((NOTE: Okay. Complete version. Two things: firstly, I know that my username is different from my character name. That was a mistake on my part – I decided to submit a different character when I'd already joined up. So I guess somebody has to change it. Secondly, my sample post is abnormally long. Since I was using NPCs, I didn't have to break it up into shorter posts. When I'm writing with other people, I obviously can't auto them so my posts will be shorter. So. And that's all.))

---Player information

Pseudonym: Belle
Gender: Female
Past role-play experience: Varied Redwall and fantasy roleplays. I've been RPing around... two, two-and-a-half, maybe even three years.

---Character information

Name: Azilur ibn Ehir

Age: 14

Gender: Male

Birthplace: The Great Southern Desert

Position: Page

History: Azilur is the second son of the headman of the Bazhir Crescent Sun tribe and his head wife. As such, he was brought up as a noble, in Bazhir terms, and was well-educated in mathematics, history, writing, reading and drawing even before he came to the Royal Palace. Also, he learned how to ride and use a bow and the light, slightly curved sword of his clan. The Crescent Sun tribe was also an influential one, so he was almost doubly well-respected.

However, his tribe had also had... testy relations with the Crown in the past. Only recently had several quarrels been patched up. The Crescent Sun was not, however, particularly trusted. Therefore, as a gesture of goodwill (and partially in compliance with Azilur's own desire) his parents sent him to Corus to serve as a page, then a squire, and finally a knight.

Early on in his service as a page, Azilur expected the same degree of respect from the other pages that he had been given by the tribesmen in the desert. He soon learned, however, about the racism which wasn't dominant but still present in the palace. He also found that, compared to many of the other pages there, he was an ignorant savage.

Azilur made a promise to himself: he would work harder than any of the others, and outshine them all. Then they – meaning those few who taunted him because of his race – would see just how worthless the Bazhir were.

He's kept his promise, though he also learned that he couldn't outshine everybody in everything. However, through hard work and dedication, he's become one of the best swordsmen of his class, a good archer, a fair tilter, though he still doesn't always hit the target, and a passable fighter in hand-to-hand combat. The last two are not his forte, though.

Azilur has just one problem. Horses.

For some inexplicable reason, they dislike, even hate, him. Even the most placid horses have snapped at him. It's a major hindrance. Some horses will tolerate him, but even they probably wouldn't do their best for him.

The only horse who likes him is his Bazhir mare, Andala, or "Midnight" in the Crescent Sun dialect. Even she can be testy with him at times, though.

It's a hurdle that Azilur has come to live with, now, and it's almost second nature to dodge the kick of an unfamiliar horse.

Personality: Azilur is aloof and uptight most of the time. He's quick, and observant, and clever, but can be horribly stubborn. If he doesn't want to do something or grasp a concept, he won't. When he wants to be, though, he's staunchly loyal and extremely helpful, and quick. When he wants to be. He's close-mouthed and extremely trustworthy, even cagey. He has a love of privacy, and he's somewhat secretive, especially about what he does in his spare time. "Foolhardy" definitely doesn't describe Azilur. He's very cautious, and dislikes anybody prying into his affairs.

Sometimes, among a few select friends, he loosens up for a bit. Maybe he'll actually laugh. The art of having fun is something he still has to learn. Maybe he never will. He's not cruel, just cold. Very proper, very polite, he's still a recluse and keeps himself to himself.

Physical description: Azilur couldn't be called handsome, but there's something striking about him. Maybe it's his straight, narrow, slightly hooked nose, or his bushy eyebrows, or his high cheekbones, or his stubborn chin. His eyes are the dark grey of stormclouds, an unusual colour for a Bazhir. They're alert and intelligent, framed by long lashes which, oddly enough, don't give him the appearance of a girl in the least. His hair is coarse, dull, soot-black, cropped to just above his earlobes.

He's muscular from years of extra exercises to build his arm, stomach and leg muscles and give him an advantage in fencing, which was formerly his weakest area. Recently, he's grown a fair bit, now standing at 5' 11. He'll probably end up 6' 2 or 3 by the time his growth spurt is over. He's well-built, but slightly on the wiry side.

Sample post:

"Hey, sand scut!"

The Bazhir boy whirled instantly at the sound of the taunting voice. Sand scut. Weakling. Desert boy. That's what they thought him, was it? He'd show them. And I'll make sure they never forget.

