an abomunist

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 The Ring of Aduzahir

ZASHEIR

The heat of the desert was particularly unforgiving to Zasheir, and coupled with the dull aches of his legs and shoulders, it was downright sublime. He lumbered along at the back of the group, near the Pasha's rearguard, reins of the camel gripped tightly in one hand as he walked and led it behind him. He and the perhaps confused animal companion had spent the entire journey just so, Zasheir only taking cursory moments to seat himself on its back, only so that the soreness from an inadequate rest would amplify the discomfort from the hot sand and the general difficulty of traversing it on foot. The monk was of mind that the others did not mind him lagging a bit behind, as a fresh layer of sweat and travel grime only furthered his stench. He spent a majority of the journey reveling in his self brought agony, and used the time spent staring at the footprints in front of him to reflect.

He had received quite a few less-than-desirable looks at the Pasha's estate, which was good. An admirable first impression from one who sought to offend all the senses- but he reminded himself that this excursion needed to ultimately be successful, lest the pipe on his belt continue to merely decorate it. Whatever the vain Jakeem sought, Zasheir was certain in his desire to obtain it for him. He'd be set for months- perhaps years.

The draconic knight was clad and tempered, and not just in his armaments. He seemed disciplined in his oath, but Zasheir's own experiences with guardsmen over the years led him to conclude these were frailer than they may appear. Still, he was clearly of a mind to complete this expedition as quickly as possible, which, given the circumstances, Zasheir could appreciate. Besides, the last time Zasheir witnessed someone call a hulking riding beast down from the sun, he awoke days later holding pieces of a hookah and nursing a ravaging headache that didn't go away for a week. Good times. "Real," he concluded to himself.

Then there was the roguish woman. At the estate she was one whom offered the Pasha an abundance of pleasantries and ego-stroking- she seemed exactly the type to answer such inquiries of the rich on the promise of coin, and exactly the type that Pashas are often interested in hiring, but perhaps shouldn't. The monk sensed an ulterior motive; exactly what, he couldn't say. And when he looked at her, something would gnaw at his mind. Like something was off. Regardless, he was of a mind to speak with her later- of everyone, she seemed to be the most likely to have material wisdom to share. "Almost real," he thought to himself.

Then came the cleric. She reminded Zasheir of a child; wide-eyed, callow, a world of experience and development waiting to be turned on its head over and over as impressions grew into solid beliefs. Perhaps Zasheir would offer advice- he wondered if she truly realized who she was in the company of. Her manners at the estate suggested an inkling of vanity when she offered apologies, and her general demeanor painted her as a people pleaser to Zasheir, but she wasn't too far gone. Of everyone, Zasheir considered her the least dangerous. "Real, but lost," he decided.

The drow was an enigma to him. He was almost overly polite at the estate, but tempered it with a bit of abrasiveness that the Monk appreciated. He carried himself with utter confidence- an elf of sound judgement, perhaps? He spoke little. "Perhaps real," Zasheir elected.

Finally came the most dangerous among them- the one garbed in vestments of silk and gold. Her words wove a tapestry of silver to the Pasha and Zasheir's mere presence seemed to gnaw at her. The monk hated that she reminded him of himself; of his old ways. She was swaddled in her vanity, avoided discomfort, and her mere gaze reminded Zasheir of a pit viper. Dangerous as she was, Zasheir couldn't help but spin a thread of optimism around her; he was once nobility, after all, and look where he was now. He was around her age when he was stripped of his possessions and made better for it. Perhaps there was a lesson, somewhere. Still, he couldn't help but sour his emotions when he looked at her, but found amusement in what couldn't be anything less than divine irony that the two of them were working together as equals- at least for one job. "Not real."

All in all, a probably capable group in their own right, but the monk couldn't help but feel that they would at some point need to get past each other- get past themselves- and in that regard, Zasheir felt he could help. As he trudged through the hot sands, wind whipping his face and scraggly strands of hair, Zasheir concluded he would speak with each of them at some point.

Especially the bicorn.

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 The Ring of Aduzahir

ZASHEIR

The general hubbub of conversation had faltered slightly as the lid of a barrel at the mouth of an alleyway shuddered, a thud coming from within. Even early in the morning, the bazaar was bustling with a kaleidoscope of colors and fashion as haughty coinpushers and lavish nobility conducted morning business over thimbles of trika and a beautiful orange-purple sunrise. One in particular, dressed in light brown and green silks, took an interest in the sudden thud from the nearby barrel. Removing its lid, he was buffeted with the sickly-sweet smell of rotted fruit. Deducing that there must be a rodent within, he gripped the rim with calloused hands and heaved, but found the barrel weighed astoundingly more than he anticipated. A few more fruitless tugs, and the merchant resigned to merely flagging down an amlak- or at least someone armed and more willing to deal with whatever oversized vermin had made this barrel its home. Zasheir will never forget the look on that merchant's face as he burst forth from beneath the fruit, yawning loudly and stretching his arms, dripping in rancid juices and putrid pulp. The bewildered merchant had run off in surprise, and seemed willing to keep his distance as Zasheir gingerly stepped out of the cask and stretched his bare arms, legs, and torso, a cacophony of pops and snaps singing as he did so. He blinked as he looked towards the sunrise, and his stomach dropped as he realized he had been in there all night. He had used his last bit of opium and clamored in there in search of insight the night prior, but sadly seemed to have dozed off. Retrieving his soaked tunic and boots from the depths of the fruity viscera, Zasheir's mood only soured further at the sight of his empty flask. He was without insight, and now without coin, as well.

Zasheir pulled the reeking robe over himself and cinched it at the waist with his rope-belt. The confused onlookers were now back to conducting their businesses, and Zasheir merely sat by the road next to the barrel, unsure of what to do next. He glanced at those around him as pitifully as they glanced back at him- the Monk hated the wealthier sabbans and drudachs like the one he now found himself in. Though, perhaps "disappointed" was a more apt descriptor, he pondered. Hate often implied a level of desire to see or cause something's end. Zasheir wished not to see these people exterminated, but liberated. As he looked around he saw lost, chained people, their jewelry reminiscent of shackles. He wondered how many were truly happy and real.

"Well, if you know anyone, we implore you send them to the esteemed Pasha Jakeem el Kalil's estate," the loud conversation perked Zasheir's ears.

"That goes for you, as well," the armed and armored man proclaimed to another merchant on the other side of the road. "If you've a good arm and steel resolve, Pasha Jakeem el Kalil has an offer for you." He repeated, waving his hand in an annuv. He gave Zasheir a squinting look as he stormed past and absorbed into the growing crowd of the marketplace.

