Faysal is a short, balding man of indeterminate age. His face is still relatively unlined, except for crow’s feet around his eyes, the result of squinting for most of his life to compensate for his poor eyesight.
His clothes were once expensive and flashy, almost guady. However, he’s been neglecting his appearance for quite a while; his clothes are ragged and exceptionally filthy, and his thinning hair is greasy.
Faysal was the son of a carnival roustabout. He grew up traveling with the carnival, picking up some odd talents from the performers. The gypsy fortune teller saw that he had a gift, and imparted to him some of her secrets and honing his mystical talents.
Or so he claimed.
In reality, Faysal was a fishmonger’s son, who had a horror of honest work. That, coupled with a natural flair for showmanship, lead to his one and only great love: the art of the con.
He can’t remember what gave him the idea, but he decided to pass himself off as a mystic and seer. He started off as a fortune teller, and like many of his fellow frauds, could make some steady coin telling people what they wanted to hear. But he wasn’t content with that, and aspired to greater things.
He began hinting that his talents extended farther than simple fortunes. But of course, he wasn’t sufficiently trained to apply them in a specific fashion. After a few well timed "warnings" and some clever research, he had noble patrons practically falling over themselves to pay for his "training" (expensive, naturally) and giving him gifts to make his life easier so that he could focus on developing his mystical ability to see the future. His scheme worked, to a point, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself playing off of people’s gullibility.
But it only worked to a point.
His brilliant scheme proved to be his downfall. He had made some utterly ludicrous (he thought) claims and predictions, based off of some research and a basic understanding of the local political situation. But his predictions suddenly started coming true. When they did, it was in ways completely identical to his fanciful descriptions. For a time, these oddities bolstered his reputation amongst his favorite marks.
Then people began to get suspicious, as events kept adhering to his statements word-for-word. His predictions were too perfect, even for a mystic. Mystics are inclined to be vague, but his predicitons were the exact opposite. Soon, people began suspecting that he was arranging future events to fit his predictions.
When one of his noble patrons died in a manner identical to one Faysal had sarcastically suggested, it was the last straw. He fled the region just ahead of the law, and buried himself in cheap taverns and brooded. He’s been doing that ever since.
He looks and plays the part of a drunken wretch, positively reeking of cheap liquor. However, on closer inspection, he is a little too alert to be as drunk as he makes out, and one might notice him surreptitiously emptying out a number of his drinks. His stunningly poor hygiene usually keeps people from getting close enough to realize this, which, of course, is why he does it.
He doesn’t understand why he suddenly seems to have a talent that he’d been faking for most of his life. It worries him, and he’s afraid to say much at all to anyone, in case it comes true. He has carefully constructed the image of a completely unreliable drunk, and if anyone recognizes him as the ill-famed mystic, they leave with a lower opinion of his talents than they came with. This is how he likes it; he has found his life to be much less complicated if he has zero credibility as a mystic.
He seems to be either obnoxiously drunk and whiny, or surly to the point of offensive. He is likely to be found in a tavern, begging for a few coins to buy his next meal or drink.