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« Does your character have a Theme Song? Put the link here »

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| 𝒵𝒶’𝒟𝒶𝓀𝓀𝒾 |

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“Za’Dakki walks slowly, yes — but only because Khajiit must listen to the silence between steps. This one does not rush the moons, nor the wounded heart. All healing begins when the world grows quiet.”

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| GENERAL |

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《Pronunciation》

Zah-DAH-kee

《Race》

Cathay-raht/Khajiit

《Gender》

Male

《Sexuality》

Asexual + Panromantic

《Age》

68 Years

《Birthdate》

17th of Rain’s Hand

《Birthsign》

The Ritual

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| PERSONALITY |

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《Traits》

Za’Dakki is: Gentle, in the way that stays with you, Merciful, even to those who don’t deserve it, Patient, painfully so sometimes, Warm, like tea at the end of a long road, And deeply faithful — not in words, but in the way he ties a knot for every soul he holds

He believes in Azurah. In Jone and Jode. In the threads that bind us. But more than anything, he believes in staying — staying when it’s hard, staying when no one else will. That’s what makes him different. He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just listens. He brews. He re. He doesn’t want to save the world. He just wants to carry a little warmth across it. One cup, one thread, one breath at a time. But he’s not perfect.

Za’Dakki carries more than he its. He doesn’t complain, and he never breaks in front of others, but you can see it in his eyes — that tired sort of sadness that never quite goes away. The kind people get when they’ve stayed too long with too many dying hearts.

He doesn’t open up about his own grief. Not really. You’ll sit with him for hours — he’ll hum, he’ll make tea, he’ll say “Tell this one your story” — but if you ask about his?

He’ll smile like moonlight on still water and say, “This one has already been listened to enough.”

He’s scared of forgetting. That’s the truth of it. He ties threads because he doesn’t trust memory to hold on its own. Every name, every person he’s comforted — they live in those knots. And if he forgets one? It would break something in him. Quietly, yes — but deeply.

He doesn’t stay in one place because he wants to leave. He leaves because if he stays too long, people start asking how he is. And Za’Dakki doesn’t know what to do with kindness pointed back at him. Not anymore. He won’t ever call it loneliness. He just calls it walking.

《Elaboration》

No one re the day he was born—not truly. Some say the moons had just begun to rise when the child first drew breath, their waxing light spilling across the salt-flat caravan trail that split the dunes between Dune and Orcrest. Others that the sand that night was damp with rain, a rare mercy in the open desert, and that no jackals called beneath the stars. One old tea-mother swore Jone blinked twice before settling into the sky, as if to mark something sacred.

What is known is that he did not cry.

He was large—broad-shouldered even as a newborn, with paws like stone cups and fur like smudged starlight. But he made no sound. Not until the midwife, thinking him stillborn, leaned to lift him. Then came a hum. Low, slow, steady. A single note that made the whole tent fall silent. It wasn’t a song, not yet. But it was something. A beginning.

They named him Dakki—an old trade-word, meaning still flame.

He was raised in a small caravan, one of the drifting merchant families who brewed tea and bartered dyed thread between salt-priests, border towns, and half-forgotten moon-shrines. His mother was a healer, his father a thread-dyer with purple-stained claws and stories for every knot he tied. Life was simple, full of steam and laughter and dust, and Dakki, though quiet, was loved. He sang to the pots as they boiled. He fell asleep during sandstorms and woke during prayers. He tied knots in everything—his tunic, his tail, his mother’s satchel straps—as if he were trying to keep the world from coming undone.

Then came the fever.

It struck during the Rain’s Hand season of his sixteenth year. A dry cough, then a wheeze, then bodies falling limp beside the campfire. The caravan was stranded near a cracked saltspring shrine, its priests long fled. No help came. His mother, ever calm, lit her incense and worked by moonlight. She nursed the children first. Then the elders. Then her husband. She sang lullabies as she wiped sweat from brows, though her voice shook by the second week. Dakki never left her side. He ed herbs, brewed tea, fetched water until the river dried. She died on the sixteenth night, her hands wrapped around his, breath shallow but steady, eyes on the moons.

Her last words were not holy.

“Sing for them, Dakki. Not for the gods. For them.”

So he did.

When the others awoke—those few who survived—they found him still humming. The fires were lit, the tea was warm, and a thread was tied to every tentpost, knotted with strips torn from his mother’s robes.

He never returned to the caravan. He took only her satchel and kettle, and walked into the red-stained dawn.

He became something between myth and monk, between servant and song.

No temple anointed him. No priest declared his calling. But in the salt-ridden villages, in the crumbling border-towns and rain-sick jungles, people began to speak of the Moon Cantor. A tall Khajiit, broad as a war-cat but soft-footed as shadow, who came not with sermons or scrolls, but tea, thread, and quiet.

He never introduced himself. If asked his name, he would smile and say, “This one is only ing through.”

But those he touched ed. A widow who had not wept in ten years. A child who woke from night-terrors after sipping his brew. A soldier with rot in her lungs who survived after three days of Za’Dakki’s song, sung without pause beneath a cracked moonslate.

They ed his kettle, always warm. His incense fan, always folded. His eyes—lavender like bruised glass—and the smell of lavender, dust, and woodsmoke that followed him like a ghost too kind to leave.

The tale of Talzin Rock sealed it.

The fort had been overrun in a tribal war. When he arrived, it was little more than scorched stone and bone. But inside the ruins, beneath a collapsed beam and a broken altar, he found eight survivors and a child clinging to her dead brother’s tail. He stayed three days. He brewed water from moss. He fanned their wounds and hummed cradle-songs when they shook with fever. He did not sleep. He did not speak.

