DalamarOsis
--humble Warrior

"He who walks in the knowledge that he is the blight of humanity has nothing to fear from evil. He who walks in the warmth of the Sun has nothing to fear of the shadows. But what of he who lives in the Shadows of the sun who fears his evil? He is merely a man who lives."
- Dalamar Osis when explaining his desire to sit in a shadowy corner

RL NOTE: Master DalamarOsis, was struck with a severe asthma attack on October 29, 1998. This attack caused cardiac arrest. Master DalamarOsis is mourned by those of the ship as he has now passed into the Cities of Dust.

Dalamar Osis started his life as a clansman of the nomadic band of herders named the Tuchuk. As a boy he often felt limited by the herds and so as he grew he sought ways out of his camp and into the "big adventure of life". As a young man, he hired on to a caravan as a guard with little more than his quivas and lance to show for his past life.

The caravan was destined for the desert sands of Tahari and there he took leave of his senses in the heat of the sun and learned the ways of the scimitar. Here too he learned how to stalk and down a man in ways that still haunt his tormented nightmares. In a raiding mission funded by an unknown merchant, he caught the sight of his own evil as he almost gleefully slaughtered a man for being in the wrong place. Horrified by his actions he slunk back to the shadows of the night where he lived and dwelled there for many months.

Slowly he emerged from his black shadows and slaked the night like a beast searching for any who were bent on hurting the innocent. So great was his self-hatred that he sought his father out in the Tuchuk and offered the man a chance to kill him. His father, however, refused to kill his son and so his son left once again and wandered the lands of Gor searching for some great good to amend his great evil.

After many years he finally returned home to find his father dying. With a heavy heart he took his fathers legacy and buried the proud man that had raised him. Now he sits and watches the clouds dance upon the winds of life and enjoys the simple pleasures of a good cup of blackwine and a sweet kajira. Silently he waits for the day that he is killed and so he rushes into each new fight without abandon, or care for his own wellness. Yet with the skill he has he prefers to help, not hurt, and will strive with all his heart to mend what ever grievances he may form.

An odd specimen of the Tuchuk he carries several colored scars on his cheeks but what truly sets him apart is the twin black scimitars on his back both of them carry an extended blade that comes over the grip to mask his gloved fist with steel. He wears dark red or deep blues, accompanied with deep hooded black cloaks and high soft boot, tight soft black gloves and a dark piece of repcloth which he sometimes covers his face with. He carries several pouches with him with some various items of his life.


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