The other two youths were both shorter than he was, but stockier. One had pointed features and straw-coloured hair, the other pale eyes and mouse-brown hair. Azilur's mouth twitched at the corners. He would enjoy teaching them a lesson.

"So," drawled the straw-haired boy, strolling up towards Azilur. The Bazhir inconspicuously got his back against the stone wall of the corridor. He had been going to the library to study, but if these two wanted to tangle with him, fine.

"You think you're accepted here, do you?" continued the obviously leading youth. Once again, Azilur's mouth quirked.

"I think," he began, his voice so soft it was almost a hiss.

"Do you? I didn't think that sand scuts like you could think!" broke in the straw-boy. The darker-haired youth, who Azilur identified as Nicolas of Seabeth, guffawed.

"Good one, Ayrton," he grunted.

"I do not think it's worthy my time to talk to two such empty-headed loons as you," remarked Azilur disdainfully. "I believe I'll delegate that task to my muscles."

Ayrton had come even closer now, close enough. The Bazhir lunged forward, whirling around in a crescent kick. The blow swept Ayrton's feet from under him, and the blonde youth fell to the ground with a crash. Azilur took a moment to smirk his satisfaction, then ducked as Nicolas rushed forward and directed an uppercut at his head. The Bazhir butted the Seabeth noble in the stomach, causing his opponent to double up.

An unexpected impact from behind him sent both Azilur and Nicolas sprawling to the floor. Ayrton loomed over them, his already face somewhat disfigured by a broken nose. Azilur couldn't help a slight chuckle.

"Think it's funny, sand scut?"

The other page's boot swung forward to connect with the Bazhir's jaw. Azilur rolled off of the other boy; while the foot missed his jaw, it still landed on his ribs.

Pressed against the corridor wall, Azilur could hear something snap. He gasped as pain lanced up his side like lightning. Drawing breath suddenly hurt.

Give up, why don't you? You can't win.

Perhaps if it had been his voice in his head he would have given in and begged for mercy; perhaps if it had been wise and comforting he would have accepted it.

But it was Ayrton's voice, sneering, with just a whisper of the words "sand scut" behind it.

Pain. Hadn't he been taught to ignore it? Hadn't he come to live with it? Like this? Maybe not. But he would. By all the gods, he would.

Azilur uncoiled slowly from the floor. It seemed like an eternity had gone by, but somehow, Nicolas was still wheezing, the wind knocked out of him.

He stood, swaying slightly, then steadied. The pain, somehow, didn't muddle him; it lent him clarity. This was what he was going to do.

Purposefully, he planted one foot on Nicolas' throat. The pale eyes of the boy on the floor widened. The pressure he applied was very slight; just enough to warn the other pages. Ayrton raised one eyebrow.

“I thought I'd broken your ribs. Not enough for you, sand scut?” Without another word, the other page charged.

Azilur caught Ayrton's forearms in his hands. The straw-haired youth struggled to get free, but Azilur's grip was like iron.

Something thumped against his broken ribs: Ayrton's knee. The Bazhir's opponent's thrashings were getting wilder now, but he ignored them. The pain which had become a dull throb flared up into a wildfire of agony in his right side. Sweat was matting his dark hair; he was going, it hurt, it hurt, red fire everywhere...

Involuntarily, Azilur's foot pressed down on Nicolas' throat. A strangled choking from below brought him back to the present world with a shock. He was killing another page.

That was murder, wasn't it?

He had to stop it, surely.

But he was perpetrating the crime.

Was he a murderer?

If he stopped it, they'd pound him.

I'd lose.

That realization galvanized him into action. He twisted his upper body, ignoring the pain now. He prayed that his hands wouldn't slip on the fabric of Ayrton's tunic. They didn't.

The twist was one he had learned from the Shang combat teachers, and now he thanked the heavens that he had remembered it. Ayrton sailed through the air for a moment, before his head cracked against the hard, unforgiving stone. He slumped to the floor, unconcious.

Ponderously, Azilur removed his foot from Nicolas' neck. The pale-haired boy, too, was unconcious.

He should join them, he knew. Nobody had any business suffering such pain and being concious. But giving in now would be as bad as losing to them.

Hot anger coiled deep in his gut. They wanted him to lose, did they? He wouldn't let them.

Sweating and bloodied, the page limped towards the library. Maybe he would study...