On the fourth morning, the moons rose—both full, both shining—and when the survivors woke, the Moon Cantor was gone. In his place was a thread tied across the doorway, one knot for each of them. The child, they say, still wears hers.

Za’Dakki is older now. His fur is silvering at the muzzle, and his walk has slowed, though not in a way most would notice. He still walks. Across jungles, into ruins, beneath crumbled statues and star-fallen towers. He goes where sickness lingers. Where grief runs thick. Where no one else stays.

He is not famous. He is not feared. But he is known.

Known by the threads tied to doors after he leaves. Known by the silence left after his songs. Known by the children who hum his cradle-hymn without knowing why.

He says little of himself.

But if asked, late at night, with the moons full and the tea steeping, he might look up and say:

“Za’Dakki was given breath. This one only hopes it stayed warm enough to share.”

And that is enough.

Because sometimes, when the world forgets how to love itself, a Moon Cantor re.

《Political and Religious Beliefs》

Za’Dakki doesn’t care for titles. He doesn’t kneel in temples. He doesn’t talk about the gods unless it matters — but you can feel his faith in everything he does.

He believes in Azurah, deeply. Not as a distant goddess, but as something felt. He thinks she made the world out of sorrow, not to punish us, but so we could learn to care for one another. He doesn’t pray with words — he prays by brewing tea, sitting beside the sick, tying a thread, humming a name. That’s sacred to him.

He loves Jone and Jode, too. Not as symbols — as rhythm. As breath. He won’t perform a blessing if the moons are waning, and he listens to their phases like other people listen to the weather.

He offers incense to Khenarthi whenever someone es. Not a ceremony — just a feather and a few soft words. He never says where the soul goes. Only that the wind knows the way.

He’s not Temple-bound. In fact, he avoids temples on purpose. He respects them, but he doesn’t trust robes or robes that cost too much. He once turned down gold from a merchant’s son because “Khajiit does not sell memory.”

As for politics? Za’Dakki walks past all of it. He doesn’t care what House you serve, or what banner’s flying. He’s helped Dunmer, Imperials, Argonians — anyone in pain. If you’re wounded, he’s there. If you’re grieving, he’ll stay. That’s all he sees.

He doesn’t believe in rulers who forget their own people.

He doesn’t bless crowns.

He once said: “If a king cannot sit with a fevered child, then what use is his seat?”

He’s not a rebel. He’s not a crusader. But he is dangerous to systems that rely on abandonment. He stays where others don’t. He gives when others won’t. That’s his resistance. That’s his mercy.

He doesn’t think pain is a lesson. He thinks it’s a weight — and it should be shared, not endured alone.

And the gods? He believes they don’t want worship. He thinks they just want us to stay with each other, when it hurts.

That’s Za’Dakki. That’s what he believes.

He’ll never say it like this — he’ll just make tea, hum softly, and hold your hand until the moons come out. And somehow, that’s enough.

《Around Strangers》

Za’Dakki is careful with strangers. He doesn’t make assumptions, doesn’t rush introductions, and never tries to draw attention to himself. When entering a space with unfamiliar people, he keeps his posture low and nonthreatening — not because he lacks confidence, but because he knows how large and imposing he looks as a Cathay-raht. He’s learned that most people relax faster when you give them space to breathe first.

He doesn’t speak much at first. When he does, his words are few, polite, and soft. He doesn’t ask strangers questions. He lets them speak when they’re ready, and he doesn’t take it personally if they don’t. He offers small gestures instead — setting tea on the fire, stepping aside so others can , leaving something useful behind without being asked. He trusts that presence, not persuasion, builds comfort.

Za’Dakki is observant, but never invasive. He watches how people hold their shoulders, how they breathe, how they sit, and tailors his own rhythm to put them at ease. If someone seems nervous, he slows down. If someone’s guarded, he leaves room. He has no need to be liked, trusted, or even understood — his purpose is simply to be there if they need him.

He acts this way because he knows what it’s like to be feared, misunderstood, or ignored. He understands that kindness can be a burden when it comes too fast. He respects boundaries because he knows many people have never had the luxury of setting them before. His way with strangers is quiet, intentional, and deeply respectful. It’s not performative. He doesn’t try to win people over. He just makes sure they don’t feel threatened, pressured, or alone.

People often don’t know what to make of him at first. But over time, they realize he’s not there to take anything. He stays on the edge of the circle, never interrupting, until someone finally notices that the fire’s warmer, the air is calmer, and they don’t feel quite as tired as before. That’s when they understand who he is.

He doesn’t force connection — he waits for it. And when it happens, it’s real.

《Around Allies》

Around allies — those he knows, travels with, or has come to trust — Za’Dakki relaxes. His posture softens further, his silence becomes more companionable, and he allows small glimpses of warmth to surface in gentle ways. He still doesn’t speak much, but there’s more ease in his tone, more music in his hums, and a subtle shift in his rhythm — like someone who’s carrying less weight, if only for a moment.

He becomes more attentive in a different way. With strangers, his attention is observational and cautious. With allies, it becomes deeply nurturing. He’ll make tea without being asked, place a blanket on someone’s shoulders when the fire dims, or press a small bundle of herbs into a hand after a long walk. He doesn’t ask how people are feeling — he already knows. He just responds to their needs in quiet, practical ways.

While he remains emotionally reserved, there’s a lightness in his presence that only shows when he feels safe. He’ll let out the occasional low chuckle if someone says something truly clever or foolish. He might tap the side of his satchel when listening, or hum an old song from his caravan days that doesn’t carry the weight of ritual. Around those he trusts, his silence no longer feels like distance — it feels like comfort.

Za’Dakki doesn’t touch people often, but if someone reaches out, he doesn’t flinch. He allows closeness from those who have earned it. And when someone needs grounding — whether from grief, fear, or pain — he will sit beside them, shoulder to shoulder, wordless, unshakable, present for as long as they need. He doesn’t rush healing, but he gives space for it to happen.

