Name: Azher T'lok, The Sentinel Race: Tokay Age: 24 Years Gender: Male Place of Origin: Crescent Island Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Statistics/PWC: 2/5/3 Power ** Wisdom ***** Courage *** Height: 5'6” Weight: 150 lbs. Instrument: None Profession: Hermit Equipment, Armor & Accessories: Attrition: Brass Knuckles (Pair): Width: 3 Inches, Length: 2 Inches, Weight: 7.2 oz., Box Palm Grip, Rounded Knucles, Materials: Full Goron Iron Body Attrition is Azher's weapon of choice, a pair of brass knuckles that he keeps on his person at all times. Made of Goron Iron, these knuckle dusters are virtually indestructible, and are useful beyond even just hand-to-hand fighting because of this. The "knuckle" portion themselves are relatively wide, covering roughly half of Azher's first finger segments. While they are relatively bulky at the fore end, though, they are tapered gradually towards to opposite end, being its grip. In this way, Attrition lends Azher's fingers support, protection and strength, while managing to not be particularly heavy; at least compared to similar weapons. Attrition is a dark red in color, more akin to crimson or the color of blood. Always polished and smooth, never a scratch mars the surface of its metal, denoting its fine craftsmanship as well as its composition. Each knuckle is hung on a thick setting of cord, strung through the opening in the box grip, one on each side of Azher's hip for easy access. The cord is tied to the knuckles in such a way that, upon sliding his fingers into the knuckle dusters and pulling away, the knot is undone, releasing the weapons efficiently. Aside from Attrition, Azher carries no other weapons, and wears no significant pieces of armor. However, a small bag containing his Scent Seeds also dangles at his right hip, made of soft, worn leather, with a leather drawstring. Inherited from his father, Azher carries it at his side always, a symbol of his pride and honor, and the unbreakable will of his family. Clothing and Appearance: Azher is largely unclothed, like most Tokay, and this is largely due to his inexperience with the cultures of the main continent. However, he does wear an old cloak, made of an unknown yet durable cloth, passed down to him from many generations passed. Made of a shiny, almost luminescent sheet, the cloak is deceivingly strong for how thin it is, the tight weave impossible to perceive with the naked eye. It does not hold heat very well, due to its thinness and the nature of whatever cloth it is made of, yet, due to its strength, it easily resists the elements and the natural wear and tear of travelling. It is clasped about Azher's shoulder and neck using a smooth wooden clasp, a polished cherry in color. It is carved into a rose, and though worn, its fine details and craftsmanship are more than apparent, though it is made of nothing precious. He also wears a leather loincloth, wrapped around his waist, that is lined with small, blunt shark's teeth, the signs of his tribe burned into the face of the leather. As a Tokay, Azher is a bit of an oddity. His head, bulbous just like any other Tokay's, is slightly smaller than the rest of his kin. Even more distinct is the fact that his jaw and nose protrude from his face, and though he does not look like a Lizalfos, it is apparent that Lizalfos blood must course through his veins. Rather than have a round snout, Azher's appears to be more of a rectangle. Still, even though he has ridges that frame his eyes, his features still maintain the trademark softness of all Tokay, greatly more rounded than any of the lizard people that walk upon Hyrule. He also lacks the characteristic headspikes and ridges that a Lizalfos has. However, even his eyes do not follow the normal Tokay colorations; they are a deep purple in color, ringed in cool blue concentric circles. Branded into the center of his forehead is a black circle, with a single line cutting it in two, from top to bottom. This is his tribe's symbol for the number zero, denoting his status as nothing more than a slave. As for his body, Azher unfortunately does not have the large belly that most Tokay have. Due to suffering from both avitaminosis as well scale rot as a child, Azher's body is underdeveloped and riddled with scars. He stands almost a head shorter than even the females of his race, the rest of his body being proportionate to his size. While his bones may have recovered from the vitamin deficiencies, and have since strengthened, his muscles have remained paltry, despite years of physical training, leaving him weaker than almost every other Tokay in existence. What muscle he has is hard won, and although it lacks in size and strength, Azher has at least managed to gain both endurance and deftness. In terms of coloration, rather than a light yellow, his chest, stomach, and otherwise frontal scales are a platinum white with specks of metallic yellow, that shimmer in the proper