 |
 |
 |
 |
A character created and formerly played by Joshua David Rosenthal. A failure, and a nothing. He was called that once, by a man far more knowledgeable than he, a man who had seen and done in his life more things than Farikh likely ever would. Not a statement most like to hear, yet one which cannot be faulted, indeed, one which Farikh himself for a long time called truth. Oh, he had the usual dreams as a boy. He would live the life of the Crescent Sword, fighting for Shazrad against the forces that would challenge her. He would clash blades with Captains from Merad, or lead his troops against some mage-sent Djinni in an epic charge against all hope. Or perhaps he would ride the waves on a merchant ship against the evil pirates, to see the Djinni of Sokaru, and beyond into the unknown. On another day he would walk the desert sands at the head of a trading caravan, and he would go farther than any before, so distant that the City of Veils was but a legend told by old men to their grandchildren. Oh, the pictures he made! He drew the lands he would see, images pulled from stories, legends, and where they failed, his imagination. To ride the waves, walk the sands. Other boys might dream of staying in Shazrad, of wooing the daughters of the Kinships, or tending the jeweled Dragons, but not Farikh. His dreams lay outside of Shazrad. In cruel jest, it was not the twist of some long past turning of fate that decided his path, but rather, in every case, it was his own action that chose against his dreams. He was a poor student of the shuk, a worse bargainer. One of those poor souls who the merchants scramble to greet, knowing their profit even as he strides beneath their roofs. He grew seasick when even a short distance from land... and refused to learn to swim well. He could not keep his head in the one or two blade lessons he had, always wanting to swing and hack away at his foe, dreaming himself some legendary hero. Yet for all these failings, there was one definitive action of Farikh's that set his path away from his childhood dreams. Even as he dreamed of seeking his fame and fortune far from the City of the Veils, his friends stared open eyed at the Dragons on the walls. Awed and terrified, they were, but not Farikh. Never Farikh, who scaled the walls and climbed a Dragon to show his fearlessness. The fall changed Farikh. It pained his parents to see him sit, ignoring the tutor, his eyes watching the street rats race by through the windows, twin feet pounding along the ground. It was a cruel mockery for a boy with one foot, that street rats would be able to go where he could not. One by one his friends found their livelihood, a guard, a sailor, a merchant. He watched bitterly as he saw his dreams worn by others, heard their stories, and sank deeper within himself. His parents were beside themselves. To pay for a Doctor had nearly cost all they had. To pay for one a child no more, a man who should have held a job and home of his own... This they could not manage. When the emissary from the House of the Watching Dragon came, they were besides themselves with joy. A House, offering to look after Farikh. Menial work, but still, something, a roof, food, and some small money for the young man. It seemed they felt some responsibility for the boy who had fallen from their Dragon. He spent two years as a servant of the House, keeping things clean, neat, learning the places and orders. Nobody minded the new servant with a limp, and he in turn did not mind them, beyond attending to the duties he was given. It was shortly after his second anniversary working for the House (an unnoticed day for Farikh, though perhaps noticed by some), that Farikh had the opportunity to clean a workshop wherein he saw something that caught his eye. A claw, fashioned for a man who had lost his arm, but designed so that the man would be able to move the three fingers of the claw by tensing his muscles. "Caught his eye" was perhaps too easy a phrase. It obsessed Farikh. If this could be done with a hand... then certainly with a foot as well. But the hand was poorly done. It was only three fingers after all, and ugly, calling attention to itself. His first sketches quickly changed the design to five fingers, also changing the outline and movement to mimic a real hand perfectly. At the same time, he sketched a basic foot. To his mind, it would work better than a hand, for the foot did not need to feel as much as the hand. He sketched, he drew, he watched, yet he did not tell anyone. He was, after all, a servant. Perhaps two months after he had first noticed the claw, the designer stumbled upon his sketches. At first, he was confused, convinced someone was playing a joke. The drafting was good, the proportions were perfect, the machinery shown small, but certainly possible... Yet those who might have the skill for it denied such a joke, so the designer, Akhreem Showik, spoke to the servant who's possessions it had been found among. The claim, to have made the plans, amazed him, yet that amazement was minor compared to what he showed when the young servant produced the plans from memory - with perfect accuracy, explaining them as he went. Showik spoke to those above him in the House and within a week an offer was made. Apply those skills as the House wished, help with the current project of the hand, and in return, the House would build him any one foot he might design. That was four years ago. Farikh has learned much since then, having