Someone asked for this and I realized that it would probably be a good idea to post it, since I already had a list!
All of these characters appear (in some way or another) in The Tisroc and the King. No spoilers for Chapter 2 onwards... ‘deceased’ is only said of characters dead either before the story or in Chapter 1.
Some characters are featured more heavily in Passing Seasons or in the andaruni, but since both those stories take place in a different universe (The Tisroc and the King is an AU, while the others are canon-compliant), not all the descriptors necessarily apply... especially when it comes to the ‘deceased’ part. Â
Let me know if there’s something I missed! Thanks for reading!
Calormen
Aravis (Calavar) Former Khasik, third wife of Rabadash Tisroc. Current Tisroc of Calormen. Daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan.
Lasaraleen Tarkheena (Mezreel) Best friend of Aravis, wife of a Tashbaan Tarkaan.
Badrih Tarkheena (Zalindreh) First and eldest wife of Rabadash Tisroc.
Durriya Tarkheena (Tehishbaan) Second wife of Rabadash Tisroc, mother of the only heir. Daughter of Bilash Tarkaan.
Aya Tarkheena (Teebeth) Fourth and youngest wife of Rabadash Tisroc.
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Aini (Tashbaan) Slave-girl of the andaruni (Women’s Wing).
Halim (Tashbaan) Dream interpreter for common folk.
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Prince Jarrash (Tashbaan) Deceased. Original Crown Prince before Rabadash.
Ishaq Tarkaan (Tashbaan) First prince in line after Rabadash, opium addict and alcoholic.
Khalid Tarkaan (Tashbaan) Second prince in line, loyal to the South.
Ishamiel Tarkaan (Tashbaan) Sixth prince in line after Rabadash, advisor to Aravis.
Chlamash Tarkaan (Tashbaan) Head of the Tisroc’s Guard.
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My friend grasps my arm as we cross the street. I’m still struggling to understand cars driving on the opposite lanes from what I’m used to. A man shouts, laughing as he calls out to her. “Don’t to...
How do we take back what the Oppressor owes us? None of them remain. This country is independent, free of those who once sought to sell their children. As I walk in the streets of Iringa, I can’t see a single person of my skin tone or lighter. Here all are locals, living their own lives, immersed in their families and jobs and education. The Oppressor is gone. But the scars remain, and so they must be acknowledged — how can we be satisfied? Do we cling to the abasement, demean our own accomplishments, as a form of revenge? Do we allow it to make us bitter? Or do we forget what was done to us, and leave unacknowledged the wounds that have cut our societies open since the time of our ancestors?
maybe it's you
a man
with a name that gets pulled aside in airports
that rhymes with all their numbers
'unarmed' being your first name
'thug' the middle, most repeated
maybe the way your words roll through your lips
will leave flowers in our children's mouths
to be plucked and uprooted by the rest
to be silenced just to keep them safe.
maybe I, ambiguously colored
frequently misplaced
my skintone the drop that overflows our race
where 'skin-colored' becomes a lie
where 'alien' becomes our name
Mr and Mrs Statistic
like a title with which we'll sign
our children's death certificates
like the blood we'll spread over our door
so that the Angel will forget us
so that I stop being so afraid
that your headline is all they'll leave us.
The trials for suspected Death Eaters involved in the Wizarding Wars have begun, and Draco Malfoy finds himself trying to hold together what is left of his family and his fortune, while struggling to escape the looming, almost inevitable future of a lifetime spent in Azkaban. But there is one person who might not have given up completely.
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He’s a modern man, and he takes a seat outside while his family goes in without him. I’ve already been inside lots of times, he tells me. I nod and smile.
And when he asks me what my plans are — what’s a girl my age doing so far away from home? — I tell him about my college plans, and he leans back in his seat with this slow smile on his face (I should have seen this coming).
Engineering is too hard for a woman, he tells me, and the gleaming teeth of his smile are meant to be helpful, I know, fatherly (I want to spit in his face and shake him, tell him You Are Part Of The Problem, tell him about the countless girls I’ve met in life who aspire to nothing because of men like him. I don’t). So I raise an eyebrow and say excuse me and his explanation isn’t an excuse because his ignorance is tangible and I grit my teeth — this is my job and I can’t be insulting (and I feel violently sick, suddenly, because I’m unable to defend myself — I know too little; he’s an electrical engineer, I’m a student out of high school).
