Asim

[Syiedthebard]

Character: Asim

Account: Syiedthebard

(Summary at the bottom)

"Oh, Frizzy. So frizzy. You're my little Frizzy. Yes you are."

Thay

_A woman loomed over her child in the dark. Meticulous, scripted, she stroked his hair. It was but a thin, frizzy layer covering his head, while her own hair was a long, tangled mess. Around their necks and wrists were iron shackles. There was a creak, and a door opened, pouring blinding white light into the cold, metal room. The woman immediately arched herself over the child, looking through metal bars with maddened eyes.
"You will not take him! He is my Frizzy! He is mine! You will not touch my child! You…" the woman screamed relentlessly at the open door. The boy only stirred slightly. Two silhouettes entered. One spoke coldly.
"Take the boy to be processed. Take the girl to the slaughterhouse. If we're lucky, we'll find a necromancer who will take her off our hands."
The other figure nodded and went to unlock the cage. Without prompting nor hesitation, he struck the woman in the face with a rod. She fell to the floor of the metal cage and reeled with pain while the man took the young child, who was now awake, but dazed, and carried him out of the darkness. Soon after, another man came to drag the incapacitated woman away.

The boy opened his eyes. Instantly he shut them, blinded by overwhelming light. After a few moments, he slowly reopened them. He could not see where he was. He could only see two men far above him. One was a black and red form. Frizzy saw that the man was speaking to someone, so he followed his stare to the target of the man's attention. Then he saw a man in black and green robes. Noticing Frizzy's consciousness, the man knelt. He must have been a giant before, as his descent from that high, adult place to the lowly pit where Frizzy currently existed seemed eternal.
"You will learn to fear Bane, boy," the man said with a twisted smile, his face nearly touching Frizzy's. The other man spoke, then, holding his hand out as if to present the robed one.
"Meet your new master: Eston."

__

"Jeb. Take this message to the lieutenant."
"Yes, master."_ Anauroch, The Black Road

_The child was now a young boy. He was no longer his mother's Frizzy. He was Jeb. Swiftly, clad in loose, dark clothes, Jeb dashed out of Eston's prim office. Barefoot, he ran down a long, empty corridor. A figure in a black, armoured shell abruptly emerged from a room off of the corridor. Jeb nearly crashed into the figure, and he immediately prostrated himself, his forehead pressed into the lavish carpet.
"The Black Lord take me if I have inconvenienced you, Ser!" pleaded Jeb preemptively. The armoured figure was completely silent, but it looked over its shoulder, finding the corridor empty besides the two of them. Then it knelt by Jeb and removed its gnarled helmet. It was a woman with a striking, but gentle face. She put a finger over her mouth and shushed him.
"Bane will not take you, child. But Ilmater will look after you through your strife," said the woman with an angel's voice. She lifted Jeb's chin and stared into his distraught eyes, as if to measure his suffering. Then she took his hand and placed a red string in it, then put her finger over her mouth again for emphasis, winking. With that, she stood, donned her black helmet again, and left.

Jeb sat there, contemplating the red string and the woman's words, but his fear of Eston's wrath reminded him that he should deliver the message. So, he pocketed the string and continued down the corridor, this time at a slightly slower pace, to deliver Eston's message to the lieutenant.

__

"Slay them! Let not the Bedine misunderstand that they could possibly stand against the Zhentarim!"_

Anauroch, The Sword

_Arrows flew. Jeb took cover, unarmed and unarmoured, hoping that he would not catch an arrow or be mistaken as a combatant. In front of him, Eston roared, his hands radiating light of many colors, terrible magic of countless varieties spewing forth. Jeb peeked through Eston's legs and saw bronze-skinned men with scimitars charging them. The Bedine.
"Ilmater preserve me, Ilmater preserve me," Jeb repeated to himself, rocking back and forth on his knees as the battle raged. Zhentarim behind him and on his flanks flung spells and arrows at the Bedine. They threw themselves, sword in hand, at their attackers, each side hacking at limbs with scimitar or longsword, or penetrating flesh with spear or bolt. A horn blew, and for a moment, it was all he could hear. Then an arrow struck Eston, and then another, and a spear.
Jeb ran. He tried to find a safe corner of the battlefield, but there were no such places. The Zhentarim now mixed with the Bedine. One Bedine turned and looked at him for a moment before charging at him. Jeb glanced around desperately and spotted a curved Bedine sword on the ground. The enemy soldier swung his own scimitar down at Jeb, but Jeb dove for the sword.

