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Approved WY Bio for Jairn Donail - CC'd by WK


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Character’s name: Jairn Donail

Age: 19

Place of Origin: Altara

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Nearly Black, Brown

Height: 5'10

Weight: 135

Brief History:

Born in a large town within two days walking distance from Ebou Dar, Jairn had lead a simple life until his father's merchant wagon was set upon by brigands. Along with Jairn's father Ryar his merchant guard Goshor had died in defense of the wagon, Goshor had been a family friend since before Jairn was born, becoming like an uncle to the boy, he had taught Jairn the basics of fighting with short swords but the training progressed no further after his death. After his father's death Jairn had taken up work in a local inn to support himself and his mother. Four years later his mother, Edaie, remarried the very innkeeper Jairn had worked for all of those years, who quickly found his way into part of the family. Pleased that his mother would be cared for well Jairn left his life behind, not knowing where the winds would take him on his journey he set off for Tar Valon, center of trade, power, and home of the Aes Sedai.

With a map he acquired from his foster father and Goshor’s short sword, Jairn made his way over the land. Travel progress differed widely by the day, some days he would get a ride on a friendly merchant or farmer’s wagon, he slept under bushes, in hay lofts, and when the chance came, he juggled and danced for his supper in an inn, a talent he had inherited from his father. 

Seasons past and time went on, Jairn grew lean, tough,  and although the life was hard he never lost his sly wit and clever plans, his ever-present winning grin had won him more than one chance to eat a real meal. He hunted when he could, setting basic traps and learning to track rabbits and other small game, he made his way across countries, through woods, across rivers and streams, through villages and towns and the spectacular capitals of mighty empires, his skill in the short sword grew slowly as he fought thieves and mugger’s in the streets. As his passed through the countries he slowly lost his accent until all that was left was but a hint of his once thick accent. His skill at juggling and dancing grew as villages and towns grew more and more frequent as he neared his destination of Tar Valon, his pockets grew wider as he earned his keep gambling and performing until he had a small neat pile of silver coins stored away in his sack of belongings.

As he arrived at the gates of Tar Valon he was awestruck by its majestic towers and bridges, the fantastical shapes of Ogier-built dwellings and shops, and the sheer mass f people, men and women from Lugard, Cairhien, Andor, Tear, even his native Altarans where present in the mass of people. But the object of his desire, his determination, was the gleaming white streak that rose higher and higher, forming at a majestic gleaming white peak, the power-wrought White Tower itself. At first he had plans of traveling the world, eventually settling down to have a wife and kids, over his journey he started dreaming of life as a soldier, fighting for a just cause, but after all of the fighting he had endured on his yearlong journey he had learned there was no just cause for violence, only out of necessity was violence the answer. Scrubbing a hand through his shaggy brown hair he approached the gates of the city itself, and then to continue on, toward the heart of Tar Valon, to the base of the White Tower itself, where he would fulfill his new dream, one decided upon the second he lay eyes upon the Tower. He was going to become a Warder, and nothing would stop that, nothing.

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