Username:Sithorn
Absolom "Moon-Tongue" Habasi
¤ Race: KhajiittabAttributes Bonuses: Agility
tabAttribute Penalties: Willpower & Endurance
tabMajor Skill Bonuses: Acrobatics, Hand to Hand
tabMinor Skill Bonuses: Athletics, Blade, Light Armor,Security and Sneak
tabEye of Fear: Demoralize target for 30 seconds. 1/day
tabEye of Night: Night-Eye for 30 seconds on self.
ɫ Birth Sign: The Lady
tabBonuses: Fortified Willpower & Endurance
ɫ Class - Skills & Spellcraft: Ahzirri Longpaw
tabSpecialization: Combat
tabAttributes: Agility & Luck
tabSkills:
tabtabɫ Apprentice Blade
tabtabɫ Journeyman Hand-to-Hand
tabtabɫ Apprentice Light Armor
tabtabɫ Apprentice Armorer
tabtabɫ Apprentice Acrobatics
tabtabɫ Apprentice Athletics
tabSpellcraft:
tabtabɫ Apprentice Mysticism
ɫ Age: 26
ɫ Gender: Male
ɫ Sexuality: Heterosexual
ɫ Guild Affiliations:
tabCraftman's Charter, Imperial City, ex. Kvatch.
tabMage's Guild, associate tome acquisition and maintenance, Imperial City, Anvil.
tabFighter's guild, associate boundryman, Anvil.
ɫ Character Gear:
tabCombat: Leather and Iron Waist Armor, Gauntlets, Boots
tabFormal: Leather and Iron Waist Armor, Leather vest, off-white Tunic
ɫ Character Weapons:
tabClose Combat: None at the moment
tabRanged Combat: Single Bonemould Arrow.
ɫ Historical Account
tabOrigin:Born in Desert lands of Elsweyr, badlands by Dune.
If you who approaches were to ask, this one would look over the cup in his hands, and say to you- This brandy is sweet, but his life has not always been.
It is a story that begins before he can remember, well, this is obvious, because all stories begin before they begin. The aggregate strangeness of the account he has learned of his birth is a tale of war, loss, confusion, diaspora, and apartheid. Before he ever even had memories to give, there was no more of the clan mother who was his mother, nor of his sire who was a proud warrior. As a black cub who shielded his eyes before a coming sand storm, the Clan Mother who he knew as his mother told him somewhat of the truth, and so he shall account:
During a long march in midyear, the sixth year of his life- he grew to clearer consciousness.The first thing he ever remembered with clarity forever was a sudden change in his happiness. Curious looks from the other Raht as he walked with them from place to place turned slowly to cold ignorance. His brothers and sisters would not let him play, the elders would not look him in the face. The Joy of his eyes died out, and his purrs were no longer heard from the yurt of the small ones. He could not understand, for he did not know what wrong he had done. He felt alone and cold, even under the glaring heat of the desert sun. He felt he was being watched, though when his neck whipped around to follow his hackle, he was ordinarily alone, and anyway would see no bright eyes.
At length the camp was set for a season, upon a dune that looked far north and west. Through the mouth of the yurt he saw a strange red beam of moon, masser rising over the bosom of the desert. Enthralled, he stole from shelter in total silence, sprinting behind the tents and skimming east along the sand bastion where the high-eared guards stood lookout, spears upon their shoulders. Vaulting this corner which was dark in the shadow of the abnormally bright moons, he unexpectedly hitched his paw upon a soft brush of sand, and crashing one hundred and fifty feet down the rise, he could hear no more than a whisper of sand rushing down the dune, and to his luck, it seemed, it was the same for the guards. Skirting in the shadow of the dune in silence, he pulled south west around the encampment and ran far out of view to a rise where he could watch the moons. He watched as The Red moon rose, and the White moon skirted from the horizon, seeming to follow in that course. They were both full, and so bright that they radiated halos of radiant gold and silver. After many hours they began to rise to their Zenith, and began to touch tentatively like nervous lovers in the sky, rolling on a bed of stars. Resorting now to arching back his neck in the stillness, he soon lost balance and fell upon his back in the sand with a quiet
'flump,' staring up into the sky with keen enraptured glare.