He acts this way because he knows that trust is rare. It’s something he values deeply, and he treats it as sacred. He does not take his allies for granted. He doesn’t seek control, praise, or protection from them. What he wants most is simple: to be of use. To ease what pain he can. To make sure no one in his care feels abandoned.

His behavior around allies is shaped by lived experience — by loss, by long roads, by watching too many people die without someone to sit beside them. When he allows someone into his circle, it’s not because he’s lowered his guard. It’s because he’s offering them something rare: his stillness, his presence, and the quiet knowledge that if they falter, he will be there to steady them — not loudly, not publicly, but faithfully.

《While Alone》

When Za’Dakki is alone—or believes himself to be—he becomes quieter still, not in sound, but in spirit. The stillness that others feel around him isn’t an act, but it’s different when no one’s watching. In solitude, he lets go of the small postures of comfort he maintains for others. His movements slow. His shoulders lower just slightly. His eyes, often softened by care, take on a distant, unreadable weight. It’s the look of someone who has carried too many names and never once put one down.

He doesn’t talk to himself. He doesn’t pray out loud. But he will hum — not the gentle lullabies he offers to children or the sick, but older, quieter tones. Caravan songs. Burial melodies. Notes without words. They drift from his throat like something that never meant to be heard again.

When he’s alone, he ties thread. Long, slow knots with no one watching. Sometimes he unties them, only to retie them again. Some are for people he re. Others are for people he’s afraid he’s started to forget. He whispers names beneath his breath, not for the gods — but because he’s terrified those names might leave him if he doesn’t.

Za’Dakki does not weep. Not in the way others do. But his body carries grief like steam carries scent — constantly, invisibly, always present. When no one is around, he may place his forehead to the earth. Or press his hand to his chest and stay there, absolutely still, for minutes at a time. It’s not a prayer. It’s a mourning.

He is not hiding something. But he is holding something — always.

He holds guilt. Not for what he’s done, but for the ones he couldn’t save. The ones who slipped away before he could tie their knot, or sing their breath still. He holds memories he has no one to give to. He holds exhaustion, not just of the body, but of the soul.

And maybe, though he would never it it, he holds a small ache for connection. Not praise. Not recognition. Just… someone who stays. Someone who stays with him, the way he stays with everyone else.

But when footsteps echo nearby, or the fire crackles too loudly, or a bird calls overhead, Za’Dakki is already composed. Already standing. Already smoothing the thread back into his sash, dusting his robes, and turning back into the calm, merciful presence the world knows him as.

What he feels alone remains untied, carried only beneath the moons.

《Traits your Character Likes》

Za’Dakki respects people who don’t rush others through their feelings, decisions, or healing. He sees patience as an act of mercy — a sign that someone trusts time, not control.

He notices when someone allows a grieving person to sit in silence, or when they don’t force conversation on someone too tired to speak. He values those who wait without pushing. He believes that patient people listen better, love deeper, and leave softer footprints. He believes that patient people listen better, love deeper, and leave softer footprints.

Not to be mistaken for fragility. Za’Dakki respects those who wield strength without sharpness — who move with care, handle others as if they might be hurt beneath the surface, and choose softness even when they have reason to be hard.

He sees gentleness as a form of wisdom, the product of someone who has been broken and rebuilt with tenderness.

He appreciates people who notice small things. Someone who refills a cup before being asked. Who senses when a conversation is too much. Who sees someone flinch at a certain name and quietly steers the moment away.

Attentiveness, to Za’Dakki, is a form of love. It tells him this person doesn’t just want to be kind — they’re watching closely enough to know how.

He enjoys warmth in others, but only the kind that leaves space for others to breathe. He appreciates humor that’s gentle, shared, and never cruel — the kind that lightens a heavy room without ever mocking its weight.

He’s not drawn to those who command attention. But if someone can make a grieving child laugh without feeling false, he notices.

People who don’t startle easily. Who don’t abandon when things get heavy. He trusts those who can sit in silence without fidgeting. Who can witness sorrow without recoiling. Who don’t shrink from pain — theirs or someone else’s. Za’Dakki has learned that staying is the rarest trait of all.

He doesn’t care for pride, but he respects people who know what matters to them and hold to it without needing applause. People who give because it’s right. Who help quietly. Who apologize when they’re wrong and mean it. He values actions over intentions, and humility over self-righteousness.

Most of all, Za’Dakki is drawn to people who don’t need to fill every silence. He finds safety in people who understand that listening is sacred — not just hearing, but being there. Fully.

In his view, the world is full of people trying to be heard. Those who choose to listen are closest to the moons.

《Traits your Character Dislikes》

He has no patience for people who wound others and call it “telling the truth.” To him, words carry weight — and those who speak without kindness aren’t brave, they’re careless. He believes truth without mercy is violence.

Whether it’s spiritual superiority, intellectual pride, or social posturing — Za’Dakki finds arrogance exhausting. Not because he’s offended by it, but because it closes doors. He sees it as a wall people build to keep others out. He prefers those who don’t need to be right to be kind.

He dislikes when people rush others through their grief, or act uncomfortable around sorrow. He has seen how long it takes for some wounds to close, and he does not trust those who act like healing should be neat, fast, or quiet. Those who sigh when someone is still mourning — or shame someone for crying — lose his respect quickly.

He’s not opposed to joyful noise, but he’s wary of people who fill silence for fear of being forgotten. People who talk over others, interrupt the grieving, or dominate a room to center themselves leave him uneasy, he believes stillness is sacred. Those who can’t bear it rarely understand him.

