Arishok (mamasiha)
"Fixing your mess is not the demand of the Qun, and you should all be grateful!"
Status Alive
Race Kossith
Age 47
Birth Date {{{birthdate}}}
Gender Male
Sexual Orientation Asexual
Hometown Par Vollen
Residence Qunari Compound, Kirkwall
Affiliation The Qun
Occupation Arishok
Class Warrior
Specialization Arishok (sword and axe dual-wielder)
Gear Sataareth ("that which upholds", sword and axe pair)
Behind the Mask
Player Mamasiha
Face Claim N/A
Profile Link Here


The Arishok was patient. Has been patient. Will be patient, till the Qun demands something else of him. At the moment, he was satisfied with the progress the Compound had made. The Kithshok beside him oversaw the activity of the Beresaad, broken as it was.

They would recover soon. That was certain. Where they would find paint, weapons, equipment was less so. Where they would find the Tome-

Anger flickered in the back of his mind. Asit tal-eb. The words were a balm, and the irritation was never expressed; nonetheless, he could not block out all of Kirkwall.

The Tome. He would find it, soon. That too was certain. As inevitable as the rising summer storms. Despite the filth of the bas city, the ignorance and disease and the gutters literally choked with the dead and the dying, he would recover wisdom.

He did not speak. He did not need to. He was Arishok; and throughout the Compound each Qunari knew their place. Closing his eyes, the warrior could assume where each of his men would stand next. Their tasks were as predictable as the bas scrabbling at his gates. Human merchants, not true armaas. Weak. Flimsy. Loud.

Straightening, the Arishok pushed himself from the high steps. Every kossith in the compound froze, silent, attentive. With a slow wave of his hand, he dismissed their attention. The Kithshok was enough.

"Bar the gates. Post a guard. Tell the basra vashedan they have no place here." The irritation was bleeding through his voice; the Kithshok said nothing, only nodding his assent.

The city was so loud. Unstable refuse stacked upon refuse. And the people carved their small holes to snarl from, rising as a tide of filth at his gate.

The Arishok would not suffer fools. Crouching again on the steps, he turned his attention to the sea. It was the only peace in this wasteland.



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