Soon he felt it, and five gentle claws upon his face, cupping his head, turning his eyes beside him to reveal the great bright eyes of S'Hrasha Ja, his clan mother, laying in the sand. Her body was laying the other way, but just as his was. He would have cried out, but he could not. He was captured by the affection that he saw in those eyes. Later he wondered that he did not hear her bangles in the dark, she had always been so loud, he could always hear her coming from so far, but there she was, waiting behind him until he fell to the sand, perhaps watching the moons rise with him all this time.
"Small one, your claws shall grow and rake these sands for bones, but shall not find your womb, I am not your mother."
She said this with directness, and with profound sadness, and it rang in his ears as she let him contemplate those words.
"They are not your brothers and sisters, little Ma'. You are the little ma' of mine. The young do not know, but are beginning to believe. I have waited for you to run like this, then I would know- know to tell you what you are."
Her expression did not change, the affection, the sadness, and he looked at her kaleidoscopic eyes upside-down, waiting for the blow to fall.
"But you are so wise, child, you are breaking my heart, the moons are telling you what you are"
She turned his head back, and he felt intimately aware that they watched the moons together as Secunda entered the vast disk of Masser, radiating strange light, and slowly entering the red center. For a moment they were like a radiant eye staring west, and then at last they became whole, and one, a radiate black disk which blossomed in the sky, and for the first time in his life he saw the third moon.
"You were born under this moon, young one. You are Mane, a second mane in the life of one. It had never been before. The hairless on the high fort refused to sanction your mother as the moons rose, for the Habasi Raht knew it would be, and the mane would come for you. The moons have become strange in these years, faster, higher, closer. It has changed our people in all of the lands. We are more like our distant kin, less like men. We do not know why, but a time is coming of many Manes, and no word of how. On the night your mother brought you into this world, many clans were gathered around her. Some defended, others did not. I stood by my sister as she screamed in pain and terror, to see such angry faces that she knew and loved. You father stood with his spear thrust out, so proud, so strong-"
She paused, sighed, pressed on-
"All of this fear and doubt, no one was looking out behind. The Hairless had retreated into their fort and shut their doors, and watched from their towers as the renrijiit Bosmer swept behind. arrows and spears, and many Raht fell upon their blood. Nobody knows where they came from, we were all so foolish. The Humans turned their eyes from this massacre, I stood with you in the smoke of brimstone as they cleansed out people from the flat. Your father died of many arrows. Your mother, my close sister, died not of a murder, but of you. I held you, hating you and loving you, little one. I walked alone in the desert and changed my name. The Wise mother knew, for she had heard. Some had escaped, but certainly, also, so many were gone."
He later learned, when he became more worldly then she, that the Imperials wrote off this incident by the walls of dune as a small skirmish in the dwindling border conflict in between Valenwood and Elsweyr, and propped it in a long log only marked as significant for the eventuality of the Overlapping moons, which lasted for a strange and violent hour until approximately 3:33 AM Cyrodiilic time, according to the resident Wizard in the high imperial tower, who entirely ambivalent to the slaughter below was fixated for hours upon the sky. The extreme significance of the lunar cycles to the development of Khajiit young was even then little understood by the common Imperial, and at the time it had entirely slipped the high-elf's mind.
Some time in the gray morning, the Ja' who had been his mother's sister, and to him, his mother, walked with him back to the high camp- and as they came in view of the guard began to feign dragging him by his left ear- the primal condition of a Khajiit clan mother dragging a misbehaving young cub to the doom of a reprimand. He was mystified by her gentleness as she lead him to her own yurt, and passed under his nose a strange cold-smelling balm, which made him sneeze at first, but soon sent him into a deep sleep filled with dreams of overlapping radiating moons.
