Name: Trienne Madire
Age: 28
Sex: Female
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Skin: Lightly tanned
Build: Slender, fit
Height: 5’6”
Weight: 130 lbs
Nationality: Tuatha’an
Strengths:
Able to keep her cool under tough conditions
Well conditioned, mentally and physically towards what may lie ahead
Able to make her judgments based upon the facts, rather than her own feelings
Weaknesses:
Often too hard on herself
Unable to allow anyone to get too close to her, knowing it could lead to loss
Hesitant to draw steel, yet once she does, she is often unable to back down
Personality:
Trienne is often seen as being cool and distant to those who first meet her, as it’s her nature to learn all she can of a person and their intentions before she gives them her trust. She lives by a code of morals and beliefs, and also with the knowledge that her life is dedicated to a cause, and it is her place to serve however she can.
History
Wren heard something horrible over the beating of the drums, something that brought her mind back from the haze it often slipped into as she danced around the evening fires. When another scream cut through the air, she knew it hadn’t simply been her imagination. In a clatter of beads, the shawl fell from her hands, and she took off running through the gathered wagons in search of its origin. Her stomach threatened to empty itself when she saw the men, and the way they were torturing the older women who had stayed behind to sew and knit together as the younger girls danced.
Her eyes darted around, searching for anything she could use to get their attention, to hit them, to attack them in any way that might save the women. She felt the world closing in around her, as if suddenly there was nobody else around, as if the others of the caravan were so lost in their music and dance that they didn’t even realize just what was happening. Then she saw where that scream had come from, her own mother had been caught, and one of the ruffians was attempting to have his way with her.
It all went by in a flash of light, as the adrenaline began to rush through her, and the walking staff she found began to spin and swing. All those days of dancing paid off, as she moved easily out of the way of those who noticed her approach, and wild swings made contact with enough force to send them reeling back. It was pure luck that none of the men were truly skilled with the crude daggers they carried, finding themselves unable to get past the dancer and her staff.
When the last of them had fled, Wren felt herself crumple, exhausted both physically and mentally. She knew the instance her mind settled that she’d gone against all the Way of the Leaf stood for. The women, four of them, were torn between being grateful, and being saddened, knowing that Wren would most likely never be able to say with the Tuatha’an. She felt a shaky hand upon her should, and looking up, she saw the pained eyes of her mother. She knew that even the very woman who had raised her, the woman who taught her everything she knew, would now see that her daughter was not afraid to use violence.
Before too many others arrived, Wren and her mother were gone, back to the brightly painted wagon that served as their home. Wren saw to her mother’s needs, cleaning her up and tending to the cuts and scrapes left behind by her attacker. They spoke, and Wren admitted she could not promise never to do the same thing again, should the same thing occur. That night they slept restlessly, with Wren knowing she’d most likely be off on her own the next day, and Wren’s mother knowing she’d lost her only daughter, the last of her family. Wren’s father had passed on early in her life, of an illness nobody had been able to explain.
The next morning, Wren was up well before any of the others, dressing in simple pants and a tunic, nothing too bright or decorated. She tied the small pouch which held her flute onto the sash at her waist, then sat to watch the sun rise, as she waited for her mother to awaken. When the two were ready, and then went to speak with the Mahdi, knowing well what was ahead of them. When Wren made her statement, that she could no longer believe in the Ways of the Leaf, there were gasps and sighs from those who had gathered. She explained she felt that she couldn’t have lived with herself, knowing she let harm come to those women, that she felt something had told her to be their defender, as if she was their guardian. As noble as the cause might sound to many, the fact that she’d used violence and the fact that she’d continue to do so as she felt was proper, it was against all the Tuatha’an believed.
At fourteen years old, the Mahdi of the Tuatha’an had declared her Lost. She was given enough food to travel for a handful of days, and a horse, as well as a sack of her personal belongings and items that would server to help her by her mother. When the evening came and the girls gathered at the fire to dance, Wren was so far away from the camp that she could no longer hear the music of the Tuatha’an.
