone and enjoys trading stories.
Sixth Sense This isn't magic or any sort of trickery, he is simply skilled at sensing danger, be it an ambush on the road or trouble in town. His ability to "read" people, observe body language, and hear what folk are truly saying has saved his life more than a few times.
Swordsman Though he is no longer a soldier, he once made his coins in the service of another by wielding a scimitar with wicked skill.
Physical Description
Abd al-Rahman is not a tall man, standing just over 5'9, nor is he massively built like many other swordsmen. He is strongly built, lithe, and quick on his feet, despite pushing fifty.
He generally wears black, not to be sinister, but because it helps keep him warm in this northern land which he finds terribly cold.
Motivation
Abd al-Rahman has been tasked, like so many other merchants recently, to transport goods, armour, and weapons north. He has joined his own caravan with the larger one bound for Ssanjuu. His motivation is strictly financial at this time as he moves goods north with the goal of returning with some of the famed Ssanjuu crafting items to sell in his own homeland.
Other Information
Abd al-Rahman has some twenty men and women in his service who serve to guard four large wagons.
Khyzyr Ğäbdelxaliq, alias The Barbar Male | Mercenary | Aspected
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
Resilient Khyzyr is a tough-as-nails sunovagun who can take a lot of mental and physical stress before breaking.
A bond never broken As one of the Rojyari people, a tribal nomadic group reliant on kinship to survive, camaraderie is implicitly agiven between the Barbar and those he, for whichever reason, have to work with. Just like treachery is explicitly shunned.
Chill Having seen as much violence, destruction and death as the Barbar did - and having done aplenty of that oneself - Khyzyr has grown very dull to stress inducing situations, and it takes a good dose of offense to get genuinely angered. Along that, he's prone to laugh way more often and merrily than one with his looks and history would hint.
Adrenaline junkie Khyzyr biggest shortcoming is, by far, his hedonist, thrill-seeking nature. He often volunteers to partake dangerous and unsavory situations just for the kick of it, 'cause nothing in life feels as good as that adrenaline rush when your life is on the line.
Warmonger Whenever there's room for violence, war, or conquest, he will opt for those choices. And when there are none, he'll create them.
Impulsive In a one-to-one combat there is no room for hesitance or meticulous planning, you either do something or you is left to respond to your adversary's doing. Khyzyr prefers to be the first, both in the battlefield and in his personal life, and as such he doesn't tend to think of his actions nor his words thoroughly.
Half-faced The scar that crosses his face left him one ear deaf and partially blind. It's not that his eyesight doesn't work - he still retains some depth perception when using both eyes - but it's a blurry, unreliable one, to the point he prefers to simply block it with an eyepatch.
Unsightly A man with a horrific scar such as his is no nice sight to see, especially if a man looked like Khyzyr before being scarred...
Easily swayed Wondrous imageries can really marvel Khyzyr. With extraordinary claims and a bit of charm, it wouldn't be difficult to convince, or at least sway, the Barbar into a specific line of thought.
A pawn rather than a leader Some men are born to command; some, to be commanded. Artyr is definitely the last. He's not fit to be nor interesting in being a commandant, a diplomat, and much less an administrator. Too much responsibility, bureaucracy, and too little fun.
S K I L L S E T
Equinacious His experience in horseback riding makes him a highly skilled and deadly horseman, no different from the average Rojyari.
One with the arrow Just like his father and his forefather before him, Khyzyr's aptitude with the bow was something marveled upon from a young age, and years upon years of training and thousand upon thousands of arrows fired made his gift even more significant. There's something about the Barbar that makes him intrinsically good in archery. Maybe it's his rudimentary and intuitive notion of weight balance and distribution, aerodynamics, force liberation, pattern recognition to predict his target's movement or - most likely - something running in his the Ğäbdelxaliq clan's blood. It wouldn't be a stretch to call him the finest Rojyari archer ever since his father passed away [REDACTED] years ago.
Gymnast Strength is certainly important, but not the only factor in combat. Being able to move your body swift and efficiently are equally relevant aspects which are often overlooked in professionalized armies, but on tribal, ritualistic groups as the nomads often are they're considered key elements as much as being buff. With a lot of training, pain and injuries along the way, Khyzyr learnt the ways to acquire an enviable overall mobility and strength. Along the imposed demands of being a horseman, his general physical aptitude wouldn't stray far from a modern day gymnast.
