You see Medir al'Malik, General Counsel of the Tavern Troupe Performing Order, a Rakash.
Medir has gold eyes. His black hair is shoulder length and wavy, and is worn loose. He has tanned skin.
He is tall for a Rakash.
He appears to be young.
He has some light stubble on his face.
He has a tattoo of a stylized crown silhouette over three sjarta leaves, punctuating lettering inscribed boldly on the skin of his right arm. Jet-black script across the inside edges of the muscle leads to simple cursive reading "Lord of the Drink" on his forearm. He is in good shape.
He is wearing a deep black linen khandur with a high side-buttoned collar seamed in silver silk, a hooded cartographer's cloak of black wool decorated with silver embroidery, a black leather harness covered in straps and buckles, a polished mistwood staff topped with a jagged-edged silver finial, a sturdy backpack, a crocodile-skin buckler, a friendship ring formed from linked silver knots, a black leather split-strap sword belt with silver inlays, some black shoes and a small silver corkscrew with a cambrinth ram's head grip.
It was during a particularly dry desert winter some forty years ago that Medir first opened his eyes to the painted light of a saffron tent.
The father, Rami al’Malik, a simple Rakash who had made his living trading silkenware, was a characteristically stoic and serious man. On the occasion, however, it is said his face glowed with an overt pride as he gazed down upon his son. It was his mother, Khifa, that named the child with the deep golden eyes and that night the small family quietly celebrated the birth of their first-born.
His childhood was ordinary. Like the other children he grew up around, he had no care in the world outside the small oasis community where his father had set up trade. Gifted with no apparent talent in craft, he was saved an early bullying by his young companions thanks largely to a sudden up-shoot in height. He spent his days running tag and playing adventurer with these friends, weaving in and out amongst the caravans, gypsies, tents and palms until the familiar booming voice of his father (“Medi!”) sounded across the sands much like a stern bell summoning him back to countless unfinished errands.
Evenings were spent together by the firelight, and it was by these embers that his dreams took flight. Here, huddled in the communal warmth, wizened elders talked of incredible sorcery and great heroes that stood in every child’s mind like colossusi; their own eyes lit up with memories of younger days. Passing nomads would often interject, speaking in hushed tones of desert-spirits—they were always treacherous and malignant in these tales—and the sweet earthen scent of their spiced tobac would catch the breeze, dance out over the sands and carry Medir’s callow eyes out into the vast, moonlit promise of the world beyond.
It wasn’t long, then, before the wanderlust became clear in his eyes. At the age of ten, intoxicated with the idea of adventure and glory that to his young mind even then seemed far out of reach in the little desert establishment, Medir was overcome by a bold stubbornness. He stepped up to Rami and with the deepest conviction he could muster told his father he would be leaving. The boy rambled on: he wanted to be a hero, he exclaimed. The man was silent. He wanted to be famous and slay spirits. The man was silent. He wanted to have songs written about him and stories told. He wanted a great sword and shiny armour. He wanted treasure. Clothes. Money. Gems. Great feasts in his honour. He wanted to buy his mother a big tent with beautiful rugs…
And Rami simply stared at his son, shook his head after a moment, then laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair: “When you’re old enough, Medi.”
It just so happened that on Medir’s sixteenth birthday, he became ‘old enough’. Early that morning a caravan set to push on through the Velaka towards Muspar’i had stopped to shelter at the oasis until a particularly troublesome sandstorm lifted enough for safe passage. Medir, unaware of these new arrivals, had spent the one day of his year free of chores engaged in an equally troublesome game of dice with his friends before being brought to indulge in a lavish feast to celebrate his coming of age. Come evening, full from the celebration and finally having broken free of the older lot, he was sitting with his friends staring out into the night sky — a rare moment discordantly interrupted by his father’s commanding voice –“Medi!”– speeding its way to his ears.
- 399 - present: Joined the Tavern Troupe as a Council Member
- 385 - present: Proprietor of Medir's Tavern
- n.d.p.: Member of the Blue Flame
- c. 382: Member of the Tauris Esturi, Zoluren Infantry