After that time, she trained him in secret as a fighter after the manner of the ancient Raht warriors. Even when the clan fell on very hard times, and of necessity changed from land-living nomads to traders. He eventually won the respect of his clan as a long scout, and an inordinately wise and mature young Raht. S'Hrasha Ja introduced him to meditative art, teaching him to express himself in craft. She told him it was important not to become a mind at war. He still had few friends, for he was unusually quiet, and consoled only in his dear S'Hrasha Ja. Several years passed in this manner, travelling with his mother's sister and her clan to many places as he grew and grew. She hinted, with far off eyes, that It would not last for very much longer now, that soon the times of perpetual trading and self-subjugation to the needs of outlanders would be over. She was correct... but not in the way that she dreamed.
One humid evening in mid winter upon the fringes of the bay looking westward, a darkly-robed and well-armed consignment of Mercenaries, a smattering of Bosmer, Bretons, and Redguards following a very wealthy Dunmer in Strange bone armor rode up to the gate of the encampment, and after exchanging general cordial greetings with the guards promptly ran them through when their guards were down. Gleefully the Bosmer scampered throughout the camp as the tall Redguards blocked the exit ways, and bound the women and children, pressing their sobbing faces into the sand. They moved like experts of a dance, and mercilessly killed all opposition where the reticent dark elf did not order they withhold blades. This elf had a penchant for breaking slaves with a good amount of spunk. Solom had been in Ja's Yurt, and upon the first cry of death leaped through the wind-blow tarp with violent alarm. He fought hard, and the neither Bosmer nor Breton could not withhold him, even unarmed. They drew blades, but the Dunmer raised his hand to halt them. They kicked sand in his face and beat at him until he could no longer defend even himself. In a last effort he leaped upon the forward most mercenary, a tall willowy Breton who bore a punting pole with a collar spilling out of the end- and bore him to the ground with fangs in his neck. He can remember the moment very clearly still; The Bray of the man as he was throttled, his gasp pouring through the gaping aperture in his neck, the taste of his own blood, the sand, and the flesh of the dying man. Next thing he knew, his arms were bound behind his back by two fighters who he could not see, one other wrenched upon his tail- and his slight form was lifted high into the air and thrown face first into the red sand, his face pressed down, he managed to turn his head to the left only to see the tearful upside-down eyes of his S'Hrasha Ja. She begged him to be still as she lay face down on the ground as he, sobbing for her people. He could hardly contain his wrath, but he froze and shut his eyes as the Dunmer's massive boots, thin legs, and hanging greaves moved to stand between them. He struggled with the bonds upon his wrists, but the dark elf kicked him over onto his side, getting a good look at his face- piercing deep into his mind with the mirth in his narrow crimson eyes. The Dunmer looked from Solom to the Clan Mother, and back again, and with a grin he hefted a long spear. Moving his legs to exhibit his dance, he drove the spear point down in from ear to ear of S'Hrasha Ja.
It was an eternity before Solom spoke again, and he seemed to walk in a grey emptiness with a great weight on his right shoulder. This, in fact, was the cedar log laid across the shoulders of the young khajiit men who walked the dunes in a long line on a yoke, while the women and girls were propped up and bound to rods in the cages which that yoke pulled, eventually to be joined by Argonians in much the same fashion as the Slaver's Caravan from Elsweyr convened with that of their associates coming to the northern walks of Black Marsh. The Slavers aimed to walk the narrow way south and then east of Cyrodiil, as they have always done since the ban.
Business is business.
After a long period of time, Solom felt cold water around him, and his hands freed from the yoke, his tail wavered and snagged in the reeds. He reached out desperately, like a sleepwalker, only to find a hard wooden lattice. He perceived the same sort of lattice under his feet. He felt an odd disarrangement of perspective as the lattice juggled back and then rolled forward, towed onto a platform with other such wicker prisons. These were the wicker baskets in which Solom and his clan were shipped to Sadrith Mora, and sold to the Houses of Telvanni, Hlaalu, and Redoran upon the Isle of Vvardenfell.
