"Tso" (Tsolmon), Runaway Mongol

Build:

100 points to spend

Complications:

Ghost Domain (+6)
Insidious Cult (+4)

Origin:

Commoner, +1 Body (0)

Spirit Foundation: Lesser Elemental Spirit (Empty Spirit)

+1 Intelligence, (0)

3 free Talent points go to Skill, Intelligence and Perception.

Level up Body by 1 (-6)
Level up Intelligence by 1 (-6)
Level up Skill by 2 (-12)
Level up Perception by 4 (-24)

Perks:

Alchemist 2 (-8)
Item Refiner 2 (-8)
Talisman Master 2 (-8)
Physician 2 (-8)
Innovator 2 (-8)
True Will (-6)
Hidden Technique 1 (-3)

Common-Rank Techniques:

Bodily Invigoration Method (-1)
Shadow Aura Concealment (-1)
Great Shattering Fist (-1)
Flowing Wind Kicks (-1)

Hidden-Rank Techniques:

Infinity Rising Void Method (-9)

Talents:

3 Skill
3 Intelligence
2 Body
5 Perception

110 points spent, 0 remaining

Backstory:

Tsolmon, or "Tso" to the people of the Four Territories, isn't actually native to this vast land. Born to a nomadic tribesman from beyond the Territories and a young beauty captured from one of their incessant border raids, Tsolmon was given little and raised with less. His father wasn't one of the honored horse-warriors who populated the great hordes, but merely one of those who tended the steeds. In truth, the man's only skill beyond drinking and riding guard on the herds was gambling, winning his future wife from one of the proper fighters in a game of chance.

The boy grew up with a surplus of wit and cunning to protect him through the harsh years of steppe life, learning his father's trade of managing all sorts of four-legged beasts. His mother did her best to educate Tsolmon, teaching him the rudiments of reading, writing, and the "civilized" tongue of the Four Territories. Whenever Tsolmon acted above his station (which mostly depended on how much alcohol and fermented mare's milk had been consumed by those in his vicinity), he'd be put in his place with the fist or the belt. The young boy tried to learn his mother's techniques of gathering one's own essence internally to provide strength and healing, but it never quite took for him. The warrior's blood tainted by scholarship, the sage's blood tainted by savagery. Whatever the opposite of hybrid vigor was, Tsolmon was certain he was cursed by it.

Tsolmon's life changed when the tribe again rode past where his mother had been stolen from, years ago. Again, the warriors departed looking for loot and slaves, and this time Tsolmon was surprised to hear his father call for him, and his mother to nod her head with agreement. As Tsolmon left, riding alongside his father with the reserve horses, he opened the note his mother had slipped into his hand as he left their tent. It outlined a path to take, back to the estate his mother had once called home. She was no grand master of esoteric arts, nor a goddess of the sword and spear, but she had been a maidservant to those who were. And she was certain there might be some leftover items of use within the ruins of her former lords.

Tsolmon found his chance on a thundering, stormy downpour, sneaking away from the encampment unnoticed. A few miles from the tribe's yurts, concealed in a low valley between some rolling hills, he found something very much like what his mother had described! It was a passing strange place for building a temple, isolated miles upon miles from any sort of civilization, and it seemed far too old and worn-down to have been a place his mother once lived, but Tsolmon's excitement and curiosity stifled any misgivings he might have had, sneaking his way into the rubble.

Within the crumbled, burnt-out remnants of what was once a palatial estate, there was little visible for the taking. All the tapestries, ornamentation, gold and jewels had long since been violated, stolen away by nomads or bandits. But Tsolmon's eyes were keen, and his senses good. A life on the steppes had blessed him with a certain base insight, which guided him to a section of stone masonry no less damaged than the rest, but cut in a strange way. The blocks didn't follow the same seam patterns as the rest of the wall, and when Tsolmon pried at them with his fingers, they fell away to reveal a small trove of scrolls, talismans, and tomes. Marveling at the find, he hurriedly stashed everything away in his saddlebags.

Though he knew it not, the clan symbols engraved on some of his find were none his mother had ever seen. She had been taken years ago, and over the years since his mother's kidnapping the horsemen had traversed thousands of miles, wandering back and forth across the plains and steppes. Her home was much, much farther away than either mother or son had counted on. And yet, some bizarre kind of luck was with the hapless Tsolmon, for an ancient sage or cultivator had indeed built their refuge and meditation hall in this desolate place for reasons only its long-gone inhabitants could know.

