Born a street-rat in Bandar Eban, Zahir learned from a tender age how to survive. He doesn’t speak much about his early past, and never tells the truth of it anyway, so little is really known. He sparked young, only seventeen, and still in the days of madness, but shied from the sanctuary being offered by the Black Tower. He didn’t want to be a soldier; he didn’t want his future decided for him; didn’t want to be subordinate to the dragon. So he hid it. The taint touched him with the conceit of being special, confirmed every time he used the Power and did not die. His strength is average, and limited by the crutches he has used to learn. An affinity with the weather has never fully been realised, instead he is merely attuned, often predicting turns before they happen.
Zahir named himself. He has built his reputation stone by bloody stone, just as he has sewn his Gleeman cloak patch by jewel-toned patch. He lives for the notoriety and adulation, and fully intends to be one of the myths other Gleeman tell stories of. After more than twenty years his name usually precedes his travels, and that’s the way he likes it; he is well-liked, charming, and so brightly charismatic that others happily overlook if he is also a little conniving, a little sharp, a little sour with the sweet. Depending on his mood, he can be quietly spiteful when he is not recognised. These people do not usually forget his name in the future, but would never place him at the heart of any misfortune. Zahir enjoys fear, but does not like to be the object of it. Rather, he places himself as the saviour from it.
He is well travelled, and collects stories like treasure, preferring to enjoy the authenticity of living other lives and experiences rather than soaking them up second-hand. The years stretch long for him, and he has plenty of time for such indulgences. Most people welcome a Gleeman, and he’s good at ingratiating himself; he uses his title to win trust, to get away with things he shouldn’t, and to inspire awe and love. Typically his clothes reflect dozens of different cultures, and beyond his typical Domani colouring, it’s difficult to pinpoint where exactly he’s from. Various tattoos and odd scars decorate his body; evidence of hard living, cruelty, and perhaps self-mutilation. He tells different lies about their origins.
Zahir has dark, curling hair, deep gold skin, and is tall and slender. He has the large, beautiful brown eyes of someone you can trust (and he’s often told so, especially by women); an impression that lasts at least until he grins, upon which he is decidedly not the sort of rogue to bring home to your mother. It lends him a rakish air usually to his advantage. He is not necessarily a conventional handsome, but he is alluring; a little unusual to look at, but easy in his own skin, and once he’s caught an eye he is usually charming enough to keep it. A deeply musical voice also draws attention. He’s a natural performer.
Zahir is mercurial, and his mood often blows with the wind, which can make him a little unpredictable. He can be cruel, but prefers to win friends and hearts, for he enjoys flattery and being well liked. Authority chafes, he thinks himself above the rules which bind others. Otherwise he is both arrogant and charming, and utterly confident.
1st Age – Ezekiel
5th Age – Pazuzu