Meet Khalja Kahkol!

A Steppe warrior born to the Hotgo tribe, he took an early liking to the art of the lancer. Upon hitting his 18th summer Khalja made to decision to travel to Eorzea for further experience and training, eventually stumbling upon talk of Ishgard and its legendary dragoons. Stubborn and determined, Khalja traveled on foot to the Highlands and eventually integrated himself into the dragoons solely off his promise as a warrior and his body as further fodder to throw at dragons. His integration occured 10 years prior to the events of HW, with 5 years spent prior to the Calamity and 2 after. He left on his 7th year within the city to return home where he learned of his tribe's demise and fell into the Kahkol tribe as a refugee. This tribe, too, fell and while Khalja is known to stay alongside the Buduga he has a strong hatred for them and the Dotharl tribe. He has kept the name Kahkol is stubborn defiance of their fall.

Name: Khalja Kahkol (Kal-ya)

Gender: Male

Age: 30 yrs

Sexuality: Gay

Job: Dragoon // NOT an Azure Dragoon

Home: The Azim Steppe

_________________________________________

Verses:

Main; Returned to the Steppe. He spends much of his time hunting or training, with his only goal each year to participate in the Nhaadam wherein he may once again cull members of the Dotharl and Buduga respectively.

Secondary; He never left Ishgard, instead sticking around to hone his skills further against foes that provide an actual challenge to him, the Dravanians. Few Ishgardians look upon him favorably despite his sacrifice but he cares little for the judgement.

Post-SB: Participates in battles for the Eorzean Alliance, acting as another warrior under the leadership of Sadu and Magnai much to his chagrin. Regardless he does his duty anyway, even if battle with Garleans and their machines proves boring.

Upon the tip of an incline sat the xaela, acidic gaze staring across the planes he had always called home. Verdant grass swayed in the gentle winds, warm unlike that of where he had once housed himself... and yet there was no joy in his return.

Khalja breathed a soft sigh, eyes falling to dark gauntlets he tugged idly upon as though to fix an error that was not there, his brows furrowed and mind wandering in a flurry. Displaced. Where would he go? It had only been some years since his leaving and yet he could not help the guilt that gnawed at his chest like rabid beasts.

A sound from behind drew his attention back from the precipice of his own mind, head lifting and turning slightly. Footsteps were heavy but quiet, the pace slow until the figure stopped behind him. Khalja paused before properly turning, half expecting a Dotharl to stand waiting to end one of few who had gotten away... but that was not who he found.

Send ‘Heated Hot Springs’ For the sending muse to find the receiving muse bathing in a hot spring nude. 

  Water slowly engulfed his sore body, warmth coaxing the ache from his muscles and washing sweat from his skin. Khalja exhaled a long, soft sigh and leaned back against the warm rock of the hot spring, eyes falling lightly shut as he listening to the whistle of the common wind beyond and the rustle of verdant grass. It was something he missed - resting within a spring while the sun dipped slowly towards the horizon. His head tilted back, an eye peeking at the sky streaked with all shades of reds, pinks and oranges, the upper skies darkened and already sprinkled with twinkling stars.

  He hummed gently and shifted, an arm propping itself up along the rock wall he leaned against and head turning to rest upon his shoulder. He then jumed, eyes widening.

  Not far off stood Magnai, the khagan, an individual he least expected to stumble upon him. He sat upright, thankful that the steam had already reddened his skin and aptly hid any hint of fluster to Khalja’s face.

  “Khagan! I did not expect you out this way,” he said, blinking. A clawed hand lifted, brushing through loose orange and black hair that tumbled down his shoulders and back. He cleared his throat, an apologetic glimmer in acidic gaze. “I apologize for the eh... circumstances...”

  Despite his apologies and the admitted racing of his heart in his chest, he did not make an effort to shrink or cover himself up; it wasn’t so much the nudity that embarrassed him as it was being caught outside of his usual training regiment, unsure of how another tribe would react to such a break.

Upon finally being accepted into dragoon training, Khalja halted the use of his vibrant face paints in an effort to be better accepted in the city - completely misunderstanding why people kept their distance from him in the first place. Even as the removal of the paints caused no change he got into the habit of leaving them behind, especially as he began to involve himself in battles for Ishgard where the changing of paints took too much time.

Upon the discovery of his long-slaughtered tribe he gave up on the tradition for the most part, finding that in instances where he remembered to apply it he would only feel pain and despair to such a point that he couldn't find the strength to keep going. By no longer putting it on he fell back into habits of his time in Ishgard, pretending all was fine when it made no sense if only to continue the life he was permitted to keep. However, there are still occasions where he will paint his face - and always in a pattern identical to that of his mother's facepaint.

Before battles, especially that of the Nadaam, Khalja will paint his face with bright red facepaint depicting his rage and reminding those he battles (particularly the Dotharl) that the Hotgo still yet live. In times of mourning, often the anniversary of his tribe's death, he wears bright blue paint to signify his sorrow and revisits the remains of their tents to pay his respects.

Eyes stare outward towards churning mists, peaks of mountains faded from distance and cloudcover. The chill of the wind sends a shiver down Khalja's spine, a huff exhaling a singular puff of frigid smoke; why he still remained in such a cold place he knew not, mind teetering towards returning home all to often when left to his own devices within Ishgard.

Khalja's eyes focus upon a figure entering the city from his peripherals, the Gates having remained unmoving for bells since Khalja had taken his station. He eyed the man; the bright purple tones of his person, the ears stood tall upon his head an uncommon sight within either place he had called home in his lifetime. He paused, pushing himself off a crumbling stone wall to begin his approach.