---

And so it was that Zasheir now found himself outside a prestigious looking estate of one Jakeem el Kalil. The only thing that burned more than the Monk's lack of coin was his desire for "material wisdom" as fingers drummed on the pipe tied to his belt. He largely resisted withdrawal symptoms, unfortunately, but the inner yearning for more reminded him of his old ways, when he was blinded by pride and wealth. For now, all he could do was sate it; perhaps with enough practice he would one day extinguish that, too, and he could finally be truly free and imbibe without worry.

Zasheir was told to wait in the courtyard- after a few stern shakes from guardsmen that forbade him taking a delightfully uncomfortable seat in a bed of thorny flowers, he resigned to merely lying supine on the hard and hot cobbled road. He had nearly dozed off once more when an attending guardsman suddenly yanked him to his feet by the collar of his tunic- a guest of renown had arrived, and the guard stood at a respectful attention as she stepped off the slave-driven palanquin; Zasheir felt a gauntlet-clad fist nudge his flank in a bid for him to follow suit, but the Monk merely continued staring. Shortly thereafter, more guardsmen escorted Zasheir and the others gathered at the courtyard inside.

The Monk smiled as he looked around the shaded reception room and the finery that decorated it. It had been a long while since he was near such luxury, and he was satisfied that his now trained resolve resisted wholly its allure. Indeed, as he had in the marketplace, Zasheir felt a pang of pity of all things as his gaze came to rest on the lustrous occupant of a padded throne- Jakeem Kalil. Zasheir watched as Brandon introduced himself, and quietly huffed at Samira and Sira's affectations.

"Greetings, nadhar Jakeem," the Monk loudly blurted in Alzhedo, placing one fist on his hip in lieu of performing an annuv, "I am Zasheir, but call me Lumal." He, too, bowed slightly, but only for a moment towards his underarm to ensure he was properly odorous.

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 The Ring of Aduzahir

Zasheir adh Jelal, "Lumal"

Zasheir adh Jelal

_{"Your senses and emotions cloud your judgement- they blind you to what's real."}

General Info

Race: Human
Age: 59
Height: 6'1"
Class: Monk - Astral Self
Appearance:
Zasheir is a heap of toned muscle beneath heavily scarred flesh. Matted strands of gray hair spill from the sides and back of his head down to the middle of his neck, rough, drooping cheekbones frame a thick and broken nose, and his left eye is discolored and gray. By most of Calimport's standards, Zasheir is a very ugly man. Though the whip scars oddly suit him, like a familiar and broken-in coat, it's obvious that he is entirely unconcerned with his appearance, dressing only in a ragged pair of trousers and eschewing any offerings or opportunities to clean himself or his possessions.

In stark contrast, Zasheir's body is in incredible shape. The only vestiges of his age that show themselves here are the veiny wrinkles on the backs of his hands and a slight sag to his flanks. His arms are strong and corded, his neck and shoulders are broad, and he walks with an air of youth and athleticism that entirely betrays his aged mask. At nearly all times, the man is shrouded in a naturally foul smell, with olfactory threads of a botanical or chemical scent poking through. Having been an indentured resident of the Shackles Ward for most of his life, Zasheir very much continues to look the part of an ill-treated slave, and seems, of all things, comfortable with the stigma it brings.

Background

Personality:
"At all times we are encircled by two worlds- what is and what isn't. Material and imaginary. Real and not real. Our judgement is the only weapon we can hope to brandish at the latter."

Zasheir could be succinctly described as a mystical, ascetic monk, but to do so would extinguish the kernel of truth and nuance to his beliefs. His age and experiences have largely reinforced and buttressed these to the point where he can be a bit hard to budge. The central point of his dogma is the idea that there are two realms that someone inhabits at all times- the material, which he defines as things he knows are real and true, and an imagined realm that is populated by one's senses, emotions, and perceptions.

"Many come across this conundrum at one time or another, but few have the stomach to confront it. Fewer still rebut 'what if?' and in sidestepping the question, they deny themselves an identity all their own."

Zasheir believes that accurately parsing the material and imagined realms through judgement allows one to truly transcend, this transcendence being what powers his ki and allows him to perform the extraordinary feats of athleticism he does. However, determining what is truly real is no simple task, for the imagined realm exists solely to harry and cloud your acumen. Zasheir pinpoints three main aggressors in this- vanity, pleasure, and fear.

"Unchain yourself from how others view you- perhaps even, from how you view yourself."

The monk subverts vanity by embracing his repulsiveness. He seeks to be seen as vile and odious by those he interacts with- this was difficult in the Shackles Ward, where hygiene continues to be a blessing, but in the other Wards and drudachs Zasheir has flourished in the loathing he is capable of receiving. He purposely engages in anti-social behavior, shouting curses near funerals, openly imbibing narcotics, crashing private social gatherings- judging by his weathered scars, he has regularly been punished for such behavior.

"Pain will help you see clearly. It cuts through bliss and comfort like a fresh efreeti blade."

Pleasure is tackled by welcoming pain and discomfort. An easy task for a near permanent insubordinate in the Shackles Ward, Zasheir is very familiar with the bite of the whips from the House of Nine Blessings. His skin is covered in memories from his times there. He also seeks out discomfort, choosing to sleep in the most uncomfortable places or positions, all in an effort to "see clearly" through the imagined realm and help him grasp what is real.

"Fear is a challenge. If you let it win, it will arrest your mind."

Fear can only be quelled by confrontation. For Zasheir, it is the fear of death, of being made unreal. A rather morose dedication, the monk partakes in memento mori; a token kept on his person that reminds him that one day, he will die. This takes the form of a necklace of small fish bones strung around his throat, and a pertinence to carry some sort of small animal corpse on his belt, usually a mouse or rat.

"And if insight is needed, one need only partake in the labours of the underworld-"

Zasheir is a heavy user of narcotics, preferring hallucinogenic ones- dreammist and traveler's dust are his preferred substances, but the rarity or price of the two compared to opium in Calimport sometimes give him little in the way of choice. Zashier believes the visions given by their use offer him insight, or at least act as a way for him to exercise and train his judgement of what is real and what isn't.

