The Team

Aamir is a self-sworn crusader, a man of values and integrity even in hard times. Uncaring for politics, viewing words without action as borderline lying, he focuses more on what he can do than what might happen. In combat, he fights alongside Khiida, being her shield-arm and taking the brunt of attacks for her, focusing on outlasting his foes.

Aamir looks nothing like the hero he is, at first glance. Towering over most at nearly six-and-a-half feet, and heavy with muscle, his size alone is intimidating. Dark haired and battle-scarred, he would loom like a dark cloud if not for the broad grin he's prone to wearing. It softens, greatly so, the hardness of the man; arms laced with old scars and new cuts up to the elbow, intense green eyes that make questions asked more often seem like demands made, and what seems like a perpetual borderline scowl, something merely a product of his pronounced cheekbones and strong brow.

More Chelaxian than Varisian by blood, he tends to stand out in a crowd just that fraction more for it. Indeed, his slight exoticism, and winning smile have won him a few favours, but his somewhat rough demeanor is limiter as to how many. Aamir, after all, is a drinking, fighting, battered man with a knack for putting people ill-at-ease. He even has a tattoo, words scrawled across his left pectoral, his oath etched into his skin.

Do not injustice to another
Defend the weak & innocent
May truth & honor always guide you
Let courage find a life within
Stand up when no one else is willing
Act not in hatred or in spite
Be to this world as a perfect knight
Even if it means your life...

Aamir is a man of lines, when it comes to his personality. He's a young man, hot-headed at his core, but he tries his best to emulate Khiida's calm nature. Whereis Khiida's serenity comes from self-assurance, borne of well-tested wisdom, Aamir's comes only from the picture of himself he holds in his head; a knight of fable, kind first, noble in his heart. Pushed far enough, and he can be made to snap, not becoming vicious or spiteful but absolutely aggressive in his approach. The result is that he's kind to kind people, good to regular folk, and a powder keg around people who might fall on the wrong side of his temper or the moral compass.

Young as he is, he's old enough to have seen his share of blood, and it's affected him despite how youth normally lightens the load of such burdens. A belief in both order to the world and in an inherent ability for goodness in people makes every death tragic, even when necessary. He isn't haunted, not as such, but he is grim when it comes to matters of life and death or philosophical belief. He never advocates the death of anyone, but is far from a pacifist. Yet, despite this, and his chosen career, he all the same remains a generally up-beat man; he bears those he kills, but he is not guilty of murder. There is no murder in battle. And, each day alive is another chance to tip the balance of lives take to lives saved.

Despite his Lawful alignment, Aamir is also very fond of freedom. At first it might seem counter-intuitive, but to hear him explain it, good laws do not rob men of any freedom they have a true right to have. Theft is a wrong to another, and steals their freedom to be safe. Indeed, his sense of law stems mostly from the simple equation of whether it steals freedom from another being.

Indeed, his his darkest side is probably his reaction to evil. Aamir changes then, from a mostly-sage, gentle-giant to a fiery orator and when needs be, dispenser of justice. His response to a common pick-pocket would be to decry the man as a parasite so loudly as to gather a crowd, backhand him with a gauntleted fist, and throw the bloodied thief to the sherrif. Bandits, providing they survived his initial onslaught, would be marched to the gallows. May the gods have mercy on anyone who would defile the dead, abuse in any way the children, elderly or infirm, or pillage a church of any righteous god.

Home
Born in Barstoi, a place of relative peace and prosperity, amongst a small community of tight-knit ex-Chelaxian families who now intermarry more through tradition than loyalty, Aamir spent his earliest years there. One of the few places in Ustalav where politics mattered less than industriousness, and a place of fertile soil, many farming families made their living there, including Aamir's. Law, though tight and merciless, was at least not frivolous, with many doing well for themselves despite the relative turbulence and corpulence of the greater Ustalav.

Family
Born to a farming community, Aamir's family was relatively large; Four brothers, two sisters. A large family meant a more productive farm, and a better quality of life for everyone. Eight people could achieve quite a lot, and as a result Aamir enjoyed a comfortble level of wealth for someone neither of noble birth or a merchant's guild. That of course was to say still relative poverty by comparison, but they ate enough, could replace or repair things when they broke. Indeed, things would have been comfortable if not for the ever-buzzing scandal of the hanging of Aamir's grandfather; punishment for any crime in Barstoi is death.

Instruction
There is little need for weapons training in the life of a farmer. However, Aamir was never really a farmer; he never sowed seeds, nor cut crops. He did what else needed doing; splitting wood, felling trees, unbogging stuck animals, moving feed and the rest. By the time he'd have been allowed responsibility for what ultimately made or broke the family, he already grew restless. The constant whispers, the gossip and distrust that followed the execution of his grandfather had taken their toll. Rather than stay with his family, Aamir signed up with one of the many local militia groups, where he was drilled in weapons and combat and made into a fighting man. Indeed, Barstoi's militia is of the same quality as most armies, and so imparted excellent skills. Their emphasis was particularly on trench warfare, in particularly "sweeping", whereby one man with a tower shield could hold an entire trench line against ten times his number, and another would shoot or spear the enemy from behind said shield.

