Name: Amir Alem’shalanor
Age: 21
Race: Morveri
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Dark brown
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 168lbs
Personality: Soft spoken, calm, and kind. Amir follows a Morveri proverb which, in Tradespeak, translates to, “The eyes are more valued than the mouth.” At points has difficulty with Tradespeak, as it is not his first language and he has long been isolated within his Morveri tribe. Mildly superstitious of anything but shamanistic arts of his people, though is less fearful than some of his elders.
Appearance: Curly black locks frame the side of Amir’s dark, olive-toned face, typical of the Morveri. His eyes are a deep brown, similar to that of dark chocolate. He has thin tracings of a beard on his face, the dark stubble making him look slightly grim. Possessing the body of a swimmer, his shoulders are rather broad while his midsection is quite slim. Long arms make him at times appear rather lanky, though he moves with a concentrated grace that comes from years of practice. Each motion he makes seems elegant and full of intent. A single long, wide piece of cloth is wrapped around his upper body in a delicate patter, covering the smallest bit of his shoulders as well as the rest of his chest. This provides very little restriction in movement while simultaneously offering very little protection. Amir wears a long, loose skirt that also allows a wide range of motion. Finally, his feet are wrapped in material similar to that which is wrapped around his upper body. The only discernable mark on his body is a small mark on the back of his hand with two simple characters. The mark is skin-toned and is not particularly noticeable.
Skills:
- Malek’ketan: Malek’ketan is an ancient form of combat that has been passed down for centuries in Morvery society. The fighting style revolves around the use of two long, slender falcatas. To the uninformed observer, Malek’ketan looks like a complex form of dance, utilizing sweeping cuts and fluid motions. The Morevi value the outward beauty of clever swordplay as much as victory and masters of the art have been known to decorate their swords with gems to add further visual pleasure to their duels. Amir knows the basics of Malek’ketan; however, he is young and rather inexperienced, not yet fully understanding and accepting the idea of the beautiful dance. As such, his fighting style is unrefined and somewhat lacking compared to those who have been studying it longer. In recent years, Malek’ketan has become more savage, losing some of the elegant grace that it once possessed.
Abilities:
- Morveri Training: Morveri culture dictates that all youth must lead very active, physical lifestyles that will help them to achieve what is known as “Var’en,” or physical perfection. As such, Amir has the body of an athlete and is rather nimble, possessing gymnast-like dexterity. He has approximately twice the expected dexterity of someone his size.
History:
Amir sat cross-legged in the plain tan room, staring blankly at the wall, his mind focused instensely- so much so that small beads of sweat had begun to accumulate on his forehead. His eyes gazed deeply into the wall, massaging secrets from the stone in the sort of unblinking manner that is characteristic of a Morevi deep in meditation. His body did not tremble or twitch, and if not for the slight rising and falling of his shoulders, he almost appeared to be dead. Every inch of him was tense, his tight muscles straining as if being pulled from all angles.
In a sudden flourish of movement, he planted both hands on the ground and thrust himself upwards, smoothly untangling his legs and using momentum to force himself into a handstand. His eyes shifted to the plain tan wall opposite of the one his gaze had previously been fixed on. He remained upside down for many moments, breathing deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. In another rapid burst, he leaned forward and let his arms go limp, rolling forward and moving elegantly to his feet, his eyes lightly closed. Amir took a few more deep breaths before relaxing, all the muscles in his arms loosening and leaving a thin sheen of sweat.
Amir looked around the room, eyebrows raised as if surprised to find himself in the middle of the blank room. He did a few rudimentary stretches before slowly exiting the wooden door to his left. As he walked down the long chamber he unwrapped some of his traditional Morevi garb and dabbed at his face and arms with it. He had just finished wrapping the damp cloth around his shoulders when he began to climb a small set of stairs that caused him to emerge amongst the small stone-built huts that made up his village. He gave a long look around his surroundings, watching his kin wordlessly go about their tasks. The only sound that cut through the shuffling of mundane tasks was that of steel clashing in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to calm him deeply. He was drawn to it, pulled by the unseen music of metal on metal.
The young warrior wove through the desert landscape until he arrived at the source of the sound. A group of older Morevi men were crowded in a large circle, watching silently as two young men spun round and round in a flurry of complex movements, brandishing swords at one another. The two did not pant or grunt as their blades clashed and the only noise they made at all was the occasional sudden exhale as one of the weapons came dangerously close to flesh. Amir watched intently, once again feeling the sweat begin to bead on his head and back. He gently prodded one of the observers on the outside of the circle, giving him a questioning look. The man motioned silently to a pretty young girl who was standing on the outer limits of the circle, watching nervously with one hand covering her mouth.
Amir nodded casually. Domestic disputes were not uncommon amongst the Morevi and he had seen enough of these confrontations to know the inevitable outcome. His stomach dropped only for a minute before his adrenaline began to pump and he became just another face watching the two young men perform their inevitably tragic dance.