Short History:
Zasheir adh Jelal was actually born Druzir Zasheir yn Nazkim el Lorkhan, the son and future inheritor of his father's drudach in the sabban of Pahlemm, itself within the Caravans Ward of Calimport. He was raised amongst all the fineries the villa of a lesser noble could afford; he was taught business and logic, how to hold and use a weapon, and even debate and administration. Zasheir does not look upon this time of his life in a positive light- he believes he was blinded by the gilded trappings and silken regalia, but also realizes that he couldn't possibly have known better. He exuded charisma and guile as he stepped into his father's role after his passing, and had his chance encounter with the thugs from the Muzad- the undercity- never happened, Zasheir probably would've continued on this very path until his eventual death.

Fate had other things in store for the young nobleman. At this point in his life, Zasheir had grown complacent with his station; he ate some of the finest foods, enjoyed delicious wines, and had filled his family's coffers to the point that his children's children wouldn't have to worry about finance. Zasheir was worried only about he and his own; what life was worth living if it wasn't spent enjoying every second of it? His family cherished him and his pursuits, he was respected by his amlakkar, and he was even awaiting being wed to the most beautiful woman he had laid his eyes on. He was a man who wanted for nothing.

It was a beautiful night when it happened. Zasheir was taking a side street from Pahlemm's khanduq back to his villa when a silk-robed stranger bumped shoulders with him. On any other night, Zasheir would've been quick to check his pockets- one didn't grow up in Calimport without learning to be wary- but Selûne had been graceful to that dark sky, and a business-weary Zasheir wished for nothing else than to lose himself in the warmly lit halls of his home, and to immerse himself in a comforting bath. His mind was set on pleasure, then, and only the rustling of chainmail in front of him broke his stupor. It was a young half-elven amlak, one Zasheir wasn't familiar with, accompanied by Magistrate Khalid al Anachtyr, the magistrate who held jurisdiction over Pahlemm. He was a bookish and grim looking fellow, that night even moreso. Zasheir remembers the light of the moon catching the spectacles on the end of his nose as he shook his head like a disappointed parent. "How could you," he had said, "when you've been the grace of your family name." Zasheir was confused as the amlak stepped forward, a pair of irons in one hand. Confusion turned to bewilderment as the guardsman withdrew a small vial of red crystals, each no bigger than a grain of salt. Traveler's dust. A glance behind was fruitless- the man who had bumped into him was nowhere in sight.

The following morning, the story broke that Pahlemm's well had almost been poisoned with traveler's dust, but the saboteurs had been apprehended. Shockingly, Druzir Zasheir was on the list, and apparently he had spearheaded the plot. His case was passed from the magistrate to the vizier of the ward, and was found guilty. Bargaining for his life, Zasheir managed to negotiate himself into slavery instead, and at the age of 35, was hoisted across Calimport in irons and interred into the Shackles Ward.

For a time, he resented having nothing. He was filled with anger and wroth at those who had taken his things. Those feelings slowly morphed into a resentment of Calimport as a whole, a city that was corrupt to its core. Zasheir resigned to quiet rebellion- his ownership changed hands several times, each one unimpressed with the meek slave who only barely did what was asked of him and never anything more. He became a regular at the House of Nine Blessings for punishment, and fervently wore his cuts with pride as a symbol of his malicious compliance. This was Zasheir's life for the next decade; the physical tasks he was forced to do strengthened his body, and he retreated into his own mind, growing his willpower from his persistence to endure, knowing some day he would find the opportunity for revenge.

Fate would throw him another curveball, however. One night, whilst again being perused by potential buyers in Katar's High, a scuffle created an opportunity for the ownerless slaves to escape into the Muzad. Finally presented with the fruits of his patience, Zasheir bit, and fled into Calimport's undercity, narrowly avoiding recapture. He chose to reside here until his scars healed- to make them somewhat less recognizeable- and adopted the pseudonym 'Lumal' to reflect his opinion on both others and himself. He was eventually offered a job as a runner, and transported narcotics through the Muzad, earning himself a tidy little profit, even if he had few places he could truly spend it. Zasheir, now called Lumal, made several close connections during this time, people he still considers to be true friends. It's hard to be deceitful on an empty belly, he would learn.

During one run transporting traveler's dust, he and a wizardly companion accidentally tripped a magical trap and summoned a guardian djinn. They had been taught to simply discard evidence if caught, and Zasheir obliged, though luck and a gust of wind from the djinn had a crystal catch in Zasheir's eye. At the same time, his mage companion banished he and the djinn- discarding evidence, after all- to the elemental plane of air. This would come to be the single most life changing moment for the Monk, and as he describes it, he finally saw clearly for the first time. He claims the djinn spoke to him about how perceptions and emotions are mere illusions; how man's yearning for pleasure and insistence on good impressions were often their own undoing. Though he was there for mere moments, when Zasheir was shunted back into the Material Plane he claims his life truly began. It was the first time he felt a spark of something within, something of true power and value.

He quickly spent all of his collected money on narcotics, searching for more insight he believed they brought. With each bout of drug-fueled enlightenment, Zasheir felt he was closer to a truer understanding of something. When he realized that that something was himself, he cemented his coda in his mind. Vanity, pleasure, and fear had brought him nothing but bad judgement and resentment and should be avoided- however, he was but a man, and the imagined realm of his mind would only work against him and towards those baser impulses. Thus, for perfect clarity, he had to fight these senses by imposing and embracing their opposites- revulsion, discomfort, and confrontation.

Zasheir now works odd jobs to afford his habits, and in searching for insight took up monastic training. The "spark of understanding" he had felt was actually him controlling his ki for the first time, and over the last several years spent listlessly wandering Calimport (mostly the Shackles Ward) made a little bit of a name for himself as an accomplished warrior under his pseudonym of Lumal.

Skills and Abilities:

• Hand to Hand Combat - Coinciding with his monastic training and the awakening of his ki, Zasheir has trained himself in the art of unarmed combat, in which he has grown very proficient.
• Ki - Zasheir has learned to control and evoke his ki, allowing him to easily accomplish staggering physical feats for someone his age. His most noticeable use involves him physically shaping it around his arms, acting almost as an extension of them.
• Drugs - Zasheir is encyclopedic in his knowledge of the mind-altering fruits of the undercity. He knows most of their effects, where to get them, and how much they cost. Most of this knowledge comes from experience, barring the excessively dangerous ones.
• Endurance - He is a peak physical specimen. Through sheer willpower and use of his ki alone, Zasheir can withstand gruesome amounts of pain and not falter; if anything, he seems to enjoy it.