The next day, his father took Tsolmon out on a long patrol, chasing down a couple horses which had strayed from the main herd. He took one look at the saddlebags, then another, longer look at Tsolmon. His father, the man Tsolmon had always been tyrannized by, said but one word. "Ride". Slapping Tsolmon's horse, he sent his son racing off into the steppes, headed towards the Four Territories. As he broke away from the tribe, they noticed the horse theft, and pursued in short order. The chase which followed was merciless, Tsolmon's lead on his former tribesmen dwindling by the minute.

But by joining in hunting his own son, his father escaped suspicion from the tribesmen. And because his father was closest to Tsolmon, at the head of the pursuit... his father could make a "mistake", and believably lead the warriors in the wrong direction, passing to the far side of a low series of rolling hills. If Tsolmon had fled on his own, being pursued without interference, the expert trackers of his tribe would have made short work of him no matter how fast the young man rode. Turning his horse swiftly, Tsolmon made good the lapse in his visibility, thanking his father for the first and only time.

He rode his horse for three weeks, setting a grueling pace in an effort to put as much distance behind him as possible. Tsolmon urged his horse ever southward, keeping the rising sun over his right shoulder. The land grew harsher and eerie in a manner Tsolmon hadn't imagined, forcing him to take a wider berth around the looming southeastern darkness which sunlight couldn't ever seem to fully dispel. Though Tsolmon knew not the name Ghost Domain, he could feel its hunger in his very soul, gritting his teeth, tightening his belt, and accepting hunger's bite as the price for remaining at what he hoped would be a safe distance. It was another three weeks of scavenging on the hoof before the dark miasma at last began to recede, and the Four Territories' border passed behind him. He may not have been a warrior like the other nomad boys, but Tsolmon was an expert horse-rider as herdsman nevertheless, just like his father. The white-haired stallion picked its way expertly through the overhanging forest at his command, slipping unseen into civilized lands.

When Tsolmon had gone as far as he dared in his nomadic attire, riding a nomadic horse, he sent the horse back to his father, blood of an unlucky rabbit splattered across the saddle. It felt silly to Tsolmon, but some honorable part of him hoped that the horse would indeed find its way back home, and make good the temporary theft. Practical needs still came first though, as Tsolmon stole some peasant clothing from a farmhouse laundry line, made a backpack from one of the saddlebags, grabbed the equally stolen hoe he'd beaten the rabbit to death with, and began to walk. From now on Tsolmon expected to live like a vagrant beggar, but held out hope that he could make something of himself with whatever treasures his backpack now contained.

What the boy found in his treasure trove disappointed him, in truth. He had hoped for lessons on warfare, on peerless bladesmanship, on arcane sorcery to shake the foundations of the world. What he got was scholarly texts about crafting, brewing, and distilling all manner of useful substances. Books about the human body and how it functioned, to heal and repair. Sage advice, not about what was known, but how to render oneself an empty vessel in order to learn what was unknown. And a very strange, cryptic arcane codex regarding the number zero. The mathematics were far above Tsolmon's ability to understand, but the chants and body postures were surprisingly simple for him to act upon. It felt right, in a way the young nomad didn't comprehend.

Hunting, trapping, gathering herbs and fish from the rivers, these skills Tsolmon had learned well from his parents on the harsh steppes. These served him well again allowing the young man to walk his way along quiet paths deeper within the Four Territories. He met few, and spoke to less, maintaining a low profile while practicing the few basic techniques within some of his simpler scrolls. Occasionally he saw cultivators flying overhead, or running past in the woods. A couple times he even witnessed mighty duels (from a safe distance), and was in awe of the strength of his mother's people. It also brought despair whenever he reflected too much on the vast gulf of power between he and they.

But life goes on, and Tsolmon is fairly confident he could bluff his way into becoming a passable merchant and crafter, or maybe a local physician, having studied his documents at length. The cultivation technique he's learned doesn't seem to be getting him anywhere, so he's mostly given up on the idea, assuming his half-and-half bloodline is preventing him from making any real progress in that field.

The Xun family's lands aren't far from where he currently is, and the rumors Tsolmon has heard about them are drawing him in that direction. He'd like to learn from them, but is willing to be a simple house servant like his mother before him if that's what it takes to get a hot meal in his stomach and a roof over his head. Living on the road has worked well enough so far, but eventually bandits or beasts will sniff him out, and Tsolmon knows it. He can't decide if he should knock on the door and announce himself, or if he should hope to be "accidentally" noticed and invited in.