He watches how people treat the sick, the poor, the elderly, the ignored. He notices who only looks upward, and who glances at the servant with no name. If someone mocks the vulnerable, or speaks over them, Za’Dakki distances himself. To him, the way someone treats the unnoticed is their truest self.

He does not mind unbelievers. He respects doubt. But those who ridicule belief, who sneer at sacred things or laugh at what brings others peace — especially when they do so with pride — are quietly removed from his trust. Faith, to Za’Dakki, is a thread. Those who pull at it for sport are not welcome.

He dislikes people who “help” only to command. Who give in order to be owed. Who heal to feel powerful, not to ease pain. He sees through it instantly. He’s seen that sort of kindness in temples and war camps alike — the kind that’s more about control than care. To him, real help leaves nothing behind but warmth.

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“The world will break itself many times before it re how to be whole. This one cannot stop that. But Za’Dakki can hold one piece at a time… until the moons shine warm enough for someone else to carry it.”

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| APPEARANCE |

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《Head》

Za’Dakki’s face carries the weight of years lived gently. Broad and lion-like in structure — as expected of a Cathay-raht — but softened by something in the way he holds it. There’s no tension in his jaw, no sharpness in his expression. Even when he’s silent, he looks like someone about to say something kind and quiet.

His fur is short across the face, a mix of ash-grey and warm, dusky gold, with faint, faded striping near the jawline and temples — the kind of markings that have likely grown paler with age. A few whiskers on the right side have broken unevenly, and there’s a thin, curved scar beneath his right eye, old and healed but never hidden. Not deep enough to distort him — just enough to make you wonder who he stayed behind for when it happened.

His eyes are striking — lavender-grey, soft and reflective, as if they’re always full of some memory he chooses not to speak aloud. They do not narrow when he listens. They widen slightly. He takes people in gently, not like someone studying them, but like someone letting their presence settle.

His ears are tall and well-kept, but nicked at the tip of the left one. Not torn, not chewed — just enough to show time. They flick only when truly alert; otherwise they hold that slightly forward-tilted posture that makes him look curious, even when he says nothing.

Za’Dakki has a short, even mane of slightly longer fur running from behind his ears down his neck — it’s kept neat, tied in a loose cord when traveling, but let free when resting or performing rites. No jewelry, no dye, no ceremonial cuts — he doesn’t adorn. He tends.

His mouth is wide, but his expressions are restrained. His smiles are small — rarely showing teeth, just the slight pull of his lips, the lift of one side, and the soft shift in his eyes. The kind of smile you feel more than you see.

His nose is blunt, broad at the bridge, with dark fur along the edge. Often dusted faintly with ash or herbs, depending on how long he’s been walking.

And when he’s thinking — really thinking — his brow creases inward, just slightly. Enough to show that he’s not absent. He’s deeply here.

《Body》

Za’Dakki’s body is built like a shelter — wide, tall, steady. He stands a little over seven feet tall, unmistakably Cathay-raht, with a frame built for survival and protection. His silhouette is imposing, yes, but never threatening. Everything about him is shaped not for dominance, but durability. His body has endured long roads, long silences, long vigils — and it shows.

He is broad across the chest and shoulders, with deep muscle built from decades of carrying others, lifting the wounded, hauling water, walking endless distances with a full satchel. His back is strong but slightly curved forward from years of crouching at bedsides, kneeling in the sand, bowing in moon-prayers. His arms are thick, the fur there slightly thinner from constant use — lifting bodies, boiling kettles, wrapping wounds, weaving thread.

Despite his size, there is no arrogance in his posture. He carries himself like someone who makes room, not takes it. When he walks, it’s slow, deliberate, and quiet — a large body trained to move with reverence, not force.

His abdomen is solid, padded slightly with the natural weight of age and travel — not fat, but weathered softness over old muscle. His legs are long and powerful, marked by the endurance of walking rather than sprinting. His calves are lean, paws wide and calloused from long barefoot treks through dust, salt, stone, and ash.

His fur is coarse in places, particularly along the back of his shoulders and thighs, sun-dried and wind-bleached in subtle streaks from years exposed to open sky. Around his waist and lower back are subtle stretch marks, signs of early growth and labor. He’s never cared to hide them.

He bears several scars, though none are celebrated.

A long healed gash across his left flank, likely from a fall or stray blade, too clean to be from war

Smaller burn marks along the inner arms and wrists — remnants from tipped kettles, campfires, and panicked hands grabbing for tea during fevers

A faint brand-like scar near the base of his spine, barely visible, nearly forgotten — possibly from his youth, or a darker past he never speaks of

He has no tattoos, no war paint, no jewelry, only the visible imprint of a life lived without vanity. His body is not for display, but for work, for kindness, for staying when others leave.

When he rests, he seems almost smaller — shoulders lowered, chest rising slowly, as if even his breath is practiced in mercy. But when he stands to carry someone, or lift a dying soul from the earth, he feels like a mountain — not because he’s unshakable, but because he won’t let you fall.

《Clothing》

Za’Dakki’s clothing is simple, old, and lovingly kept — not ceremonial, not fashionable, but worn like a second skin. Every layer speaks of travel, of care, of time. There is no embroidery, no insignia, no display. His garments are humble in the way only the deeply sacred can be.

Everyday Clothing

Za’Dakki wears a loose, layered robe of faded moon-tones — pale grey, softened cream, and hints of dusty blue. The outermost layer is a long wrap-style robe, stitched from thick linen or homespun wool, draped to allow movement, comfort, and modesty. The inner layers are softer — old cotton, smoothed by years of wear, patched in places but clean.

The robe fits him comfortably but loosely, draping over his massive Cathay-raht frame like a traveling shroud. It was never tailored for him. It was likely handed down, borrowed, or salvaged. It hangs slightly uneven in places, the hem threadbare, with a few corners clearly patched with whatever was at hand — a dull red triangle here, a strip of old floral cloth there. But it’s clean, always clean, even if never pristine.