Equipment

Weapons & Armor:

• Hand Ropes - Zasheir fights with no weapons, instead relying on his fists, feet, elbows, and knees. He wraps his hands and forearms with rope, knots placed strategically at the knuckles.
• Ragged Trousers - They are supremely dirty and worn, the only item adorning the rope belt being his pipe. He usually keeps them tucked into his boots.
• Leather boots and tunic - Both of these were given to Zasheir by a kindly Chultan merchant who mistook him for a beggar. He remains committed to not washing either of them, however.

Accessories & Miscellaneous:

• Ring of Water Walking - He keeps it strung amongst the fish bones of his necklace. A useful parlor trick that earned him some coinage was to simply stand on the top of a full bucket of water.
• Rope of Climbing - 10 ft. Each five foot half is what he keeps wrapped around his hands.
• Pipe - Zasheir stole it from a den in the Muzad.
• Very simple and functional wooden canteen, small enough to fit in the pocket of his trousers. He also stores his coins in here.

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 The Ring of Aduzahir ( FULL )

Zasheir adh Jelal, "Lumal"

Zasheir adh Jelal

_{"Your senses and emotions cloud your judgement- they blind you to what's real."}

General Info

Race: Human
Age: 59
Height: 6'1"
Class: Monk - Astral Self
Appearance:
Zasheir is a heap of toned muscle beneath heavily scarred flesh. Matted strands of gray hair spill from the sides and back of his head down to the middle of his neck, rough, drooping cheekbones frame a thick and broken nose, and his left eye is discolored and gray. By most of Calimport's standards, Zasheir is a very ugly man. Though the whip scars oddly suit him, like a familiar and broken-in coat, it's obvious that he is entirely unconcerned with his appearance, dressing only in a ragged pair of trousers and eschewing any offerings or opportunities to clean himself or his possessions.

In stark contrast, Zasheir's body is in incredible shape. The only vestiges of his age that show themselves here are the veiny wrinkles on the backs of his hands and a slight sag to his flanks. His arms are strong and corded, his neck and shoulders are broad, and he walks with an air of youth and athleticism that entirely betrays his aged mask. At nearly all times, the man is shrouded in a naturally foul smell, with olfactory threads of a botanical or chemical scent poking through. Having been an indentured resident of the Shackles Ward for most of his life, Zasheir very much continues to look the part of an ill-treated slave, and seems, of all things, comfortable with the stigma it brings.

Background

Personality:
"At all times we are encircled by two worlds- what is and what isn't. Material and imaginary. Real and not real. Our judgement is the only weapon we can hope to brandish at the latter."

Zasheir could be succinctly described as a mystical, ascetic monk, but to do so would extinguish the kernel of truth and nuance to his beliefs. His age and experiences have largely reinforced and buttressed these to the point where he can be a bit hard to budge. The central point of his dogma is the idea that there are two realms that someone inhabits at all times- the material, which he defines as things he knows are real and true, and an imagined realm that is populated by one's senses, emotions, and perceptions.

"Many come across this conundrum at one time or another, but few have the stomach to confront it. Fewer still rebut 'what if?' and in sidestepping the question, they deny themselves an identity all their own."

Zasheir believes that accurately parsing the material and imagined realms through judgement allows one to truly transcend, this transcendence being what powers his ki and allows him to perform the extraordinary feats of athleticism he does. However, determining what is truly real is no simple task, for the imagined realm exists solely to harry and cloud your acumen. Zasheir pinpoints three main aggressors in this- vanity, pleasure, and fear.

"Unchain yourself from how others view you- perhaps even, from how you view yourself."

The monk subverts vanity by embracing his repulsiveness. He seeks to be seen as vile and odious by those he interacts with- this was difficult in the Shackles Ward, where hygiene continues to be a blessing, but in the other Wards and drudachs Zasheir has flourished in the loathing he is capable of receiving. He purposely engages in anti-social behavior, shouting curses near funerals, openly imbibing narcotics, crashing private social gatherings- judging by his weathered scars, he has regularly been punished for such behavior.

"Pain will help you see clearly. It cuts through bliss and comfort like a fresh efreeti blade."

Pleasure is tackled by welcoming pain and discomfort. An easy task for a near permanent insubordinate in the Shackles Ward, Zasheir is very familiar with the bite of the whips from the House of Nine Blessings. His skin is covered in memories from his times there. He also seeks out discomfort, choosing to sleep in the most uncomfortable places or positions, all in an effort to "see clearly" through the imagined realm and help him grasp what is real.

"Fear is a challenge. If you let it win, it will arrest your mind."

Fear can only be quelled by confrontation. For Zasheir, it is the fear of death, of being made unreal. A rather morose dedication, the monk partakes in memento mori; a token kept on his person that reminds him that one day, he will die. This takes the form of a necklace of small fish bones strung around his throat, and a pertinence to carry some sort of small animal corpse on his belt, usually a mouse or rat.

"And if insight is needed, one need only partake in the labours of the underworld-"

Zasheir is a heavy user of narcotics, preferring hallucinogenic ones- dreammist and traveler's dust are his preferred substances, but the rarity or price of the two compared to opium in Calimport sometimes give him little in the way of choice. Zashier believes the visions given by their use offer him insight, or at least act as a way for him to exercise and train his judgement of what is real and what isn't.

Short History:
Zasheir adh Jelal was actually born Druzir Zasheir yn Nazkim el Lorkhan, the son and future inheritor of his father's drudach in the sabban of Pahlemm, itself within the Caravans Ward of Calimport. He was raised amongst all the fineries the villa of a lesser noble could afford; he was taught business and logic, how to hold and use a weapon, and even debate and administration. Zasheir does not look upon this time of his life in a positive light- he believes he was blinded by the gilded trappings and silken regalia, but also realizes that he couldn't possibly have known better. He exuded charisma and guile as he stepped into his father's role after his passing, and had his chance encounter with the thugs from the Muzad- the undercity- never happened, Zasheir probably would've continued on this very path until his eventual death.

Fate had other things in store for the young nobleman. At this point in his life, Zasheir had grown complacent with his station; he ate some of the finest foods, enjoyed delicious wines, and had filled his family's coffers to the point that his children's children wouldn't have to worry about finance. Zasheir was worried only about he and his own; what life was worth living if it wasn't spent enjoying every second of it? His family cherished him and his pursuits, he was respected by his amlakkar, and he was even awaiting being wed to the most beautiful woman he had laid his eyes on. He was a man who wanted for nothing.