Her first years away from the caravan proved to be the hardest of her life, as she’d found her way by pure accident into Cairhien, and learned quickly that everything required a method of payment. The coins her mother had sent with her only lasted the first days in the city, and it was only by sheer luck she learned that the Inns would exchange her services of entertainment for a small room and enough food to keep from starving. In order to afford some new clothes, she sold her horse, leaving her with just the clothing she kept in the small room at the inn and her flute.
The next change in her life came late one night while she was singing, to entertain the last few patrons who weren’t quite ready to make their way out and on home. One of the men had been eying her all night, and as he drank, he grew bold, approaching her, even attempting to touch her. Then another old man rose, from the corner across from her perch, and after a few stern words, the drunkard wobbled his way back to his table, returning to his drink and his friends. This new man sat below the makeshift stage, waiting for the innkeeper to call the end of the night, and then requesting Wren’s attention.
“What is a young girl doing playing songs for drunkards and ruffians?”
“Trying to earn a place to lay her head and food to fill her stomach,” she answered, making every attempt to sound confident.
“This is not the place for a girl such as you to be. Get your things and come with me. If you’ll play me music like you play in this place, and perhaps help my housekeeper with a few menial chores, you’ll have a warm bed, good food and most of all safety.” The man did look sincere, and the thought of playing music for a single person, away from the eyes of those who wished to stare at her in their drunken state was pleasing.
“I’ll take your offer, if you truly mean it, sir. Please, just give me moments to gather my few belongings, and I’ll be ready to leave,” she called as she’d already begun her way across the main room, to the stairs which led to where she slept.
When they arrived at the place of the old man, Wren was quite surprised to find it was much more than a home, it was an estate, a place where a man of riches would live. As they entered, they were greeted by a woman who addressed the man as Erik, then gave quite the surprised look as she saw Wren. None the less, the woman took Wren’s small sack of belongings and told her there would be a warm bath ready by the time Erik and she were done talking.
The next two years were spent doing just as the man said, chores around the house during the day, then after a healthy dinner, some music by the fireplace. He learned the story of her past, and questioned how she survived the ride between the caravan and Cairhien. He was quite surprised to hear the tale she told, and asked her if she had any interest in learning a bit more about weapons. She learned he’d spent much of his life as a guard, served Cairhien in the interests of its defense.
As she truly had no skills other than her flute, her voice and the dance, she decided to take him up on the offer. By the time the old man passed on, two years later, she’d learned a considerable amount of skill with staff, as well as some with swords and daggers and even the basics of archery. The last wishes of the old man were that his estate be left in the hands of his housekeeper, the woman who’d spent many years with him. She offered Wren to stay, as the old man had adopted her as the daughter he never had, even granting her his last name. She’d be Wren Madire, lady of the house, something that was tempting, yet it offered her no meaning to life. The second thing the woman suggested though, did appeal to Wren, which was to travel to Tar Valon and seek service with the Tower. It would offer her the opportunity to continue her training, as well as a chance to do the very thing she’d been cast out of the Traveling People for doing: protect and defend.
After the funeral of Erik Madire, Wren saddled up one of the horses from the stable and once again packed a small sack of belongings for the road, this time taking with her a couple of weapons, along with the food for her journey and other items. She gave one last look behind her, and then spurred the horse along, knowing the trip to Tar Valon would be a long one, and there was still enough light in the day to gain some distance.
The days came and passed, surprisingly uneventful, and then finally the beautiful city of Tar Valon was in sight. Along the way, she’d decided to leave behind the last of her past, declaring to herself that from the moment she entered the city forth, she’d be Trienne Madire, daughter of a Cairhien man and his wife. Her story was simple, as that had not changed, she sought to serve the Tower and train to defend the Tower and its people, and aid in any way she possibly could. The words sounded so noble in her mind, and almost made her laugh.
