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Email: purge_blackdawn@hotmail.com

DescriptionEdit

Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Brown
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 180
Age: 18
Place of Origin: Tar Valon

StatsEdit

Rank: Trainee
Weaopon Score: 4
Philosophy: Not Choosen Yet
Primary Weapon:
Secondary Weapon:
Tertiary Weapon:

HistoryEdit

Character Name: Braxton Age: eighteen Place of Origin: a farm, somewhere around Tar Valon Hair colour: brown Eye colour: brown Height: 5'9 Weight: 180lbs Brief History:

"Why do we put the wax on?" "Yes. Grandfather. I know." "Why do we take the wax off? Wax on. Wax off. Wax on. Wax off. Remember. Leath-" "-Er is the only animal you feed once it is dead. I remember." "Good. Keep rubbing."

   It's me here. Braxton. You might have guessed by the envelope or the fact that my
   name is on it. That old man? Well that's my grandfather. Remember him? Nice enough
   in his own way but ornery like all retired soldiers. Braxton do this. Braxton do that and
   even "if" Braxton does a perfect job Braxton knows he is only going to be made to do
   it again. What's a lad to do? I tried to run away once. What? I had a nice day of
   nothing planned. Who knew an old cripple could move so fast? Certainly I did not.
   You're probably wondering what this is about. I'm leaving soon. Going to Tar Valon.
   I hope to become one of the Tower Guard, like my father before me. I'm old for it,
   and I have no training but I do have one thing in my favour. My grandfather has a stick
   and by the light he knows how to use it. Return a failure? I don't think so.
   I have spent most of my life here. Well not here exactly. I haven't spent my life in a
   barn. Don't be silly. I live on a cattle ranch, my family has done so for generations. At
   least, the ones that live long enough retire here. I'm destined for the Tower, you see,
   it's a family tradition or so my grandfather says. He's the oldest person I've ever seen,
   so I'll take his word for it. Besides. The stick.
   My mother doesn't like it. I suppose I wouldn't either if my husband died... well... not
   that I intend to have a husb... oh. You know what I mean. She would prefer I stay
   here; milking the cows, butching the calves, riding the bulls... well. Okay. I'm not
   "actually" supposed to do that last one. If I never have to cart water again, it won't be
   long enough. I love my mother. Truly. I appreciate all she's done, but I'll never be
   famous if I stay here. Braxton the fence mender. Are you awed yet?
   That wax on. Wax off bit? Well, those are the finishing touches to my new whip. I
   made it, although you would think the old one did it all himself by how he's carrying
   on. I've been at the end of a whip--both ends if you want to be picky--in one form or
   another for most of my life. I'm a fair shot and it is the closest thing I have to weapons
   knowledge. My grandfather assures me it is an old family recipe and that if it fails in its
   duty for any reason, I needn't blame the whip. It's amazing how clear a point becomes
   when its accentuated by the swishing of a sturdy piece of pine. If only more students
   were encouraged in this manner. Why, it would be the age of legends all over again.
   So here I go. I'm on my way. I'd be lying if I said it was about honour, pride. Family.
   What it all comes down to is the fact that I have never really liked cows. From their
   mooey little faces to the tips of their swishy little tails. Have you ever noticed how
   much they smell? I have never been to the city by myself before. I can't wait! When
   everything is in order you will have to come for a visit but I have to go. schedule to
   keep and all. I'll write soon. Promise!
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