It was a beautiful night when it happened. Zasheir was taking a side street from Pahlemm's khanduq back to his villa when a silk-robed stranger bumped shoulders with him. On any other night, Zasheir would've been quick to check his pockets- one didn't grow up in Calimport without learning to be wary- but Selûne had been graceful to that dark sky, and a business-weary Zasheir wished for nothing else than to lose himself in the warmly lit halls of his home, and to immerse himself in a comforting bath. His mind was set on pleasure, then, and only the rustling of chainmail in front of him broke his stupor. It was a young half-elven amlak, one Zasheir wasn't familiar with, accompanied by Magistrate Khalid al Anachtyr, the magistrate who held jurisdiction over Pahlemm. He was a bookish and grim looking fellow, that night even moreso. Zasheir remembers the light of the moon catching the spectacles on the end of his nose as he shook his head like a disappointed parent. "How could you," he had said, "when you've been the grace of your family name." Zasheir was confused as the amlak stepped forward, a pair of irons in one hand. Confusion turned to bewilderment as the guardsman withdrew a small vial of red crystals, each no bigger than a grain of salt. Traveler's dust. A glance behind was fruitless- the man who had bumped into him was nowhere in sight.

The following morning, the story broke that Pahlemm's well had almost been poisoned with traveler's dust, but the saboteurs had been apprehended. Shockingly, Druzir Zasheir was on the list, and apparently he had spearheaded the plot. His case was passed from the magistrate to the vizier of the ward, and was found guilty. Bargaining for his life, Zasheir managed to negotiate himself into slavery instead, and at the age of 35, was hoisted across Calimport in irons and interred into the Shackles Ward.

For a time, he resented having nothing. He was filled with anger and wroth at those who had taken his things. Those feelings slowly morphed into a resentment of Calimport as a whole, a city that was corrupt to its core. Zasheir resigned to quiet rebellion- his ownership changed hands several times, each one unimpressed with the meek slave who only barely did what was asked of him and never anything more. He became a regular at the House of Nine Blessings for punishment, and fervently wore his cuts with pride as a symbol of his malicious compliance. This was Zasheir's life for the next decade; the physical tasks he was forced to do strengthened his body, and he retreated into his own mind, growing his willpower from his persistence to endure, knowing some day he would find the opportunity for revenge.

Fate would throw him another curveball, however. One night, whilst again being perused by potential buyers in Katar's High, a scuffle created an opportunity for the ownerless slaves to escape into the Muzad. Finally presented with the fruits of his patience, Zasheir bit, and fled into Calimport's undercity, narrowly avoiding recapture. He chose to reside here until his scars healed- to make them somewhat less recognizeable- and adopted the pseudonym 'Lumal' to reflect his opinion on both others and himself. He was eventually offered a job as a runner, and transported narcotics through the Muzad, earning himself a tidy little profit, even if he had few places he could truly spend it. Zasheir, now called Lumal, made several close connections during this time, people he still considers to be true friends. It's hard to be deceitful on an empty belly, he would learn.

During one run transporting traveler's dust, he and a wizardly companion accidentally tripped a magical trap and summoned a guardian djinn. They had been taught to simply discard evidence if caught, and Zasheir obliged, though luck and a gust of wind from the djinn had a crystal catch in Zasheir's eye. At the same time, his mage companion banished he and the djinn- discarding evidence, after all- to the elemental plane of air. This would come to be the single most life changing moment for the Monk, and as he describes it, he finally saw clearly for the first time. He claims the djinn spoke to him about how perceptions and emotions are mere illusions; how man's yearning for pleasure and insistence on good impressions were often their own undoing. Though he was there for mere moments, when Zasheir was shunted back into the Material Plane he claims his life truly began. It was the first time he felt a spark of something within, something of true power and value.

He quickly spent all of his collected money on narcotics, searching for more insight he believed they brought. With each bout of drug-fueled enlightenment, Zasheir felt he was closer to a truer understanding of something. When he realized that that something was himself, he cemented his coda in his mind. Vanity, pleasure, and fear had brought him nothing but bad judgement and resentment and should be avoided- however, he was but a man, and the imagined realm of his mind would only work against him and towards those baser impulses. Thus, for perfect clarity, he had to fight these senses by imposing and embracing their opposites- revulsion, discomfort, and confrontation.

Zasheir now works odd jobs to afford his habits, and in searching for insight took up monastic training. The "spark of understanding" he had felt was actually him controlling his ki for the first time, and over the last several years spent listlessly wandering Calimport (mostly the Shackles Ward) made a little bit of a name for himself as an accomplished warrior under his pseudonym of Lumal.

Skills and Abilities:

• Hand to Hand Combat - Coinciding with his monastic training and the awakening of his ki, Zasheir has trained himself in the art of unarmed combat, in which he has grown very proficient.
• Ki - Zasheir has learned to control and evoke his ki, allowing him to easily accomplish staggering physical feats for someone his age. His most noticeable use involves him physically shaping it around his arms, acting almost as an extension of them.
• Drugs - Zasheir is encyclopedic in his knowledge of the mind-altering fruits of the undercity. He knows most of their effects, where to get them, and how much they cost. Most of this knowledge comes from experience, barring the excessively dangerous ones.
• Endurance - He is a peak physical specimen. Through sheer willpower and use of his ki alone, Zasheir can withstand gruesome amounts of pain and not falter; if anything, he seems to enjoy it.

Equipment

Weapons & Armor:

• Hand Ropes - Zasheir fights with no weapons, instead relying on his fists, feet, elbows, and knees. He wraps his hands and forearms with rope, knots placed strategically at the knuckles.
• Ragged Trousers - They are supremely dirty and worn, the only item adorning the rope belt being his pipe. He usually keeps them tucked into his boots.
• Leather boots and tunic - Both of these were given to Zasheir by a kindly Chultan merchant who mistook him for a beggar. He remains committed to not washing either of them, however.

Accessories & Miscellaneous:

• Ring of Water Walking - He keeps it strung amongst the fish bones of his necklace. A useful parlor trick that earned him some coinage was to simply stand on the top of a full bucket of water.
• Rope of Climbing - 10 ft. Each five foot half is what he keeps wrapped around his hands.
• Pipe - Zasheir stole it from a den in the Muzad.
• Very simple and functional wooden canteen, small enough to fit in the pocket of his trousers. He also stores his coins in here.

What Are You Listening To?

ABERRANT! The Nova Age

So what do you all want/need to keep moving forward?

@Dead Cruiser

Armored, sharpened, and raring to go!

ABERRANT! The Nova Age

<Snipped quote by an abomunist>
A conman could work fine, though I would ask that you flesh out the concept just a bit more.

