Appearance

Physical Description

At 6'2, Birbal once cut quite an imposing figure in his youth. Remnants of his past stature can still be seen, though he is now well past his prime.

Body Features

Both face and body sport numerous signs of a harsh, combat-filled existence. A few sun spots, lines and tough leathery skin characterize his appearance. Scars from distant battles against man and beast line his form, though he has forgotten the origin of more than he remembers. One of the most prominent, a scar cutting along his right bicep, was from a narrowly avoided blast of sunfire from a furious priest of Ar'rhur. Birbal remembered turning with the glancing strike, building his impetus even as he winced in pain and the fiery projectile streaked past him. The weight of his spear left his hand as if in slow motion. His aim proved more unerring than the sun-priest, though it had been a near thing.

Identifying Characteristics

Sports a large birthmark - about the size of two or three large silver coins- on his right scapular region. It looks a bit like a rabbit. Or perhaps a distorted face. Hard to say.

Physical quirks

His jaw is moving more often than not, as his fondness for chewing khat, as well as the ever more persistent need to moisten his mouth, has given him the rather bovine habit.

Apparel & Accessories

He wears a suit of Lamellar with gambeson, a common trapping of the world-class Brandjordian cavalry.

His primary weapon is the long spear, either with a metal or wooden shaft. He's used both throughout his career, with the former being more sturdy and useful for close quarters combat, while the latter is easier to throw when the need arises. Now that his spear is broken, he'll need to set about finding a new one, and quickly.

Several blade-heavy throwing knives which he is fond of sending streaking through the air with a flick of his wrist. The jordians primarily throw knives for sport, and to test themselves, but he has found them to be very versatile tools, and useful in combat as long as the target isn't wearing heavy armor.

His horse ran shrieking from him outside the temple, sensing the change in it's master. Yet a horse is not a luxury to a Meru wanderer, it is an absolute necessity, and Birbal will settle for only the best animals.

Special abilities

What gifts can Il'yen provide, he wonders? Strength and speed she had mentioned, but healing? Magics? Cursed knowledge? Are those all on the table as well? So far Birbal has told himself he won't bother finding out but the whispers are ever-present, and there may be many future situations where the demon's gifts will prove useful... if he is willing to pay the cost

Mentality

Personal history

Champion of the Sun. Slayer of the Lion of Serpent Rock. Defender of the league-long caravan. Harpybane. Birbal bin-Salman was known by many names in his youth, earned from countless adventures undertaken throughout the harsh desert climate of Brandjorden. Every one of those names has a story behind it, and if given the chance Birbal will happily tell the stories of his youth to anyone who will listen. It's the fact that people rarely bother to listen anymore that upsets him.
 
A child of the nomadic Meru peoples who wander to and away from the cities of the coast in their caravan-towns, Birbal showed impressive agility both on foot and on horse from the very time he could walk. By the time he was 6 he had a spear in his hand, and by the time he was 15, he was as accomplished a rider as men ten years his senior. He was of a mind to make sure his talent did not go to waste, and the vagabond lifestyle of his tribe afforded him ample opportunities for mercenary and adventuring work. He played the game and played it well for a very long time indeed, spending seventeen years traveling the coast and the deep deserts from the Desert of Souls to Mount Ladakh and everywhere in between, hounding after prestigious jobs.
Has he told you about the time he took a seemingly deadly leap from a limestone canyon only to stop his plummet by plunging his spear into the desert basilisk waiting below? Or maybe the time during the siege of Chrysus where he flung a priest of Ar'rhur into the sea from atop the wall during single combat? What about the time he traveled all the way to Mount Ladakh, bearing witness to the strange furs and exotic goods the bronze-skinned natives traded with him? Yes, with his skill and speed with spear, horse, and mind, he acquired the resume of a dashing hero and reaped all the benefits that came with it. Noble company, accolades, treasure, and the easy attentions of beautiful women, he had it all for years on end.