Spatially located Mercenaries are, to a certain degree, nomads, constantly migrating from a battlefield to another. As such, they are naturally attuned to be good at identifying where things are at, distance, and having a general acute sense of geolocation and observation. Actual nomads then, even more so.
Swordsguy The overwhelming momentum and galloping rush of a wheezing shaft in the chaos of a battlefield are The Barbar's usual tactics. And, as far as he's concerned, they have worked well over the course of a few less than two decades of stipendiary carnage. This had led Khyzyr to be indulgent with his swordsmanship, and unless he's handling a curved steel atop a 400 kg equine beast, odds are he'll fare no better than your average city guard. (He's got way more slick and treacherous street smart than any ill trained law enforcer though, that's for sure).
Physical Description
Standing just ten centimeters short of two full meters, Khyzyr's presence is hard to come unnoticed. Equally difficult to miss is his far-stretching keloid burn scar that smithed most of his left face, from his nose up to his ear, some say the toll the Gods took in exchange for his extraordinary skills, as well as his leathery eyepatch that hides his blinded eye. A lean, built and tall man, Khyzyr could be charming if not for his considerably receding hairline - at the young age of 37! - and unremarkable facial structure.
Motivation
Khyzyr's fellow Rojyari people always considered his appetite for adventure rather... exarcebated. He was an avid and daring hunter even at prepubescent ages, and only managed to live to his adulthood thanks to his extraordinary marksmanship. Hoping to seek a name of his own rather than being another Ğäbdelxaliq, Khyzyr left the steppes, venturing to the southern Warring Lands. There, he found paradise: a warntorn hellscape that constantly stimulated his thrill seeking impulses. Quickly carving a name for himself, joining a band of respected but awful mercenaries, and infamously being dubbed The Barbar in reference to his hazy accent and backstory and... war crime practises, Khyzyr could drown his restlessness in the lifestyle of constant warfare. Now, as a hired hand protecting the caravans heade to Ssanjuu, The Barbar hopes everything goes south at once so he can finally exchange terrifying worry with fun again.
Other Information
Maaaaaaybe his horrible appearance and terrible mental health is the price for his gifted archery. Maybe.
Qian Wen Female | Imperial Army Magician | Aspected
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
Controlled Steeped in the arcane practices of the Imperial Army, Wen believes that mastery of her self is her most important service to the Beinan Empire. Uncontrolled thoughts are a danger. Uncontrolled words are a danger. Uncontrolled actions are a danger. And uncontrolled magic, the greatest danger of all, would threaten the realm itself. No matter the cost to herself, Wen refuses to willingly allow herself to lose control and she has carefully bound her innermost self with heavy chains of compartmentalization.
Intrepid Although Wen is by no means impulsive, she is brave and will fight to the end if required, certain that her cause is just, and that her actions serve the greater good.
Level-Headed Bitter experience and the careful tutelage of her instructors has afforded Wen with a deep reservoir of self-restraint and ability to contain unwelcome emotions. In times of trouble, her thoughts turn inward, and she no longer finds it difficult to separate herself from the situations that surround her.
Pessimistic Slow to warm and slower to trust, Wen is a young woman forced by cruel necessity to accept her place in Beinan. Hatred can linger in any heart. Crime can lie concealed in any form. And kindness is seldom reserved for the doubtlessly accursed Aspected. There is no futile resistance left in Wen, no roaring torrent of despair, and no defiant pride. She expects little and hopes for less. She knows how others see her. She hears how others speak about her. And she remembers the abuses forced upon her. She is the reed that bends, rather than the mighty oak that breaks beneath unending hostility.
Cold Conversationalist Distrust, grown heavy with repeated experience has imbued Wen with a coldness of being, a simmering, usually faint bitterness, that on occasion can leave others convinced that she is perhaps less than agreeable.
Reserved Wen views others warily, seeing hidden blades and betrayal in every word and every action. She is hesitant to reveal much about herself, slow to share, and unless compelled to do otherwise, she prefers to remain safely obfuscated beneath the vestments of her profession.