@Dead Cruiser

Hmm, I'll probably go the route of a "redeemed" conman who started feeling guilty and unfulfilled by what he was doing when he Erupted. Debonair and a little flippant, maybe.

Speak with the Dead, no, but there are hypnotic/compelling powers that your character could have.

@Dead Cruiser

Ah, man. I'm sure I can make something else work, then.

ABERRANT! The Nova Age

I'm interested in this, as well. I share the same sentiments of not knowing the source material lore (Though I'm slightly familiar with the Storyteller system) but I think your write-up set the themes pretty well.

Also, would my posting maybe a list of the powers in the core book be helpful to people building characters?

@Dead Cruiser

For sure. If this is a story of street-level stuff at the beginning I'm thinking of maybe a conman (maybe even former conman); I don't suppose there's a sort of "speak with the dead" style of power?

Star Wars: The High Republic – The Bunum Impasse [CLOSED]

Death, Remembered

_{"Death is not the opposite of life, it is the opposite of birth; life is something more, something eternal-"}

Quillow had awoken with a start- a rising heat had been gracing his eye-stalks, and a dull, throbbing pain thrummed in his ribs. Getting a bearing on his surroundings, he quickly realized he couldn't move. A large, rigid, and flat piece of durasteel pressed on his chest and legs, leaving only his head and most of his arms free. A growing flame ignited from sparks continued to fester to his right, begging attention. His breaths were short and labored. The piece of steel that trapped him was too heavy to move conventionally, protesting any amount of thrashing or struggling. With tired arms, Quillow centered himself- steadied his breathing. His mind took him to the banks of an autumnal river, while a wave of his four-fingered hand saw the hunk of metal gently raise itself, just enough to afford the Ithorian freedom. Quillow noted something felt off, but for now it was no matter. He stood and squirmed out of his dirtied tabard, pressing it to the flame until it was quenched. Awkwardly pulling the singed garment back over his head, Quillow took stock of himself- everything seemed to be where it should be, and save for some bruising on his ribs, there wasn't any lingering pain- at least, not physical.

His head snapped to attention as he thought of Master Welck. Quillow couldn't see him in the wreckage, and he hadn't come to his pupil's aid. The Ithorian shook his head at a dour assumption. Surely he was instead helping others, knowing Quillow was capable on his own right. But his vision of the force moments ago- the river was still. That's what had felt off. A knot of panic wound its way around Quillow's stomach and heart, tightening as the Ithorian lumbered through tarnished wreckage with trunk-like legs, finding naught a sign of Welck. Quillow was thankful his translator had survived the crash as he called for Welck.

Quillow's eyes finally came to rest on a still figure; another survivor hovered above him- Varman, Quillow believed the Jedi's name was. They acknowledged each other, but Quillow didn't need to take another step forward to recognize the body. It was the mangled, lifeless Welck. Varman continued on searching for other survivors as Quillow approached his Master's remains. Fruitlessly prodding, he felt no pulse. A flood of emotions settled over him like a cloak. Bewilderment, anger, a tinge of acceptance- but the most prominent was loneliness. It was at this moment that Quillow realized that there had always been someone in his life- Welck, the other Initiates, a member of the research team on Felucia that he had briefly befriended; Quillow knew of Varman and could make out the movements of some other survivors, but he had never felt so alone. The emotion began to bubble over.

The sound of an Ithorian wailing is a wretched noise- like the moaning of some gnarled and twisted tree before its branches snap. In the remnants of the hull, it shook the metal and the earth, reverberating and amplifying until even Quillow's own ears rang. The knot of panic loosed itself and sank into Quillow's gut where it oozed into sorrow. The Ithorian wailed again as he gripped his Master's clammy shoulder. "There is a light," Welck would say, "at the end of every bout of darkness," but this one felt like it had no end.

"If I had been faster- if I had talked you out of coming here- if I had confronted you about the woman-" Quillow accused himself. The autumnal river began its flow once more as tears welled below his spherical black eyes.

"Death is nothing to us, for when we are here, it has not come- and when it does, we are no longer here." Quillow swore he could hear Welck's words. A soothing kindling of wisdom ignited in his chest, assuaging his sorrow and regret as logic and rationale began to take root once more. The edges of his vision no longer seemed blurred, but Quillow had trouble taking his eyes off of Welck. A part of him wanted to believe he'd suddenly burst back to life, full of hope and answers. "Your fear of death comes not from knowledge of an inevitable, but in your belief that in death, there is awareness." Quillow muttered to himself, completing the thought from earlier. Quillow finally ripped his gaze away from his late Master- it fatefully came to rest on a faint blue shimmer buried amongst twisted metal. Welck's datapad. It was remarkably unharmed. Quillow plunged his hand into the detritus to retrieve it, dusting off the loose flecks of burnt material. The Ithorian stared at it a moment. Within were catalogued the memories Master Welck had taken from others, memories whose trinkets were now destroyed. This datapad would be all that remained of them.

Quillow looked from the datapad to Welck's body once more. Lowering himself so their foreheads touched, Quillow repeated the mantra-

"I would take these memories from you, that you might find peace."

Slowly standing, Quillow took a deep breath before taking stock of his own collected memories. Feeling around his belt, a few perhaps perished in the crash, but three remained: a string of tiny beads, a burnt scrap of another datapad- the rest was destroyed, and a section of black leather. Quillow tugged on their strings to make sure they were securely fastened, and walked amongst the wreckage, knowing there was nothing left for him there.

---

There were seven survivors. This planet was temperate- perhaps a little warm for Quillow's taste- but not unpleasant. The next few hours passed by Quillow almost autonomously; he was still in shock over what happened, and continuously harried by questions over what to do with Welck's datapad. A few times he found a finger hovering over the delete key, only to be unable to do so. On one hand, Quillow knew bearing the troubles of Welck would be a burden itself- however, he could not delete them or offer them as a token to someone to bear away, for the memories were not his to forget. On the other hand, Welck dedicated his life to their collection, and now that he was with the Force, no memory could haunt him- perhaps it was for the best that these, too, passed on with him. Would their mere presence hold him here, unable to pass forward? Wasn't the prevention of such the very thing Quillow and Welck sought?