However, all good things must come to an end, and Birbal's fortune came to a rather abrupt one. It was during an ordinary skirmish with desert bandits in the coastal canyons near Zirbah. He remembers riding hard with his mercenary brothers as arrows thunk into his shield, his hot breath reflected into his face by his helmet, the horses kicking up a storm of dust as their hooves pounded the rocks and sand into a whirlwind. In fact, so great was the storm they kicked up that it disturbed a giant nest of harpies up in the rocky spires above the canyon. The fiercely teritorrial bird-women shrieked with rage as they descended on the warring skirmishers and the battlefield quickly fell into general confusion. Birbal had his shield up, defending against a harpies claws. He didn't even see the mace-wielding bandit riding at him until his right knee shattered.
His spear-brothers saved his life that day, rallying around him and retreating, cutting down any harpy or bandit that stood in their way. Birbal came to find that he would live. He would even walk, though with a pronounced limp. But his adventuring days were over.
Perhaps that time had come after all. He was nearing his 50's now, and loathe as he was to admit it, his endurance, reflexes, and strength weren't the same as they were in his 30's or even 5 years ago. Many professional soldiers stay in their careers for decades, but his particular adventuring lifestyle was a young man's game. Years spent in the hot sun had weathered and lined his face, and knee aside, he had no shortage of injuries that kept his bones creaking and tendons stiff. He was married now, to a wonderful, young, whip-smart woman named Safiya who had always spoken, starry-eyed, about having a child; a strong boy to follow after his heroic father. Perhaps it was time to hang up his spear, and indulge her wishes.

But... it took only a few short years for his star to be swallowed up by the ever-shifting sands. He had done impressive deeds, no doubt, but is that alone enough to ensure a lasting legend? He quickly found that the noble company he once enjoyed no longer had time for him, and his accolades quickly faded in the memory of the people, even his own friends and family members. His treasures collected dust on the shelves or were sold off for more practical goods, and beautiful women tended much more often toward looks of pity rather than admiration. Even his love for Safiya, ever a beacon of soul and wit, and Amar, his newly-born son, couldn't fully quell the itch that built up in his soul. The itch for his glory days only built as he heard news of other traveling heroes doing greater deeds than he ever did. They would ride into towns, and people would rush from their homes and pile up on lofts to catch a glimpse of younger and stronger warriors, dressed in gleaming armor and riding pristine horses. They would gather and cheer at their tales in a way they never did for him. 'That might have been me.' he would grumble under his breath 'If it wasn't for those cursed harpies and thrice-cursed macemen'.

When rumor began to emerge of a great treasure found deep in a lost desert temple, he could feel the hand of fate pulling at his soul. 'Just one last adventure.' He promised his weeping Safiya as she begged him to stay. 'Just one last one, that everyone will remember me by. And then we shall spend the rest of our years together, you and I.' Safiya was right to protest, and deep down Birbal knew it. He was 63 now, and while he had never quite stopped training with the spear, or riding frequently, it had been perhaps a decade since he had faced an opponent in true earnest. But wounded pride has a queer way of rankling in a person's heart until he just cannot ignore it anymore, and he soon found himself among a small party of mercenaries once again, tasked with investigating the truth of the rumors behind this treasure, and recovering it, if it could be recovered. The fellow who gave them the contract struck Birbal as very odd, dressed in robes that did not look at all Ashalli, and with skin just a touch paler than even the Manniskarians that sometimes frequented Brandjordan's shores. But he promised to pay very well, both in money and renown, if the small group brought the treasure, or information of it to him with the utmost speed and before any other agents could get to it. And so, as the next dawn began to touch the sky, they were off into the bowels of the desert.

There were three members of that fateful company besides Birbal himself. It chafed at him slightly to see their youth and the life that burned within their veins. There was Asmira, a priestess of Asha, endowed with strange powers besides being an expert healer. Soft-spoken and excruciatingly gentle, yet resolute, she was their guide through the desert, living up in small part to the example of her goddess, who had circumnavigated the earth. There was Cyrine, a sorceress from beyond Brandjordan's shores. Sleek and haughty, her mastery over water elementalism was a rare gift, immensely valuable for those traveling the bone-dry wastes. Finally there was Rashid, nicknamed "The Turbulent Wind". He was a wandering Meru hero much as Birbal had been, except still clearly in his prime, a formidable warrior with his duel sabres. Though there were but four of them- speed was of the essence after all- each was an elite in such business, storied and well-experienced. Together they made a daunting company.


