<b>Name:</b><div style="text-align: right">Shazad-al-Qadir, “Wind-Thief of the Thousand Kumar’a Deserts”​</div><b>Age:</b><div style="text-align: right">Visual appearance of mid-thirties, actual age around the early three hundred.​</div><b>Race:</b><div style="text-align: right">An odd type of planar genie with a penchant for trespassing onto all sorts of worlds.​</div><b>Measurements:</b><div style="text-align: right">He has enough.​</div><b>Fetishes:</b><div style="text-align: right">[Rough][Straight][Dominance][Excessive Cum][Multiple Partners][Oral][Master/Slave/Servant]​</div><br/><div style="text-align: center"><b>Description:</b>​</div><br/>Standing at 1,85m, ‘al-Qadir the Wind-Thief tends to impose a stoic presence wherever he ventures.<br/><br/>He’s of a heavy, chiselled and muscular build which, in combination with his height, adds to a massive characteristic. Intricate henna tattoos snake across his olive-brown skin on chest, arms and up the sides of his neck, depicting intricate, otherworldly black patterns. A series of black dots surround each outwards side of his eyes additionally, giving him a strange, tribal impression.<br/><br/>His long, jet black hair is packed neatly in under a black turban with an intricate, golden sun-shaped buckle fastening the drapes. His ears are pierced with five golden studs running along their edges, mimicking the two golden, miniscule and barely noticeable studs pierced through his right nostril.<br/>The facial features are sharp; his jaw is somewhat narrow and his nose bridge long, giving him a hawk like expression in combination with relatively small, often squinting eyes. Often his expression is that of subtle disdain of his surroundings; a disdain that most often was a quite accurate portrayal of his emotions.<br/><br/>He sports a well-trimmed short-boxed beard, one braid extending a few inches from his chin ending in a dazzling small ruby.<br/>None of this would betray his actual heritage as something fantastical, were it not for his perpetually molten, glowing orange iris’ that seemed to produce a constant, thin haze that always strove upwards. They had this tendency to peer at people with a subtle, piercing and by all means judgemental curiosity not as much with the intention of connecting, but more with the attention of identifying danger.<br/><br/>He usually wears a deep burnt-orange vest with intricate, leaf-life patterns woven into the fabric with an almost identical colour of thread, giving said designs an illusionary character; you could just make them out in the right lighting, but they’d as easily fade on a second glance. The vest was often buttoned up with pitch-black buttons.<br/>On his legs, he’s often seen in large, dull-black harem trousers ending in golden turn-ups. A viciously studded belt serves as a fastener, often carrying the weight of a great deal of different potions and concoctions as well as his large, ceremonial curved sabre. Additionally, a book giving allusions to your classical prayer book hung on the opposite side of his sabre-sheath.<br/><br/>Across all this, a simple brown robe is often draped with some obscure insignia woven into its linen surface; presumably a hint of his heritage. Additionally, a dull-black scarf almost always drapes across his mouth and just above his nose-tip.<br/>If one’s lucky, it’s possible to see him with his pet familiar – a sleek, wide-eyed and sly-looking red weasel that often draped himself across the mans’ shoulders, peering with an expression that suggests far more sentience and intelligence than what normally befits a rodent like this.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><b>______<br/>
</b>​</div>When travelling so liberally between worlds, one had a tendency of stumbling into what Shazad was taught to be called “Planar Nexuses”; worlds and domains with so transparent metaphysical boundaries, you’d much more likely stumble into them than anywhere you wanted to go if dabbling in plane-travel. Fortunately, most of these ghostly concentration-points were habitable for most travellers, so the mere action of entering them was relatively harmless. Unfortunately, exactly because they were habitable, every walk of life, unlife and that odd thing in between would converge on these places and make it something of a challenge to survive.<br/><br/>What was considered powerful for one particular existence could easily wind up inconsequential when compared to another; Shazad had learnt this the hard way – from where he came from, his kind was justly feared for their mystic and perceived quasi-god-like powers. But in a world were “magic”, whichever size such word described, was almost exclusively reserved for a few species, it was relatively easy to impress.<br/>But strip away the comfortable non-physical boundaries and visit some other worlds, and one would soon learn that what you measured as strong, might not be so intimidating as you’d like.<br/><br/>He had his ways of surviving, yes. Some quite beneficial tricks up his sleeve in case things got ugly; but he’d learn never to underestimate even the most timid of creatures.<br/><br/>He often speculated whether this rugged realism was the reason he still had the good graces of breathing.<br/><br/>Sometimes, however.. sometimes, if you knew how to navigate away from trouble, and you were stupid or reckless enough to travel across more than one plane at a regular interval, you’d get it into your bones which realms to avoid and which to favour. For some of these nexus-points were, in the bigger picture, relatively harmless. “Jo’hara”, the name his people dubbed this particular realm he found himself in, was just one of those.