Corvan Tarmael

Email: mystslongpast@hotmail.com
==Description==
Eye Color: Crystalline Blue
Hair Color: Platinum Blonde
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 160
Age: 17
Place of Origin: From Fal Dara?s Outlying Farms in Shienar
==Stats==
Rank: Trainee
Weaopon Score: 2
Philosophy: Not Choosen Yet
Primary Weapon: 
Secondary Weapon: 
Tertiary Weapon: 
==History==
Corvan Tarmael
17 Years of Age
Originally From Fal Dara?s Outlying Farms in Shienar
Platinum Blonde Hair Color
Crystalline Blue Eye Color
Current Height 5'9", Full Mature Height 6'1"
Current Weight 160#, Full Mature Weight 185#
 Footsteps stroked through the lightly frosted ground beneath him. He tried to take each
step without taking it for granted. The scythe at his right side was swung about in
smooth cyclical manner, yielding into the basket he carried his heavy crop. His family
was divided inwardly, he could tell it by the way his father?s eyes failed to shine when
they looked upon his face. It was a hard loss to accept, given the life upon the border.
His grandfather had served a renowned King, and served in the fall of the Seven Towers,
escaping wounded and meeting in Shienar, where he spent the last of his days. The old
stories were taught to his son, Corvan?s father, and the ways passed on.
 It was strange, how far away they sounded now. The White Tower was honored, and the
Warders who guarded them without peer in battle and in the eyes of the Shienarans. But
his choice to make an oath to the Tower did not sit as well with his family or Shienar as
he would have hoped. ?One day the banner will be raised, and we must ride to reclaim the
Seven Towers, son,? he had heard his father say so many times. Indeed, all of Shienar
seemed to tell tales of the former borderlands, and were by their own words ready to
reclaim it for their lost brothers was there a way. Another scything of grain was drawn
into his basket. That is why the decision means so much. To be sworn to protect another
over the lineage I was born into meant the same it meant for many Borderlander sons. The
task that the Borderlanders saw to was too difficult for most, and every man needed. From
the time he could first hold and draw a bow, targets were made and practices held on a
daily basis with his old Grandfather, while his father worked the fields, or was off for
the King sweeping along the Blight?s borders. He was taken hunting on long trips, where
the land was told to him, and the plants and animals explained.
 He had reached the end of the field, and he turned back now to walk toward the small
barn where the dummy still sat upon the pole. It was dressed as if out of a nightmare,
and was over seven feet in height, towering over the fourteen year old boy. He knew they
were real, he had seen them in the darkened nights he spent in Fal Dara. He had heard
their horns and felt the air stirred by their drums. Father had said that he should learn
to deal with their size from a youth, so that he was prepared to fight the true enemy,
not other men, and so that he was less fearful of them the larger he grew. It was well
and good to learn that way, he supposed, and his father had many ways of teaching him
which were different from others. The basic forms of armor were shown to him, the way
they were worn and the way they were meant to move and protect. Growing up in the
Borderlands armor was a part of life, and so were the questions he used to ask about what
the weapons were they carried. Now that he opened the door and looked inside the small
barn, he knew how silly the questions must have seemed. Axes were for hacking in typical
hooking and sweeping motions, good for power and breaking through armor, but slower and
requiring more strength and control than a sword. Broadswords and longswords, short
swords and lances, bows and staffs, slings and arrows. All of the younglings would play
about with their balanced, weighted weapons upon the practice dummies. They tried to hold
to their forms, but often times broke down and began running around, imagining they were
on some great adventure. ?Oh no, a fade!? they would yell, and quickly circle it warily,
waiting for the opportune time amidst various feints before one by one they lunged
forward and did the Light?s deed upon the imaginary Shadow.
 It was hard to say when he first felt the tug of his desires to go to the Tower. He had
seen Sedai before, their forms so inspiring and glorious. The Warders all seemed so hard,
harder than even his father had seemed. They were treated with such respect, such awe,
and men would whisper of the things they could do. They were a greater weapon against the
Shadow than a hundred lances, it was said. If that was true, then why should he not
protect them? Why should he use but one lance, when that one lance combined with them
might become more useful in the Pattern?s weaves?
 He placed the basket upon the ground, and looked across the barn. Siktir snorted lightly
hearing him come. His horse had been given to him two years ago by his mother and father,
as he celebrated his step toward manhood. After two years of riding and learning the
lance, and his shots from horseback, he could ride reasonably well on flat ground and
still nail a boar?s haunch with a shot from his bow without tumbling out of his seat, or
clipping Siktir?s side with the bow string. Lancing was more difficult, and he was not
certain he was made for it. It came easier once you were larger and stronger, and had
worn armor longer, his father had told him. Perhaps it was true. One day he would
probably be a good soldier, other boys? parents had told him; everyone in his family had
meditation, helping him focus on all things. When he was younger, he would use it to try
and play as if he was lost in the wilderness. He would walk out into the tall fields and
spin round and round until he fell upon the ground dizzily. Then he would rise and try to
ignore the fact that he could follow his footprints out. Instead, he would try to
meditate. Clarity came at times, and he would smell the scents of his mother?s meat pies
wafting slowly over the smell of grain, and he would find his way back. It helped him in
riding, and feeling Siktir beneath him when he needed to make a jump or go down a steep
grade, in dealing with pain or tiredness enough to lift heavy items or to make one final
sprint, and even in focusing upon the forms his father made him practice with his lathe,
or as it had today, in thinking while still swinging his scythe and doing his work around
the home. He rarely let it go when he could manage to capture it now, everything seemed
so much simpler, so black and white, so crisp, so real while he held it. It would always
be shattered by something, but he was slowly beginning to struggle to hold it for a
little longer as time progressed.
 Siktir was saddled now, and packed with the belongings he would take with him to Tar
Valon. It was going to be a long, hard road, and over the previous year he had hired
himself out for odd jobs from hunting, skinning, to cutting wood and scything fields when
old man Krenleth had broken his arm. He had enough coin that he had arranged to accompany
a merchant selling tabac back down along the way to Tar Valon. The deal was made easier
by the simple fact of having another rider, young or not, making for better odds if
something bad should happen. He smiled, seeing Siktir look up over the large pack of
belongings he carried so easily. His father had given him his grandfather?s old armor,
and the blade and bow he had wanted to give him upon his next year?s marking when he had
hoped he would go on his first full patrol along the Blight. That would have to wait now,
but the awe of carrying his history with him to the Tower was enough to bring a shine to
his eyes from tears.
 A final look around the barn was enough for him. His parents rested inside, and dawn had
not yet come. He had felt it necessary to scythe the grain for his father, and give he
and Mother time to relax some this day, the day that their son left their home, his place
on the Borderlands, and followed the Wheel?s turning toward his future, toward the
stories to come. He checked the strappings of Siktir?s saddle and hauled himself up
smoothly, wrapping his winter cloak about him tighter, and with an easy tug upon the
reigns, set off toward the road to Tar Valon where he would catch up with the merchant.
Category:WS 2
Category:Trainee
Category:Biographies
Category:Warder Bios