once more taken something of an interest in his world, in his life. The hand he has created most recently blends the best of engineering with the most modern medicine, using tubes of blood to actually mimic the veins and arteries. A mechanical hand that is warm to the touch, and will bleed (though briefly) when it is cut. A mechanical hand nearly indistinguishable from a real hand. A mechanical hand that would cost a caliph's ransom to build for a customer. He is growing a reputation for the work he can do, machines that so mimic the human form or parts of it. He has studied medical texts, learning bits and pieces of the dozen necessary languages. Despite his success though, he still limps on the block that replaces his foot. His designed foot is a marvel of engineering, fully able to replace a normal foot, fully indistinguishable, stronger, faster, better to jump from, kick with... and yet he is not satisfied, so he waits, perfecting it before he asks for it to be made. He lives in a small residence provided by the House, near to his workshop, yet not that far from the neighborhood where he grew up and where his parents still live. He still sees some of his friends on a regular basis, they who took the dreams he drew and made them their lives, yet he is not bitter, well resigned if not happy to his current life. Recently, Farikh had a glimpse of what looked like one of his pictures from before the accident, pictures that show his skill at drafting as well as any of his current ones do. And he wonders idly, vaguely, if perhaps the Dragon actually did move beneath him, pushing him from the wall, as he had claimed years past. Age: 21 Farikh is of slightly less than average height and weight. He has dark, curly hair, and small, beady black eyes. When he walks it is with a pronounced limp, and when he grows tired, he makes use of a cane he made for himself as well (and thus, a cane that on at least one occasion has served to protect him in the dangerous streets of Shazrad). His normal clothing is drab, usually at least a few months behind the current fashions, although he occasionally forgets himself and wears something from several years past. In general he is moderately well dressed, although he prefers dark, drab outfits when working. In conversation Farikh is still often quiet with strangers, preferring the company of his creations or close friends to those idle driftings and rumours. Among his friends, he is loud, constantly seeking to hear the latest rumours and news among them. Disposition: Quiet/Introvert until gets to know someone at least moderately well... then quite a reversal. Quirks: Takes pad everywhere... Sketches regularly, fast. Likes to sketch people (has gotten in minor trouble for this once). Religious: Yes... His studies of medicine taught him the truth of the star-eyed god at least. Notable belongings:
[Setting: Four years ago. Akhreem has just confronted his servant, Farikh, with the sketches he found of plans for a mechanical hand and foot. Both started to speak--and seeing so, both said nothing...] The silence was unexpected. Farikh blinked, closing his mouth even as Akhreem did, not wanting to speak every bit as much as the craftsman. His eyes flickered down, hiding from the master's gaze, fleeing to the familiar comfort of the sketches that now scattered Akhreem's desk. They're all here, Farikh thought, as he stared down at the sketches. Even the worst, even the earliest, scratched onto the side of the wooden cup, lay off on side of the desk. Farikh felt some small swell of pride as he surveyed his work for what he knew would be the last time. The House would not allow a servant to work for them who had spied on plans, he knew that, and for all he had added to the design, the original basis was Akhreem's claw. The progression was plain enough. The first sketches, still claw like, though with five fingers, the water pressure designs, the introduction of the false skin, the detail to create blood vessels, even his sketches of the system that showed the range of motion the hand should have. Even the sketches from a week past. The foot sketches as well, the final detailed draft sitting atop a familiar pile. It was all there. Still, they were good. Better than good, and Farikh knew it, but all the moreso it was an affront. He was a servant. It was his own foolery that had made him so, and he knew it, just as he knew he should not have been studying Akhreem's work. Akhreem. The engineer was there, still silent on the other side of the desk. Only a few seconds had passed. Farikh stared hard down at the plans for one last time. His eyes closed, tightly, then opened as he straightened his head, forcing himself to meet the man's green eyes. Farikh licked his lips, suddenly dry, and swallowed with difficulty. "I... I beg your forgiveness Ss... sir." Inwardly, he cursed his stuttering, yet somehow, with a force of will he had thought long lost, forced himself to go on, "I meant no harm by it, truly sir, but... but there is no excuse." He fell quickly silent beneath Akhreem's stare, swallowed and lowered his gaze once more, eyes closed as he awaited the judgement he knew to be in store for him. Farikh did not understand the laughter that followed, not at first anyway, confusion etched across his face as his head hesitantly raised up to look upon Akhreem once more. <shazrad@cityofveils.com> |
|
                                           |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |