Weaponry Focus

Sword

Physical Description

Fair skinned, as only can be expected, Salruoth stands at roughly six foot one and weighs a hefty two hundred and fifteen pounds. Considered wide-shouldered, Salruoth’s broad chest gives him a bulky appearance. Although well worked in his years mining alongside his father, Salruoth is, by no means, particularly large. Solidly built for a man his age, he is still quite lean and showing signs of growth, yet. A tousled mane of curly hair covers his head, framing a moderately handsome face. Thin lipped, with always a hint of a smile, Salruoth is not certainly not the most aesthetically pleasing man out there, but he has rugged good looks with his uneven, slightly unkempt beard – of which, is still growing – and burly, albeit hairy, body; his dull brown eyes, and angular looking face, however, are his least forgiving qualities. Relatively unscathed, the only noteworthy sign of scarring came from an early, and poorly played, sword fight with a bandit he had accosted during his teenage travels. An ill advised strike, and he had paid sorely, with a nasty gouge from just beneath the right side of his nostril, all the way back to his ear lobe. Still red, Salruoth has taken to noting the flesh scar as a rather dashing addition to his modest makeup.

Biography

Nothing more than a miner, Salruoth has never lived a life of grandeur. In fact, to this day, when he looked on his past, he noted that there was little to no nostalgia for it. While he found his parents endearing, it just was not his life. Boring, mundane and absolutely tedious, it was his father’s life and his father’s legacy, but not his own.

Salruoth’s life was not exactly entrenched in poverty, but it was not much better. A small shack of a house was what he called home, and the scraps of the city were his dinner; it was amazing-ed how accustomed he had grown to the weevils burrowed into his bread, and the rank smell his food sometimes carried. He survived, though and he showed his parents that he was remarkable resilient, even for a young child. By the time he was twelve, Salruoth was an accomplished pickpocket. Probably not the best means for a child to come by coin, but for Salruoth, he did what he, first and foremost, thought was necessary. His mother was diligent enough, trying to get by on the minor things she’d have sewn during the weeks, she knew and understood that their family was in quite a rough patch. His father worked hard, but working hard meant little in his line of work. Working hard was implied.

Trying to pick up the slack, Salruoth ultimately had turned to pickpocketing. He had quick and deft hands, and given his size, bumping into a stranger and fumbling in his pocket wasn’t too hard after a few attempts. It was good that Salruoth was something of a quick read, too, because he was almost certain he’d have gotten caught the first time round. Still, even with the support of extra “mysteriously earned” coin, his family was having difficulties meeting ends.

But they managed to get by, even if barely, until Salruoth was in his sixteenth season and finally ready to work alongside his father. Initially light of build, it didn’t take long for Salruoth to start honing his own body. The work was definitely tough, and the first few months – no, even the first year – was brutal; yet that family trait persisted – perseverance.

Toiling in the mines helped his family keep the meals on the table, and for that, Salruoth was glad. But he knew he was missing something. A goal, maybe. Or, maybe, a life, in general. To be truthful, Salruoth life was monotonous and boring – to him, that is. It was a festering, and lingering thought always in the back of his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he needed to leave.

For the next three years, however, Salruoth kept himself motivated. Until, that is, his nineteenth birthday. Approaching his parents over his intentions had been tough in the past, but to openly admit to them he wanted to leave… well, it would not go over well. He knew, no matter how many times he planned it in his mind, his parents would not take it well.

And they didn’t. Sitting them both down, and staring them in the eye as he spoke the words, was probably one of the hardest decisions he had made. For nineteen years, Salruoth cannot say he made a significant friend, or had a moment he could relish. His life had been a battle to keep himself, and his family, fed. When he looked at his past years, he only felt sorrow at time lost. He told his parents that, right to their face and they only stared back, lips pursed and eyes tight.

But they saw, despite that seething anger underneath, the plight of their son. With only a tearful goodbye to remember them by, Salruoth set off for Tar Valon, a place, he imagined, would be far more enthralling than anything he could imagine. With only a few coins in his pouch, a rusted short sword at his side and his two good legs, he took to the road, never looking back.

To say his adventure went as planned would be more than far fetched. He nearly lost an eye, his coin, and likely his clothes, plus, ended up face-to-face with a crowd of Aes Sedai who had noted his failed attempt at a pickpocket. From miner to thief, Salruoth had certainly not picked the most illustrious of paths to venture on.

Perhaps, though, he had a saving grace. As guards made to apprehend him, it was only with their utmost effort – and, two sorely injured guards – that they were able to apprehend him. To Salruoth, he believed himself doomed to a fate of imprisonment. To the Aes Sedai, he seemed amusing, if not a man with potential.

Within two days, Salruoth found himself where he was now. An inexperienced swordsman with a good heart, a sharp mind and more than his fare share of bruises. They never told him when he was released what he was getting into, but he sure would find out soon.

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Writing History

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