<br/>“Jo’hara” was still largely unexplored from what his impressions were, and generally perceived as a “border”-realm of lacklustre importance (This could change, however, since massive, cataclysmic or miraculous events weren’t that unusual when you have an infinite amount of existences and dimensions to visit; Shazad himself had – among other things - experienced visiting one particular city one day, and find a smouldering crater where said city stood a week later. Pesky meteors had a pesky tendency to rain on your parade.).<br/>But what “Jo’hara” could present was an excellent little slave-trade market; the prices were reasonable and the quality of the slaves was impressive compared to its size and the lacklustre extra-planar traffic that passed through here.<br/><br/>His slave-trade dabbling was a likeable chore from his perspective: It involved strategic planning to navigate ones livestock from one realm to another, complex troubleshooting when faced with the many variants of both broken and unbroken slaves, excellent communication skills in order to find the best spots of trade and a keen eye for haggling to make sure you traded at favourable prices.<br/>Almost every day presented curious challenges and tests that demanded careful discerning and organization. It was his opinion that things like this kept his mind sharp.<br/>The lifestyle as a slave-trader was decadent as well; If you knew when and where to play your cards and make good sells, you’d earn a killing. And in such a ruthless world, power almost always equated personal wealth; and with that power came invitations to the most lavish events one could fathom.<br/><br/>There was always the question about morals. He found it a concept discussed to death already, but occasionally, one of his products would attempt to appeal to his “better nature” to pretty much avail. He was good at this – he felt no need to excuse himself.<br/><br/>Today, he took the liberty of kicking it. His last batch of Khuskari Lizardlings earned him prosperity when they were sold through a middleman at one of the most covetous slave-trade markets in the known infiniverse.  He never fancied travelling to the biggest of markets due to the inflated mentality of his colleagues, but personal bias shouldn’t stand in the way of profit; his middlemen served as somewhat dependable links for that purpose.<br/><br/>He sat crosslegged on top of a pile of silk cushions along a far wall in the establishment, bathed in the golden glow of the tripod candles; the low light output bathed his face in dark, soft shadows that danced their deceptive dance in accordance across his face and corpus. His brown robe draped across his body in an indolent fashion, suggesting he’d been lounging for some time.<br/>The mouthpiece of a hookah-hose rested firmly between his thin lips and an occasional “brbrlbrblbrl” was emitted from the water jar as Shazad inhaled. The sweet scent of some sort of apple tobacco pervaded his surroundings as did a perpetual haze of highly transparent smoke.<br/><br/>Through all this, two drooping orange dots peered out into the main body of the pub, always searching for opportunities even in this moment of respite.<br/><br/><b>“Abd-al-Qadir..”</b>he said in a low, musing tone of voice that communicated a man with enough patience to speak clearly.<br/><br/><b>“..what is your impression of the small humanoid over by the dice tables?”</b><br/><br/>The head of a red weasel popped up between a pair of pillows, dark wet eyes staring towards the indicated direction. ‘Qadir mused, his nose twitching before he began speaking forth in a high pitched voice:<br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen"><br/>
“Definitely nots a warrior. Got himself enough treasures to go wastin’ on dice.. uhm..”</span><br/><br/>The weasel paused, pondering a moment; he glanced up at his master:<br/><br/><b>“Don’t look at me, zurka. Look at him.”</b>Shazad murred back, gesturing faintly with the end of his pipe.<br/><br/><b>“His mannerism and appearance can tell you a tale worth thousands of words.”</b>He continued and leered bemused.<br/><br/>The weasel glared back on the small man in question:<br/><br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen">“..he’s.. he’s ain’t used to be around backwater tradestations. Recent trade gones wrong, I guess. He looks.. looks… nervous.”<br/>
</span><br/><b>“Nervous, yeees.. and that means..?”</b>Shazad urged.<br/><br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen">“It means that a trades gone wrong and he’s in a bad spell amoment. He’s desperate, he is!”</span>the weasel cooed, getting warmed up:<br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen"><br/>
“So I guesses that.. somewhere around here, there’ll be a big mean ol’ oaf.. Oops, there he’s at!”</span>the weasel stated, pointing a clawed finger at a large, ogre-like being positioned at the door looking profusely bored.<br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen"><br/>