Or... at least the three others did. Their journey was a long one, many leagues south of Alluabid, past the mountains of Lamoril, and finally a turn eastwards, a weeks journey into the ill-famed Desert of Souls. Throughout their arduous path, they had to contend with the pitiless sun, the beasts of the desert canyons, not to mention Sun Cult fanatics testing themselves against the edge of the world and rival treasure hunters who had gotten early notice of the power that lay in the east. It quickly became apparent that age had caught up to Birbal. In travel he lagged behind the rest, the sun's toll more harsh upon his weathered frame. In battle his spear, that had once shot out with the quickness of lightning, now moved more with the lethargy of a flickering candle. His knee, though it had healed well, would never be what it once was and now it proved a formidable weakness. More than one combative encounter had seen him cast to the ground, avoiding death only through sheer luck or the intervention of one of his comrades. Though he found he was able to help in other ways- more than one trap or dangerous situation had been avoided due to his long experience- they were small comforts next to the clear knowledge he was a burden upon their journey. Cyrine was mocking, Rashid coldly contemptuous... only tender-hearted Asmira offered anything akin to sympathy when they had to slow their pace or bandage up his more numerous scratches after a battle.
 
However, the group persevered through those iron-rich sands where nothing grows, and at last, at last, arrived upon the fabled temple. Sleek walls of obsidian jutted out from the dunes, the desert winds having polished them to an uneven symmetry. The design of the place appeared alien... certainly not reminiscent of the jeweled domes and vast palaces of the slaver cities, nor the intricate stonework of Meru settlements, ancient or modern. Throughout the entire way they had been beset by dangers at every turn, but the temple, and the grounds around it, were eerily silent, free of any signs of movement, let alone life. The contrast to the constant threats on the road made each member of the group wary indeed. The vast black doors opened with no resistance, and their footsteps echoed through the halls of antiquity. Dust shifted over half-worn murals depicting deep caves and gigantic spiders. Their torches revealed foreign-looking runes strung together in sentences none of the four could read. On occasion they stumbled across shreds of black cloth, or ancient bones, but there seemed to be no indication of who this temple was dedicated to, or who had built it.
 
The wariness of the adventurers was finally broken as they reached the central spire of the temple. There was boatloads of silver piled around an obsidian altar, the desert sun shining in from a skylight high above. Gold and weapons, both ceremonial and practical, were also strewn carelessly about, but the altar itself was bare, save for one trinket. A polished mirror with an unadorned silver frame rested on the polished surface. While the others busied themselves filling their packs with the offerings, Birbal felt drawn to the mirror. It seemed to speak to him, entice him. Visions of everlasting glory seemed to leap to his mind. He saw himself slaying winged lizards, and moving faster than the wind. He saw bronze statues of himself in desert squares, an example to all of what a renowned hero looks like. How easily Birbal was taken in by such whispers!

He looked into the surface. He saw himself, as normal. But behind him was a grey wasteland. The walls of the temple were replaced with crumbling spires of bone, the coins and trinkets around the floor with cracked skulls and spent shells. And suddenly he was there in the middle of the wasteland with no one and nothing else in sight. He called out to his comrades, but the only reply came in flashes at the edge of his vision. Black hair shifted, milky eyes widened, a cruelly scarred mouth opened to reveal unnaturally perfect teeth bent into a gleeful smile. 'Trinkets and offerings abound around you.' A silken voice caresses his mind with all the intimacy of a lover. 'and yet you, with your unique choice of bauble, have accepted my pact. How strange, mortal. How very strange.'
 
Then, in a single agonizing moment, the presence entered him. It was sensation beyond pain or madness or terror. It was overwhelming black ink replacing the blood in his veins. Birbal cried out in soul-numbing terror as his soul was hollowed out in a single, awful instant. The prescence that flooded him was coldly, cruelly aware. It was as merciless as a sandstorm, as relentless as an avalanche. Birbal's will wasn't merely broken, it was swept aside as if it had never been. A soft laugh rung out, seeming at once both far away and all too close. The spirit that possessed him permeated flesh and bone, curling around his heart like a serpent and leaving nothing but emptiness where his soul had once been. He looked up at the cloud-shrouded sky to scream again, sure it would be his last one. And then, all of a sudden, he was back in the temple in the midst of the treasure room, steam curling up from his body as he panted with exertion. The mirror was just a mirror now, but in it he saw his reflection... oh god... his reflection. He started to shake as he witnessed the horror he had become. His sanity stretched to the breaking point...
 
