Name: Dhourn Na'Skha (he has long-forgotten his Aiel-name)

Age: 27

Nationality: Aiel

Gender: Male

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Allegiance: The Shadow.

Rank: Former Clan Chief, now a Dreadlord.

Society:Formery Cor Darei, the Night Spears.

Clan: Formerly Reyn, of the Twin Spires.

Appearance:

Tall, broad-shouldered and strong, Dhourn is the text-book definition of an Aielman. He stretches to almost six and a half feet in height, and his body has lost none of it's toned definition despite his failure to wield the spear in earnest for almost eight years. His eyes are a brilliant blue, and his reddish-brown hair is longer than that of most Aiel warrior's, almost brushing his shoulders.

His face is fair and finely featured, a beautiful mask on the ugly creature lurking beneath.

Winding around his right forearm is the red-and-gold Dragon that once marked him as a clan chief, however brief his reign. The skin surrounding the scaled beast is burned, the skin almost melted from when Dhourn tried to burn it off in a moment of rage. And failed.

As a result, this hand is always encased in a black glove, both to conceal the Dragon and to prevent himself from trying such a thing again. Dhourn always dresses in black, no matter the climate or occasion. A black greatcloak, black tunic, breeches, and boots, without fail. He is both scornful and fearful of anything reminding him of Aiel culture, and so refuses the cadin' sor. This could also be a subconscious acknowledgement of his staus of servitude: only the lowliest and most contemptable of Aiel gai'shan are forced to wear the black



Personality:

Dhourn represents all that is contemptable in this world: rage, pride, arrogance, vanity, greed. The list goes on.

Often there are times when he seems a walking contradiction. The man is a Dreadlord, dedicated to his duty to the Shadow though it was forced upon him. He hates everything that reminds him of the happiness he once felt, the joy of his previous life, memories of which are but fragments in his shattered psyche.

And yet he represents all that is honourable and good about the Aiel, at other times. He has shown mercy where it was least expected, honour where none was called for, though it would be a stretch to call anything he does a kindness.

These contradictions are not easily explained, beyond being reminiscint of when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. The Aiel, the immovable object. Harsh, unyielding folk, become as pitiless as the land on which they live, become harder than stone so that they can thrive. And the Power, the unstoppable force which turns the Wheel of Time itself, bent to the will of Shadowsworn so that Dhourn's soul might be bound in Shadow.

His iron will struggles against this ancient power, and there can be no true victor. It is understandable then, that there are oddities in his behaviour. Whatever influence is stronger at a particular moment in time dictates how he will react to goven situations: the steely calm of the old blood which runs through his veins, or the unbridled rage of the Shadow that lies heavy on his heart.


Items:

Dhourn could never shake off the nomadic tendencies of his people, and never carries many possesions with him at any given time, beyond that which is necessary for survival.

The only item to be seen on his person without fail is his black spear. Almost as tall as he is, and double-bladed to boot, many see it is a memento of his Aiel origins. Only he and a select few see it for what it really is: a ter'angreal, carved with runes all over and made of a smooth, rock hard substance. The full extent of its powers remain unknown, though it can be used to Travel when wielded with knowledge and skill.

Weapons:

Dhourn carries no weapons, though his training in the Power makes him as deadly as any arsenal. Fellow male Dreadlords, shielded from the taint as he is, taught him all they knew of control and manipulation of the Source, this his own experiments haveallowed him to out-strip them.

Talents:
Dhourn is deemed quite strong in the Power, far out-stripping his fellow Dreadlords in that respect. His most proficient of the Five Powers are Earth and Fire, though he has a greater than usual strength in Air for a male, and a lesser than usual skill with Spirit.

He is also a warrior, born and bred. Despite his departure from that life, Dhourn is as deadly as he has ever been, be it with spear, knife, or his bare hands and feet. He rarely engages in physical combat, seeing it as below his station due to his abiltiy woth the Power. Why hit a man, after all, when you can rip him to shreds at one hundred paces? No, physical excercise is only beneficial in keeping the body strong, while focusing the mind.

He also has a rare skill with ter'angreal. He can sense them, to some extent, and he has often collected them to study their properties. He has yet to try andmake one himself, a feat he dares not attempt until he knows more.
History:

Till water is gone, till shade is gone, into the Shadow with teeth bared, screaming defiance with the last breath, to spit in Sightblinder's eye on the Last Day.

Hard words, for an even harder people.

And yet these were the values that Dhourn Na'Skha was weaned on from birth, along with his mother's milk. Of course, he was not known by that name, a name that is cursed and dreaded today, but his true name has long since been erased from his mind.

From the beginning, it was clear that Dhourn was a special child. He was everything his father, a respected warrior named Bhourdin, could have hoped for. Athletic, cunning and brave, much was expected from him.

And he delivered, with interest. He took up the spear as if he was born to it, fighting like a veteran of many battles rather than a boy of eight. He bested those who had been learning the dance of spears much longer than he had with ease, and not only this: he never grew arrogant or vain, never bragged over his victories. He simply trained harder, making himself faster, stronger, better. Exercising the humility and reservation of a man 40 years older, he could do no wrong, and no one doubted that he would make a fine clan chief one day. It was a foregone conclusion.