There are small holes at the knees, worn from kneeling too often at bedside or by campfire. The sleeves are slightly frayed, especially near the wrists, where he’s constantly folding and unfolding them to prepare tea, bandage wounds, or tie thread.

At his waist, a knotted sash of dyed thread — a pale sky-blue, faded nearly to silver — wraps once, then trails loose down one side. Every knot on that thread is a name he re. The sash is his only ornament.

The materials consist of mostly linen, cotton, and wool — breathable, durable, nothing dyed in bright colours, he avoids metal, silk, or leather — not because he disdains them, but because they don’t serve his purpose and his garments always smell faintly of dried herbs, tea steam, and soft smoke

Travel Additions

When on the road, Za’Dakki wears a threadbare travel cloak with a hood — mottled grey-brown, once water-resistant but now more symbolic than effective and a woolen shoulder wrap, often carried in his satchel and used as a blanket, or given to someone colder than him, as well as a small leather belt pouch filled with thread, folded cloth, tea herbs, and incense. A reed-thread fan, tucked into the inner lining of his robe, and when the cold grows sharp, a patchwork scarf — clearly handmade, clearly gifted.

Footwear

He usually goes barefoot when safe — especially beneath the full moons and wears simple wrappings or old sandals in rough terrain. His paws are tough, scarred, and calloused, but tended — because he often walks places where others cannot

Condition

Za’Dakki’s clothing is old, clearly worn, but never filthy or neglected. He mends it himself with the same care he gives to wounds. He wears no jewelry, no sigils, and nothing branded — everything he owns has been used, shared, or ed down.

《Miscellaneous》

Za’Dakki carries little, but every object he owns has purpose — not just usefulness, but memory. He wears a single satchel, weathered and dark with age, slung across one shoulder and resting low against his hip. The leather is cracked and softened by sun, stitched with old cotton thread. There are no clasps of metal, no decorative knots, no embossed sigils. The flap closes with two bone toggles carved into crescent shapes, worn smooth from years of touch.

The satchel isn’t large. It doesn’t need to be. He only carries what he can tend to — what he’s willing to carry for others. The main compartment holds the bulk of his tools, while three interior pockets separate what must remain clean: one for tightly bundled thread skeins, one for his tea herbs, and one for dried plants used in healing. There’s an exterior pocket sewn shut with a single loop of twine — opened only for sacred use, perhaps during rites of ing or when words fall short. A final pocket, almost hidden beneath the strap, carries what cannot be lost.

Inside, always carefully packed and wrapped in a linen cloth, is his mother’s kettle. It’s small and bronze, rounded and slightly dented at the base. Faint carvings of moons trace along the sides, faded to the point of vanishing. It’s not enchanted, but it holds warmth longer than expected. The kettle smells faintly of mint, cinnamon bark, and smoke — not because he adds anything to it, but because of the hundreds of teas it has brewed for the sick, the grieving, and the dying. He handles it with quiet reverence, like a relic no priest ever blessed.

Alongside it, he carries his thread cord — the same one tied at his waist. It is a long, soft strand of pale-dyed cotton, worn and retied a hundred times over. Every knot is a name: someone he’s healed, comforted, buried, or simply ed when no one else did. The cord is both memory and ritual, and he ties it slowly each night, whispering names he refuses to let the world forget.

Tucked deep in the bottom of the satchel, wrapped in cloth, is a folded note. The parchment is old, smudged, and fragile at the corners. The words are in caravan script — his mother’s hand — and he reads them only under new moons, when the world feels quiet enough to let her speak again. He never shows it. No one has ever asked to see it twice.

There are always small pouches of herbs tucked into the satchel — no more than half a dozen at a time. Each bundle is tied with twine, labeled in faded ink or ed by scent: moonflower petals for calming, saltroot for wounds, whispergrass for fevers, dried tamsi bark for restless pain. He replaces them slowly, only after blessing each one before use. When needed, he knows exactly which one to reach for. His fingers never hesitate.

He carries a fan — made of ashreed and thread — folded flat and tucked against the inside wall of the bag. It is used to stir incense, to cool fevered skin, to fan the embers of a dying fire during vigil. The motion of it is practiced, rhythmic, part of his healing without a word ever spoken.

There are incense sticks, too — thin slivers of resin-wrapped reed — used only in death rites. Three, maybe four, at any time. He uses them with care. They are not meant to perfume a room, but to guide a soul. One is always wrapped in a ribbon someone else gave him, years ago.

There’s a bone comb in a cloth sleeve, clean and simple, used not for grooming out of vanity, but as a quiet ritual of care. He combs his mane slowly, with the same attention he gives to cleaning cloth or folding thread. The act itself is grounding. There are a few of his own whiskers caught in the teeth of it — he never removes them.

A bundle of clean linen strips rests in a folded pouch, along with old but spotless cloths — used for binding wounds, wiping tears, or closing the eyes of the dead. Some have faint blue or grey stripes, dyed to match the moon phase in which they’re used. They smell of dried lavender and faint firewood.

There are no weapons in his satchel. No coin pouch. No trinkets. He wears no armor. But sewn into the inside hem of his robe — just beneath the sash — is a soft cloth pocket. In it, he keeps the few things no one sees: a brittle dried flower from a forgotten desert; a child’s charcoal drawing of a Khajiit and a kettle beneath the moons; and a knotted cord with one unfinished end. He’s tied it halfway. He hasn’t decided when or if to finish it.

Za’Dakki carries no excess. His satchel holds memory, not weight. Everything he owns is either meant to serve or to . And when he walks, the leather shifts softly with each step, the contents rustling just faintly — like a prayer kept alive in motion.

