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DM Handle Starrik

DescriptionEdit

Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Black
Height: 180cms
Weight: 80 kg
Age: 21
Place of Origin: Saldaea, but of mixed Saldaen/Andoran descent

StatsEdit

Rank: Trainee
Warder Weapon Score: 0
Paths and Disciplines: Not Chosen Yet
Primary Weapon: Not Chosen Yet
Secondary Weapon: Not Chosen Yet
Tertiary Weapon: Not Chosen Yet

HistoryEdit

Letair was born in Saldaea, to a Saldaean mother and an Andoran father. Over the years of their marriage, his mother grew to hate his father, for not behaving as she believed a man should, how she had be raised to expect. She abused him more and more in private, become severely physically violent to try and exact the response she so dearly craved, but his father had been brought up to never raise his voice to a woman, and to never put a finger upon her in anger. Her anger spread to her only child, and at the tender age of twelve, Letair snapped.

In a rage, fuelled by his Saldaen upbringing he stormed in on his parents with a wooden knife he had taken from their meagre possessions. He entered their bedroom to find his father mangled, his arm broken in two places and his legs both bleeding all over. His mother turned to face him, and he saw madness in her eyes. She advanced toward him, malice dripping. Fear, anger and horror flowed through his already tall body as she closed, he was certain he would not survive the encounter. His hand slid forward and the knife plunged into her heart. His mother, his poor, dear mother collapsed onto him, pushing him to the ground, blood pouring out in a rush all around the knife. Completely horrified, and on the brink of retching, Letair backed away from the corpse, soaked in blood.

Before he could panic, his father’s calm voice reached out to him, and stopped Letair from fleeing. Mind going numb to avoid the pain, Letair followed his father’s instructions to pull the bloody knife from the dead body, and he walked over to his father. The one good arm left to the man reached out and closed around Letair’s shaking hand and the knife. He then slowly plunged it into his own heart, whispering that this was better than the life he would have had to live as his lungs emptied for the last time. Letair, left the room, knife still in his hand. He left Saldaea, and the Borderlands entirely, living off of what he could scrounge from the charitable and steal from the unwary, though he never was a good thief. The bloodstained knife remained always around his neck, covered in an enamel to protect it from water. He drifted between towns, and the Great Cities, never staying too long for fear of being caught by a thief-taker, but even so not avoid a fair share of brawls.

After four years of wandering, Letair ended up in the Cairhienin Foregate, on one of the rare occasions that he had enough money to stay at an inn he fatefully chose the Fat Cat Inn. Sitting in the cosy common room, he noticed two rough looking men acting shifty, not unlike himself, and he followed them when they tried to slip up the stairs unseen. Upon remaining undetected after following them to the top floor he listened at the door they had entered. Through the mutter he could understand, he deciphered that they had kidnapped innkeeper’s daughter. Cursing his knack for attracting trouble he flung open the door and took on the kidnappers, really only glorified bandits, and knocked them both unconscious.

After tying both of the scum, as he thought of them, he grabbed the band of keys that the uglier of the two had held. Raising his voice to a conversational tone, he managed to exact a squeak from the kidnapped girl. After his frustration exploded after not being able to open the cupboard door with any of its keys, he ripped it off with adrenaline-fuelled strength. He spent the rest of that night comforting the terrified girl. Letair spent the next six years of his life taking care of the girl particularly after the death of her father. Her name was Ceridwyn Taereth, and it took a lot of effort keeping her out of the brawls and fights she seemed to attract. When she was discovered by the White Tower, and taken there to be entered as a novice Letair was forgotten, but he followed on foot, and hopes to become a Warder to defend his close friend. She had left only a brief note, saying where she had gone, but his new-found fatherly (or at least elder-brotherly) instinct made him follow, trekking cross-country to Tar Valon.

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