At a height of about 6' 2'' and with dusky complexion, Wajih matched all of the desirable traits of the masculine variety, in being tall, dark, and handsome. Shortly cropped hair was kept neatly combed and his bear appeared to undergo daily maintenance aswell with a plethora of trimmers and scissors. Nothing in the chap's mannerisms suggested that he payed any attention to his appearance, but everything about his grooming did. On close inspection, even his nails turned out to always be clean and neatly cut, filed at the end into perfect roundness. But the pleasantness very much stopped there, as near every last part of the Sabani native was riddled with some manner of marking or another. Where ink didn't adorn his deeply tanned skin, scars and welts left behind by a whip did it. Wished one the most graphic evidence of the torture the gent had gone through, they needed only to look at his back, where licks from flogs and canes had painted a map of scars. - And where there were not scars, there were fresh wounds, done over with a rubbing of salt to ensure that they would not only heal ugly, but painfully so aswell.

Despite it all, Wajih never seem plaqued by too much discomfort when he hung around the foreign city of Sinfar, 'less he was busily occupied with some manner of self torture however; like squeezing the stilks of roses, or adjusting the thick metal bracers he wore. Close inspection of said bracers hardly revealed their purpose, but the occasional trickle of blood which fell from hidden wrist and onto hands so done over in ink that they were nearly more black and red than not, gave hint to the spikes upon the inside of the gauntlets. But Wajih never sniffed nor whimpered. Rather, he seemed clear of mind and without troubeling thoughts, at ease and peace with his current situation. It all made sense when the occasionally worn pin depicting the nine-tailed bone whip of Loviatar was spotted. Cultist, cleric, or simply follower, he excersized daily self torture and the scent of fresh blood was in constant battle with the heavy aroma of spice, incense, and tobacco smoke that hung about a strong and broadly built man.

Perhaps charms were his tool, as his face was smooth of skin and handsomly sharp in its features; this particular part of him left free from any visible markings following torture or torment. And whilst his tongue wasn't really silver, it was pierced with exactly that, thick stud pushed through the muscle to adorn it, shown off when he spoke or found the need to wetten rather thick lips. Between dark skin, strickingly dim eyes, and a style of clothing which served the practical purpose of being light and airy, his Sabani heritage was evident at first glance, for anyone with the knowledge of the desert city, and it's customs. But he couldn't be purely Sabani, 'less it was his goddess who had granted him the wicked horns that curled back from forhead, and spiraled into thin points above his skull. Who knew where they were from.