Umar Dagar

Umar Dagar
Character Name - Umar Dagar
Email address - blackholearmy@gmail.com
Division - Freelanders DM
Handle: Marak
Physical Description - Umar is a short man, with a horribly twisted clubfoot, and can thus barely walk. He has cropped black hair, and dull green eyes, He is lanky, and is slightly pale.
Place of Birth/Raising - Umar was raised in the city of Chachin, after being born just outside its walls. After he was born, his mother and father raced their horses to get to the city, as it was a harsh winter, and Umar was but a newborn babe. However, his mother’s horse’s leg twisted, and the horse collapsed, killing his mother, and shattering his delicate foot. His father took him into the city, where he raised him on his own. Umar’s father was a Shienaran nobleman, and a rich one, at that. Although he was rich, however, his father served in Borderlander armies, and left him with nannies, and trainers.
Character History - At the age of six, Umar always wondered why he couldn’t play, and run, with the other boys. At that age, he could wield a blade with competence, a small one, and shoot a loaded crossbow, and hit his mark. His father did not teach him about love and joy, but rather about the Shadow, and the way they must constantly face it. He grew up, his feet growing smaller, as he walked little, until the day his father bought him his own pony. He loved the pony, and rode it everywhere, exercising his legs to make it move, and the fact that he could truly run, made horses his favoured mode of transport.
When he was ten, he could wield a bow from a horse, although not with any great skill, and he all but abandoned the blade. He could only just form his letters, and he did not appear to be smart, or talented.
His father, who had been depressed for some time, after the recent attacks by the Shadow, sent him off to a tactical school, after telling him he would never amount to a warrior. At least, his father thought, if the boy could learn tactics, he would be useful in the war against the Shadow. At that time, nothing else mattered to his father. His father put most of their money into his education, as he was paying for general’s time, and, after all, he had to be educated in the military. Once he joined, for two days a week, he fought, and tried to get around on his foot, being trained to fight if all else failed. The other eight days were spent studying tactics, musty tomes, and boredom, for him.
It took him six weeks, to decipher letters well, and understand what all the symbols meant. He continued paying, though, in the hope that he would understand tactics. One day, it simply all fell into place. His mind, instead of telling him the letting ‘M’ was a Myrddraal, gave him a magnificint picture of a Fade, atop of a grassy hill. He smiled. It made sense, now.
Within a week, his ability to outsmart almost every other student in the school astounded his teachers. He could truly visualize, ’see’ what was happening on that imaginary field, and he could also imagine how hungry, how tired, how afraid his men were, and he always, always, put that into his tactical equations. It was strange, though. He could barely do maths, it took him great effort to write, but with tactics, he was a veritable genius. He could visualize the field, and made perfect tactical equation after tactical equation. His teachers often joked about him being some Aes Sedai construction, made to be a tactician. After a few years, his money ran out, and there was little he did not know about tactics.
He left the school, and decided to train with horses, and swords, and bows, for another year. And another. A third year later, on his fifteenth birthday, he went back, to study tactics, in Shienar. He studied there for another two years, making a name for himself devising new strategies for men to use against Trollocs, aiding small bands of men to victory against Trollocs, and hiring himself out to anyone who needed a tactician, and earnt his way, as he went. His weapon skills deteriorated in this time, as he was fond of saying, “The keenest blade is the edge of thought”.
On his seventeenth year, he returned to Chachin. A sergeant he had served with during his years of a mercenary tactician had heard of him, and liked him, and, asked him to devise a strategy for his division. He had little information, and the sergeant was expecting a miracle tactician. In reality, he performed badly, as he didn’t know everything, he assumed it was going to be a large raid on Chachin, Trollocs and Myrrdraal. He rode out, with three men, to scout the area, so he could get a feel for the terrain. It was a long ride, and lasted for several days. It was on the second day, at sunset, he lay down to sleep, on his horse. It was better to keep moving, all the time, he felt.
In the night, he felt a shock, and he was cruelly thrown off his horse. His men screamed, and although he could not see, he heard them being dragged away, into the night. A hoof hit his head, and he fell into unconsciousness…
…A few hours later, he awoke, a large Trolloc looming above him. It was licking its chops, looking evilly at him. He screamed. He drew his short blade, and used it to hack at the creature, trying to keep it away. As he saw its axe descending, a lance suddenly impaled itself through the beast’s belly. He looked up, and saw the welcome sight of Arafellin knights. One of them hauled him up onto their horse.
Umar said “please.. could you please take me to Chachin?”.
One of the knights looked grimly at him, and said “There is no more Chachin.”.
Umar fainted.
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