[@Shift][@Penny][@Gunther]
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[i]~ Art by Bogdan Marica ~ (ArtStation)[/i]
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Naakesh Kaanada had always been a man that wanted more. After the death of his father Naakesh became the new head of his noble family and inherited his fathers’ wealth and estate and of course the title of Zemida. Naakesh secured greater riches and local influence by marrying the eldest daughter of the Thukar of Jadchabi, the woman baring for him his son and twin daughters. The Thukar granted Naakesh and his house land to cultivate and farm as well as a handful of ships which Naakesh used as his own merchant fleet. The lands gifted were fertile and offered fine harvests and Kaanada’s trade fleet brought him great boons, turning the once rural domain of the Kaanada into a bustling hive of commerce. And yet the ambitious Zemida was not satisfied. 

Naakesh wanted more - wealth and influence while ideal did not give him the satisfaction he sought. Even at new height the Kaanada name remained as something of a mumble, a lesser noble house in a land of powerful men with lineages steeped in acclaim and honor. Naakesh wanted for his house to be remembered in history, for the name Kaanada to be spoken with respect and carry through the generations.

When Queen Sakshi was murdered and Baneghora became rifted by infighting Naakesh, like his father-in-law, remained neutral amid the conflict. Neither stood behind Peshwa Kalap Thachil who had declared himself the new ruler in the absence of a royal heir but nor did they offer any support to the coalition that sought to remove him. Despite pressure from both factions they remained out of the conflict and instead fortified their own holds to their best.

Seeing an opportunity to forward himself while the other nobles  destroyed each other Naakesh set out across the sea for Dahard, leaving his wife and children under the safeguard of his father-in-law. When asked why he would turn to foreign shores when his homeland was in flames Naakesh merely replied, “When the smoke passes and the sword has been sheathed I will return a victor with new lands for Baneghora and a new House Kaanada.”

After a swift journey across the Umurud Sea the Baneghorans landed on the shores of Dahard. Naakesh founded the fledgling colony of Kaganja, building it upon the reconstructed ruins of an ancient stronghold. For the last year he has worked to continue growing the colony while securing his new “borders” and making alliances with the local tribes. His scouts span the desert searching for ancient ruins to explore and suitable locations for future settlements. While no shortage of problems have arisen over the many months the Baneghorans adapt as needed and with each step forward Naakesh sees his intents bearing their first buds.

Naakesh stood in his throne room, little more than a modest chamber that had centuries before most likely served as a mustering hall for soldiers. A simple dais draped with fine silk curtains sat at the back of the circular chamber surrounded by ornamental plants and lamps to give some life to the otherwise dull gray room. While not the lavish spread that the nobleman had always been akin to it suited enough and even motivated him in a simple way.

In the Zemida’s company were his ratham - or second - his scribe, commander, and treasurer. Having just spent the better part of the afternoon deliberating with his advisors on one thing after another Naakesh was rather grateful to be interrupted by one of his guards who informed him that three people had arrived to see him. “A man and two women,” said the guard, “they look rather strange. Not locals I think, and they desire an audience with you, [i]meesathir.[/i]”

His guard having addressed him in the Equarish tongue was understanding enough and with a wave and a nod Naakesh signaled that the three be allowed in as he seated himself on his dais, his advisors stepping to the sides.
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[@POOHEAD189]
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[i]~ Art by Olga Ok ~ (ArtStation)[/i]
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[url=https://i.ibb.co/4tnPhdW/D91-EC015-1560-4-D91-91-D3-E445-BFC19369.jpg]Okan the Four-Eyed[/url] was at the least a mystery. For as long as any could remember the masked man had lived in Arilquas, one of the few dozen permanent residents of the lordless outpost. Were one to ask what his profession was one would get many answers as Okan has many professions. Appraiser, trader, fortune-teller, storyteller, herbalist, and job broker among other things. While he has no shortage of dealings and arrangements Okan also is not lacking in enemies. Many call him a charlatan and accusations against him span from forgery to swindling. And yet he has no lack for returning and loyal customers who defend him as an honest and reputable proprietor. And where kind words and loyal backers do not help, hired swords do.

Those who do not hate Okan either admire him as a sage-like figure or look at him with timid curiosity. Few have ever seen his face, those who claim to ironically can never describe it even when pressed. This and his honeyed speech, natural charisma, and magical abilities only enforce his mystical air.

Shrewdness is perhaps Okan’s greatest quality. His knack for picking out ideal - or gullible - people, or his ability to play nearly any happening to the best possible outcome for himself. His wit is near as sharp as tongue, and his eyes sharper. Such as now when Okan spotted a particularly dark looking man walking through the market in the direction of his stall, a blade at his hip and a look of seediness about him. To most the man might pass as a mercenary or a wary traveler, perhaps an explorer. But Okan knew footpads and killers when he saw them. And they always made for interesting trades, or even agreements.

[i]“Hlahna wazahanir, bradas ti muhawar?”[/i] Okan asked aloud as the man drew near.

Okan made a sweeping motion across the various goods and baubles on the table before him. Tonics, herbal extracts, odd pairs of clothing such as shoes, scarfs, or turbans, and cheap looking jewelry. Four guards stood vigilant nearby, two behind Okan and one on either side of him, his own hired men. They were equipped with simple leather padding for armor but wore bracers and helms of steel and at their hips rested glinting scimitars. All four watched for any pickpockets or thieves that might try and steal from their employer, their eyes hard and peering.