“And.. and.. yeah, he ain’t a local; I’ve seen thems giant-things before somewhere else. Which means he’s a magician or gots some techie-stuff.. I’d say magician, yeh.”</span>, ‘Qadir continued.<br/><br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen">“His pretty clothes suggest this is one of the first times ‘round cus he’s gettin’ some attention, oh yes yes. He just needs to make a fast sell or purchase and git outta’ here.”</span>The weasel nodded briskly.<br/><br/>Shazad nodded. The weasel seem delighted that he good it right, immediately piping on:<br/><br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen">“Which!... uhm.. which means! He’ll sell at a cheaper price!”</span><br/><br/><b>“He’ll sell at a cheaper price..”</b>Shazad joined in a chorus.<br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen">“We should take the opportunity!”</span>his familiar urged.<br/><br/><b>“No, zurka.”</b>Shazad simply stated:<br/><br/><b>“The man is out of his element. He’s already underestimated his marked. His wares aren’t the right quality – I know before even looking. He has a dangerous disdain for this place, and the fact he’s here and not on Ygara or the Palace of Ten Sins means he aware that his current stock isn’t worth the effort. I could sell sand I pick up from any desert and have higher prospects of income.”</b>Shazad gauged.<br/><br/>The olive-skinned man glanced down at his weasel and said through a small smile:<br/><br/><b>“Compare him to an upstart wine-brewer who’s first line of wine went sour, and he happened to stumble into a small, but class-demanding winery thinking it’s just amateur enthusiasts. He hopes to trick what he perceives as “amateurs” into buying his fox-piss. No, he’s in for a revelation in about a days’ time or so. If he leaves straight after the revelation, he’ll maybe be fortunate. If he persists, he’ll likely end up dead.”</b><br/><br/>It wasn’t uncommon that slave traders got into disagreements; words were slung, faces would go acid, but conclusively, neither would benefit nor prosper being dead. Thus, slave traders killing slave traders wasn’t normally perceived as professional behaviour. Occasionally, however, one inexperienced (or stupid) slave trader would insult a particular market so copiously the death of that slave trader would be perceived as a favour to the business as a whole.<br/>At the end of the day, the worst thing that could happen to a market was a bad reputation.<br/><br/><span style="color: DarkOliveGreen">“You do one now, sultan! Please!”</span>the weasel begged, the signs of enthusiasm to learn more painted on the rodents face.<br/><br/>Shazad peered curiously at his familiar. A bemused snort left his mouth and he began searching for a target to read:<br/><br/><b>“Ah!”</b>he said, concentrating his glowing glance on Arely.<br/><br/><b>“This one I haven’t really thought much of yet. Let’s see….”</b><br/><br/>Shazad let his hookah bubble a few moments as he began dissecting his unsuspecting victim:<br/><br/><b>“A regular. The way he approached the imp curator suggests a familiarity with the market. Some vicious rumours I’ve heard spoken in the nooks. Which is intriguing as the man is human or poses as a human very convincingly. Impatient which might suggest a dislike of the actual act of trading – the trader enjoys the slaves more.”</b><br/><br/>He paused, pondering:<br/><br/><b>“The impatience might result in him overseeing less obvious, but more profitable possibilities. I could reckon that his desired goods are young women. In the event that I approached him with any goods, I would choose women with the looks and skirt over the personality. If any truth is to the rumours, personality is of little consequence.”</b><br/><br/>Shazad continued his erroneous deduction with a brisk confidence:<br/><br/><b>“Now, I wouldn’t underestimate him. A human having the guts to act impatient like this might suggest a measure of capability; a wizard perhaps or simply the human guise is a ruse to lure people in. Hmmmmmm…”</b><br/><br/>The Wind-thief paused for three seconds, before asking his wide-eyed familiar:<br/><br/><b>“Say, Abdal. Didn’t we have a stock of Fhurian Spoils back home?”</b><br/><br/>The Furian “Spoils” – a trade-term for “Spoils of War” which normally meant women taken as slaves in the wake of a war or raid – were stocked in his harem back on his homeworld, deep in the scorching deserts.  The particular stock was rowdy and agitated as their culture valued independence and strength of character. They’d been a nuisance recently and while he really ought to wait a week or two before selling them, he was confident that they’d reap a high reward irregardless.<br/><br/>They fit his perceived profile of this slaver pretty well.<br/><br/>His weasel opened the book normally found at the mans’ side, flipping through a few pages. His familiars expression beamed when he could confirm with a brisk nod:<br/><br/><b>“Well, we cannot just a jewel of opportunity pass, now can we, zurka?”</b>Shazad said with a grin, extending his hand towards ‘Qasir; the small rodent slithered up his arm in a blur.<br/><br/>The man sloooowly rose from his seat, correcting his robe in that same motion. Draping his scarf across his mouth, the tall man strode lazily across the pub floor towards what he thought was a dangerously picky male slave-trader with disturbing tendencies.<br/><br/><b>“Assalam alaikum, effendi. Peace be upon you. Does the curators wares not please your tastes?”</b>Shazad asked as he approached Arely from her left side, making sure she could see him first.<br/>The man extended a hand for a handshake as customs demanded him, placing his middle and index finger on the wrist of his extended hand lightly, nails facing upwards.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>