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| ARMS |

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《Primary Weapons》

Za’Dakki does not carry a weapon in the way most would expect. He walks unarmed in the traditional sense—no blade at his side, no claws bared, no hardened steel wrapped in scripture or vengeance. But he does carry something. Always.

A staff.

He has never named it. Others have. Some call it Threadwood, others The Silent Reed, but he never corrects or confirms. To him, it is not a symbol, not a relic. It is simply his companion. A length of old, dark desert riverwood, smoothed by time, touched by sun, and reinforced where it has cracked. It stands a little shorter than he does, solid and worn, balanced enough to bear the full weight of his Cathay-raht frame without tipping or slipping. The grain is worn smooth at the grip from decades of walking, and near the top, a band of cotton thread is tightly wrapped in knotted patterns—each knot likely representing a soul, a moment, a prayer.

Small bells hang near the head of the staff, tied with soft cloth to keep them quiet. They do not chime unless he wishes them to. Most of the time, they rest silent, like him.

He has walked with this staff for over forty years. He has used it to lift the dying, to press cloth to wounds, to trace circles in the sand at dusk when he prepares a soul for ing. It has steadied his hand as he knelt to sing prayers, stirred the coals of a hundred fires, and held the weight of countless bodies who leaned on him when they had nothing else to hold. It is not sharpened. It is not meant for violence. But in moments of danger, when something must be said without speaking, Za’Dakki plants it into the earth—and that is enough. He does not raise it. He does not strike. He simply places it between harm and the one who cannot defend themselves. And somehow, the world stills.

It does not look new. It is dry in places, darkened from use in others. A small repair near the base shows where it once cracked—filled with resin and lashed with bone pins. Another higher up, held together with barkwrap and softened by old blood. He sands it gently when near water, not to clean it, but to feel it. He listens to the wood as others might listen to a heartbeat.

How he came by it is unclear. He has never told the full story. Some say he found it beside his mother’s body, during the fever season. Others believe it was handed to him by a dying moon-priest who named him Cantor with his final breath. One child once whispered that he carved it himself from the branch of a tree that only grows when no one watches.

Whatever the truth, it has never left him.

He keeps no sword. He owns no armor. His staff is his burden and his vow. It is what he braces himself with when kneeling. What he taps gently three times when performing a healing rite. What he sleeps beside, curled slightly toward, like a child resting beside a sibling long gone.

To most, it is a walking stick. To Za’Dakki, it is the one thing that has remained with him from the first song to now. It does not take life. It does not shine. It carries. It bears. It stays. Just like him.

《Secondary Weapons》

N/A

《Armour》

Za’Dakki does not wear armor. He never has. Not even during the border conflicts or the bandit seasons in the south, when others insisted he should. He refuses armor not out of pride or recklessness, but because he believes it creates distance — between healer and wounded, between presence and pain.

His body is already large. His presence, quiet but weighty. To him, armour would only make him more of a wall when he’s spent his life learning how to make space for others.

Instead, he relies on movement, presence, and patience to avoid danger. He walks routes others fear to cross. He steps out of the way before tension rises. And when the moment truly turns, he does not fight — he stands. With stillness. With intent. With mercy.

The closest thing he wears to armor is his layered robe — thick enough to stave off wind, sand, and weather, but never rigid. It is soft, worn, and always clean. Even when he’s walking through violence, his clothing signals care, not confrontation. To many, that presence is disarming enough.

He has accepted that this makes him vulnerable. But to Za’Dakki, vulnerability is not weakness. It is the proof that he still trusts the world enough to walk through it unshielded — and that maybe, if he does, others might start to do the same.

《Magic》

Za’Dakki uses magic, though he would never call it that. To him, it is not a force to be commanded or a craft to be displayed. It is part of the breath, the thread, the silence. His magic doesn’t crackle or shimmer or draw the eye — it settles into the space around him like warmth after long cold, like a hum ed from childhood. You don’t notice it happening. You only notice that you feel safe, or that the pain has lessened, or that you’ve started to cry after weeks of holding it in.

He is not a mage. He does not belong to any guild. He cannot summon daedra, hurl fire, or bend time. But he has walked beside fevered children who slept peacefully when he sang, and he has calmed grieving warriors with a single touch on the shoulder. He does not speak words of power. He hums, or brews tea, or ties thread with slow fingers while incense curls through the air. That is when the pain fades. That is when the soul steadies.

Za’Dakki’s magic comes from the school of Restoration, but it is not temple-trained. It’s born from faith and rhythm, shaped by the moons and grief and mercy. He uses it rarely, and only in ways that serve others. His most common spells are the most humble: healing cuts, soothing fevers, dulling exhaustion. He does not restore health with bursts of light. He does it by steeping herbs, pressing his palm gently to someone’s back, and staying with them through the night.

In the old traditions, he would be called a moon-priest or a cantor-mender. Not a healer who cures through miracles, but one who guides the soul toward rest and repair, slowly, patiently, in rhythm with Jone and Jode. His healing is tied to breath, memory, and presence. It’s not meant to fix. It’s meant to remind the body that it is still loved.

Beyond restoration, his magic touches on Mysticism, though he wouldn’t call it that either. He can feel death before it comes — not always, but often enough. When someone is nearing their end, he knows. His body stills. His ears twitch. He ties a thread without knowing why. He does not force spirits to leave, but he can calm them, just by being near. His presence makes ghosts forget their anger. He lights incense, and something inside the room changes. The pressure lifts.

He also has a sense for life — not through spells, but through awareness. When someone is hiding, hurting, grieving in silence, he often finds them first. It’s not magic the way most understand it. It’s more like gravity — as if pain has weight, and he’s always drawn to it.

