Torke Emnel

DM Handle 
==Description==
Eye Color: Light Green
Hair Color: Golden
Height: 6'
Weight: 170 lbs
Age: 17
Place of Origin:Andor
==Stats==
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
==History==
I was born to moderately successfull merchants of Andor, Sharyl and Bard Emnel. From a young age Bard took me with him on his long treks through the countries on his way to sell his wares to the remote villages of places like Cairhien and Tear. Along the way the guards my father hired wold take pleasure in regaling me with stories of legendary warriors, Gaidal Cain, Jain Farstrider and the like. The guards are also where I first learned the blade. Yes, it was truly only a crude form of the graceful dance blademasters accomplish, but it was enough for a boy traveling with his father. I remember during our final commute to Shienar, after my 16 naming day, as though it wasnt a year ago. It was the first day my blade tasted blood. As my father trundled along in his cart at the head of our Caravan, he glanced at me and spoke, "What kind of man are yougoing to be Tork? The way you wear your sword, it's obvious you have no intention of following in my footsteps," my father chuckled, a glimmer in his eye, " how about going off to the White Tower to become a Warder?" I looked askance at him, "Me? A Warder?," It was my turn to laugh, " Father, I hardly think that a--" My words were cut off as the cry of "Bandits!!" came from all along the caravan. My sword was in my hand, the leather-wrapped grip digging in to my sweating palm. "Now listen lad," my father fixed me with a piercing gaze, "Run. Run and don't look back." I stared at him in disbelief, "But father, I cannot just leave you here--" "Did you not just hear me boy!?" He shouted at me, his eyes shining with rage and terror, " Get your flaming hide out of here! I couldn't stand to see you killed. Now RUN!" I looked back towards the caravan. It was little more than a progression of smoke and flame. The bandits bruning where they had looted. I looked my father in the eyes one last time and ran. I tried to. One of them spotted me. They took me for an easy kill, " What's wrong lad? " He sneered at me, " you scared?" He had his sword in his grimy hand, already stained with the blood of our guards. Our friends.
"It's alright!," He cackled to the sky, " It'll all be over soon!" With that, he lunged forward, my blade met his, and a rage consumed me. With every hack and slash I was pounding away at an unformed lump of Iron in my soul. By the time the duel was through, I had him on his knees. With the final blow his head was swept from his shoudlers.
The Iron had been forged.
"A Warder?" I said to the wind, stained with char and the sickly smell of burnt flesh, " So it shall be father." I sheathed my sword and turned my back on what I had been.
Category:Warder Bios
Category:Biographies
Category:WS 0
Category:Trainee