'Uncle?' Asmira said shaking Birbal by the shoulder apprehensively. 'Uncle are you all ri-' Her sentence was cut off by the wooden end of the mirror impaling itself in her stomach, a few inches below her belly button. She weakly pawed at the implement for a second, a look of shock and uncomprehending terror washing over her face before she pitched over. Cyrine and Rashid let out dual cries of dismay at the sudden attack as Birbal grabbed his spear howling like a wounded animal. Black ice strengthened his limbs as he lept across the room in a single bound to the sorceress, who barely had time to sputter in fear and surprise before the haft of his spear found her ribs. He brought down the wooden shaft over and over again, long past the point that the light had left her eyes. Finally, the spear haft broke upon her limp, spasming body and he turned, eyes wide with berserk rage, at Rashid who was waiting for him a few yards away. 'Grandfather has finally found his feet, has he?' The mercenary mocked with a determined sneer. 'Come then. I'll see you pay for my comrades deaths.'
 
Birbal's newly-halved spear stabbed wildly at the swordsman, fueled by demonic strength and desperate speed. Birbal was a spearman of rare skill, but Rashid was a master, an artist of the blade. He moved like the wind of his namesake, the points of his scimitar and dagger alternating in attack, rapping drumbeats across Bribals vambrace and chain, probing for weaknesses. The Turbulent Wind's focus was unbroken even as black ichor flowed from Birbal's body in place of blood. Birbal batted aside a lightning thrust... then threw his spear aside and leapt at his quarry, seizing him bodily, and tearing his throat out with his teeth in a single horrible movement. As the last of his comrades fell to the ground in death throes, Birbal fled the temple howling at the sky, a demon's laughter echoing like pealing thunder in his ears.


The spirit introduced herself as Il'yen. 'Though whether I am to be ally or an enemy to you is your choice to make.' She whispered, slithering softly against his ribs. 'I can offer you power... for a short time. Strength and speed, healing your wounds, to one such as me there is nothing simpler. Of course there will be a cost to pay... later. Small, negligible pieces of your soul... you will hardly miss them, will you?' More than once as he wandered across the red sands, Birbal had considered the bloody tip of his spear. Better to die, surely, than live like this. 'Take that route, aged one' Ily'en spoke grimly 'and your soul will be mine forever. I have hollowed this frail body of yours like a gourd to fit myself inside, or rather, part of myself. It is a snug, if comfortable, fit. But your essence lies in my hands. However, there is a way you might reclaim that which was once yours.'
 
'Complete my pact.' Her horrible, seductive voice always seemed soft, even when giving a command. 'Spill more blood for me. There are three, three fools of special importance who worship my sister. They are in far-flung lands, each of them wasting their talents in service to my weaker half. You will go to them. You will bring them my words, force them to accept my dark deal... and you will kill them if they do not. Either they work to free me as my pawns, or by their deaths accomplish the same goal.'
 
'But you, aged one.' The voice crooned in his ear. 'You will be my most precious pawn. Such bitterness within you. Such dissatisfaction. Most others would be so content with the legacy of their small lives. But not you. You have already displayed a great act of treason in my name. Such a betrayal in my temple, that has stood empty for so long, is worthy of reward. Free me, and I vow that not only will I return your soul, but I will never try to possess you again. But you had best decide quickly. A man cannot survive long without his soul. By my powers I will slow it's decay, but even I cannot fight against the inevitable. I would say you have... perhaps a year before your body decays. You had better work fast, my beautiful pawn. You had better work fast...'
 
As Birbal wandered the blood-red sands, he realized he had no choice. To die was to become the demon's plaything forever. To never see his wife or son again, and to never redeem himself of the memory of his comrades' shocked faces would be more than he could bear. He would find a way to drive this demon from himself no matter the cost. Then he would return home, a changed man, and never think about adventuring again. On the head of his son! 'Be careful making such a comittment, sandwalker.' Il'yen's voice teased at the back of his mind. 'There is a good chance it will be tested'.

Education

Meru children lead a harsh existence and spend their youth learning the ways of desert survival and some occupation to assist the tribe. For Birbal, reading and writing quickly became a necessity throughout his career, and he found he took to his letters more quickly than most. While he has little in the way of academic training, it would be a mistake to call him uneducated. Vast experience and well-honed literacy have been his teachers.

Employment

Birbal spent his life as a muzdlu, a traveling warrior without home. Usually such mercenaries are looked on as carrion by the folk of the Slaver cities and Alluabid. The Meru have a higher opinion as they have a different ancestry and a long tradition of wandering heros who acquired fame and fortune. Of course, the stories told around campfire tend to leave out the thousands of prospective muzdlu who don't survive their first brush with danger.

Accomplishments & Achievements

One of his favorite nicknames that he's been anointed with is 'Harpybane'. Harpies are a dangerous and common pest around the coastal areas and mountains of Brandjordan. Once he was contracted by a village to get rid of a persistent nest in the area. He and his fellows made several dummy-men from twigs and wood and straw, and anointed them with spice and incense as well as liberal amounts of oil. When night fell, the harpies attacked furiously, smelling the scent of man, but their fearsome calls soon turned into shrieks of surprise as they found they dummies suddenly go alight all around them. Liberal amounts of arrow-fire finished off the rest.
He's often reflected on the irony that it was a harpy that ultimately caused his fateful knee injury, and has developed a deeper hatred for the bird-women than most.

Mental Trauma

The berserk killing of his companions still haunts him at night. While they weren't quite his friends, they were much more than acquanitances. Undertaking such an arduous journey has a way of bonding people together strongly. Sometimes, when he is midway between awake and asleep, he feels he can hear them, as if they are gathered around a campfire in the distance. Asmira's gentle whispers, Cyrine's indistinct laughter, Rashid's cocky self-assurance... 'join us' they whisper sometimes.
Perhaps that is just the demon playing tricks on his ears.

Morality & Philosophy

The sands of time swallow all, and do not remember those who cannot make their mark. Some may see Birbal as an intemperate glory-seeker, and there is some truth to the accusation. Age has brought him wisdom and perspective in many ways, but he cannot let go of the urge to be remembered. To have some marker of permanence in the ever-shifting dunes truly is the measure of the greatest of men, and even old age could not stop him from achieving it.
 
'Oh but it could.' a soft voice whispers, tickling at his mind. 'It could... and it did. But now you have me, my love. Simply ask it of me, and age will be no obstacle. I can grant you the strength to perform heroic deeds, the vigor to enact great and terrible sagas across these sands. We can achieve so much together, you and I. You will be remembered if you only accept my grace, oh yes. That I promise.'
 
Hmm... perhaps the demon is the key to everything unlocking Birbal once valued. But... perhaps there is a cost to remembrance. Is it a cost he is unwilling to pay?

Personality

Motivation

This demon must be purged from his soul before his time runs out, though he hasn't even paused to consider what the implications are of helping her get free. To kill these priests or worshippers would be one way to do it, but could another path open itself up to him?

Likes & Dislikes

Likes:

His wife and son

The marble statuary of the Preomonans. He was given a small statue of an athlete by a foreigner as payment for a job once. He was assured it was quite valuble. That statue depicted a muscular man throwing a discus.

Knife throwing. A common pastime in the sands of Brandjordan, and he's quite good at it, preferring to carry several throwing knives on his belt, or in special leather sheathes attached to his armor.

Poetry. He is a great admirer of the poets of the slaver cities, and has tried his hand at his own compositions several times throughout his career. His knowledge of the Ashalli language has grown in leaps and bounds as a result.

Dates

Coconut

Dislikes:

Cities. He can tolerate them of course, but so many people so pressed together! Open sky and sands has been his track ever since childhood.

Young people, sort of. He has grown into something of a curmudgeon in his old age.

Harpies

Moneylenders

Social

Contacts & Relations

Abdul Alhashred: Born on the same week as Birbal, the two quickly became fast friends, and often stormed through the dunes together on their horses, whooping and shouting with excitement. Abdul was not quite Birbal's equal when it came to personal combat ('Though we should see what happens when my mace snaps that spear in half!' he would say, laughingly), but Abdul spent his spare time in the Shaman's tent, poring over the rare book that a trader or foreigner would bring to the tribe, and murmuring over old manuscripts, handed down thorugh the Meru generations. He acted as a frequent spear-brother in Birbal's early career, but it was a shock to Birbal when he stumbled upon the man reading books filled with forbidden knowledge. Books containing the secrets of earth and air and the river of the dead. Furthermore, certain forbidden... implements were found in his belongings, heavy with the weight of forbidden magics. Whether Abdul was a sorcerer himself or simply interested in the wrong manuscripts, Birbal felt honor-bound to report this to his tribes leadership, though he did so with a heavy heart. A council was called, and Meru from all corners of the desert flocked to witness the judgement, for such a thing was an unthinkable scandal. The punishment was exile.

'We are dying, Birbal.' Abdul had said on that day, possessions slung over his shoulder as he prepared to leave. 'As surely night follows day. The dwellers of the cities, in the houses of stone and marble, will send us the way of the great desert krait. We must use what I have found, or no one will remember us when we are sand too.' What exactly he had found was unclear. Yet despite the conviction in his eyes and the assurance that he was doing this for the Meru's continued existence, Birbal never saw him again after that day. He has found himself thinking more and more of Abdul of late, and his forbidden studies. Would he have some knowledge over his condition?
 
'This Abdul seems a fool to me. What knowledge worth knowing could he glean from your empty sands and primitive traditions? And yet he is more farsighted than most of you. Particularly you, aged one. If he had been the one to stumble across my mirror, ah, what a potent combination that might have been.'
 

Captain Nassim Taleb: A high-ranking captain of the armies of the slaver cities of Chrysus, Birbal and Nassim formed a battle bond during the infamous siege of the city. Nassim saved Birbal's life by tackling him away from the impact of a catapulted projectile. Not 20 seconds later, Birbal's throwing knife found an assassin who had crept up on the captain unawares, seeking to capitalize on the chaos. Nassim is a man of the army through and through, and had little respect for muzdlu who he views with some basis) as undisciplined glory-hounds. Yet despite his harsh regimented demeanor, he never forgets a man who does him a good turn. Yet Birbal knows, friend or no, that the captain would not hesistate to cut him down if his demonic condition was brought to light, even if he died in the attempt.

'I have encountered many like your captain, in this world and others. So obsessed with duty and honor and tradition that they cannot fathom the thrill of a pact, or the dark pleasure of a well-laid deception. It must be a sad existence indeed... such a sad existence...'
 

Mohammed Rafi: Not truly an acquaintance, but Mohammed Rafi is renowned throughout Brandjordan as a Meru poet and songwriter. His words evoke heart-pulling images of vast desert canyons, the beauty of shimmering water, and the complexion of the desert sky in a way only a Brandjordian could understand. The songster's composition on the Desert of Souls which he called 'Silent Mistress' is one of Birbal's favorite poems. Though Rafi is, in fact, illiterate and must have his work transcribed by scribes. Birbal has only met Rafi once, and he got him to put his thumbprint to a parchment with the stanzas of 'Silent Mistress' on it. To this day, that parchment remains one of Birbal's most prized possessions.

'Despair is beauty. Suffering is beauty. I understand little of how your heart can be moved by clever wordplay and... a secondhand portrayal of inanimate objects. Sensation is the only measure of beauty you mortals possess. Explain to me, my dear pawn, of what worth these words would be if they did not make you feel?'

Family Ties

Safiya, his wife. She is a good deal younger than he is, though unlike her partner, she has aged gracefully and was ever a force of temperance in his life. In fact, the story of how they met was quite a strange one. Upon hiring him to protect some laborers on a journey to a remote desert village, the village elder revealed they had nothing to pay him with except for the hand of the riverman's daughter. Despite her humble upbringing the girl was clever and quick with her tongue, and the pair quickly fell in love. Birbal often looks up at the star-filled sky, missing her. He imagines she thinks he is dead now. Good. Better she thinks that than see him like this.

'Go to her, my love. She is the only one on this plane or the others who would sacrifice her soul for yours. Yesss. Go to her and you will be free. She would bear my presence for your sake, wouldn't she? Such tender moments in your past. Oh, what a delightful host she would be to play with. But perhaps I would be kind. After all, if you had listened to her, we never would have found each other.'
 

Amar, son. Now quickly approaching double digits in age, Amar takes after his father more than his mother, ever full of energy and running around as if he has something to prove. If Birbal ever returns home free of the demon's curse, he will smack his son on the head if he ever expresses the wish to become an adventurer like his father!

'You underestimate the boy. There is something odd about him... something in his future that reverberates to the now. You might have had a role in shaping that 'something' if you had stayed to raise him. Yet you left trying to create your own 'something'; have you then given it up?'

Religious Views

Follows the animistic Meru religious tradition, but has never payed much attention to the matters of gods and spirits.
 
'Until now, my precious pawn, until now. Oh, there is very much I could teach you. Would you like to know the true nature of your gods of reed and tree and river? Would you like to know how it is that your goddess of fertility watches over your birthing women, or how your god of war protects your fighting men? I can show you, if you but ask.'

Social Aptitude

Far from a trained courtier, but experience dealing with a large diverstiy of clients has made him somewhat adaptable socially.

Mannerisms

Gets rather fidgety if he doesn't feel the familiar weight of his spear on his back. Nowadays he moves more slowly and without the barely suppressed energy of his youth.