It was only natural that the Wise Ones of clan Reyn would keep a close eye on such a child, one who was surely destined to bring honour and glory to the small clan. And it was due to this close attention that the Wise Ones began to suspect that Dhourn had a secret. His luck was unrelenting, following him into battle like some faithful hound. He was a renowned warrior by the age of fourteen, and at sixteen he was giving orders to men twice his age or more. It was not natural. And to any who looked for the signs, it was clear: the boy, however unwittingly, could channel saidin.

It was nothing obvious, at first: simple weaves that he unwittingly used to alter the course of battle in thje Reyn's favour. But by the time the Wise Ones realised the full extent of the truth, it would be far too late.

Yet he was not unlike other lads his age, and by the time he was fifteen his eye began to wander, his interest piqued by more than figthing and battle tactics. Meilin was her name, an apprentice to the Wise Ones.

He did everything he could to make his interest known, but it was her right to speak the words that would see them married, not his. And so he waited.

Meanwhile, tragedy had struck the clan. Their chief, Borun, was struck down in battle, though not at the hands of any warrior. Dhourn had accompanied Borun on his last raid, and told his tale to the Wise Ones. The clan chief had been cut off from his sworn warriors, surrounded by enemies, and all Dhourn could think about was getting to him. That was when it happened: a clear bolt of lightening lanced down from the sky, frying the chief's attackers where they stood: and Borun with them.

None could explain this freak event, though Dhourn began to suspect the cause. His own personal revelations were put aside, however, as the clan cried out for a new chief to lead them, to help them endure. They cried out for him.

The Wise Ones, frantic in their need to bring stability to Reyn, forgot their doubts about Dhourn, cast them aside in face of their clan's plight. They bade him go to Rhuidean.

He never hesitated. It was something he had expected, hoped for, though never so soon. And as clan chief, he would be on-par with a Wise One. Surely Meilin would come forward, confess the love he knew she bore him?

And so he traveled to Rhuidean, and went through the ter'angreal there. Few know what happened to him in the two days that he was gone, but he returned in the dead of night, the Dragon that marked him as chief wound around his right forearm. But all was not right. He seemed distracted, distant: not the focused, grounded young man he'd been before the death of his chief.

Whatever he had seen, it had scared him, and the Wise Ones of clan Reyn knew what ailed him: he knew he could channel.

Here he was presented with a difficult choice: he knew his duty to clan Reyn: The Dragon on his arm represented a trust more binding than any water-oath. Yet he also knew the fate of any man who could channel: he was doomed to go mad, rot alive, and he was a danger to the very people he had sworn to protect.

And so he made the only choice he could: he broke faith, deserted clan Reyn and traveled north to the Blight, to fight the spawn of the Dark One at Shayol Ghul itself. The act of shattering his oaths and deserting ji 'e' toh drove him half-mad with grief and shame: on the one hand, he could never have stayed, but on the other, he had deserted his people when they needed him most, without a word of good-bye or explanation.

Dhourn's grief and self-pity had led him to fully embrace the madness of saidin. He had spent two months in the Blight, and once learning the rudiments of control, he spent every waking hour filled to bursting with the One Power. The taint marked him, rotting him to the core and making him barely discernable from a feral, wild animal. Such constant channeling drew Shadowspawn to him like moths to a flame, and they were consumed by fire just the same. Almost any trace of the man he was had been burned away: what was left was a beast, his Aiel spears and clothes cast aside long ago in favour of saidin: The One Power was the only weapon he would ever need.

Yet it was not enough, when it really mattered. A full fist of Trollocs jumped him one night as he slept restlessly amid some rocks. He started awake, reaching for the Power only to find he was blocked. Shielded.

Darkness then, and pain were all he knew. He woke in some kind of an undergound tavern, kness bent to accomodate the chains binding him to the floor. He begam to snarl then, kick and scream like an animal, but it was no good. Surrounding him, impassive as the stone they stood on, were thireteen of the Eyeless. And beyond them again, thirteen men and women. Their faces were ageless.

A deep, primal fear rose in him then, the fear of a man who could not fathom what was happening, but knew it something wrong, unnatural. The channeling began, and he thought he could almost see the weaves, thick black threads that roped through the inner circle of Fades and formed a shadowy web around Dhourn's own head. Something was changing, writhing inside him. Tearing at the very fibre of his soul. Blotting out the Light. Enveloping him in Shadow.

When he woke, the young chief of clan Reyn was gone. In his stead was a being so twisted, convulated and riddled with anger and hate that those who had wrought the change upon him shrank back from his gaze. Through the completion of a ritual as ancient as the Wheel itself, the servants of the Dark One had subverted him completely, and ushered a new brother into their midst. They bade him go to the Pit of Doom, as were their orders, so that his transformation might be complete.

There, for the first time, he felt and spoke with the Dark One. He was told many things, given many memories to replace those of his previous life, which already faded from his mind. And he was given a name, to replace what had been lost, and to set him on his path: Dhourn Na'Skha.

Fist of the Shadow.