This was what Quillow pondered as Varman and the other survivors gathered to meditate. The Ithorian wished not to burden the others with his conflict, so he sought no guidance from the others and spoke very little, only giving thanks for any condolences offered. To stamp the point, the Ithorian chose to doff his translator. Quillow's focus was only finally broken when a blaster bellowed. The Ithorian willingly gave his weapon when requested but retreated inward once more as he aided in carrying one of the injured Masters, spending the rest of the journey in thought. Quillow shared Varman's sentiment of wishing the bodies honored, but beyond this, his thoughts were all set on his future beyond this planet, which the Ithorian realized was fairly presumptive as squat wooden dwellings now rose around them. Now finally of a state of mind pertinent of a Jedi, Quillow thought it best he stay behind when Varman and Dr. Lamenk’srey traveled back to the bodies.

“There’s a mineral called Sparstite—You’re familiar with it, Master Quillow?-" He nodded. He had seen it throughout the village, and almost thought it kyber, but it felt different. Reclusive, almost. Frayed and wispy. Quillow listened intently as he plead his peoples' case. Quillow engaged in a brief inner debate once more, spawned from his earlier conflict. For a moment he weighed the importance of letting memories pass on as the elder continued his allegory, but quickly decided against it. They wouldn't be passed on, but destroyed outright. Plus, after the wizened one explained further, Quillow realized that this sparstite was even somewhat alike the bafforr trees on Ithor, though he had yet to explore sparstite's proclivity for telepathy, or more complex sentience. If the latter bore fruit, it was beholden to the Law of Life, and for each one taken, two would need to replace it. To Quillow, omnipresent laws, such as the Force, trumped those dictated by any nation, the Republic not withstanding.

Now on the metal tower, Quillow set aside his sorrows for the time being, it was time to be a Jedi. Welck was always so sure of his answers and wisdom, and Quillow hoped he could emulate. He donned his translator, pulling his green hood over his head.

"I believe that first and foremost we should gauge where we stand. I would aid Thuda in stopping the mining, but would also hear what others have to say."

Star Wars: The High Republic – The Bunum Impasse [CLOSED]

Quillow Noonot

QUILLOW NOONOT

Pacifistic Knight

"I would take this memory from you, that you might find peace."

Species: Ithorian

Gender: Male

Age: 30

Appearance:
Quillow looks like most Ithorians- the species' physical differences are slight, and Quillow fits the bill of a standard member; standing at seven feet, a wide-ended, snail-like head (More unscupulous folk tease them as "hammerheads") protrudes from a rougly humanoid torso. His long, lanky arms end in four spindly, segmented, twig-like fingers, and the toes on either of his feet are thick, squat, and arched, almost like the roots one may see poking up at the base of a trunk. In fact, with his branch-like limbs, outwardly sluggish demeanor, and mossy-brown skin tone, Quillow exudes an aura like that of a creaky, overgrown indyup tree. He doesn't stand so much as loom, and he lumbers moreso than walks. His voice is deep and croaking, and as Ithorian speech is stereophonic, strangely melodic. Thin bands of skin around Quillow's black sphere eyes are several shades darker than the rest, almost giving him the appearance of having eyelashes.

Quillow garbs himself alike his Master, in loose fitting, layered robes, belted at the waist. The bottom layer is deep beige in color, and a forest-green tabard is pulled over it, its hood usually pulled up and resting atop Quillow's head, obscuring his Ithorese translator (situated on the hump of his neck) from view. From the leather belt dangle various bits and bobs secured by string; if pressed, he describes these as "memories". The state of his dress leaves a lot to be desired, which could be why he prefers earthen colors.


Lightsaber/other personal effects:
Quillow's lightsaber is near-pristine, not from dedication to any sort of maintenance, but rather from a distinct lack of use. A shining silver bauble, it is more often seen decorating his belt than in his hands. Its handle is plain and cylindrical, with grooves cut to make it look almost like three segments stuck together. On the occasion it is activated, one will find it emits a deep green blade.

His more unique feature are the trinkets that hang off of his belt in an almost defiant contrast to the Jedi coda of forbidding posessions. Moreso, he will openly relent that he carries them as "memories" and that he has an attatchment to them. After the crash, there are three: a string of beads, a burnt scrap of a datapad, and a section of black leather.

Personality:
First and foremost, any conversation will quickly reveal that Quillow is a soft and sensitive soul. He wears a mild demeanor which makes him slow to anger, but being meditative and introspective, Quillow can often be sorrowful. He is supremely polite, if a little dull. Still, Quillow makes efforts to not outwardly exude his more negative emotions, giving him an air of false stoicism. A philosophical sort, Quillow often tries to engage others in like conversation, a byproduct from his late Master. While Quillow was never the sort to hold one view above another, the perishing of Master Welck has made him reluctant to accept other viewpoints, if only so Quillow may continue Welck's memories.

The second thing one will notice about Quillow is his fixation on memories. Following the teachings of Welck, who himself was influenced by Ithorian lifestyle (or perhaps even Mother Jungle), Quillow has dedicated himself to the removal of 'painful memories' of others, which he believes fuel malcontent and may even prevent one from transcending into the Force after death. As Quillow would put it, "The donar flower does not remember the foot that felled it; in forgetting, it blooms." But merely forgetting a painful memory isn't enough; to achieve peace, one has to let go, in this, Quillow seeks to aid others. This manifests as him taking a trinket from someone struggling, usually something tied to the memory in question, and taking it far away from them, so they might forget and thus grow tranquil. While it was never their immediate reaction to do so, Welck and Quillow weren't opposed to mind tricking or mind rubbing to force someone to forget. Quillow does not destroy his trinkets, for doing so would destroy the memory they hold, and destruction and consumption are the things of the dark side. He ultimately believes there is a set amount of suffering that will always pervade the universe- seekings its doom leads one down a dark path, but absorbing it from others less equipped to handle it is a virtuous thing.

From these beliefs stem Quillow's pacifism. He adheres to nonviolence so that he may avoid making painful memories for others or himself. He uses his lightsaber in a purely defensive manner- if absolutely driven to conflict, he will do his best to (relatively) harmlessly disarm his opponents. Even then, his physical faculties were always below average, buffeted by his ease of use of the Force, particularly mind tricks and telekenetics.

View of the Force:
The Force is a flowing autumnal river; muddied leaves occasionally pass by, practically begging they be plucked from the stream, cleaned, and observed as they are set back on their course.

Backstory:
Quillow was born a amongst a massive pool fathered by a single Ithorian. Quillow remembers naught from this time; not because the memories are painful, but becasue there's simply nothing to remember. He was one amongst thousands- a glassy-eyed, appendageless tadpole merely existing and wondering. As he metamorphosized, Quillow gained a hump on his back, a crater in his cranium, and a healthy appetite for ant-flies.