light. The rest of his scales, covering his arms, legs, and the majority of his body, are a seafoam green in color, but with a good deal more blue than one would expect. His nails on his hands, and the singular nails on each of his solitary toes, are black and shiny, as if they were made of obsidian. In terms of size, both his arms, legs, hands, and feet are in keeping with the rest of his body and seem undersized and overly skinny. His body looks more like that of a Hylian's than that of a Tokay's, indicative of the disease and malnourishment that had ravaged him, but he has also been left with a distinct lack of fat upon his body, every hard won muscle he has being etched upon his body, as if into stone. Treasures: Scent Seed Supply Goron Iron (Attrition) Melee Magic Spark Smash Rupees: 5 Rupees Personality: Azher is calculating, and from his outward appearance, many might believe him to be cold and unfeeling, perfectly logical in every choice that he makes. While it is true, that his actions are largely dictated upon the best course of action that his mind decides upon, Azher is far more than just the numbers and statistics that run through his mind. He is deeply emotional, though he fears to be open about his feelings to others. As a slave, he had been taught simply to do what he was told, and not to think; while this has not entirely stopped him from becoming an individual person, it has certainly instilled a strong fear of rejection into his heart. With the advent of his freedom, emotions unfelt for years came crashing down upon him, leaving him unsure of himself, if what he feels is truly what is right. Yet, above it all, he has a strong sense of justice, one that is confined not to a single race or kind of person, but to an ideal. Though he has already come to realize that his actions might never truly have an effect upon the world, that his fists are infinitesmally small, he knows that what he does is out of duty, for his ancestors, and not because of a false sense of righteousness, but because it is right. Azher well defend the meek, and those of good heart, no matter who or what they are. Backstory: Death His father was dying, and he was quickly following in his footsteps. Coughing weakly, the small Tokay sipped at a cup of water, for that was all his body would accept. Feeling the coolness wash down his palette was a small reprieve from the unnatural heat that boiled through his body, and he felt even a mote of strength return to his body. Ignoring the urge to scratch at his scales, nay, the urge to tear his skin from his body, Azher closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. The sickness would not claim him; of that he was adamant. He would not allow that to come to pass. His father, however, was another matter entirely. “Be strong, my son. For me, and your mother.” His father whispered, the two laying next to each other in the cool shade. The dirt was moist, full of humidity, yet despite that, Azher was unbearably hot. Only the two Tokay remained in the small dwelling, the boy sure that his mother would return with the setting sun. But empty handed, of course, for who would send them aid? No, their medicines were too precious for those of tainted blood. And it was for this reason that Azher was sure that his father must die. Already, he'd heard the emptiness of his father's assurances, that all hope had been drained from him. Always Azher watched, and always he could see more clearly than anyone else. This was no different; the decades of torment the tribe had forced upon his father had finally killed him. Not directly, of course, but what man would choose to live under such conditions? No, his father would choose to fall into restful sleep, rather than wake to this living nightmare. Azher could not blame him. But someone must continue the struggle, so that left only him; for who else could bring redemption to their family? His father had spent his entire life trying to leave the slave caste, and his father before him, and his, too. As far as the boy could remember, they were like the captured shark, thrashing endlessly to return to freedom. And he must carry on the legacy of his forefathers. And so, Azher knew that he would not die. But the sickness would drain him, his body rejecting anything but simple water. Already he could feel his bones thinning, becoming brittle and beginning to warp, his muscles wasting away to a point that they might never recover. But his mind would remain, and for that he was thankful. He was told, each day, that his mind was truly special, and though a sharp mind did not amount to much in a culture where strength and speed reigned supreme, Azher knew its worth. Already it had improved their lives significantly, at least compared to how they'd lived before. But Azher also knew his limits; for as long as his family remained bound to the tribe as a slave, they could never truly live. As his father drew his last