Life Events
Born to a farmer, Aamir grew up in a rural community. The result was a life filled with hundreds of dangerous events, but few interesting ones. Accidents with woodaxes, falling hay bales threatening a broken neck, horse kicks and more. Life-threatening, but routine. By the age of eight, the concept of mortality was thin; too many close scrapes with too few consequences. It set Aamir to exploring the nearby areas, including the southern forests, though such a thing would take him away from home for the full day. It would take years before this had consequences, but when they did, they would be formative.

By thirteen, Aamir would hunt the forests. Usually to little or no success, more likely to bring home a brace of rabbits than anything else. But in the wild woods, boys are far from the top of the food chain. Following the sound of some wounded animal yelping, the boy came to a small clearing where a stray dog was cowering, bleeding, under a wolf. The boy, assured in the simplistic ways that children can be, that wolves are bad and dogs are good, moved to confront the animal. Children's hunting bows, even for large, strong children, are not powerful things. The arrow stuck as a flesh wound, and the hungry predator bore down on the boy. In that instant, Aamir knew the fear of death, suddenly terrified that this creature would devour him. A heartbeat later, and the boy's spear passed through the breastbone of the lupine beast, and it fell instantly dead and still.

He carried that dog home, two hours on foot, warpped in his shirt to keep it warm and to halt the bleeding. The animal didn't make it through the night. However, the dog was pregnanat, and young Aamir watched with grim determination as the pups were cut free. He stayed with them a second day, run ragged for lack of sleep, but not going to leave such fragile and defenseless creatures to the whim of fate. One by one he watched the litter die, until just one remained. When the boy collapsed from exhaustion, falling into a deep slumber, the pup lay warmly wrapped in his arms. When he awoke, it was still there, still warm, clinging to life. He raised that pup, seeing it as symbolic; one good deed may not change everything, but it can save a life. That stuck with him.

The next year, Aamir's grandfather was accused of theft. Now an old man, he was in the early stages of early onset dementia. Not enough for it to be obvious, not enough to convince anyone that he had no actual intent of walking away with a basket of someone's apples. He was hung, promptly. That changed things for Aamir, on a deeper level than he understood. He'd come to grasp the idea of being able to die, just like anyone or anything else. He had never asked why anyone died, why it happened how it happened. The strict laws of Barstoi had unwittingly bestowed Aamir with a sense of order, an expectation of order. Now, with an old man in the noose for illness, that order seemed skewed. The law seemed skewed, and leaving Barstoi became a necessity as the townsfolk grew cruel in their evaluation's of all who'd known the old man.

Comfortable, but lacking real wealth, the only way out was military service. First, Aamir served with the militia as a matter of necessity. It was a place as far away as he could get for the moment, before he earned enough to branch out on his own. It quickly came to appeal to him, however. The order of it, the routine, and on some level, the ferocity. But it didn't take long to realize the order was only to be organized, not to put wrong things right. It was to keep things stable, not to keep things as they should be. Years later, when his service ended, he found himself in a tavern with nothing to do but think about what came next. Thinking gave way to drinking, and ideas turned to ideals.

That day, he swore an oath, and became a crusader of sorts. Not to Desna, or Pharasma, or Urgathoa; such god's cared only about the inevitable, not the possible. Aloud he swore to Cayden Cailean, and silently he swore to Iomedae. He swore his own oath to stand not just for order, but for righteousnous. He would, though one man, make moves to change Ustalav. To pass the politics that made laws, and instead focus on what he believed to be the inherent good of man. Unwittingly, he swore both kindness and to reunite all men as kin; he swore to be the next Soividia Ustav.

And he swore it in front of a disciple of Cayden, there for a drink. Such luck.

Khiida is a combination of prideful, calm and self-assured. A childhood riddled with distaste from both sides of her heritage has morphed, in adulthood, to a pigheaded pride in her difference, which she primarily expresses in speech. She speaks little in Common, though she’s perfectly fluent, preferring to speak in Orcish simply because she likes the way the words feel—Common feels weak and flowery, whereas Orcish feels strong, robust. When there's none around, she'll switch to Common, but since joining with Aamir that's generally been unnecessary.

She has a somewhat gruff, unsubtle sense of humor that doesn’t take herself too seriously (she named herself Blithebowl), and is mellow enough that it’s nearly impossible to insult her with words.

She appears to take very little indeed seriously, at that, but all of her actions are underlain with a fierce desire to know the secrets of the universe, the important Truths that will constitute ultimate fulfillment, a desire that might not have come to her if she hadn't been quite so alienated and furious in her youth, if she'd been a bit more comfortable with her position (c'est la vie). With this determination is her unwillingness to bear or witness certain, specific wrongs: namely, destruction of the soul and elimination of free will, either by perversion (real perversion, not the pissant, mostly-fun kind that parades through sexual habits) or coercion. Such wrongs eliminate the opportunity to pursue true fulfillment, and cannot be borne quietly.

