Monaa Vi
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The sound of a mortal voice startled the Rohn, him having thought himself alone in a shi so barren that not even most fei would bother trying to settle there. But it seemed that this Pidanda had a host perched on top of it. He froze in place, spear still in hand while the beasts beneath him shrieked and staggered. This drew him from his shock, and he took up the reins again, stabling it. “Alright, you’re alright! It’s stopping!” he called. The Thrisde staggered back a few steps, turning to face the Pid before settling down, the shrieks fading to soft hisses protesting its position.
“Hey! You there! Is this your bug?” His voice was firm, assertive as any Rohn’s would be. He wondered if this girl had a clan with her, and if not, how she managed to tame such a massive beast all on her own.
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The Thrisde made life easier for him. The creature could walk for what seemed turns on end without tiring. And Bakki could ride upon its back with little to jostle and loosen the tight-bound bandages that covered his limbs and part of his face. Each was stained a deep blue with his blood, blood that refused to clot over wounds that refused to seal. Such was his curse and his course, to find a way to end the bleeding. He hoped that through this barren waste, he could cross over to the void lands, a place where no Shi could touch or interfere, where the Mire was raw. Rumor said that was where the Asagi, Fei of myth, made their home.
He bobbed along, nearing sleep on the back of the tri-horned insect until the beast gave a shrill hiss beneath him, drawing him back to the world. “A’ata?!” he called to it, wondering what the fuss was. But his question was answered quickly as he saw the encroaching Pidanda. Rising from his seated position a bit he drew quickly a makeshift spear used to prod off bugs, he tried to brandish it against the threat. “No! Nono! Go on, you! Get away from us!”
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Baqi let his dark eyes scan the crowd. They did their part, lingering on a few fair faces. He looked over a nord woman fairly thoroughly before moving on to another, a Breton. Ah, they were normally sweet things. But the bar was unusually saturated with elf folk and even the beast people. Which was more than a little odd considering the beast races weren’t allowed in such a biased, hateful city.
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He blew into Windhelm as he did any other town. It didn’t matter that only a month ago he swore to never travel this far north again, lest the cold finally take him. There was no work in the warmer south, none that he was willing to touch. Perhaps this god-forsaken glacier might prove more bountiful. That was his only hope. But by Ruptga, did he hate that city. Nords were known for their nationalistic pride, sure, but as a Redguard, Baqi avoided most of the flack thrown the way of other races, mostly elves and the beasts. Yet it seemed that Windhelm couldn’t help but hold a special degree of resentment for anyone without ice in their blood. It was the only hold where people would cast their eyes down on him. He’d even heard a guard once mutter to his comrade about “Redguard mercenaries” coming in from the border. What an assumption. Sure, it was /true/ in his case, but that was beside the point. He could have been anything: a writer, a scholar, hell it was a port town! He would more likely be a sailor! Hadn’t those people heard of the Iliac bay? But no, the /Redguard/ had to be a mercenary.
Sure, it wasn’t the violent hatred that the city would afford the Dunmer or Altmer, but it was enough to set him in a foul mood as he breached the walls to town. Nonetheless, he marched to Candlehearth, the main tavern, and had himself a seat. He was already fed up with the cold and looking for a warm fire and spirits to warm his gut. He sat not away from everyone, but more among them, scanning the crowd for a kinder sort to take his mind off the bitter nature of the city.
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Name: Baqi
Race: Redguard
Gender: Male
Age: 54
Height: 6’1″
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Appearance: He might only be a little tall, but what makes him imposing is his stocky build and broad shoulders. He’s a Redguard through and through, sporting dark skin and near black eyes. His hair is typically covered by his headpiece, a maroon taglemust, but when not covered you can see it is composed of many thin, well kept dreads often tied in a pony tail that hangs thickly between his shoulder blades. He often dresses in heavy furs to protect himself from the horribly cold climate of Skyrim, something he doesn’t think he will ever be used to. At his waist, he carries two curved blades, another remnant of his home. His body is a map of scars showing a long life living by the blade.
Bio: It’s hard to get much out of him about his personal life. Despite being social and generally warm natured, he doesn’t talk much about himself other than anecdotes about his adventures as a freelance mercenary. The only solid things that people can glean about him is that he was born to the Nomads of the Alik’r and he has lived by the sword from a very young age. He seemed vaguely religious, adhering to the old Yokudan pantheon, but not devout enough to ever really be seen in prayer. He’s a quiet man but pleasant enough to speak with. Often, he’s blunt and straight forward but never seeks to be confrontational. He is honor bound as a Redguard swordsman, well versed in what is expected in fair combat but trained to handle those without decency in a fight. He doesn’t seek to be combative, but the only way he’s ever found to make a living was through his blades. Despite leaving the desert, he is still a nomad at heart and calls no place but the Alik’r his home. He wanders city to city, taking on odd contracts that suit him so he can earn enough coin to get by. If asked, he considers himself retired, trying to live his life the best that he can. The money he earns he normally spends on good food and drink, and he’s often seen embracing the company of others in the easy evening. He’ll laugh and banter into the late hours with strangers and be gone by morning, already blown out of town and onto the next. Despite his social nature in town, he does embrace solitude and is a very private man. He will quickly shut down and deflect personal questions, not liking people to pry into his business.
Type of fighting/class: Swordsman
Extra: He has lived a very colorful life and has many amazing stories to tell, some of which sound almost unbelievable. Many of these stories are marked by scars on his body. His favorite scar was earned through a particularly miraculous tale. He claims it was given to him by Trueflame after a brief and violent encounter with a dunmer claiming to be the Nerevarine.