“Look here,” Okan said aloud in Equarish, determined to capture the attention of the garbed man, “[i]this[/i] might suit you, good master.” The masked man raised a small vial of a clear-yellow liquid, giving it a slight shake. “An elixir that gives one great stamina. Run for miles before tiring, or walk the deserts without fear of exhaustion. Fair price! Nothing like it anywhere else! You do look like a man that could put it to use, yes?”
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[@Kassarock][@Fetzen]
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“Someone call the guards!” snarled a patron, irritated at the presence of the large beggar. 

“He gets nothing free!”

“Layabout pig!”

The jeers and agitated shouts continued. In Tawr beggars were far and few and were seen as, not just the sod of the earth, but blasphemers. Those who dwelled in the lands of the Maatrho and contributed nothing were reviled, especially those who [i]asked for anything while giving nothing.[/i] In Tawr the large man would have been either killed on the spot or hauled away in chains at best.

Qadir, while considered part of the Maatrho’s kingdom, still had not adopted much of Tawrish custom, including the worst of it. Qadir was changing in time to be more like a Tawrish town but the transition was slow in many aspects, and as much as they loathed the handfuls of beggars and urchins that lined the alleys and streets the guards - and the Imit - knew better than to lead some “purge” against the dirt dwellers of Qadir. The natives, even those who had conformed to the ways of Tawr, would not accept this in the end. Not yet. 

But the shouts at Harwa had caused enough of a stir to draw the attention of two guards who pushed their way through the bead curtains into the taverna, eyes determined and spears gripped tightly in their hands. On seeing the large brute of a man in the middle of the room they instantly recognized him. While the two were not the same guards that had driven Harwa from his previous begging spot they had indeed seen him about before, and now - with eagerness - they had an opportunity to clear the streets of Qadir of a particular large piece of filth that was heckling a proprietor in his establishment. The patrons had all quieted down, their sneering and insults ended. The taverna was noiseless, not even the [i]clunk[/i] of cups against the tables could be heard. The bar keeper stood silent, hands pressed white against the counter as he watched the unfolding scene before him. 

The two guards were not heavily armed, carrying only their spears and a rounded shield of hide. Their only armor a pair of iron bracers and shin guards. Both had hard looks of contempt and disgust as they looked at Harwa. Lowering their spears halfway, one stepped forward addressing the beggar man, “You continue to be a plague on Qadir.”

The guard let his words resonate for a moment before continuing, “For someone who seems capable of only begging in the streets you are quite… filled.” The man eyed Harwa up and down, as he had the times before he had seen him begging in the streets. No one could be so large and healthy just by pinching coins from the overly sympathetic in the streets. Was this man a brigand? A thief?

“What have you there?” The second guard spoke up, indicating towards Harwa’s large bundle he lugged. Both guards eyed it suspiciously, the first stepping closer to Harwa, ”Relinquish it.”

[hr]
[@Kassarock]
[b]A. Intimidation Check (Athletics + Intimidation)
B. Persuasion Check (Charisma + Persuasion)
C. Deception Check ( Charisma + Deception)
D. Attack
E. Submit[/b]
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[@Force and Fury]
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Mamuno "the Grim" as he was known had been the Imit of Qadir for nearly twenty years, and it was little to his liking. When Tawr was driven from Dahard only Qadir remained under the Maatrho's control, an outlier town little more than some caravan stop. It's people clinging desperately to their strange and profane ways paying only lip service to the divine king, never truly appreciating all their new lords had given them. Mamuno often wondered if this was some form of punishment, perhaps he had not roused the Maatrho's anger but one of the other gods whom had told the living deity to do this to him. To push him to the edge of holy civilization charged with herding the ignorant goats that were the natives. Constantly under threat of bandits or monsters with no real army to properly defend the settlement. 

But what good was it to lament? It did nothing the last twenty years and it would do nothing now. Mamuno had been given his role by the Maatrho and like any proper servant to the divine he was to do as expected; keep order, educate, and bring the Maatrho's light to the lost. If they did not accept it at first, one gave them time, if they still did not accept - then they are unworthy of the gift of life given by the gods. The only reason Mamuno had not put the sword to the town was fear of the Maatrho’s judgement for such a rash action. The people were in some way coming around, the ways of Tawr slowly becoming their own, even if too slow. To execute them all now and destroy the town would be a waste as they still had some scrape of potential. 

Like any proper servant of the divine, or ruler for that matter, Mamuno also rewarded those whom did him and the Maatrho a service. So when approached that morning by his guards and informed that some stranger had saved his personal scribe from an attack Mamuno felt obligated to reward their efforts. Even in the event such an act was coincidental or in blissful ignorance. The guard did as commanded and brought the scribe and his savior before the Imit, who was both surprised and intrigued that the savior in question was a fire blooded half-jinn. And a woman at that. 

She stood before the him, or rather beneath him at the foot of the small staircase that ascended to his throne. The man she had saved stood at her side, behind them two opposite columns of ten guards that reached to the far doorway, the personal guard of the Imit. Silent and still as statues, their only lot to defend the overseer of Qadir. 

Mamuno finally spoke, not to the woman but to his scribe, “This is the one?” A simple nod in response. Mamuno then looked to the half-blood, like his guards seemingly frozen where he sat, unmoving. His eyes took in what he saw, she was very beautiful no doubt. Her visage like that of any of her kind making her fire plane heritage obvious. With a slight exhale the Imit stood but did not descend, rather speaking to the Ayiralite, “I thank you for saving the life of one of my most trusted. Who are you? What brings you here?”
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