His foot was cut by the soldier's sword, but Jeb stood, now armed. They gauged eachother for a moment. The Bedine soldier was a fit, capable warrior. Jeb was but a young boy. Still the soldier inched towards Jeb and swiped at him. Jeb narrowly ducked and grabbed a handful of sand. As he rose, he tossed the sand into the warrior's face. The warrior stumbled back, and Jeb took the opportunity to dash forward and cleave the man's side. The man wailed in agony and fell, writhing in the sand and clutching his side.
Immediately Jeb backed away and hunched over to vomit. Then he raised his head, but remained hunched, clutching his sword. Only then did he realize that all of the Zhentarim had been killed. The sand was red with their blood. The remaining Bedine all looked at him, slowly approaching with spears and scimitars at the ready. One stepped forward and reared a javelin, but another Bedine man stopped him, took the javelin, and with dead accuracy threw it at Jeb, piercing his leg. Now it was Jeb's turn to wail in agony.

The interloping Bedine shouted something in their tongue, and the army yielded. He slowly approached Jeb. Meanwhile, the boy was working the javelin out of his leg, gritting his teeth through the pain. Eventually he removed it and looked at the Bedine man. Their eyes met. The Bedine's were like stone, inspecting Jeb. The chance of survival was low. The best he could do was die fighting to the last breath. Jeb hurled the javelin at the man.
The man leaned to the side, evading the javelin, and laughed. But it was not a derisive laugh. Rather, he seemed amused by Jeb's tenacity. He stepped lazily forward until the two were very close, then swept Jeb's feet and pinned him to the ground, his forearm pressing against Jeb's throat.
"You are very interesting foreigner, boyyah. Only a child, yet you slay Bedine. Your skin like night, but Black Robes skin white like moon. Tell Nasser, boyyah. What is name?"
"My master calls me Jeb." The man paused, and looked over his shoulder, saying something in Midani with a grin on his face. The other warriors all laughed in unison, long and hard. Some fell to their knees laughing. But their laughter soon turned into an amused sort of rage. They scoured the Zhentarim until one tore a head from its body. Eston's head. The warrior brought it forth to Nasser, who still bore down on Jeb with his weight.
"This your master, boyyah? He is dead now. Nasser does not ah-like the slave-takers. So he will make the boyyah Bedine. You are Jeb no longer. Now you are Asim."

__

"Asim, Asim! A gift for you!"_

Anauroch, The Sword

_Asim set a bucket of water on the ground and stood up. Unlike his Bedine peers, he was tall and dark-skinned with a shaven head, save for a thin, frizzy layer of black hair, though he kept it covered with a yellow turban which fell over his shoulders like wings. He was nearly a man, now, but retained a distinctly boyish lankiness. A comely Bedine girl ran at him, her head uncovered and her arms and legs bare. She crashed harmlessly into him and presented him with a golden amulet.
"For you, Asim!" she said eagerly. They spoke now in Midani, though Asim's was accented slightly by Common.
"I cannot, Aisha. You know this. Now quickly, clothe yourself before Sheikh Nasser sees you." Aisha frowned and hung her head, bumping her forehead against Asim's chest.
"I know you cannot, Asim. I am sorry. But sometimes I feel as though the tribe does not show its appreciation for you," Aisha dejectedly clarified. Asim took one step back and lowered his head slightly.
"I am the one who should show his appreciation. Without the tribe, I would either be dead or enslaved. You owe me nothing."