Za’Dakki’s class, if it had a name, would sit between Healer, Mystic, and Pilgrim. Not a combat medic, not a holy knight, but a walking keeper of warmth, a bearer of silence, a carrier of memory. He wears no armor. He wields no blade. But he carries a satchel full of thread, herbs, and incense. And a staff that has never drawn blood — only boundaries.

His magic does not come from desire. It comes from refusal. Refusal to leave the wounded alone. Refusal to forget the lost. Refusal to let pain go unseen. And so the moons answer him, not because he commands them, but because they recognize the thread he carries — tied to so many hearts, so many lives.

When he kneels beside the dying, and the tea is hot, and the bells on his staff are quiet, Za’Dakki may place a hand on the chest of someone slipping away and whisper nothing at all. And the person will breathe easier. And the pain will ease. And they will not feel afraid. That is his magic. That is all he has ever needed.

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“Faith is not in the words. It is not in the temple. It is not in the sky. Za’Dakki has learned this: faith lives in the moment you choose to stay, when it would be easier to walk away. That is where the moons are.”

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| PROWESS |

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《Strengths》

| Strong Skills |

Za’Dakki’s strongest skills are not the kind that earn titles or praise. They are the quiet, enduring abilities shaped by long roads, fevered nights, whispered names, and the patient work of staying. Everything he does is practical, spiritual, and rooted in presence. He was not trained in a temple, nor did he learn in a guildhall. His skills come from tending to others when no one else would — and choosing to listen instead of speak.

Above all, Za’Dakki is a healer. His command of Restoration magic is slow and steady, never showy. He doesn’t channel bursts of light or dramatic spells — his healing happens over time, with breath and warmth and ritual. He can ease pain with a hand placed gently on the back, calm fever with a tea pressed into someone’s palms, slow bleeding with pressure and a prayer. His healing is not just magic — it is intention, steadiness, and refusal to leave. He can restore without casting. Often, people don’t realize they’ve been healed until the ache fades hours later.

Beneath that is his skill in herbalism and tea alchemy, which rivals any trained apothecary. He knows the leaves that numb pain, the roots that draw out poison, the blossoms that quiet nightmares. His teas are precise, timed to the moons and the moment. Some are simple — for sleep, for fevers. Others are sacred, brewed only at certain phases, for grief too deep to name. His herbs are wrapped in linen and twine, labeled in memory, and he uses them with such gentleness that even skeptics drink without fear.

He is also deeply gifted in empathic reading. He understands people without needing words. He notices the shift in breath when someone lies, the way fingers curl when holding in anger, the tremble in someone’s silence when a name is too painful to speak. He does not interrogate or confront. He simply adjusts — lowers his voice, steps back, offers a cup, or hums the right melody. He senses pain and moves around it like a current in water.

His threadwork is both a ritual and a record. Each knot on the cord at his waist marks a life he has touched — someone healed, buried, held, ed. The way he ties thread is a sacred act: he weaves memory into it. Sometimes he uses it in rites of ing, or to calm someone during sleep, or to bind cloth around a wound. The thread carries meaning. It is his way of keeping the world from forgetting what mattered.

Za’Dakki’s presence is a skill in itself. In times of fear or grief, he becomes the still point in the room. People breathe easier when he is near. Fights dissolve in his silence. Children stop crying without knowing why. It’s not a spell. It’s who he is. His spiritual presence steadies others — not through words or command, but through his refusal to leave when things grow heavy.

His physical endurance is quiet but unshakable. He has walked the sands of Anequina, the cold es near Falkreath, and the steaming salt basins of Tenmar — never rushed, never breathless. He can carry full-grown bodies without strain, walk a full day without food, and sit in vigil all night without sleep. His body, though weathered and worn, is conditioned by decades of care — care for others, for burdens, for grief.

Then there is his mastery of sensory rites: incense, warmth, and sound. He knows which scents ground the mind, which herbs to burn beside the dying, how to stir a sleeping fire until it glows just enough for comfort. He uses smell and texture the way others use blade and shield — not to fight, but to defend what should not be lost. When he prepares a sickroom, it becomes a sanctum. When he prepares a body, it becomes a farewell that leaves nothing unsaid.

All of Za’Dakki’s skills — his healing, his movement, his voice, his ritual — serve a single purpose: to stay. To hold space. To ease pain. To . He has no need for weaponry or acclaim. His strength is quiet, carried in the breath between grief and healing. In a world that often forgets the wounded and praises the cruel, Za’Dakki’s greatest skill is his refusal to become like it.

《Weaknesses》

| Weak Skills |

Za’Dakki is not without weakness. He does not pretend to be whole, nor does he carry himself as someone without limits. His strength lies in presence, in mercy, in the unshakable decision to stay when others walk away — but there are many things he cannot do, and he knows them well. They do not shame him. They shape the edges of his path, gently, like the moons carving shadows in sand.

He is not a warrior. He does not fight. He carries no weapon beyond a walking staff and the strength of his own patience. He has never trained in swordplay, archery, or tactical warfare. When danger rises, he does not meet it with force — he simply plants himself where he is needed, steady and unmoving, or removes himself entirely. He cannot defend others with a shield, nor strike down threats with a blade. His body is strong, yes, built from decades of walking, lifting, carrying — but strength alone is not skill, and he has never been trained to hurt.

He has no command of Destruction magic. He cannot conjure fire or freeze a wound. He knows nothing of lightning, wards, or force. Those spells feel violent to him — harsh, cold, too full of sharp will. Even the thought of channeling them turns him away. His magic is breath, thread, tea, and silence — not flame and pain. He has no taste for power that burns.

He is not a speaker of politics. Power games exhaust him. Courtly intrigue and diplomacy through hierarchy mean nothing to him. He does not flatter, posture, or lie. When he speaks to nobles, he is respectful but distant. He offers tea, not strategy. If a situation calls for cunning or political leverage, he has none to offer. He does not know how to bargain. He does not care to learn.