The dunmer slaver who got the huge haul propped Solom before the market and exclaimed in an Dunmeri-Common patua -
"Here's a FIGHTER! BLACK, COLD, COMPLIENT, A KILLER! Cost me one of my best men! I would have dusted him Sera et Muthsera, BUT I KNOW BETTER. THIRTY THOUSAND DRAKES, OR HE'S MINE FOR THE HOUSE OF HLAALU!"
Solom opened his groggy eyes and stared with wasted fury upon the crowd. There was an uproar, and a spindly grey wizard of Telvanni stumbled forth and swung two bags upon the table.
The Slaver grinned down at 40,000 Septims in crowns. The auction rumbled on. Solom did not understand in days after why they would put so much money on his purchase, for he saw it pile up and up before the stands of the houses, and ultimately he never new how much he was sold for. Someone had beaten the Telvanni's offer, even with a vast red stone hefted upon the table before the old man, who looked on with crumpled insectoid rage as the slaver unlatched the cage and bound heavy metal cuffs around Solom's wrist, upon which the seal of Redoran was emblazoned, and upon that standard was clasped too a motif of an angular shell. When the cuffs were clasped at last, they glowed red hot and seared the fur of his wrists, and at once became so heavy that he buckled his knees, but unlike other slaves he later saw undergoing this purchase, he did not fall in prostration. He was snapped from his delirium too late, and though he now recognized his captor, he could do little but hiss and snarl at the astounded slaver as he was forced to kick Solom to the ground for the remainder of the Auction. He saw the brothers and sisters and elders who had shunned him long ago looking at him with sad and loving eyes before they dropped to the ground and fell into the compliant stupor of new bondage. He snapped and bit, until he was silenced with a sharp blow to the back of his head. He went face forward trembling, and woke three days later in a high cage someplace cold, where the walls were harder than he had ever seen. He could feel no kind of breeze, not even a draft, just an unpleasant moistness all around him punctuated with patches of dry air. He could hardly move his body, his arms were so heavy. When his owners came in to drag him out that first day, he was on his knees, resting his arms palms up on his hanging cot, saving his strength. As they swung his door wide, he struggled to stand, but as the muscular Dunmer drew near his arms felt even heavier, and he crumpled under that weakness. Surely he was too heavy now, though, he could hardly move himself, how could they move him? He tried to believe it, begged it to be true, but in a moment the Elf was pulling him effortlessly out of the cell, hooking the rivets of the cuffs together with a chain to keep his arms together and drag him along. Thus Solom became a slave.
For Seven years he was a slave, for the first four as a builder and drone of chitin in Aldruhn. During these years he was pushed to work each day, and fed twice as well as the other slaves, and read the homilies of Vivec and Almalexia through the bars of his cell by a pedantic grey women with violet eyes, who would on one day feign pity for him and another banter at him of the disgust she had for his race. She would tell him of how the female cats could not sew her robes properly, never washed the fabrics well, always dropping the limeware and sullying the food with their hands. He remembered his youth, S'Hrasha Ja feeding him dried fruit from a bowl with her hands, doing this in turn to all of the young cubs before they sat to hear out the stories of their people. He hated this woman, but she was his only company as he grew older and began to change, becoming used to the cuffs and their impossible weight. These days he stood up straight when the driver came to lug him out. He noted also that his ears came up to the Dunmer's eyes. Everything else was curved and suspect around him, only by this man could he judge that he was indeed growing.
