Declare for me a hymn in the words of the mountains…”

Basic Information (and a measure of personal loring)- Edit: This is meant to be very detailed and will
most likely expand-
●​ Ash'na Rak, is an orc-chii hybrid (Bhahareed, using his own terms) of unknown, but youthful age,
he was born in the Yang-Tzu Isles, in the South Eastern Island cluster, on a small, overpopulated
province suffering a long incursion by wulong clans.
●​ His life goal is to survive long enough to make a difference in the world, somehow.
●​ A mere six feet in height, and lacking the often expected orcish mass, yet retaining the solidity of
his bloodline, resulting in a weight of 200 pounds, and a somewhat defined facial and bone
structure, otherwise fairly slender, muscles defined but subsumed.
●​ His head is somewhat skeletal, jaw structure smoothly mixing into small orcish tusks, held to by
thin but eeriely emotive lips. His nose is decidedly lengthened beyond the typical nose of either
parent race, echoing narrowly and evenly, yet remaining without a point, rather average, if by a
small degree. His eyes are a slightly coppery red, betraying his Chi'i heritage ever so slightly in
their lids. His forehead is slightly higher than the average of his eastern half, yet not so heavy and
forehanging as his orcish line. Hair remains black, deep and randomly flecked with premature
silver, growing long, and linking into a small but thick and somewhat wild beard. Teeth remain in
surprisingly good condition, sans a small mass of scarred tissue just before his throat's opening.
His tusks are small, and without severe note, beyond bieng well pointed, scarcely more than
canine sized.
●​ Skin undamaged remains green, grassy and permeated with an even amount of yellow toning. His
hands are heavily scarred covered in the somewhat raised and slightly melted flesh of a burn
victim, as is much of his body, falling from just beneathe his navel, and continuing downward to
his charred soles. He possesses a faint, well healed scar under his right eye. His left side, beneath
the rib cage is marred with a vicious and deep mass of scar tissue, a similar yet smaller mass exist
on the right of his head, somewhat shielded by hair. A crosswork oe dented flesh makes up his
chest, just above the ring work branding. A faded bruise scar, 6 inches across marks his right set
of low ribs. The most horrid wound trace on his body is a deep indentation in his mid abdomen,
paled with scarring and surgical maintenance, the extent of which falls to a slightly raised mass in
his back, equally scarred and stitched.
●​ His clothing is of the Eastern hakfu, coupled with a distinctly long and nagan shitage over his
torso, his scarred body covered in wrappings of cloth. His legs are covered in short, baggy
leggings, black as the rest of his attire. Feet are possessed of soft boots with obsidian coloured
soles.
Behaviour
●​ Calm: Ash is extremely calm, rarely enraged, keeping focus on the situation and the task at hand,
a trait that came to him hunting Wulong in bloody skirmishes and games of cat and mouse. This
trait has been ingrained further by courtly life, and the frequent bloody “jobs” undertaken in his
prior career. He is hard to annoy or break, his mind adapting to stresses and problem, shaping
itself in accord to survive.
●​ Friendly: Ash enjoys new faces and people, always bowing politely and exchanging quips and
pleasantries regardless of any problems he may be having. He is naturally chummy, prone to
 developing attachments quickly, and holding friendships like gold, something to be polished and
admired, he honors those that look to him as friend
●​ Sarcastic: Ash is prone to sarcastic quips and statements to defuse tense situations, or merely to
get a rise out of a friend. He is quick to the joke or fast to make a humourous comment.
●​ Pragmatic: Life as a warrior slave in a brutal stalemate has left Ash completely pragmatic, more
prone to cutting the knot than trying to undo it, this can leave him seemingly blunt or
disrespectful when a problem arises.
●​ Philosophic: A great personal joy, Ash enjoys thinking and pondering, stretching his mind, or
composing poetry about reality and experiences. The universe is something to be admired and
thought of, and he is all to happy to muse over it for hours at a time.
●​ Adaptive: Life weeds out the weak and slow, culling those that cannot change. Ash lives by these
words, constantly improving himself and changing himself with the pressures of the world, his
personality and even manner of speech changing from situation to situation, becoming proper for
the environment, and mastering it. His innate adaptiveness is something subconcious, he doesent
realise fully that he changes, merely acknowledging that he is surviving as best he can.
●​ Hardy: Ash is freakishly hardy, both in body and mind. He has endured worlds of pain and agony
throughout his life, and yet his blood and spirit push him forward, screaming for life in even the
bitterest circustances. He isn’t inflexible in his actions, but he rarely gives up on his goals.
●​ Irreverent- Ash is distinctly opposed to Nobility and blood ranking, finding respect for only
those that have earned his. He rarely addresses nobility proper, but has some honour for strangers
until they prove they are not worthy. His lack of courtesy to royalty left a few bad tastes in the
mouths of colonial nobility.
Likes

