Handle: Quibby

Description Edit

Status: Deceased

Age: 17
Weapon of Choice: poison darts
Secondary Weapon: throwing knives
Division of Choice: Medics
Appearance: Jehryn, though a former blacksmith’s apprentice, is not as bulky as his apprenticeship would suggest, probably due to his youth when he started and ended. Standing at 5’6”, Jehryn is slight of build and weighs approximately 180 pounds. He would consider himself to be pretty light on his feet, nimble and more likely to dodge a blow than try to block it, though he wouldn’t last too long in a typical fight. Jehryn’s voice, once rather fair, is dry and raspy and has a slight lisp in it. He has no hair anywhere on his head or face, which is a mass of cracked, burn-scarred tissue, not even leaving him with a nose. This scarring has left Jehryn quiet and self-conscious, and he keeps everything but his eyes hidden behind a white linen scarf wrapped around his head. The scarring has also left him with a fear of fire, and he won’t even step foot near a forge. Another side-effect of this burning is the searing of Jehryn’s lungs. Though still able to breathe, he cannot sustain himself as long as others when it comes to strenuous action, leading him to pass out from lack of air after long enough.

History Edit

Life in Lugard was relatively a quiet affair for Jehryn. At the age of 10, his parents had apprenticed him to Orin Malon, one of the blacksmiths near the outskirts of the city. Jehryn liked the work, menial as it was. He had dreams of being a famed swordsmith one day, maybe even catering specifically to the king and his royal guard. The easy life, only having to lift a hammer when they needed a sword made or repaired, was appealing. Jehryn was quite content to dream those idle dreams, but that only lasted until Alyx arrived. To be plain, Alyx was a brute and a bully, and he was just fine with making Jehryn’s life a living hell whenever he could. Which was pretty much all the time. Orin didn’t seem to notice, and the one time that Jehryn had tried to tell him what was happening had resulted in Alyx pummeling him until he was black and blue, then telling Orin that it was one of the horses. Silently, Jehryn suffered it all until the day the new apprentice arrived.

Jehryn’s only companion in the forge, another apprentice named Lannik, decided one day to leave Lugard, and Orin found himself down an apprentice. His attentions focused elsewhere, Alyx became crueler and crueler until one day when they arrived at the forge to see a new face there. Though he seemed to carry himself like a fighter, Jehryn took an instant liking to the new guy. Alyx, on the other hand, decided that he needed to assert who was in charge of things in the forge. Jehryn watched as Alyx taunted the new guy, who calmly took it in stride. That, of course, didn’t sit well with Alyx, who took a swing at the young man. Jehryn had been expecting quite a bit, but he hadn’t expected to see the new apprentice duck below the punch and land one of his own on Alyx’s ribs. It must have been painful, because Alyx was instantly curled around his struck ribcage. The new guy quietly said, “Now for future reference, don’t harass me. The kid either. If you harass me, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life. I’ll kill you if you do anything to the kid.” With that, he turned his attention away from Alyx and to Jehryn. The young man only gave his name as Mehrin.

Things ran smoothly in Master Orin’s forge for awhile, but before the month was out, Alyx decided to play his cruelest card ever. Mehrin was late for work, and Alyx wasn’t. Jehryn stepped into the forge and felt Alyx’s heavy hands close around his throat. “I’m sick of you and your friend. After I’m through with you, he’s next.” And with that, Jehryn felt himself hauled off his feet, and before he knew where he was heading, he felt his face shoved into the blazing hot forge fire. The pain was instant, a burning unlike anything he could have ever imagined, and then it was gone. Jehryn tried to hold his breath, tried to keep the forge fires from searing his lungs. Tried to survive. The instant before he passed out from lack of air, Jehryn felt Alyx’s grip loosen, and another pair of hands grab hold of him. His next breath was the most painful thing that Jehryn had ever known…

Jehryn spent over two months recovering, his face kept in bandages. Any requests as to how he was were met with a sad smile, as if they were expecting him to die. An Aes Sedai was even brought in once, but she didn’t do anything, saying something about being too weak and too late to do any good. Finally, the day came when they would let him look into a mirror. Somehow, he had hoped for a miracle, but what he beheld was monstrous. Angry red flesh covered what was once his face, the cracks where his skin had opened from the heat of the fire crimson against that. In the middle of his face, where his nose had once been, there was only a hole. Running a hand over his cheek, Jehryn felt nothing. The Wise Woman was babbling about how they had managed to save his eyes, and that he should feel fortunate to still be alive, but all that Jehryn could do was look at his face, and what Alyx had taken from him. Wrapping the white linen around his head again, Jehryn looked in the mirror, knowing full well, even at his age, that the shrouded face that looked back at him would be all that the world would know for the rest of his days.

