Here he is. The first bloke so far.

[hider=Mustafa al-Everir]
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[b]- Name -[/b]
Mustafa al-Everir 

[b]- Appearance -[/b]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/mX589VP.png?1[/img]

A darker skinned tribesman from the deserts, he stands at five foot seven inches and has a slim stature. His clothing modifies depending on the geography of an area but he usually wears thick walking boots, loose-fitting breeches and a large backpack. His head is wrapped in a rough, white turban that he wears for cultural and practical reasons. If one were to remove it (and survive), they would see brown hair cropped close to his skull and darted with scars from wars in the desert. His eyes are a cold grey that starkly stand out on his brown, clean shaven face. Physically, his skinny frame and short stature make him seem rather unimposing but a frightful scowl and a cold look can make the bravest of thugs step aside. He is armed with a wicked-looking scimitar that hangs from one hip and carries only the bare essentials in his pack - a sleeping roll, some food, a skin of fresh water and small bag of coins.

[b]- Personality -[/b]
Mustafa is a serious and impatient man who has little time for simple etiquette such as small talk or silly mistakes. Years spent in the desert have hardened his resolve and his deep dislike for merry-making and horseplay. He cares for few in the world and even fewer care for him. While others in his band would spend their nights drinking and womanising, Mustafa would sip water and watch from afar. He likes to be in control of his senses and mind altering substances have no place in goblet in the evening. His serious and unsocial demeanour can put people off and that's exactly how he likes it. The tribesman's only goal is to collect money for the jobs he does - emotional attachments are not on his agenda.

[b]- Excerpt -[/b]
[b]Ten years prior to current day[/b]
At the break of dusk, the desert was beautiful. The moon lit up the the miles of dunes and illuminated the way for many travellers. Tucked away behind a dune, a small collection of tents had popped up overnight. Skinny cattle were herded into a temporary corral's next to horses and they watched curiously as the nights events unfolded in the centre of the camp site. The men had huddled around a tiny fire to keep out the cold that had came from the sky so suddenly. Deserts were infamous for their freezing conditions at night and that night was no different.

'Mustafa' said Asama, his mouth full of meat. Several rabbits had been caught by the long legged dogs the men had caught and despite the fact the rabbits had very little meat on them, all men relished them. Mustafa looked up from his meal to his companion. 'Asama?' he said quietly, already tired of the man's boyish antics. 'D'ya wanna hear a joke?' Asama smiled darkly, his teeth stained with the grease of the rabbits. Mustafa glared at him and looked back at his meal. The other men elbowed each other, smiling. Mustafa was a fun target in their childish jokes.

Asama swallowed and then started his joke. 'So a pit-pony walks into a tavern and sighs. The barman asks what's wrong and the pony replies 'My only friend is my mother. What do I do, barman?' The men were giggling now, anticipating the row that would erupt between Asama and Mustafa. Mustafa stayed quiet but only poked at his food. 'So the barman replies 'Your only friend is your mother? That means you have one more friend than Mustafa!' The group of six men burst into laughter while Mustafa clenched his teeth in anger. 'Be quiet' he spoke suddenly and coldly. The men laughed even harder.

Mustafa stood, clutching his half eaten rabbit and glared straight at Asama. 'For two weeks, I have listened to your childish jokes, Asama. They're growing thin and tired, just like my patience' with every word he waved the rabbit leg at Asama over the fire. The laughter amongst the other men quickly died down. 'C'mon, Mustafa, I'm only making the nights go quicker with laughter' giggled Asama. 'Well, it is not funny' growled the angry tribesman. Mustafa sat back down on his log and looked at the men around the fire. He hated every single one of them. Even if they were within the same tribe, they were all horrible to be around. Things grew silent around the fire once more par from the messy sound of the men eating.

'Mustafa, when we get home, maybe we can find you a wife. Or a friend' Asama burst out laughing as he said this joke. The other men did not laugh. They knew better than to provoke his Mustafa's anger any further. Mustafa dropped his rabbit leg to the sandy ground and stood. 'I warned you, Asama!' he snarled. As he done so, he pulled his scimitar from it's sheathe. The smile on Asama's face was quickly wiped off when he saw the scimitar. 'Brother Mustafa, I was only joking. We do not want to fight, do we?' said Asama with a rather passive-aggressive tone. Mustafa quickly stepped around the fire and held the tip of his scimitar to Asama's throat. 'Br-brother, killing our tribesmen is a crime' whimpered a boy behind Mustafa. Asama's eyes bulged as he stared defiantly at Mustafa. 'I dare you, Mustafa' he sneered. 'I bloody dare you'. Mustafa's breathing slowed down slightly and his sword arm dropped to his side. He looked at his boots and murmured 'I'm going to bed'.

And with that, the future mercenary turned his heel and walked into his tent. Curled under the furs and clutching his scimitar, Mustafa cried that night. It was the last time he ever cried. For he knew that all those jabs about his loneliness were true. He had no friends, no lovers and most of all, no family. 
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