Aisha nodded slowly and walked away, holding the amulet against her chest. Asim was not truly a Bedine. He was an exception. He could not fight, nor bear arms. He could not display his wealth, nor obtain any in significant quantities. And he could not marry, unless the sheikh himself arranged the wedding. Asim finished his daily chores and made his way through the tribe's circle of tents. He came upon the sheikh's tent and announced his presence before entering.
Nasser appeared to be alone in the tent.
"My duties are complete for today. Are there any more tasks for me?" asked Asim.
"Yes," responded Nasser. "I would like you to meet someone. An outlander. But first, I would like to know. Asim, is it your wish to marry Aisha?"
Asim did not appear surprised, nor did he seem particularly pleased with the question.
"What my wishes are is beside the point. I believe Aisha wishes to marry me, but I will do nothing without your approval, Sheikh."
"Well, I approve. But I merely wanted to confirm this before you meet this outlander. Ser, if you will."

Nasser addressed someone behind a curtain off to side of the tent. The curtain drew and a white-skinned man with long, dark hair and a weathered, old face bowed his head to Asim. He was dressed as the Bedine did, in light robes, but there was steel-colored plate armour beside him.
"Asim, this is Heral Westerley," Nasser introduced the man.
"A pleasure to meet you, Asim," Heral said in Midani. This took Asim by surprise, and he gave Heral a curious look. Then he turned to Nasser wordlessly, though his face betrayed his question. Nasser answered preemptively.
"Ser Heral has come here seeking candidates for training in an outlander god's name. But the purpose is quite align with our thinking. He wishes to take recruits to be trained to fight magic-wielders. I have volunteered you as a candidate."

Asim might have frozen in fear or be outraged, but instead he calmly lowered his head to Nasser.
"Then I shall go with Ser Heral and do as he asks of me." This most certainly did not surprise Nasser. He turned to Heral, as if to gloat over Asim's loyalty and obedience. Heral and Asim left that night without goodbyes or formalities. Asim took nothing with him but a red string.

__

"You must be ever vigilant. The threat of magic looms everywhere."_

Unther

_A stern, grey old man stood, lecturing to a group of young men and women. Among them was Asim. The lecturer spoke of mages who had abandoned their establishments, betrayed their loyalties, and gone rogue to fulfill their grandoise ambitions of conquest and the acquisition of power. This was one of many lessons Asim had learned since he came to the monastery. The monastery was underground, both literally and figuratively. In a land such as Unther, it was without doubt that an order dedicated to the suppression of mages would not be allowed to exist.

Yet the monastery persisted. Its inhabitants were servants of Helm, trained rigorously to hunt and kill "renegade" arcanists and clerics of magically deviant gods such as Velsharoon or Shar. Some did not survive the training. But Asim managed. There was no love there. Only cold reality and duties to perform. It was a familiar environment for Asim.

Asim's body and mind became a sharp weapon. He and his compatriots were Helm's weapons, and for ten years they sharpened themselves until they could cut through any mage with only their hands and their willpower. At first, there were meditations in the morning, prayer, chants, prayer, training, prayer, and study. Eventually prayer ceased to exist. Everyone knew that they were in Helm's hands now. Chants ceased to be a formal, group event. During study or idle time, they would chant to themselves. The monastery's halls echoed with the unified song of isolated individuals. Eventually, they knew only demanding training, death, and the calm, cold reminder of their service that was their song.

And when the time came that Asim's training was complete, he saw the cold, grey monastery, and nearly forgot that he had known a place beyond it. But his mind was focused utterly on his duty, now. It was his duty to go, with his training, and defend the world from those who would take magic and use it to destroy and conquer. Banites, Zhentarim, Liches, Red Wizards - they were to be culled and maintained, lest there arise another Karsus.