breaths, Azher could feel the sun set, the coolness of evening finally washing over him. Thick breath rasping out from his chest, he looked towards his father, a still body, still covered with mud. They would bury him this way, for pride demanded it; none would see his ravaged body, none would mock them. Grabbing the still still warm hand of his father, Azher clasped it as tightly as he could, though he did little more than close his tiny fingers. He wept bitterly, for the memory of his father, and for himself and the life he must now lead. Hope A simple tree became the pillar of his life, his strength. Planted by his father, nurtured with blood and sweat, it was still a young tree. But it was strong, and had already begun to bear fruit; even in death, his father watched over them. The seeds would soon ripen and fall from the healthy boughs, but it required tender care. When he was not otherwise preoccupied, Azher usually sat under the tree, watching the tribe below from his cliff. It was a dangerous place, at least so the villagers thought, and so the young Tokay was often left to his own thoughts and devices. It was hypnotic, really, watching his kinsmen move in erratic ways, though there was always an underlying pattern. It was on such a day, when the other Tokay busy made their invisible whorls in the sand, the Azher met his fate. though young, he knew that there was only one way that his family would ever earn the respect of the rest of the village. On his twentieth birthday, his Emergence Day, he must call for the Rite of Castes, and contest his, and his mother's, status as a slave. But none would sponsor them, so the only option left was redemption by combat. His muscles weak, his bones brittle, Azher could not see that as a true option. Such were the thoughts that passed through his head on that day, as he continually, and futily, sought a solution to his answer. Shifting his weight, Azher's eyes were instantly brought to an inconsistency; in all the days he had spent upon this ground, a crack in the smooth, and often moist dirt had never appeared. But today was dry, hot in fact, and suddenly there was a large seam in the ground. It may as well have been a canyon, for as large as it seemed to Azher. Shifting his weight again, the gap only widened, and it was then that Azher realized that there was something beneath him, something that had been buried where the tree had been planted. With only his bare hands as a tool, he began to burrow into the dry dirt, piling it neatly next to the tree, but he did not have far to travel. His fingers hit old, rotten wood, the resounding boom of a hollow container sounding. It nearly crumbled under his weight, and would have had he not swiftly pulled himself from the hole. But his curiosity was peaked, and he could not leave well enough alone. Pulling some younger, more pliable branches from the tree, he quickly began to twine rope from them, his fingers used to such monotonous and menial tasks. Winding a single end around a small, brass latch he'd uncovered, Azher wandered about for a moment, clearly in search of something. Finding exactly what he needed, he twisted the makeshift rope around a rather large rock, that was positioned very near the edge of the cliff. With a simple shove, the entire door to the chest torn from its hinges, and sent careening town towards the earth. What Azher found severely disappointed him, save for a pair of objects and a note. Two knuckle dusters, made of a strange purple red metal sat heavily on a pile of shimmering rupees, which Azher had neither a use for, nor was he able to identify them for what they were. The note, however, was intensely interesting, for the name signed at the bottom was "Koth"; the name of one of his oldest ancestors. Though Koth was a lizalfos, he had crashed upon Crescent Island and had instead found a home, and family, though he was shunned by the villagers. And such was the reason for Azher's existence, and current predicament, though he harbored no resentment towards his reviled forefather. The note read: "I leave the sum of all my treasure, from the days of my youth upon the high seas, to my descendants upon this island. May they find use for it, and discover the greatness of the world." Grasping the weapons tightly in his hand, hope renewed, Azher's mind already began formulating a plan. He would never match the strength of another Tokay, of that he was sure. But with a weapon of metal, that a slave might never have obtained in a hundred lifetimes, he knew that his odds improved significantly. Sliding the cool metal onto his fingers, he experimentally sent an unwieldy punch towards the trunk of the tree; to his satisfaction, it impacted loudly, clearly cracking a part of the outer bark. It mattered not how weak he was. As long as he could provide the metal with sufficient momentum, he could prove victorious. Now he needed only to train, to refine what little he had