Born to a family of farmhands in a hereditary society, one where every person knew the part they were meant to take, leads many youths toward resentment. Albeit norm in Kozakuran culture positions traditional values such as honor and family ahead of personal ambition, it is not uncommon for dissidents to pursue acquisitive quests for glory or wealth or a simple elevation of societal status. More often than not, such youths are considered rebellious and are frowned upon. Some are even cast out, exiled even, unwanted by their masters or their family. Beyond the isles making up their home, they are foreigners and outlaws, vagabonds and mercenaries. With no place to belong to, the only side they can rely upon is their own.
With correct geographical know-how or cultural understanding, perhaps vocational connections, it is easy to spot such a foreign misfit in these parts. The tattered attire most wear is like a brand of shame stuck between functionality and tradition. Though some discard it, it is usually a rarity. Their accent and upbringing is a focal point in conversations and is usually a giveaway because of the concrete way of thinking they are taught since childhood.

This man bears such markings. His hair is ashen black in color, like the long-before cindered remains of a tree struck by lightning. His green eyes project a strange intensity and inner conflict. Although he tries to carry himself with dignity, his walk is laden - perhaps metaphorically - with inner turmoil. His attire, if you can call it so, is made up of simple articles of clothing, notably with some haphazardly acquired rags giving way to function. Through gaps in his attire, parts of his body show most of the scarring upon it - possibly from battle. A sash, holding a simple blade.

Such is the way of a man attempting to both find his way and lose it in tandem.