__

"I will consume you, as I have consumed so many. And I will continue to consume, until all the world, all gods, and all that can be eaten sits in my fat belly."_

Thay _Asim panted, wiping blood and charred skin from his mouth. He was bare-chested and bloodied - a man, now. A fair distance away from him was a Red Wizard, his robes torn and his face bruised. They had been fighting for hours. The sun was high in the sky and the ground had been scorched and broken by fire and explosions. The sparse foliage had been drained of life and withered. Dead birds littered the battlefield.
The Red Wizard was catching his breath. Asim had already caught his. He dashed forward, quick as a lion, and plunged his fist into the wizard's stomach. The wizard spat and held his hands out, fingers splayed, instantaneously spewing forth a fan of flames which, at close range, burned Asim's eyes. Half-blind, Asim prepared for another assault, but wizard clasped his hands together and disappeared, reappearing uneasily atop a large boulder.
From there he rained ice and fire on Asim, but the Helmite killer was able to narrowly avoid the spells. He climbed the boulder under a siege of negative energy and relentless spell casting. Finally, he reached the top and tackled the wizard.

They both fell off the tall boulder, landing with a painful, bone-cracking thud. Asim had the wizard by the collar and was choking him to death, but the wizard struggled. He dug his fingers into Asim as he suffocated. There was a bright flash of purple light, and Asim flew back against the boulder. He lie there unconscious for some time, but when he awoke, he saw that the wizard was dead in front of him. He tried to move, but his body failed him. He tried again, and was barely able to drag himself over to the wizard's body.
Asim took the wizard's head in his hands and twisted it sharply, snapping his neck to ensure that the villain was dead. Then, a magical door opened in the battlefield, and a Thayvian stepped out of it. That was bad news. Asim could not fight now. He could barely move.

With a final burst of energy, Asim slipped behind the boulder, hoping that the Thayvian - now there were two, and their numbers were growing - had not seen him. Whether or not they had, he ran north, putting as much distance between himself and the Red Wizard's allies as possible. After a lengthy retreat, he found himself in Narfell, battered and exhausted. There he would lick his wounds and recover from the battle. He no longer felt whole._

__

Human male, 29 years old

He was born a slave, to a slave mother in Thay. A member of the Zhentarim ("Eston") purchased him at the age of five, using him as a messenger and general servant. They went to Anauroch immediately, and remained for five years in the service of the Zhentarim. At the age of eleven, a tribe of Bedine slew his master, liberated him, and took him into the tribe. His role did not change much; he remained a message-runner for the sheikh and errand boy for the tribe.

There were special rules placed upon him: he could not marry anyone within the tribe unless specifically appointed to by the sheikh; he could not bear arms, and could only serve a noncombatant role in raids; he must not display wealth and he may not obtain it in any great quantity.

He received his own tent and was expected to pull his weight. In return, he was afforded the basic privileges of a tribesman. When he was fifteen, a foreign man approached the tribe. He told the tribe that he had come for candidates for an obscure pseudo-order of Helm's. The candidates would be trained to locate and detain or destroy dangerous or renegade arcanists. Fond of the idea, the sheikh gave Asim to the Helmite.

From there, Asim and Heral, the Helmite, went to Unther. Asim was introduced to an underground monastery, where he would spend the next ten years learning how to locate, distinguish, and combat "renegade" arcanists, and any others deemed magical threats by the order. He studied Liches, Velsharoon, Mystra, sorcery, and all things pertaining to dangerous magic, as to be better able to confront it. He was taught to regard magic as a troublesome, often dangerous power which must be kept in check, lest another Karsus arise.

At the age of twenty-five, Heral deemed Asim's formal training complete and sent him to perform his duty of hunting arcanists. For four years, Asim did so, spending most of his time in Unther, Mulhorand, and Thay. However, during his last encounter - a conflict with an ambitious Red Wizard of Thay (the Red Wizards were common targets for his order) - he was overwhelmed and nearly killed. Asim barely managed to kill the Red Wizard, but the battle left him terribly weakened and injured. With the Red Wizard's allies on his tail, and without enough strength to fight them, Asim fled to Narfell. There he hoped to recover and take refuge from the Thayvians.

His faith has been morphic. In his years as a slave, he was taught to fear Bane. However, as he grew, he quickly ignored these teachings, secretly worshipping Ilmater in hopes that his life as a slave would be made less miserable. He retained his faith in Ilmater until he was taken by Heral to the monastery, where he converted to Helm.

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[Black Rider]

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