Jorakza

Jorakza wears a cracked iron helm dented by a mace—inside it, the hornless browplate’s etched with tally marks for owed favors. They crack knuckles before reciting prayers, then spit sand over the brazier so flames burn “honest.” In battle they ride close, offering mercy in exchange for surrender, with a cold hand on the hilt and a louder laugh than any war chant.