In the fifth year he came to understand the reason for his relatively better treatment. For the first time in many years he was leaving the shadow of the Dome of Aldruhn. He was taken by strider to vivec, where blindfolded he was born through the city, surrounded by the chatter of a massive crowd. Suddenly underground again, he felt a long stick thrust into his hand, and his arms unchained, the cuffs suddenly very light. Cheering and jeering was all around him as from the balcony high over him a word of magic was called, and the blindfold masking his vision burst into flame, flaring out from his face and whisking to the ground. He whipped his tail around, ears flattened back as a guttural bellow alerted him to the Argonian sprinting at him with a spear raised high. He realized that the stick he held was a long hard spear with no give at all, but he somehow hefted it easily. It was a short and confusing battle, one he did not quite understand that he was in until he was forced to dodge that keen spear at the very last possible opportunity. Strafing around the voracious Lizard man, he smelled blood on him. This was not the first fight this Argonian had fought this day. Slave against Slave. For entertainment. Solom understood, but could hardly reconcile his feelings when the Argonian overzealed on his second pass and impaled himself upon His lowered spear. The long blade crunched in and down, and broke. With a rattling cough, the Slave died. There was a cheer, and Solom stared at the ground. He tested his cuffs by simply thinking that he should try to run away. They became heavy with malignant promise. In this way, Solom became a Vivec arena warrior spectacle. A slave gladiator.
He fought many, and never spoke a word, never screamed, and was never injured. They called him the Silent whisper. Small and lithe, gigantic and brutal, he felled them all. Usually slaves, although sometimes warriors of class would bet the house something or other, that they might win back some of the attention Solom was winning for the noble house of Redoran, who claimed that they had trained him to become a killing machine. They outfitted him in armor that he always somehow discarded, like a dog who sheds his collar every day mysteriously. He did not need it. They rewarded him with the company of female Khajiit slaves from every house, hoping that he would 'mate' with them and profit them a litter of strong young slaves. All out of season. He never took advantage of them or even spoke to them, he only rested his head on their bosom, and held hands with them, cuff to cuff, until they fell asleep with him, and he dreamed of freeing them. He was allowed to walk the canals of Vivec with Escort, and got to know the city, mystified by the high fane on the temple mount. Two years passed, and he won the house of Redoran recognition and golden bouillon. Now he had grown to his full stature, and was something in the vicinity of 15 years old.
In that year, on the first day of morning star 3E 423, there was a rousing battle where three young Khajiit slaves were pitted against him, all with spears. He knew they were new, for they shook their blazing blinds from their eyes and, bewildered by the barked orders of their Hlaalu master. They complied with quaking knees, for they knew who he was by the shouting. Running at him, trying to surround him, they could not advance on the grounds of the arena.
It was then that something clicked inside of Solom. Suddenly furious, filled with some kind of pent up rage, he glared all about him and at a point in the audience. Throwing down his own spear, he leaped forward, disarming one after another and breaking the first two spears. At the last he snatched the spear straight up and down from the terrified young Khajiit, and hoisting the younger fighter off of the ground dangling off of the spear, he put him down gently and rolled him off of the butt end of the spear. Without any kind of warning, he buckled back between the other two, took careful aim, and belted the spear into the crowd just before his cuffs clipped an unearthly weight and brought him kneeling to the ground. It was no matter. Pinned to the amphitheater stair behind which he sat was a dead Dunmer in a richly embroidered robe. After seven years he had vengeance for S'Hrasha Ja, and he chuckled with delirious tearful laughter, many a purr and tremble in his throat. Wheezing without breath as his cuffs put him flat on the ground, sapping his strength, he felt them become hot and tremble, beginning to clatter on their own against the ground. He heard the massive clamor of the crowd and screams and roars of rage broke out, all the while the first audible noises above a clearing of the throat poured from between his fangs. His handlers rushed out, and lifted him off of the ground, bearing him out as the representative of the great house of Redoran walked in his massive encrusted robes behind them, delirious with fear, tearing his hair out.
Within an hour the entire elite of Redoran Cantina in Vivec had evacuated the city en-mass, and a hither detachment was spiriting Solom as far away from the city as possible, hijacking a silt strider which bucked and weaved across the gash to Gnisis.