After a few long, tense moments, one of the young fighters misplaced his footing and found his sword three inches short of its mark. The other combatant did not miss his opportunity and changed the angle of his right-handed blade ever so slightly, slitting the throat of the loser. In the short span of three seconds, the man had delivered another two cuts: one to the stomach of the man and another to the back of his knee. The beaten Morevi fell to his knees, blood pouring from his throat and leg while his entrails spilled hopelessly onto the sand. The victor stood watching, no sign of triumph in his face, only mild passivity. For a while, all seemed still before he eventually bowed his head. Amir and the rest of the crowd did as well, silently paying homage to the fallen warrior. Slipping away as soon as the prayer was over, Amir felt a slight chill run up his spine before he re-composed himself. He had never gotten used to the sight of one Morevi taking the life of another.
Making his way slowly through the stone buildings he eventually came upon a non-descript building that looked the exact same as the rest. He laid a palm gently upon the door and pushed, entering and bowing his head in reverence to the older couple who sat at the wooden table in front of him.
“My son,” the father said in thick Morevi. He raised his hands and stood, approaching Amir and embracing him. “I hope your training today has gone well. Sit, eat with us.” Amir nodded, smiling calmly at his mother as he sat down opposite of her. He reached across the table to take her hand, rubbing it gently with his thumb.
“Mother, father,” he said softly. His voice felt thick and slow from disuse. “Talvir has asked me to do something for him,” he said, trailing off meaningfully.
* * *
“Amir, you have been a good pupil,” Talvir said heartily. The two sat across from each other in the plain tan room, both cross-legged. “You do not complain, you train hard, and you are determined. Most of all, you follow our code well. I have no doubt that you will become a truly great Mor’evar one day.” The man’s gruff voice made the compliment seem even more impressive.
“Thank you, sir,” Amir stated, bowing his head slightly.
“However,” Talvir interjected, holding up a single thick finger, “you lack one thing that is expected of all Mor’evar: knowledge of the world outside our village.” Talvir tugged at his graying beard and pulled roughly, turning his mouth into a frown.
“I do not understand, sir,” Amir said. “Mor’evar Reloth and Mor’evar Akoth have never ventured out of our walls, yet they hold great sway.”
Talvir spit. “Those two own their titles out of prestige, not skill. They come from families with many riches. Those titles mean nothing.” Amir stared at Talvir, his eyes searching the old man’s face. Eventually, Talvir sighed. “Amir, my boy, listen. Long ago, the Mor’evar protected our village from all evils. The only reason we triumphed over the other tribes was because of their prowess in combat. The fights you see amongst Morevi today in the streets are a mere shadow of what the Mor’evar were capable of when I was young,” Talvir said. Amir’s mind raced for a moment, trying to calculate the old man’s age. “The title has become watered down…ceremonial. That will not do. I wish for you to return glory to this name. You are not pompous and spoiled. You have a strong back and are willing to work. I sense it in you. You can…desterilize our people,” he said slowly, his mouth curling into a grimace as he uttered the last portion
Amir did not know what to make of this sudden proposal. He had been training for years under Talvir and had not once sensed the distaste that the old man had for those who shared his title. Perhaps sensing what Amir was thinking, Talvir let out a long sigh and rose to his feet.
“You do not have to go,” he said slowly. “However, I have always felt that travel is the only way to truly grow. You came to me seeking knowledge, wishing to be one of the legendary Mor’evar. I am offering you that opportunity. You must gain the knowledge necessary to protect your people. There is only so much I can teach you,” Talvir admitted, looking away from the young Morevi. “I fear that if you do not, I may not be around long enough to instruct another.”
Amir bowed his head and nodded, the weight of this sudden responsibility slowly starting to settle on his shoulders.
* * *
As Amir finished telling his parents the story, they both nodded in silent agreement, looking at one another.
“Amir, he speaks the truth. The fights I have seen lately, they are not what we witnessed growing up,” his mother said, her voice soft and chilling. “When I was young, the movements were beautiful and fluid. Now they are choppy, short, and vicious. The young, they maintain the pomp of it all, but they merely wish to see blood, they do not see the beauty of the fight.”
Amir nodded, avoiding their gazes and thinking back to the brutal efficiency with which he had witnessed a Morevi killed earlier. Looking back, the movements seemed to be compartmentalized, not part of one long pattern. There was a disconnect, as though the two fighters were trying to put together a puzzle with all the wrong pieces. It was wrong.
Nodding and rising from his seat, Amir stood confidently before his parents.
“I will go,” he stated. His parents watched him intently, both nodding and standing as well. The three embraced.
“When will you leave?” his father asked, wrapping one arm gently around Amir’s mother.
Staring at the two of them, he felt his shoulders rise into a subtle shrug.
“As soon as possible.”
Equipment/Inventory:
- Two average-quality iron falcatas known as "Re'li" and "Le'lar"
(OOC: I'm sorry if the history seems stunted or choppy...I have a lot of ideas for the Morveri but it was starting to get lengthy haha.)
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