This weathered old mutt couldn't look more out of place in Sinfar if he tried.

Bazi is crass, blunt, and thoroughly uninterested in softening either his words or his presence for anyone. He cuts against the grain of this island paradise like a rusted blade - and seems perfectly content doing so.

He dresses in battered leathers and a mismatched patchwork of light armor, each piece clearly scavenged and added over years of hard living. His long mane hangs in thick, matted dreads, woven through with fetishes, charms, and the occasional trophy that hints at a violent history. Beneath that coarse auburn fur, a map of old scars traces itself across his entire body - the kind that can only be earned through years of steel and survival.

Most of those years were spent fighting a war he never believed in. The cruelest joke life ever played on him was letting him walk away from it - older, grayer, and marooned in a world that has no use for what he knows.

These days, the salty old bastard drinks too much and talks fondly of times that were almost certainly worse than he remembers.

//Portrait a WIP