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Post by Gamemaster on Apr 13, 2005 14:45:54 GMT -7
The mamluk Zhalum Al-Jambiya
Zhalum, affectionately called "Lum" by his comrades, was born of strife and raised by the lash. Taken from his home in the Orient when he had not reached 6 years of age, his childhood was one of discipline, training and oft times, pain. He as the others in training soon learned, you either played the game and do as you were told, or it was even worse. Lum trained as hard as he could, learning quickly that the better one did their duties, the less likely the chance of beatings were to occur. He had a certain affinity for the Jambiya, the wickedly curved dagger that would become his namesake-- It had been so many years and such hard training that he had forgotten both his first and last name, having been given a new one and having it drilled into his brain during the long relentless years of servitude. Servitude, a polite way of saying slavery. Zhalum had been indoctrinated into the Mamluk society when he had been captured some 14 years ago, and learned he would always be a Mamluk, a slave no matter what he did to try and better his situation. He came to slowly accept this, and now that he was with the Wanderer's, at least he had some freedom. With the Wanderer's he learned to sail and navigate, and to take every advantage of shore leave when given the chance. His life wasn't so bad, there were many that had it worse, as long as he could forget the few that had it much better, he could survive without going mad.
Zhalum is always attended by his novice in training, Amin, a slight, always dirty, youth with some notable skills.
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Post by Gamemaster on Apr 13, 2005 14:47:56 GMT -7
Lum sat crosslegged in a game of knucklebones. He'd just won his fourth throw of ten when Amin nudged him gently.
They were in a room on the second floor of the caravanserai, brightly lit by flickering oil lamps. There were four other travellers in the game; spread around the cosy room other small groups where sitting on pillows chatting and drinking coffee.
A man in a finely embroidered aba and keffiyeh stood in the doorway. The merchant who ran this coffee room rushed foward, his grin in danger of tearing his cheeks should it stretch any farther. "Ahh! Young Aswan bin Asab! May fortune shine upon you always."
The young man acknowledged the merchant with a nod and scanned the room. Spotting Lum and Amin in their mamluk garb, he strode forward.
"Two days ago, my falcon felled a pigeon during a hunt. The pigeon was found to have been a courier bearing a message sealed with a mamulk seal. Discribe your order's seal. If it matches, I'll entrust the message to you."
-- "You have described the seal," Aswan said, pulling a small tube from his robe and presenting it to Lum.
Lum recognized the unbroken seal as that of his order; after a moment's pause he accepted it.
Aswan shook his head with a smirk. "I was unaware that someone kept homing pidgeons here at Jamal Oasis. "Now there is a piece of information my uncle shall be interested in learning." He turned without further word and left the room.
Lum broke the seal and removed a small paper, folded many times over. It read: Wind of Fate slew Wanderer. Revenge demanded, discretion optional. Walking corpse soldiering for House Ashurim under the name of Siraj al-Leil
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