A turning point, the strangest day in this story, but it is not over. As the Redoran guards staked out the waterside house in which they had locked their delirious slave, agents of the Twin lamps who had been tearing up the miles behind the Silt strider all evening plotted an infiltration which turned out to be among their first great public successes, although at the time they were not publicly known, and not even a nebulous concern in the minds of the slavers. What they did not know is that Solom's Cuffs were now broken, warped in the uproar of his success. This expedited their venture to free him, and he bobbed on an awkward boat across the straight to mainland Morrowind, sitting across from a tiny Dunmer woman who rocked in her deep leather boots, light chitin armor, and a quiver full of Bonemold arrows from the make of the ordinator's guard. She stared at him over the many miles with very concerned red eyes. He had not thought before that the color red would ever be beautiful to him, but now that his wrath was gone and he was almost free, the small woman was the most beautiful thing he had seen in many years.
On mainland they enrobed and took to a single horse. He Stood there in the hither shore heaving in the smell of the waiting freedom before him. The musky odor of Vvardenfell was long behind him over the salty grey water hidden by the mist of dawn. The small woman leaped to the horseback, and told him to rest in the long saddle behind her. He had never ridden a horse- it was awkward to his legs- but he settled, and let her draw his arms around her waist. She pressed the horses sides gently, and the mare whinnied before beginning to trot off. They passed in through the eastern boarder of Skyrim within two days of slow secret paths up through the mountains. Riften Vale was unlike any other place he had ever seen, the white trees full of golden leaves seemed to dance before his dazzled eyes, and in those amber hues he saw the kaleidoscope of S'Hrasha's eyes. Soon he broke his silence of words, and speaking a broken mixture of Ta'agra, Dunmeri and Common he struggled to ask who she was, what had happened, and what would happen. He had not somehow lost his very distinctive Elsweyrish accent. As they left the fringes of the aspen forest in Riften Vale he began to shiver with a cold he had never been accustomed to; a real cold which came to him on a wind. He listened to her voice as the aspect of massive mountains loomed up before him in startling variety. His mind was spinning, everything was new.
Her name was Kaye Nevanu, and she was devoted to safeguarding his freedom, and the freedom of all of the peoples of Nirn. She would live and die for him, and travel with him, for that was her charge. She was going to take him to safety in the land of Cyrodiil, where he would be able to start anew. He buried his nose onto her shoulder and purred momentarily, not knowing quite what to say.
Passing south over the lip of the Jerall Mountains, they peered out and saw that the moons were joining as close as they sat together on their steed, and watched as they became one. Thus, for the second time, Solom saw the third moon.
That was roughly 11 years ago, and so therefore he narrowly dodged the blight which struck the Isles. It was however his misfortune to have settled down with Kaye in Kvatch. She implored him to take up a craft and to forget the life of a fighter. They lived together in a small house beside a ramshackle bookstore out of which he ran a somewhat notable business of gilding and embossing leather for tooled armor and books, and so came into close friendship with other artisans. He was well known for his moon motifs, and his meticulous illustrations of events in the manuscripts he was given. Kaye, a talented pen (and very much better at common than he was for a long time), would select the paper and rewrite the books from start to finish, crowning the letters and providing indexes. One common client of theirs was Quill-weave. There were several others.
The Destruction of Kvatch was another chapter of misery for him, for many friends were robbed from him that day and all of his work went up in ruin. Kaye, for whom he had the most love for a living person, was blinded by the searing heat of the Daedric engine as it grinded from the perilous fire just before her. It was something of incredible luck that they stood together that day, walking home from the general store. He bore her small form in his arms and ran for their lives. Several followed his skirt east when he passed the gate and risked his tumble down the long hill of Kvatch. Some of them survived.
After this he bound Kaye's eyes, he took them on a wayward horse to Anvil where a distraught Quill-weave drew them inside.