into true skill. He no longer spent idle hours beneath the tree. As always, his father watched over him; the tree became his instructor, as blow after blow began to whether away at the wood. As the bark was pared from the tree, so too was all excess from Azher. Lethargic and unused muscle turned into hard cord, and bones strengthened with each strike, and though he would never truly match the speed and power of a healthy Tokay, he had his chance. That was all he needed, for his Emergence, was a single chance, a single ray of hope. Emergence Inhale. It was the day of his Emergence, twenty years to the exact minute. On this day his caste would be decided, whether warrior or artisan. But the differences were as night and day as noble and peasant. Family pride and honor demanded that he prove himself, wipe clean the stains of his blood. "Are you watching me, mother? Are you with me father?" He looked up to the heavens, worrying at the oiled leather of a small pouch at his side. "Din, guide my hands along the true path. Farore, be the wind of my breast, a hot breath across the battlefield. Nayru, still my heart, still my mind." Azher closed his eyes, muttering the ancient prayer to the goddesses, one unknown to his supposed kin that surrounded him. Leering eyes, jeering voices leaped from around the makeshift arena, truly just a pit in the sand. Walls lined with little more than strong wooden limbs, a stage composed of only the compacted soil, made solid from countless battles. How many have stood here, before me? The hesitant Tokay thought to himself, turning about. No opponent had yet stepped into the pit, dropping down from the perches above. The Elder set upon the edge informally, the praetor to the coming battle. Loud yells of discontent settled quickly into quiet murmurs of anger as the Elder held up his hand, motioning for silence. As the hatred bled away, in deference to the eldest member of their society, Azher took the moment to truly soak in where he was. This would be the defining moment of his life, where he proved himself the sum of everything he stood for, proud of the blood, tainted as some would call it, that coursed through his veins. Looking up defiantly to the Elder, Azher couldn't help but notice the man's powerful build, despite his age, and the scars that riddled his skin. Scars from likely thousands of battles, some fresh from more recent challenges. No wonder he's stayed in power so long; who here can match him?! Azher cocked his head to the side, looking at the other citizens of the village. None had the battle prowess, the skill, or the strength that judge possessed. May his honor match his strength. Azher hoped, nay, prayed to the goddesses that such was the case. "We gather here today for Azher T'lok's Emergence. He has chosen to contest his caste, that of slave, for the mantle of the warrior!" The Elder exclaimed, his voice holding surprising steadiness and power. "He has no sponsor, and therefore he must fight any challenger who would fight him. Will anyone extend a challenge?" Silence. Several comments of "Impure blood!" and "Taint!" made their way from the crowd, but quickly stopped once the Elder raised his hand yet again. "It seems none would challenge you on this day, blackblood. Have you anything to say for yourself?" Azher did not flinch under the insult. He was fully aware of his heritage, and had long ago learned to find pride in it. Lifting his head, to address the crowd directly, he prepared to speak. "I am Azher T'lok, son of Layne, descendant of Koth. Many of you know my heritage, but not of the man. He was a refugee, whose ship was smote against this island, leaving him in a strange and foreign place; our home. Even then, Koth was reviled, hated by those just like you. But no, you would not kill him; for that is not our way. Instead, you filled his life with hatred, a curse that has been passed down through the many generations. And as he suffered, as my ancestors did, so too have I." Azher paused for a moment, letting them quake in their anger. But he did not feel anger towards them. Nor was it pity, or a sense of righteousness, nor any other describable emotion. Rather, it was a pit of fire that boiled deep within him, the iron of his heart melting, forming, and hardening into the purest of steel. It was resolve, the inner strength that brought him to stand on his own, to stand in all that he was, and all that he would be. "The sickness first claimed my father, rotting away at his scales as our blood faltered. But you did not come to his aid, nor to mine as I suffered the same malady!" He said with dignity, tearing open his shirt for all to see the scars that he'd carried these years. "I wasted away, my body becoming weak and twisted, but it did not break me. As you have not. So here I stand, in everything I am, to take my rightful place." At this, the crowd nearly exploded with pure, unadulterated malice, a hatred born of a