●​ Smoking pipe: Ash is a near life long smoker, opium inspiring his thoughts, and coating his pain
with the faint joys of the dream powder. He is hopelessly addicted to opium and rarely goes a day
without smoking a pipe-full.
●​ Philosophy: The worked is something to be pondered, and Ash is the man to do it. He enjoys
thought, and discourse, even with random passersby.
●​ Literature: Ash is proudly literate, often pouring over tomes in multiple languages, something
denied in his earlier life.
●​ Brotherhood: Ash binds tightly to those that show him favour, exchanging camaraderie with
close friends, and courtesy to those that have earned it.
●​ Travel: He has seen much, and fought more in his life, but his thirst for travel remains, a constant
desire for new sights, sounds, and smells. Such desires often lead him to wander
●​ Rice wine: A glorious thing that he drinks frequently, he is very much a lush, prone to drinking
into a stupor.
●​ The Elderly: Those who have lived to see the world change and grow excite Ash, and he hungers
for the wisdom they have built up over lifetimes. He is prone to deeply respecting the old, even of
races he would normally be discomforted by, as he sees them as living records of the world.
Dislikes
 ●​ Full Blooded Orcs- Ash is innately uncomfortable around full blooded orcs, his own frailties
more apparent in their presence, coupled with the dim view they tend to hold toward mix bloods,
coupled with a few bitter experiences had with more “puritan” members of orcish society.
●​ Full Blooded Chi’i- In similar ideology to his fear of orcs, Ash is innately irritated by Chi’i
experiences of early life leaving him bitter and confused in thier presence, mind flooding to
indoctrination chambers and hymns of worthlessness and bloodshed. Close contact with full
blooded Chi’i leave him paranoid over his freedom, and questioning his breeding, whether he is
sentient or not.
●​ Nobility- Fancy titles held to those born in the proper circumstances leave Ash with a bad taste in
his mouth, he finds them arrogant and pathetic, Ironically, he tends to find them pathetic in
compare to his own generations of controlled breeding and grooming.
●​ Curtailed freedom: Once a slave, never again. The mere thought of enslavement sends Ash into
a panic, instinctively lashing out at whatever is threatening him, mentally retracting from the
situation into a cold frenzy.
●​ Cruelty: Indoctrination and bitterness have left him wrathful against those that strip joy from
others, vengeful to those that hurt for the sake of hurting.
●​ Wulong: Innate conditioning has left Ash utterly hateful of wulong, the merest trace of one
forcing his training to the surface, leaving him cold and calculating, mind full of hatred and spite.
Ash respects wulong as foes, but not as living things, he cannot come to reason in thier presence,
his very being existant in order to fight them. After the threat has been eradicated, he is left
feeling like a weapon, something not alive, merely directed at the target, numb and dead.
Abilities