Over the next year and a half, Jehryn was able to rejoin society as best he could. His voice, once full of vigor and youth, had become a dry, raspy croak. The Wise Woman blamed it on the fire, and the breath that he’d taken, saying that he shouldn’t even be alive after that. Jehryn wished that he wasn’t. As he began making his way in the world again, it quickly became apparent that a raspy voice wasn’t all that the flames had done to him. Where he once used to run through the city, he couldn’t run halfway to the forge without becoming winded and dizzy. Though his muscles could easily lift all the weight that they had before, which wasn’t an overly-impressive feat to begin with, he couldn’t hold it for as long, or carry as much for as long. Psychologically, things were even worse. The smell of hot iron was terrifying to him, and the sight of a fire would send Jehryn into a panic attack. He was useless for the forge. It wasn’t long before Master Orin let him go, some silver in his pocket and a sad look on his face. Because he still had to spend quite a bit of time there, Jehryn began learning from the Wise Woman. Because he was male, it was rare for him to be allowed to treat the patients, but he could learn. It was about all that was left for him to do. Even as he learned, Jehryn still spent time with his rescuer, Mehrin. He was withdrawn, and seemed to always have a look of wanderlust about him. He only stayed because he liked the work, not to mention Master Orin’s daughter, Ana.

A year and a half was all that was needed to take Mehrin away, too. Master Orin had been forced to sell the forge to a richer competitor. The amount wasn’t even enough to pay Mehrin for his services, meaning that Master Orin was forced to compensate with the massive claymore that Jehryn had spent so much time admiring. It was used to great effect that very night as Mehrin made his soon-to-be notorious departure from Lugard. Jehryn was there, a boy of 13 watching his closest friend flee the back alleys of Lugard, one shoulder wrapped in a bandage.

Jehryn spent another four years apprenticed to the Wise Woman, who gradually managed to build the trust of the people in the region for their rather strange healer. More and more people were willing to call on him, and his services did not go unnoticed. The day of the King’s wedding saw three men in uniform arrive at his door. Two were carrying the third man, who seemed to be sporting several grievous injuries. “Light, I’ve never seen anything like that,” one of the men said. “Commander’s going to have a fit when he hears about this.”

Jehryn simply carried on with his work, not really listening. Some cureall and bonemend bandaged around that leg… “I’ll say he would. If he had been here, I’ll bet he’d be all over the place with that huge claymore of his. Why the hell does he use such a ridiculously large weapon, anyway?”

At that, Jehryn paused. Surely they couldn’t be talking about… “Dunno. Used to always use that whip of his when he first joined the Band, as I recall, but that sword’ll sure make a mess of things. Ol’ Mehrin’s the last person I’d ever want to see standin’ opposite me in the Red Trench.”

It was! His work finished, Jehryn finally spoke. “Pardon, sirs, but who is this ‘Mehrin’ of which you speak?”

The three men looked at him for a moment, as if he’d asked one of the dumbest questions possible. Finally, the man on the table spoke, his voice muffled from the bandage wrapped around his jaw. “Commander Mehrin Deathwatch of the Band of the Red Hand. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him.”

Shrugging as if it wasn’t important, Jehryn muttered, “Can’t say that I have.” He was already plotting, however.

It took several months to finally get everything into order, but Jehryn finally rode out of Lugard, his few possessions on the back of a mule, himself seated on a horse. It hadn’t taken much to locate this ‘Citadel;’ it seemed that everybody in Lugard but him knew about it. He only hoped that Mehrin would remember him, and maybe give him back the friendship that had been stolen so long ago.

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