fear of the unknown, of that which makes us different. "So challenge me, prove me wrong, as you seem so keen on doing. Let your actions speak for your words, and defend your honor!" A dozen voices cried out at once, even more a moment later. But Azher had known this would happen; for what man could sit still, once his honor was questioned? He had his challenges, but there could be only one fight by the ancient code. The Elder would decide in this case, and for him to choose anyone but the best of the warriors would be a farce; for they had to put down this insolent whelp, who would dare challenge their ways. "Nial. You may enter the ring to teach this fool some manners. Have you any requests?" The Elder nodded slightly, looking at the brawny lizard, who appeared more like a lizalfos in body than even Azher himself, so well defined were his muscles. "A blood duel." Was the simple, gravely answer. A fight to the death, not uncommon during feuds, but almost never seen on an Emergence day, almost bordering on taboo. The Elder nodded his assent, mirroring the thoughts of most of the village. The warrior drew a claymore, made of the forged iron that the village had so little of. It was a precious weapon, deserving of only greatest of warriors; even living as a slave, along the outskirts of the tribe, Azher had heard of Nial's great exploits, against the hostile creatures of Crescent Island, and against the other tribes. A strong warrior by all accounts, and certainly more than his match in both speed and strength. But his confidence was not shaken, his eyes darting back and forth along the warrior's body, piercing through it. Attrition. For all these years he had spent under the yoke of oppression, under the weight of their innocent hatred, that had been the word to define him, to drive and support him. Feeling the cool, smooth metal of his brass knuckles against his finger tips, Azher knew what their name must be. Attrition, above vengeance, perseverance, and justice, defined him, and so it would define his most sacred companions. As he slid his fingers into their cool embrace, pulling the knuckle dusters away from his hips, he took his stance. Legs slightly apart, right leg in front of his left, with both fists held close to his face, Azher seemed almost a pitiable sight to his opponent, wielding a massive sword that could cleave him in two. But he bore their mockery, for that was his way, for that was attrition. Pacing each other, sizing up their counterparts, the two Tokay looked and saw something wanting. Nial began to grunt, his aggression welling up from the bit of his stomach. It seemed almost a ritualistic dance, the two men pacing each other, teeth bared and weapons at the ready, though only one made so much as a sound. The audience was quiet now, entranced by this dance, this dance of death. For all their intolerance, and all their hatred, all now acknowledged this young Tokay's courage, to look at death face to face without so much as a blink. and so they were quiet, their respect given, if begrudgingly. Nial, however, could see only that Azher was lesser in every way. He was blinded by the shadow of himself. In a moment's breadth, the larger Tokay sprung into action, clawed feet finding traction along the arena floor. Pushing off, muscles straining as blood suddenly coursed through them, Nial charged straight at Azher, claymore held over his head. Fast! Azher barely had time to think, yet his body was already in motion rolling to the side just as Nial thundered past him, the blade whistling where Azher's head had once been. An image of muscles flashed through his mind, tightly wound cord pulling against bone and tendon. For all Nial's strength and speed, even his skill, he'd been unable to hit Azher in that initial stroke. Most who watched thought it to be luck, but those with the vision to see knew otherwise; Azher had fallen into motion the moment Nial's body had so much as twitched. Skidding to a halt, now on all fours, Azher prepared his counterattack. Though his body would never amount to the same strength and speed as his opponent's, he was nevertheless quite limber and sufficiently strong. Flexing his own hard earned muscles, bare though they were, Azher pulled his body forth with all four of his limbs, looking much like their smaller, gecko cousins. Belly to the ground, Azher reached Nial just as the larger Tokay began to turn around. Pulling his left leg up under him, he pushed off the ground with both hands and next with his left leg, lunging forward and quick pace. Eyes ever watchful, seeing Nial's stance and the strain of his muscles, Azher's hands were exactly where they needed to be. Azher's right fist met with Nial's clenched hands, which held the claymore that had been in motion to cleave Azher horizontally in two. Despite the metal of the brass knuckles, Azher could still feel the bones shatter, crackling sickeningly. His left hand was already