As a young and healthy Ithorian denizen of a great herdship above Ithor, he was taught the benevolence of the Mother Jungle below and of the Law of Life; that for every life taken, two more must be planted. Before he could even read and write, he was told by his herd's cleric that he would be now be travelling with a Human, one who was dressed in long and flowing robes, a disarming smile frozen on his bearded face. Quillow often wonders if this was perhaps a subterfugal move- Quillow was confirmed force sensitive, and force sensitive Ithorians are often selected to oversee a herd as a cleric. Perhaps that one simply could not let go.

During the journey from Ithor to Coruscant, Quillow learned his benefactor's name was Welck, a Knight of the Jedi order. He had been visiting the herdships above Ithor in a scholarly pursuit; Ithorian society and their respect for their environment made them skilled ecologists, and the Order saw a future in terraforming techniques could potientially be developed with them. While Quillow knew not of what the Jedi spoke, he made clear he had chosen Quillow because of a willingness to learn and sprout. This made Quillow happy, for a facet of the Law of Life stated that all things have a right to grow. The young Ithorian sought to share what he knew to the Knight, as well, but he merely smiled and offered endearing glances.

Upon arrival at Coruscant, Quillow as taken from Welck and placed with a group of unfamiliar faces and shapes. A mild mannered Ithorian, Quillow got along well with the other members of his Initiate clan as they began their journey of learning. He was taught to read and write Galactic basic, and with the help of a translator, could speak it as well, albeit with a heavy accent. Instructors would find Quillow to be lacking in most things physical, but extremely attentive and naturally skilled when it came to mental acuity and the Force. A few noted that the young Ithorian had a heightened sense of wisdom and curiosity- always asking the other Initiates why even when he fully understood, seemingly attempting to reach some higher level of understanding with them. In truth, Quillow took to heart the Ithorian teaching that all things have a right to grow, and he had noticed that in asking why, people would grow to view him or themselves amicably, in most cases; Quillow was regularly told he was an astute listener, even if he had little to say. His time amongst his Initiate clan fostered a healthy social growth, though some may have seen him as too empathetic. He was naturally curious and truly had a hunger to learn about others' ways of life and the life of a Jedi.

His skills in the saber were lacking; while Quillow had continued to excel in meditation, mental discipline, and self-control, these did not translate into physical acuity. Quillow's reactions were slow, he overtly avoided pain, and failure did not seem to bother him. He was nearing adolescence now, and had he stayed on this path, Quillow probably would've failed his Initiate trials. But it was then that Welck would again enter Quillow's life, though he was Master Welck now. While Quillow was elated, Welck seemed disappointed in the young Initiate. Luckily, he knew the strings to pull with the young Ithorian, and spoke with him:

"You believe all things have a right to grow, yes?"

Quillow nodded in reply.

"Then why do you deny youself such? Does not a toal tree seek to spread its own roots? Or does it merely ask the leaves to grow over it, retreating within itself and withering away? Should it fade, what would become of the life it helped grow?"

Quillow took the sentiment to heart. In helping others grow, he denied himself the same service. Through dedication and focus, he became just average enough to pass his Initiate trial. Now a Padawan, he was of course taken underwing by Master Welck. Quillow perpetuated an extremely positive- albeit, almost submissive- relationship with Welck, who conditioned the young Padawan to the teachings of the Jedi Code, and always turned an attentive ear to Quillow when he had a refute.

"There is no death, there is the Force. Is that similar to the Law of 'We wither to bloom'?" The young Ithorian had asked. His master thought a moment.

"Perhaps. Do not take the meaning of death to be the opposite of life, it is moreso the opposite of birth. Life is something eternal- it continues on not only in the Force which connects us, but in our memories of each other, and the legacies we leave."

Quillow still struggled when it came to combat. His literal ability with a lightsaber was average, he simply lacked the intent to use it, even against droids, whom Quillow believed had a soul simply because they had a semblance of conscience and memory, even if it was programmed; and where there was a soul, there was a living being. Under Welck's tutelage, Quillow was taught that one needn't seek to harm with the blade, but rather it could be used as a tool for guidance, albeit a forceful one. To Quillow, guidance was essential to growth. Still, Master Welck frequently reinforced that his weapon's use should be a last resort, when all other options for understanding have been exhausted.

Eventually, Welck had seen enough growth in Quillow that he felt he was ready for the Trials. The Ithorian was twenty-four, and in Welck's teachings he found the success to become a Jedi Knight. As the two worked well together, Quillow still largely worked with Master Welck, and continued to view himself as his pupil. The two spent the next three years on Felucia, as a remote illness had taken a few tribal lives and threatened to spread. They aided a multi-cultural contingent sent to study it and hopefully develop a cure.

It was here that Quillow would watch as Master Welck changed. First came the woman; Quillow thought his Master higher than such temptations, but more than once he pretended not to notice Welck stealing glances. As if the universe sought to prove the Code, the relationship did not end well. Quillow remembers vividly the feeling of sorrow he sensed from Welck as he exited her hovel, shaking his head, a child's toy gripped tightly in one hand. Welck blinked away tears, but Quillow saw them. The woman was interred, and neither Quillow nor Welck saw her again, sickness had taken her.

Quillow had still looked to Welck for wisdom during this time, and he noticed when his teachings changed. It was at the behest of a member of the research team; the child's toy finally left Welck's ownership, and a weight was lifted from his shoulders- that researcher left the planet shortly afterwards. Welck spoke to Quillow about memory often, then, as he had before, but his views had shifted; he now spoke of how they bound people to discontent and wroth and struggle, and how neither should be afraid to pass them off to someone better equipped, a sentiment Quillow found odd at first, as Welck was a Master Jedi. Quillow pondered and accepted what Welck had said; after all, if living, thinking beings perpetuated suffering, then surely there was only a finite amount present in the Galaxy at any given time. He took his revelation to Master Welck, who seemed to agree. Shortly thereafter, Welck admitted he wished to travel far from Felucia, but not before he spoke to some of the tribals, offering to 'take their memories from them'. Quillow also took up the practice, seeing how much comfort and peace it could bring, as it had to his Master. Now decorated in various baubles, the two planet hopped, collecting painful memories from others so that they might reach an inner peace, taking them far away. And so the two ended up on Ilum when they received notice to return to Coruscant.

Master Welck did not survive the crash. In the wreckage, Quillow located his datapad; it was a personal work, cataloguing the words of the memories of others. Welck was afraid he would forget. Quillow is unsure of what to do with it.