The Oblivion crisis was a rough time for them. For a time Quill-weave kept them at her home. It is a value of her character that she often does that for people in trouble. Her books about the lives of the unfortunates of Tamriel, some of which Solom embossed and bridged the covers of, instilled in her a very giving philosophy. Evidence of previous lodgers were all about in her own bedroom (Citation:Katia Managan). Solom was adamant not to impose for long, so he eventually found the quarters in the Market District of the Imperial City, where he carried out odd jobs. The news mounted of the crisis all around the empire. Solom tended to Kaye with mounting frustration that she begged him to stay, and not to join the fight.
"Stay, stay with me"
She said, or something to that effect.
She cried when he told her of forays into the wilderness, scouting with imperial guards to clear the roads of bandits. He cried that he would kill the slavers! all of them!, whereupon descended all his speech into a wordless hiss as thoughts escaped him, and she knew that he was falling apart.
She managed to keep him there, even though he knew she was becoming independent bit by bit. She began moving around the house where he had situated all things she needed on one floor. He hardly slept, and sat by her side night by night, eyes wide and unblinking at waking dreams wandered in his tormented mind.
When the final crisis struck, he fought in the streets, and was one of many to see the great spectacle of the avatar of Akatosh, which blossomed from the temple of the one and vanquished Mehrunes Dagon.
Assisting as he might in the rebuilding, he was well known to be of great constitution, and was able to heave some of the broken paving stones very much by himself. His assistance in the restorations about the city seemed to return him little by little to a calm normalcy, as if the effort of recovery was telling his heart the hardest struggle was over for good.
Favoriting the Bloated Float inn, commonly to be found at home with his Kaye, Solom is a craftsman by trade, and aspires to travel back to Elsweyr some day. The time is of comparative peace for him. He runs papers and crafts insignias, stamps, and ledgers for the Black Horse Courier, which is run by several Suthay Raht who are fascinated with his story, and who introduced him to Gin-Wulm, who likes to come by his house and discuss the nuances of craft, histories, and discussions of the political concerns for remaining slave markets within the corners out of the direct jurisdiction of the empire. Gin Wulm Tooled him his waistlet, greaves, and gauntlets on a whim of inspiration which sprang from one night when poor Solom waxing expansive under the influence of much brandy told him some of the brutal details of his life as a slave, warrior, and in the more distant past- wandering mane squandered of his birthright.
But most importantly his peace comes from late nights looking after Kaye. He is still of comparative youth, and of great potential, although the soft years of his reform may have dulled his anger if not his blade. There are years ahead of him, and much to do. Recently he removed the bandages from Kaye's eyes for the last time, on recommendation from the Claudette Perrick, who says there is little risk of pain from light after something near a year has passed, which one has. The scarring around her eyelids is minimal, thought they are delicate and translucent. When she opened her eyes to reveal milky, dark, calcified orbs, he swore that in those smooth circles shown a radiant light, and thus it was that he saw for the third time, the third moon
- Two times at once.
ɫ Appearance:
tabHeight:
-Looks around at all of the disproportionately tall bastards around himself and grumbles-
This one is shorter than them. Taller than some.
Five imperial feet - nine imperial inches,
brushing six imperial feet at the inclusion of the ears.
This is the average height of his people, no more, no less.
This one never smashes his head against door lintels,
nor catches mane or ear in branches of trees.
tabWeight:
150 imperial lbs
tabHanded:
Ambidextrous
tabHeight:
-Looks around at all of the disproportionately tall bastards around himself and grumbles-
This one is shorter than them. Taller than some.
Five imperial feet - nine imperial inches,
brushing six imperial feet at the inclusion of the ears.
This is the average height of his people, no more, no less.
This one never smashes his head against door lintels,
nor catches mane or ear in branches of trees.
tabWeight:
150 imperial lbs
tabHanded:
Ambidextrous
Slim and strung with an impressive musculature, he dresses rather well, and has an exceptionally dark and sleek pelt of fur, apart from his chest, where a crest of greyish cream grows long down his front. The fur on his head is also unusually long and thick, having very much the appearance of a dark mane. His eyes are a penetrating shade of yellow, being somewhat like the color of sunburnt cloud. his hands are large, and his claws exceptionally keen and dense.