High-Principled Finding solace in her duties, Wen possesses the steady, unflinching integrity that only the almost fanatically devoted possesses. Over the years, her principles have been carefully forged into sharp blades of conscience that permit Wen to act with strict regard for what is necessary for the Empire.
Cog in the Machine Wen is a dutiful servant of the well-oiled, if overextended, Imperial Army created by the Heavenly Emperor. Unfailingly convinced that the alternatives to the Heavenly Emperor’s Black Peace are far worse, Wen delivers Imperial justice with little hesitation, burying any guilt beneath mantras espousing unavoidable necessity.
Melancholy Scattered across her being, deliberately guarded and contained, is an unmistakable sadness in Wen's demeanor. Joy does not travel far, nor last for very long, and Wen is generally unsuited to the task of sparking cheerfulness. Channeling her emotions into her work and perceived purpose, Wen nonetheless has moments, long nights of doubt, when she finds it difficult to see past her perceived fate.
S K I L L S E T
Magician Gifted in the arcane arts, Wen is a product of the notoriously difficult Imperial Circle of Magi located at the center of the inhospitable mountain ranges of Huishan. Taught to be self-reliant by her military instructors, Wen is a deeply pragmatic and creative magician. She approaches problems with an open mind, utilizing judicious applications of unexpected magic to overcome her foes rather than the brutish displays of arcane prowess favored by many of her colleagues.
Imperial Soldier Every magician in the Imperial Army is still a soldier and Wen is no exception. Wen has trained. Wen has marched. Wen has fought. When has shivered in the cold. Wen has sweated beneath the scorching sun. Wen has been wounded. Wen has starved. Wen has seen first hand the horrors perpetuated by the Northern Elves. Other soldiers may be stronger. Other soldiers may be faster. Other soldiers may wield martial weapons with greater skill. However, it would be a deadly mistake to underestimate Wen even when it comes to physical combat.
Investigator Guided by her beliefs Wen seeks to protect the Black Peace by enforcing the laws established by the Heavenly Emperor and discovering any subversive threats that may still remain hidden in the lands. Uncompromising in her pursuit of those who commit offenses against the Imperial law, Wen often chooses to make little distinction between particular transgressions based on scale and scope. Crime is crime, rebellion is rebellion, and to threaten Black Peace is unforgivable. Seeing herself as an instrument of Imperial justice, Wen is known to stubbornly hunt down the most elusive clues and unhesitatingly reveal what others in Beinan would prefer to keep hidden.
Educated Beyond her magical training, like all magicians, Wen has received the generous formal education afforded to all magicians trained by the Beinan government. Although no true scholar, free to pursue her own academic whims, Wen nonetheless commands a respectable amount of knowledge concerning applied mathematics, the great philosophical works of the many learned masters of the lands, key moments in the long history of Beinan, the famed artistic works popularized by the Heavenly Emperor, and a selection of the languages spoken across Beinan.
Physical Description
Followed by fearful stares and chased by cruel whispers, Wen is an Aspected woman left with no hope of hiding the cursed blood that flows through her veins.
Golden eyes, baleful orbs of solid color, unflinchingly meet the gaze of strangers. Two large horns grow atop her head and curve to the sides of her face, reaching a point just above her eyes. Long black hair that cascades past her horns, is kept in a tight bun with an ornate set of silver hair pins. Skin the color of cool sapphire bears the many scars expected of a magician serving in the Imperial Army and on the back of her right hand is the Imperial Mark given to all magicians that have passed the Imperial Magic Exam.
Beneath layers of hemp and sometimes silk, Wen hides the build of a soldier well-used long days of travel. The source of unwelcome shame, Wen has a thick tail, almost always kept coiled around her waist to avoid causing unnecessary offense. Largely accustomed to the poor view many of the citizens of Beinan have of the Aspected, particularly those that appear distinctly inhuman, Wen still stands tall and straight, appearing taller than the average woman in Beinan.
When performing her duties as an magician in the Imperial Army, Wen wears the familiar military uniform worn by soldiers across Beinan, bearing only the distinct signs of rank and specialization expected of an Imperial Magician in good standing.
