Firat

Name: Firat Selim

Age: 44

Physical Age: 40

Height: 6’6”

Hair: Black going grey

Eyes: Golden Brown

Faction:Disciple: Firat wants to believe in the possibility of unity, he thinks it’s a magical place, but his head is too far in the clouds to get very proactive. So while he will wax rhapsodic about all of these cultures living together in harmony he doesn’t do much to enforce peace unless pushed to do so.

Occupation: Firat owns and manages a bath house. It was difficult to stop Firat from lackadaisically galavant around the city the first year he came to Sybal Heim, but the bath house sufficiently filled his homesickness and offered a chance to interact with many people in a relaxing atmosphere. The bathhouse offers hot rooms, saunas, and various pools both cold and hot.

Sybal Form: The ordained Aslan

Or just Aslan/ The Aslan. Sitting at 7’10” and weighing in the hundreds,  the chimerical form of Firat is just as large and boisterous as his human form. Despite fearsome claws, sharp hooves and three horns (two that wrap around his head) he is mostly a large teddy bear as firat lacks any sort of formal training. He is covered head to toe in a fine short fur, and in places a much more colossal furry mane notably his shins, and back sprouting from his head and cheeks. Intricate tattoo like patterns seem to decorate much of the ordained aslan but further inspection reveals these patterns as ink that seems to sprout from the skin and stain the short fur. These patterns do not stain others, however, unless prolonged contact is sustained.

For all of his modesty the Aslan is bedecked in fine robes, jewelry and crowned with a trio of horns that resemble a turban and decoration. Firat believes it’s because of his deep respect for his proposed father, but secretly knows it has to do with aspirations to lead that he can’t come to terms with.

The scribe’s Glyphs:

The writer is by nature a dreamer, a conscious dreamer (Carson McCullers). Firat’s powers stem deeply from his passion: poetry, storytelling and calligraphy. He controls the ink like water, but it has a viscosity closer to honey. It can be shaped loosely into various objects like a whip or a wall. Defensively speaking a fast and sharp enough object can get through a wall of it and only suffer being slowed down a bit. As a weapon it’s weighty and can pack quite the wallop but firat lacks the ability to form it into anything more poignant that a whip and try as he might can not create projectiles from it.  As is true in reality there is a limit to the inkwell and it can be seen on his very body. The more ink firat uses the more the inky patterns on his body fade and disappear. The full extent of his ink hasn’t been calculated as not all of his patterns are visible underneath his clothes, but he thinks it’s in the realms of a few gallons.

Docile: It was never a question to Firat how he would act on his first transformation. He faced the change bravely and was quite tickled by how fluffy he turned out to be.  

Personality: Firat is passionate, an idealist, a romantic and a daydreamer. You will find he is always content to tell a story or share tea and he enviously watches in awe as musicians perform. For the most part he is laid back and doesn’t concern himself too much in politics or debate. He rather hates aristocracy, elitism, and just can’t follow the mathematically inclined as much as he’d like to. Despite being so kind hearted firat doesn’t hate brawling or sparring, and would like to know more actually, if only to help defend those who can’t defend themselves.

History: Firat Selim was the son of a concubine and proposed son to a great sultan of the ottoman empire in the middle of the 16th century. He was not as eligible for the throne as his other brothers and spend most of his youth learning scripture, poetry, and other lessons the son of a sultan should know. For a while he danced and performed small feats of acrobatics to entertain the court, but quickly grew out of it when puberty hit him like a brick.  He enjoyed his life, tended to his mother and watched with swelling pride as the empire grew, but in his early twenties things drastically went down hill.

His father grew paranoid and first killed his most trusted adviser and then his own son. Firat’s mother begged him to leave and fearing her life would be forfeit if he stayed, firat fled. Aware that he could not return Firat first left to Persia, hoping his skills would be utilized by the royalty there, but there was ill will there. He went north into Europe, grimacing at the battle fields his father had left and while he encountered a great deal of bigotry due to his skin color firat found himself friends among the nobility. To these European counts and barons he was amusing, could teach their children and tell “funny” stories, but they did not respect him. His poetry was wasted on these supposedly great people. For many years he wandered among the royal parties, finding peace more in traveling between them than being with them. And even here the pains of succession and royalty followed, and bloody wars were waged between these Europeans for their children, or their gods, or very old tiresome disputes. It drove him further into traveling as a means to escape, and he eventually found himself, tired and in his early forties wandering the Irish countryside.

It was under the trees and birdsong that he began to feel homesick. He longed for home, for his family and his days of youth. Firat was tired of ceaseless squabbling battles that made such a ruin of beautiful artistic minds. And his heart weighed heavy with guilt; over whether if he’d stayed he could have made a difference, could he have been the sultan his father failed to be, could he have been a fair and just guide for his people?

Firat didn’t notice as the forest changed. Only felt his heartbeat grow bolder, felt the blood in his veins beat faster and a renewed sense of vigor take him. He could hear his mother’s songs in his head, taste the tang of the Bosporus and feel the wind whip about him. When he opened his eyes a man stood in front of him. One who looked so familiar to his own family, but when he went to ask them in his old tongue of their origin he found himself speaking an entirely different language. They talked only sparsely, before Firat’s mind was made up. He would follow this man, this Theo, to an impossible city.

Additional Info:

-Firat is strongly implied to be a mysterious extra son of Suleiman the Magnificent

- He wants to train with the Airavata but is too distracted to actually get involved

- Firat spent as long as possible a time without a job, being reprimanded often for being a bit of a vagabond. He’d trade song, or story for food,

-He will happily trade for lessons in instruments and accepts almost any form of art as payments

-He is extremely cuddly and only barely manages to respect people’s personal bubbles

PHEW

For 

I hope all of this info is accurate, not stereotyping and I hope you all enjoy. I really got close to the deadline with this one, and didn’t have time to do shading, so forgive me for that. His tattoos are not as I’d like and I want to change them later and draw better art for this. I’ve not drawn people in so long this was quite the challenge. I will add more info/details when it isn't well past midnight. And I'm not certain why but DA's bold function seems to be broken, sorry