Strengths
●​ Durability: Ash’s durablility is magnificent, his body inured to exertion and heavy trauma both
by experience and genetic insulation, pain and exhausion take effect after great exposure or
lengths of time, leaving Ash plenty of time to overcome the source of his stress or danger.
●​ Reflexes: Ash’s reflexes are honed by years of conditioning and testing, leaving him at the peak
of reactive speeds, and allowing him to respond to danger immediately.
●​ Suvivalist: Ash’na Rak adapts and survives, regardless of environment, he wil; thrive given time,
whether the steaming jungles of Yang-Tzu, or the Regalian sewers, he will overcome the
problems presented by his environment
●​ Swordsman: A well honed blade when discussion fails is Ash’s preferred method of ending
conflict, and he has devoted countless hours to his bladework, leaving him sound when steel is
drawn
●​ Intelligent: Somewhat curtailed in early life, constant mental training has left Ash rather clever, a
natural problem solver, albeit prone to over thinking things at times. Whether a pub argument or
the midst of an open battle, he remains thinking and calculating, always with a thought in his
head.
Weaknesses
●​ Illness- Scars coupled with a foreign environment and poor health habits leave Ash very
susceptible to disease and infection, often leaving him bedridden and dependant on others
 ●​ Mental Instability- A bloody early life, and overspecialized breeding, coupled with an unsettled,
mercurial mind, leave Ash constantly walking a mental tightrope between his two natures, any
severe mental stressor having the chance to leave him falling into his orcish or Chi’i instincts,
leaving him without memory of what he was just doing in his burst of instinct.
●​ Cardiac deformity-Ash’s heart is malformed do to over specialised breeding, leaving it
underpowered and mal sized, compensation is had through a second heart, less undersized.
Further complicating matters is that the beat of his hearts do not match. Under enough exertion
or stress, his hearts may fluctuate in beat, causing him to fall over, or vomit from loss of oxygen,
or oxygen toxicity. These cardiac events are becoming less frequent as he ages, but still occur at
horrid moments, leaving him helpless.
●​ Easily scars: For some reason, Ash’s wounds tend not to heal properly, giving him the tendency
toward excessive scar tissue development, resulting in a loss of tactile sensitivity, and occasional
oversensitivity, his hand being the most extreme, flickering from utterly without sensation to
agonizingly sensitive without warning, resulting in his adoption of a pair of heavy lamellar
gloves/
●​ Need for orders: Ash struggles to direct himself without a clear overplan to his actions, a goal,
whether his own or someone elses. This need for direction is something he struggles with, the
degree of his indoctrination that wont entirely fade away. Without an overplan or endgame in
mind Ash is prone to confusion and wandering, both mentally and physically.

Combat Styles
●​ Tachi Sword Style: Ash’s main combat style is the use of his serrated, acid coated tachi. His
main tactic is waiting for the starting strike, countering it, and using his enemy’s own strikes
against them with a series of counter strikes and parries, the vicious wounds left by his blade
inhibiting them, coupled with a few punches and body strikes when a strike leaves a hand free.
This style is rendered somewhat useless by heavy armour, as his tachi, while able to break lighter
defences, was not meant to pierce hardier materials
●​ Dual Spatha Style: Ash’s original fighting style, having evolved from the short sword style he
was trained in on the Isles, this style involves sweeping strikes and closing distance, catching
limbs and weapons between his blades, and sending vicious stabs and slashes with the any free
blade. Ash rarely utilises shorter blades, leaving this style somewhat neglected.
●​ Unarmed Style: Ash’s least effective style, he is rather inexperienced in unarmed combat, what
training he had diluted over the years, leaving him with a basic set of strikes, blocks and grapples,
without much innovation, he rarely strikes directly, preferring to dodge and allow his foes to
exhaust themselves, as his direct strength of hand is often lacking.
Relationships

Alexander Smiter @beniscool765-trusted friend- Alex is Ash’s mental ground, someone he can confide
his personal agonies in and someone he can trust to always look out for him, a protector that he values
equal to life itself, any threat to Smiter is in turn, a threat to Ash.
Glacius Regulus @AgentLew- Comrade in arms-Ash’s pub buddy and once co-bussiness owner, his back
up when problems arise and Smiter isn’t there, trusted deeply and certain to get the job done, no better
man to watch your back than the masked elf.
Joseph Mercer @Plecy--Entertaining Swashbuckler- One of the first people Ash met in Regalia, the
clever and amusing Ailor sky pirate is someone always able to lighten Ash’s days, sadly though the
samurai sees the pirate less and less, and the loss is starting to eat at him.

Life story

The Bhahareed
He was born in the Yang-Tzu Isles, in an industrial province he never learned the name of. Indeed his
early life spanning five years to his eighth was nothing more than continual training and indoctrination
into the soldier's mindset, learning tactics and survival at the cost of any form of sophisticated social
development. He was not an elite soldier, such disgusting but necessary beings such as himself were
considered less than the war hounds that were often released into the barracks. He, and the generations
before and after, in all their numbers, were efficient, yet expendable weapons. A prognostication made
into living creatures, bred soldiers, the children of hybrids born to fight a seemingly endless war against a
physically superior foe. What few Chi'i that remained in this province had long ago set aside their
preferences and had dedicated themselves to the manufacturing of an efficient and controllable caste to
fight the continuous numbers of wulong that gained ever more ground. The result of these efforts, a blood
mix of physically viable, yet low enough in caste Chi'i and the remnants of Orcish wanderers, long
crashed into a lesser isle and fallen degenerate, were brought to fruit under the watchful eyes of
alchemists and mages, a selection of physicians, and by the nature of the project, military officials from
around the various islands. The results were studied in depth, trained viciously and indoctrinated into their
bleak and most likely short lives, and when deemed mature physically, where branded on the mid chest,
and its bilateral equivalent. The brand itself was a an idealized internally serrated hoop, a vicious symbol
used to mark them as beast under collar. In more than a few cases, the brands were given in lesser forms
to newborn bhahareed, the results of which were often fatal, and more importantly, wasteful.

The resultant breeding and inevitable flux of loss and gain over the successive generations had produces a
pliable and loyal group of warriors. They rarely questioned, and lacked a name for themselves, if at first,
merely being aimed and let loose upon the foes of their makers. They continued as such for many, albeit
short, generations, and proved the ideal troops in the war of attrition that had long held the Islands
paralyzed. As time went on bases began to shift from guided forces of regimental handlers and support
troops leading bhahareed, to handlers leading, until finally the production of regiments entirely manned
by hybrids. The chance of rebellion remained slight however as the all present indoctrination held them to
service, and even in the face of rebellion, the lack of any skill beyond combat and limited survival often
crushed traitor units without the need for counterattack. The descendants of the original masters rested on
the laurels of their work, weapons that lived only to fight for them without question or complaint, less
than dogs yet greater than the Chi'i themselves in their warrior nature. The creatures had been spread to a
small cluster of wulong plagued isles, and in such had gained a brief measure of freedom in transit, often
captaining boats crewed entirely by their kindred. In these boats, an opening formed in the minds of the
older troops, those that had lived to see the lands they fought over, the rubble and tattered tomes that once
marked villages. Some had begun to attempt to understand these sights and sounds, pictures and papers.
Those basic concepts spread amongst ships and regiments, building and spawning ever greater and greater
ideas. Spawning a culture, a name, a spirit. They where people, their own people. Rebellions followed,
punctuations to the war and brutally stamped down by Chi'i troops and loyal regiments. The survivors
faced re-indoctrination and were often hooked onto various substances to ensure future loyalty. The
progression of time brought to light other more direct problems, with the soldiers. They possessed not the
strength of an orc, nor did they possess the grand mind of the Chi'i. Rather they possessed the diluted
remnatns of both lines, a measure of grace akin to the Yang natives, and the clannish and incredible
sturdiness of the orc. All held together by a mind that often developed psychological defects of variable
intensity, progressing further when lacking an overreaching goal. The mental aspects noted to be present
where often blamed for a number of rebellions. In one such rebellion, held in the same industrial lands
that started the project, a mass exodus occurred, warriors fueled to independence by generations of strife
and ignited by the faintest ideals of independence. The rebellion, although not the first, left a mark on the
not isles in the utter intensity with which it was fought, nor in the volume of the rebel forces. Rather, and
most shocking to the jaded descendants of the first masters, was the battle cry of the renegades, the
bastardization of the word used for the creatures, Bhahareed.

The counter-attack was swift and merciless, mages and the local navy against the less than masterful rebel
fleet.Defeat was certain, the few rebels that dared to continue on fell to reality, and were left charred
planks in the sea. Those that chose to fight on land faced down the native armies with skirmishing tactics
and terror raids. In many ways they had become like the monsters they were bred to fight. Salvaged ships
and improvised rafts were constructed by a fearful few. If the war went poor enough, they would be
forced into even greater bonds, and as such many chose to leave. What little cultural growth had been
made, dispersed on the wind and tides, as the choking rebellion sank under its own weight, unable to gain
any advantage in the long term. Those that took to the sea in flight found themselves seeking new ways of
life, new mindsets, new orders. Many became mercenaries to sea going vessels, dependable if somewhat
mercurial marines of coin. Others found themselves employed in the wars of petty and long foreign
islands, once more enslaved to conflict. Indoctrination had left within these survivors a fear of the Chi'i's
possible retribution. In response, names are often hidden, and race is often concealed, playing themselves
off as orcs to employers. Many often found themselves desiring names of their own, and scavenged words
from the various cultures, visited or imagined.

The Ocean’s Grace and the Sea of Green

A ship, the Ji-idane held in tow one such mercenary vagrant.A slight armsman with an eye for plans and
words. A simplistic rake picked up in a low port. Nothing special, if a bit ugly...nothing special…
Life sept onward with the tides, the small green fellow doing his part, sweeping decks and steel like any
other armsman, with a noted displeasure of getting wet, any such instance causing a blurt of sound and
muttering in his provincial tongue. Captains rarely gave eye to this transitive wanderer and his scavenged
blades, the only notable event being a short engagement with a passing drowdar gunner, a short thting that
fell under the tides. Lands came and went with the ships blurring together over four years, the simple
mercenary learning the ways of ships and tides slowly over time. Landfall was rare and celebrated with
drinking and opium smoke, first done with hesitance, before quickly becoming a favoured passtime on
long journeys at sea. Time feel quickly, days becoming months, engagements becoming infrequent.
Eventually a bad run in with a local cartel in a minor Ceardian kingdom left the poor mercenary without
ship, cast adrift to the land, a sea of grass. He missed the sea, it’s blue mysteries lost to him. The foriegn
land was cold and barren in many places, simple hardy grass bieng the only fare, supplemented by equally
hardy game. Life resumed simplicity in hunting at night, bedding down in the dark mornings, belly
hopefully filled with rabbit and bird. Simplicity came with it boredom and pangs for the order of ship
life, of stimulation. Wandering came after, following a worn path toward a shipping town. Within the
stone and still foriegn walls the armsman lived as a beggar, scavenging from bins and windowsill,
learning the native tongue from exposure, the writing from graffiti. Street life was surprisingly simple,
follow a group, wait for them to bed down, beat them and take their things. It went on for months,
eventually scraping enough money for an armsman contract to a ship headed to some great city, with a
stop to a colony along the way, a Chi’i colony in the foriegn land.