Her disgust with such self-warping stems, then, from the idea that it is a kind of spiritual suicide, a way to divorce oneself from the only really great, fun stuff in life—thus, it’s incredibly stupid territory to fall into. Not so much depraved or villainous, just--a really awful idea.

Khiida is an intimidating woman, as such things go. She stands an easy 6’9”, and having grown up in a community that encouraged pride toward her orcish blood has taken on and kept decidedly non-human aesthetics, such as sharpened tusks, bone-crafted piercings, and some minor ritual scarification in patterns around her right eye and collarbone.

Well-muscled with a warrior's build, the severity present in the harsh, sharp bones of her face is set off only by an odd, everpresent half smile. Fully into adulthood, she possesses a certain ease with how her body works and moves, even the way the heaviness of it seems to throw her around, possible only for someone very certain of their way of life.

She dresses simply and casually in adventurer’s garb, overlain with armor and accented by the everpresent silver tankard she keeps strapped to her belt, the holy symbol she’s chosen for her rakish Lord, Cayden Cailean.

Home
Khiida was born in the River Kingdoms, but there’s no need to speak much more about her homeland than that. Her life is short, and she hasn’t felt any compulsion to settle in any town for any longer than a few weeks—any longer than that and she gets twitchy and irritable, liable to snap and drown herself in Cayden’s wisdom—found at the bottom of a tankard.

Family
Khiida doesn’t tend to mention her life before Cayden much; she had one, and a large one, and she’s familiar with and sympathetic to familial bonds from others. Individuals aren’t particularly important to who she is anymore. None abused her particularly, no individual had the raising of her beyond her father, a traditional orc who was happy to leave much of the details to the community, always vaguely embarrassed but not unkind, in his way. She was born from a human mother, but she’s never seen the woman, or been approached by anyone from that side of the family. There was probably some sort of unpleasantness, but she was never close enough with her father to get more information, and it doesn’t really matter all that much.

Instruction
Khiida’s instruction has been spotty and varied, but she’s managed to gather an assortment of martial skills borrowed from warriors she’s met, travelled with for a time, and moved on from. Her first teachers were her blood relatives and the orcs of the community she was born into. Equality of gender relations had her tumbling with a blade in hand almost from the womb, and her propensity for violence and growing disgust for the patronizing attitudes of the orcs and the varied pity and fear of the (weak) human children and their parents led to Khiida spending her teenage years quite interested in knowing exactly how bodies come apart.

Since finding Cayden Cailean and loosening up quite a lot, Khiida’s style of fighting is to be simple and effective, rather than brutal and animalistic. No flash, minimal effort, with tools varied enough to suit different situations. Her size is a benefit in grappling, but she prefer a little distance from her foes when there’s actual blood to be shed. It always feels like such a waste…


Life Events
The followers of Cayden Cailean saved her from the bitter, self-justifying life of the typical half-orc, forced by persecution and general foolishness into either hiding behind a warrior’s mask and becoming some sort of mercenary, or hiding in large cities, hoping for anonymity and some other being’s kindness. Neither of those is any way to live, any way to actually enjoy life, and enjoying life—fully, completely, though not in any particularly showy or ostentatious manner—is what Khiida is all about.

As a follower of Cayden Cailean, the Accidental God, who was simply excellent , opportunistic, and enjoyed whatever he came upon (leading to his eventual godhood), Khiida entered into a brotherhood (somewhat loosely tied in her homeland) of people fighting to protect a lifestyle that opened her up from the furious, violent child she had been.

Admittedly her justifications are generally few, and continue to be tied to what she finds worthwhile to her personally—her moral code is far more worried about exploitation and the mundane than it is more usual concerns such as law, society, or abomination (the exception being abomination that eliminates free will, or changes utterly)..

There are plenty of colorful stories to tell about what she’s managed to find that’s worth doing thus far. They follow a general theme where she discovers and tries out various answers people give to the meaning of life: at first with an intensity of purpose that ends up either being flattering or insulting, then she uses the experience as a way to catapult herself into another situation, either by decrying the activity/philosophy/endeavor as nonsense and dealing with her newfound enemies, or following the trail to a newer, higher experience.

Khiida met Aamir unceremoniously, at the end of a disappointing venture into mysticism in Bartoi that left her cold and wondering how people could be so determined to be so pretentious and self-deceiving.

A few dozen drinks in, it became apparent that Aamir intended to leave this place on a private crusade, a crusade that only grew to sound more goodhearted and brilliant the more Khiida heard. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent thing, her helping him on his quest. She’ll move on any day now, find the next big thing. Of course, she’s been saying that for three years.