in motion when his right hand connected with Nial's fingers. Torso twisting naturally, Azher followed with a left hook straight for Azher's temple, a fist he could not see. Azher's hand, just beyond the periphery vision of Nial's right eye as his body turned, was all but invisible. With a resounding Crack!, the battle was over, Nial dead from the impact of the momentous fist. He slumped to the ground, sword clattering loudly against the resounding silence. Exhale. Wander It was only once his dreams had been crushed beneath the heel of oppression that Azher had realized his folly. Never would they accept him, even if he had become one of them. Something as simple as racial prejudice could never be overcome with the fists of a single man, for that was their nature. No, he and his ancestors had been blind in their hope. They, and their descendants, would remain outcasts until the end of time. But now, once Azher had truly been cast out from the tribe, banished and never to return, he knew true freedom. He had sloughed the chains that had lasted for centuries, and for once, it seemed he could breath easy. As he watched the tall fires burn, and heard the clash of steel from below, Azher wondered for a moment. Are you proud of me, mother, father? As the pirates ravaged the small, burning huts below, Azher knew only this; his freedom had been won with his own two hands, and his ancestors' before him. Dragging the half-chest full of shimmering gems down from the cliff, the Tokay went to meet those who would offer freedom, in exchange for his treasures. As the flames raged on, their sparks crackling in his eyes, Azher saw only destiny, the ruin he had brought upon his own people nothing more than a quiet buzzing in his ears. He waded through death and despair, but elation was the only emotion he felt. Beckoning to a single seafarer, whose eyes grew large at the sight of the chest, Azher grunted a single word. “Leader.” For that was the only word he had learned of the foreign language, listening over the sound of cracking wood, of clashing blades, and cries of pain. Yet the pirate hesitated, clearly fixated on the open-faced coffer. Azher repeated the word again slowly, and that seemed to break the pig-like man's lustful gaze. Snorting, he ran off, leaving the Tokay to stand and wait. When he'd returned, with several companions, and a rather burly looking member of his race, Azher could clearly see that heavily sweating pigs were more likely to assault him, than to listen. No matter. The Tokay had already accounted for this. Raising his hand, before any of the pirates could utter a word of protest, he swiftly grabbed a small, red seed from the chest. Holding it up for all to see, he opened his hand and let the seed fall to the ground, the resulting flames glinting in his eyes, the light shimmering as it glassed the sand. Hundreds more of the seeds were mixed in with the tiny gems, and already the Tokay had established that he was in control of the situation. It was not long, after several diagrams drawn into the sands and Azher uttered what broken parts of the language he knew, that the Tokay soon found himself riding the high seas with a group of slightly disgruntled, yet satisfied pirates. After weeks of sailing, his sharp eyes saw the distant form of land, and his heart leaped into his throat. A new place, a new life! How wonderful it was, the thought of being judged for your actions, and not for who or what you were. As he stepped onto the deserted beach, leaving the smelly swines snorting over the chest of rupees, and carefully picking out the dangerous seeds, Azher felt a strange calm and easiness wash over him. Where would he go? How would he live? These were strange, foreign questions, yet rather than feel anxiety over them, wonder filled the void within. How many other questions, that had never occurred to him, awaited him in this land? And thus he began to wander, in body, mind, and soul. Watcher The world was beautiful but broken. No one could escape the ravages of war, not even a man without ties. As his feet guided him aimlessly across Hyrule, Azher quickly came to realize that he had left one prison for another, larger though it was. Everywhere, sadness and despair seemed to rule supreme as the war raged on. And as he found the bars of this cage much the same, so too did he find that the jailer had followed him. On both sides, corruption ran rampant, but he did not despair. Despite it all, he knew that he was needed, that his fists now had a purpose. And so, he would fight, for the weak and the damned, just as he had fought for his own freedom.
Since Scrapbook didn't actually become a thing, and we decided not to put it in the library, +5 Rupees and Spark Smash to Azher.
Doing racial perk things. He has Scent Seed Supply from Seed Expertise, and also still needs Claws, leaving two remaining. I'll take Nose for Treasure and a single level in Profession: Bodyguard.