Shizidoa. the place where it began

The colony was a place of many cultures, the armsman learned, and he loved it. Red walls of clay and
wood dominated the eye, buildings of paper and silk crossed the horizon, an idealized scene of Yang-Tzu
on every wall, truly a paradise on Aloria, a peaceful new colony in need of protectors and guides, all held
under the watchful eyes of the merchants and Shogun. The armsman fell out of his contract within a day
of landing, joining the ranks of the colony’s workforce as a waiter in a local bar.
Time went on, jobs changed, the man changed, becoming patient and capable in many fields, until he
joined the Jote police force, the colonial militia and law-keepers. He was given the crudest, most
crime-ridden district in the colony, the Lantern District. He guarded it well, crime faltered in its streets,
and the people lived safe both night and day. Eventually the Shogun took notice, and sent for this
guardsman, given the moniker the Lantern for his district, and the lantern he kept burning in his nightly
patrols. The Shogun gave the man position as a retainer, one of the warrior elite of the colony, itself a
mixture of Nagan social class, and Yang-Tzu ideals. He was a samurai, a man directly under word of the
shogun to enforce the law as was seen fit, without the restraints and conditions of a mere guardsman or
mercenary. He trained in the ways of war and peace, poetry and bloodshed, he found peace in both, sides
of his being met in his studies and spars, unity of the mind and body. His blood was calm for the first time
in his life. With word of the Shogun he travelled to Regalia as an observer to note the customs and ways
of it’s people, to record and ponder the culture and mechanisms of the Holy City. He went with some joy,
court life having grown stale with the peaceful times, the few disputes between guilds and merchants
simple and unstimulating. The Ailor city loomed over the horizon, a thing of great stones, and sooted air,
cold and hard, unlike the warm and soft colony full of creature comforts. The man adapted, quickly
falling between the cracks of the law, becoming part of the shade of night. He had become a new man., a
shadow amongst shadows.

The Shadows

Sinews scream as the steel bites into his leg, blood running free and fast, but he keeps moving,
hand fallen to his blade, the assassin standing apart, chain whirling, his master watching, red eyes heavy
with wisdom, teeth crimson with his meal long unconcious. The next step is the samurai’s, tachi
unsheathed and sent into a horizontal slash, torso slightly upturned, serrated edges coated in tanners acid,
a pale powder that is cruel to flesh. The assassin jumps back, but is still struck and scratched, the blade’s
edge biting in barely, but enough to slow him. The next strike is fatal, tachi and chest meeting for a
moment, before the torso slumps to the floor, now displaced into two pieces. Faint clapping echoes
through the darkened room, another problem solved through judicious use of force, another head for his
master’s trophy room, The samurai remains silent, eyes downcast, a short bow, he rises quickly and leaves
the room, the scent of corrosives lingering in the air, blood flowing sluggishly across the floor. Something
in his heart tells him this is not right, but he has lived this life too long, and he exhales once, eyes focused
on the pub, thirst overcoming empathy. It is his life now, he has become the man for it. Maybe the sky
pirate will be there, maybe the nice elven woman with the red hair, or the astronomer, someone to turn his
mind from the crimson spectacle on the floor, his own handiwork, done without thought to the life he was
ending, only the job to be done. Another exhale as he walks into the pub, spotting the blonde haired
corsair telling a tale. He smiles, maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.
A month later, a box sits in the darkened room, it’s panels closed and locked. Within the bamboo
box sits a black haired, thin faced head, eyes slightly closed, red eyes calm, as though accepting fate.

Return

Letter came, adorned with the golden leaf of the House of Himura, the shogun wanted court with the long
astray ronin, after months of foreigner contact. The ronin came as the wind, breezing back to the colony,
nostalgia flooding through him, homecoming bringing tears to his eyes. Nostalgia immediately gave to
boredom, court life, and more petty disputes. He often found himself returning to Regalia, finding every
excuse he could to stay, from political upheaval to sicknesses from local foods, to a wedding that never
happened. He had more friends in Regalia than in the colony, and a fish stand, a meagre thing, but
something hewn forth by his own hands, and manned by a bitterly sarcastic elf in a mask. Regalia was his
new home, and no force on Aloria would keep him from it. The colony fell into the horizon, the ship
creaking toward his home of stone and soot, a grin on his face, eyes glinting with joy, a true homecoming.