Appearance: Wildly striped and maned, Imani looks rough and primitive. Up close though, he has clean legs and powerful forequarters with a deep chest. His head is neat and proportionate, with a straight profile usually obscured by his shaggy forelock. His legs are not terribly long, but they are clean and strong, ending in sturdy hooves that seem just a bit small in relation to his size. His mane tends to add more visual bulk to his topline, making his proportions appear somewhat odd. In places his silver and black coat is spotted with white, the relics of old scars. These are especially prominent on his chest, hinds, and legs.

Imani is introverted. He keeps many things to himself. Secrets are the currency of his vocation and he knows how to keep them, and when to let them go. Chameleon-like, he attempts to adapt to the needs of those around him, those he is trying to help. He can be the stern teacher, loving father figure, playful older brother, innocently questioning youth. Yet be defining himself by the needs of those around him, Imani has no idea who he really is.

Still, most people would say Imani is wise beyond his years. He has the ability to see situations more clearly from the outside than most who are involved and has a creative and delicate hand when it comes to unraveling the problems and offering solutions. All of his strengths are with helping others to cope- for himself, he finds none of his careful education applies. He cannot heed his own words of caution.

Though introverted, Imani takes pride in the carefully crafted performance that is an intrinsic part of his shamanistic practices. It is perhaps his only bit of ego. He can easily accept praise for this play of smoke and mirrors though in other areas he would divert it aside.

Equal parts skeptic and believer, Imani treads this fine line with remarkable ease. He believes deeply in the superstitions he was raised with. The spirits are real to him, and he truly believes that he has interacted with them. And yet he is skeptical when presented with others belief, reserving judgement until such evidence crops up that convinces him of the truth of it.

Largely isolated and immersed in the learning of mystical arts, Imani didn't have a true childhood. Other foals were scared of him and his friendly advances were often met with nips and kicks. Their mothers wouldn't have allowed them to play with him anyway, and if they found him too near they were not above a nip or kick to send him on his way. Mwenye, the shaman was equally insistent on his isolation. So he turned inward, focusing on his learning and on the explorations of his mind. From a young age he straddled the dichotomy of the shaman- to know the ways in which he tricked peoples' minds and yet to have faith in what they all believed to be true. Even when he knew that large portions of it were chicanery.

The southern lands where he lived were frequently occupied by Banderi, sometimes waiting, sometimes passing through on the way to or from a Debwani raid. As he began to grow out of yearling clumsiness and into an awkward adolescence, Mwenye began to take him out when he was called upon to heal them or their prisoners. It was here that Imani began to learn of the world outside his narrow vision. Some of the soldiers came from places less superstitious than his own and held less stigma against him. Others simply ignored him because of his youth, allowing him to busy himself quietly nearby and listen. He quickly mastered the art of appearing too busy to pay attention to nearby conversations, while actively devouring any bit of information they could give him.

On the threshold of his third year, Mwenye died. With no other option, the tribe allowed him to take up the mantle himself though he was never a part of their lives as the old man had been. He was seperate. Different. It was a barrier that would never be overcome. They had learned to respect him though, and his skill in all the arts of a shaman could not be denied. So he shepherded them, healed the soldiers, and pretended that loneliness suited him.

He was the first of his tribe to learn about the Fall of the Pillar, though not until well after it happened. He was called upon to heal soldiers, and found that it was not Debwani who had caused the injuries but infighting among the Banderi. Without the hand of the Council, they began to fracture back into old factions, reigniting old feuds.

In the midst of the unrest, the Debwani struck.

Taking advantage of the infighting, the equines pushed the disorganized Dorobians back, retaking lands that had in old times been their own. Imani's tribe was ousted from lands he had always though of as home, but were in truth the spoils of war. Seeking a new place to settle, the tribe travels north. At their heels are the Debwani. All around them are other Dorobians, jealously holding thier own territories and unwilling to share with poor refugees from the South who could not hold their own land.

And then the Korofi struck. They had wandered too close to where the pegasi rampaged. The beasts dropped from the sky, out of the eye of the sun. The tribe was scattered. Decimated. When the survivors regrouped, they were barely half their number, and Imani could do little for the few who were badly hurt.

The tribe found an easy place to lay the blame for their misfortune.

Spurred by the violence all around them, they turned on their shaman. Imani could either run or die. He could not believe the choice was so dire at first and it was nearly taken from him. Then he realized they were mad with grief and vengeance. So he ran. Because he would not die for his tribe, not to assuage this grief. The selfishness of the act still aches somewhere deep in his gut.

He kept running until the land around him ceased to remind him of Dorobo. Until there was nothing left of home. Then he kept going.