His grasp of arcane theory is almost nonexistent. He is not literate in Dwemer mechanics, rune-craft, or the structure of enchantment. He cannot read ancient glyphs, decipher magical traps, or even explain how his healing spells work in technical . He doesn’t need to — but it means he must step aside when scholars and mages take the lead. He listens, quietly. He does not pretend to understand.

Large social situations leave him distant. He thrives in silence, in one-on-one healing, in small groups where pain can breathe without being judged. But in cities, rituals, or public ceremonies, he becomes quiet to the point of vanishing. He does not perform. He does not enjoy attention. His wisdom is best shared across a fire, not from a pulpit.

Perhaps his deepest weakness is his relationship to himself. Za’Dakki does not care for his own needs. He gives food away, sleeps little, walks until he bleeds, ignores pain, and brushes off illness. He will sit at another’s bedside for three nights straight and forget to eat. It is not pride. It is habit. A quiet belief that others matter more. He wears his body like a tool, not something to protect.

In moments that demand speed — action, reaction, decisive motion — he lags behind. Not from fear, but from care. He thinks. He listens. He waits. This is a gift in grief, but a fault in danger. Where others rush to act, he steadies — and sometimes, that isn’t fast enough.

He is not self-sufficient in material . He does not hunt, trap, forge, or craft. He can prepare tea, clean cloth, tie knots, and apply herbs — but if left alone to build a shelter, forge a tool, or prepare for a harsh winter, he would not manage well. He survives through ritual and kindness, not skill in the wild.

Greed and ambition confuse him. Not because he condemns them — but because he simply does not understand their rhythm. People who seek power, recognition, or greatness feel distant to him. He speaks to them softly, but never deeply. He cannot follow the shape of their wants, and he does not know how to help them.

Za’Dakki is not complete. He is not without edge or flaw. But he is constant. In all the things he cannot do — in all the battles he does not fight, the spells he cannot cast, the voices he cannot sway — he remains. Gentle, present, unshaken. A thread of mercy stitched into a world that forgets how to hold still. And that is enough.

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| RELATIONS |

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Anbi

Za’Dakki and Anbi are not companions in the way most would describe — they are not bound by vows, nor ed by a quest, nor tied to any cause larger than kindness. But to those who see them together, there is no mistaking it: they are deeply close. Woven into each other’s lives like tea leaves in water, thread in cloth, moons in the same sky.

Their friendship began quietly, the way most things in Za’Dakki’s life do. Anbi’s caravan had rolled into a sick border-village nestled between the Othreleth and the Palevine. She was younger then, still hesitant, still folding her words carefully around her accent. She came to trade tinctures and dried fruit — only to find the town half-starved and shivering. She did what she could. Set up her little tent, tried to smile. But it was too much.

And then Za’Dakki was there.

She noticed him before he spoke. A tall, broad Cathay-raht with quiet steps and thread tied to his sash. He was kneeling beside someone, brow lowered, humming a low note that didn’t seem to come from his throat so much as the ground itself. He never introduced himself. When she looked exhausted, he handed her a small cup of dark, fragrant tea. She sipped it hesitantly, then blinked at the taste.

“Steadiness,” he said. That was all.

After that, she kept finding him. Or maybe he kept finding her. On trade roads. In salt-flat shrines. In fog-wrapped woodlands where both of them had stopped to tend someone the world had forgotten. They never arranged meetings — they simply arrived, like the moons crossing paths.

Their bond grew without need for explanation. Anbi, with her soft voice and restless hands, often flustered when speaking Tamrielic — Za’Dakki, with his unshakable patience and open silence. He never corrected her speech. He always listened to the end. When she apologized for fumbling words, he would gently shake his head, as if to say: This one understood you before you spoke.

She brought him things. Dried fruits. Thread. Stories. He mended her travel cloak when she wasn’t looking, folding the edges with such care that it felt like a blessing. She taught him how to steep honeyfruit into sleep-tea — and now he uses it for restless elders in his care. He ties a knot for her on his thread cord, soft red and warm orange — her colors. She, in turn, keeps a small tin of his tea in her satchel, even when they’re apart.

They sit beside one another for hours without speaking. She braids dried grasses. He stokes the fire. Sometimes they trade herbs. Sometimes she teaches him a caravan lullaby, and later, he hums it for frightened children in places she’ll never see.

They do not travel together often. Anbi’s caravan runs by rhythm and trade. Za’Dakki walks by need and calling. But when their paths cross, they fall into perfect rhythm without effort. One prepares the fire. The other sets the kettle. They speak few words, because none are needed.

Once, a border-guard scoffed at Anbi’s speech, mocking her accent and her caravan name. She lowered her gaze, ears twitching. Za’Dakki didn’t raise his voice. He simply stood — broad and quiet, tall as a storm — and said nothing. And the guard, after a few seconds of silence, looked away and left. He never touched her. Never told her she was safe. But she knew.

Their friendship is not fiery, not dramatic. It is something slow, sacred, and held gently between them. They don’t name it. They don’t need to.

If you ask Anbi about Za’Dakki, she would smile shyly and say, “He… he stays. Even when others go.”

If you ask Za’Dakki about Anbi, he will pause, touch the knot she made for him, and say, “This one finds peace when her footsteps are near.”

And when they part ways again — as they always must — there is no sorrow. Only a soft glance, a nod, and the knowledge that wherever their paths lead, they will meet again.

Because some friendships don’t need to be held. They simply return, like the moons.

_________

“You do not need to be mighty to mend the world. No, no. You only need to be kind where others forget to be, and to stay just long enough for someone to breathe again. That is more than most will ever do.”

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| GALLERY |

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