DM Handle Bazz
Eye Color: Green, flecked with brown.
Hair Color: Brown
Weight: 175 lbs
Place of Origin: Lugard, Murandy
Feargahl scratched at the dark stubble emerging on his face as he ran his eyes across the room he had spent the last few years in one last time. All his belongings and provisions were in the saddlebags slung across his left shoulder, though that was not saying much. One change of breeches, two shirts, a spare coat; long to the knees in the Murandian fashion, and a few odds and ends that he had collected over the years. He smiled as his memory brought him back to those trinkets and how he had acquired them.
A small, grey and white feather. He had been eight, and it had been a sunny spring day when he had been roaming the streets with the other urchins, looking for food and mischief in equal parts. A little girl by the name of Mara had cornered him down an alleyway. Wary of what she wanted and whether she was looking to steal what little he had, he had gotten into a tussle with her. In no time at all, she had pinned him to the ground, harrumphed loudly and planted a kiss squarely on his lips. "If I wanted to rob you I would just have beaten you black and blue, silly!" she said before smiling and picking up the pigeon's feather she spotted on the ground beside them. She handed him the feather with a solemn warning - "This is a token of our love so you can remember me until we're married proper. And don't you forget it now!" before standing up and skipping back into the streets giggling. He had been dazed and baffled, but he had kept the feather faithfully all these years. Mara was a serving girl in one of the city's rougher inns now, he believed.
A small, leather cord. He was no older than 13 when he and some of his friends, starving and desperate, had set upon some foreign merchant in the hopes of some coin to buy food. Their weapons were that of the street, a slat from a barrel, the broken handle of a broom, or in his case, a simple leather cord wrapped around his small, bony knuckles. The fat, soft, merchant was a fool for wandering the streets of Lugard without any protection, and they had taken enough coin from him to eat for a fortnight. He had felt bad afterwards, but had rationalised that the merchant could always make more money, but without food he would surely have perished.
A short, velvet string. At 15, a boy thinks he is invincible. That idea goes double for a group of boys who have become used to doing as they like in the streets of a rough city. They had spotted the man by himself, seemingly unarmed, and with a fat purse hanging from his belt. Though they usually relied on larger numbers - 6 or 7 to be sure - the three of them had thought their luck had finally come in, and immediately made off to a quiet part of the street to lay in ambush for a big score. When the juicy target finally arrived, he had managed to grab a hold of his purse string before he had been clobbered so badly he blacked out. He awoke to find one of his partners in crime dead in a puddle of his own blood, and the other as badly injured as he was. The purse string was still clutched in his hand. He kept it as a reminder of caution.
A white, lace handkerchief. He had thought he was going to marry Jayna. She had been 17, he 18, and they had been sure they were in love. She was a cooper's daughter, and he had even given up his ways as a street tough and joined the city watch to prove to her that he was a changed man and ready to live out the rest of his life in happiness with her. The city watch had gladly taken him on board, he was not an exceptionally large or strong man, but years of fighting for his supper had left with an aptitude for hand to hand fighting, and he was at least capable with a blade, a dagger or short sword mind, to boot. After a few months of training in the use of a spear they had promoted him from a trainee and set him on a wage that he was sure would be enough to support a family. Jayna had given him her prized lace handkerchief - "As good as any noble lady's!" - as a token of her love. It was not long, however, before her father found out about their relationship, and forbid it. He had never seen Jayna again.
Now here he stood. Lugard, and indeed Murandy, had no more to offer him. He would never forget his birthplace, but he had outgrown it long since. He had set aside his wages, enough to purchase a short sword and a horse(a slat-ribbed gelding to be sure) and now he was leaving. He wasn't sure where he was going yet, all he knew was that he needed something bigger in his life. Something to give him purpose. Perhaps he would see the ancient and great cities of the world. For years he had heard the merchants and peddlers speak of the beauty of Caemlyn and Illian. Tear and Tar Valon, now perhaps it was time that he saw them for himself. He turned and walked out the door, left his lodging, and then the city, perhaps forever.