In her personal life or when discretion is called for, Wen dresses in a conservative fashion. Sensitive to her already provocative appearance, she adheres unfailingly to the gendered and hierarchical dress code still popular in Beinan. She wears waist length hemp jackets, covered by long skirts cut in the same cloth and dyed in colors appropriate to the season. A commoner by birth, Wen wears little in the way of decorations and only the silk sash worn over her waist is decorated with a delicate pattern. In a sign of modesty, she also wears a thick shawl over her head, doing her best to hide her horns in public.
Motivation
Wen remembers her parents. She remembers her father, thick hands steeped in dirt, and a warm smile. She remembers her mother, bent over the loop, a whirl of soft fabric. She remembers her brother, her closet friend. She remembers a small farm, nestled below a foggy mountain. She wakes up some mornings and still remembers the smell of the white pines.
She remembers the stories her parents told her. She remembers her fate. She remembers the curse. She remembers the crimes of a distant ancestor. She remembers little of her patron. She remembers only strange words, cold eyes, and a cheerful promise.
She remembers the village, older than the Empire. She remembers the words the villagers called her. She remembers the fear in their eyes. She remembers their hatred. She remembers the rocks they would throw at her. She remembers the tears that burned at the edge of her eyes.
She remembers the first spell she cast, no more than a simple cantrip, a fiery bolt of arcane energy that set a bale of hay alight. She remembers how they ran from her. She remembers the soldiers that came soon after. She remembers saying goodbye to her parents. She remembers the crying. She remembers the screaming, her own voice. She remembers being taken from the village.
She remembers the Circle of Magi. The buildings carved into the desolate mountains with magic. She remembers the other students. She remembers the way they looked at her. She remembers the disgust of the high born nobles. She remembers the loneliness. She remembers the old wizard. She remembers his words. She remembers his lessons. She remembers his books. She remembers his threats. She remembers his beatings. And she remembers his kindness.
She remembers when she learned to stop fighting. She remembers complex diagrams. She remembers ancient schematics. She remembers the writings of an ancient scholar, dead untold centuries before. She remembers accepting her place. And she remembers her fate no longer pained her.
She remembers when they forgot. She remembers when they forgot to hate her. She remembers when they began to respect her. She remembers when her magic convinced them. She remembers the reluctant smiles. She remembers the muted praise. She remembers their shared suffering. She remembers the long nights. She remembers the purpose that bound them together. She remembers their private oaths. She remembers the Imperial Magic Examination. She remembers embers, embers of pride as they marked her with the Imperial Mark.
She remembers the Northern Province. She remembers the cold. She remembers the hunger. She remembers the elves. She remembers the raids. She remembers strange magic. She remembers being afraid. She remembers war. She remembers a brash officer, a young noble. She remembers a pitched battle. She remembers the elven blade that drew red lines across her skin. She remembers the wounded. She remembers the dying. She remembers the dead. She remembers the soldiers that saved her. She remembers the fighting retreat that followed. She remembers stumbling into the fort days later. She remembers the weariness etched into her bones. She remembers huddling around a fading camp fire, sharing food, drinking with the other survivors, happy to see the sun once again.
She remembers a letter. She remembers arriving in Bei Taiyang. She remembers an interview with a junior minister and a judge of the lower courts. She remembers a mention of her talents. She remembers explanations of her worth to the Imperial Army. She remembers the polite insults woven between the minister's gentle words. She remembers how the judge, the district magistrate, looked at her. She remembers no hatred, no fear, nothing save purpose, nothing save a demand for the truth.
She remembers the slow seasons that followed. She remembers many roads. She remembers many places. She remembers many people. She remembers enforcing the Imperial Law. She remembers protecting the Black Peace. She remembers new purpose, new meaning that unfolded with the shifting winds of progress.
Commanded by her immediate superiors in the Imperial Army, Wen has been dispatched to the northern provinces with orders to assist in the relief effort and cryptic instructions to keep her eyes open for any malevolent forces, other than the murderous elves, that might be operating in Ssanjuu.
Uncertain of the meaning of these strange directives, Wen has disguised herself as the young widow of a recently deceased silk merchant, the elderly Jia Li, remembered by many in Bei Taiyang as an exceedingly eccentric, but proud, Beinan patriot.
As the grieving Lady Jia, Wen has come to an agreement with one of the merchants heading north, trading a portion of her expected profits in exchange for transportation of her person and her wares to Ssanjuu.