Oddly, what she’d imagined was what happened, even if it did take a bit of convincing people she was serious, and overcoming other such obstacles. She was a quick learner, and never really felt the need for free time, often finding work above and beyond what her teachers and trainers required of her. She’d spend hours sparring in the practice yards, or attend classes of all sorts, simply to increase her knowledge and skill. Two years after her arrival at the Tower, she passed the test to gain the title of Youngling.
On top of all of her training and classes, she now took on the responsibility of training those who arrived newly to the Tower. Her own instructors were surprised to see this, as it was often left up to the Gaidin to do such things, yet she never struggled to keep up with both her own work, and ensure the Recruits who trained under her had more than enough of her attention. Though she still trained with the staff, she grew much more proficient with the sword, preferring one she could wield anywhere from one-handed to two-handed. When she did spar with anyone of equivalent skill, they’d often draw a crowd, as Trienne’s style was almost beautiful to watch, a combination of dance and sword work. She never really did gain the strength most do through their training, yet she retained every bit of grace, agility and flexibility of a dancer.
Her raising to Gaidin came with a chance to finally focus on those things she’d wished to do all through her time spent training and in lessons. She did still spend much of her time out in the yards working with everyone from the newest Recruits to the Younglings and even the girls who were on their way to becoming Aes Sedai, but now her own interests were allowed. One of these had been to visit the great library of the Tower, as her travels had always left many questions unanswered. Erik had told her stories, passed down through the years, of the Last Battle, and the great wars, and now she finally had a chance to research more about these events.
Her afternoons were spent fulfilling her duties as Gaidar, and her evenings were most often spent within the rows of books in the library, and as the evenings passed by, a strange realization came over her. All of this unrest, all of this war, it seemed to come from the days of the Last Battle. It wasn’t stated so obviously, of course, yet it became clear after many, many hours of reading and tying the events together. Another feeling began to creep into her mind, just like the day she first used violence, though she was a follower of the Way of the Leaf. It was the feeling that the very Tower she’d pledged her sword to, giving her word to defend it until she no longer drew air into her lungs, had once not carried its weight, even as the very purpose of the Aes Sedai and their teachings are to fight the Shadow.
Months passed, and her evenings in the library uncovered much more of the history that had caused things to be the way they are today, and as she learned more, she grew more discontent. As she pieced together more and more of the puzzle, it also became rather vague, as if history was being written, but in a manner that cast no blame upon the White Tower. There was more of the story, and it was a story that some felt obviously needed to be kept under a veil of carefully woven secrecy. There were stories of the return of the shadow, as if it was a plague that had almost been ended; only it surged back into existence with a frightening strength.
Once she could no longer follow the stories, as they became some carefully written to confuse those who had not seen the days of the past, she knew she had to go in search of the truth, of the answers to why things had happened as they did. When every attempt was overturned, and she’d been told to simply be silent, and continue her work, she realized she had no purpose any longer within the White Tower. Her journey this time was kept somewhat a secret, with no one person truly knowing what her intentions were as she left the White Tower.
Her travel from Tar Valon to Tear was filled with much peace, and hours each night of silent contemplation over her past, and over the path she’d chosen to take. Perhaps her exit from the White Tower was no different than betrayal, but was what she’d read of the history dating back to the Last Battle any different? By the time she was in sight of the magnificent, and awe inspiring structure of the Black Tower, she’d come to terms with her decision, knowing in her heart that she needed to seek the truth, and that her cause was to fight the shadow. If they’d have her, she’d fight along side of the Asha’man, as she’d have done in the Last Battle, had she lived in those days.
When the first question was asked, she simply replied, “Trienne Madire, Gaidar, once of the White Tower.” From that point forth until the day of battle, Trienne served the Black Tower with no question of her duties. When the Tower rode to battle, she rode with them, taking a small force of Gaidin and Gaidar with her to guard the flank. After an injury to her shoulder and the threat of a stronger attack, Trienne had called for her line to begin a retreat back into the rest of the Tower's forces and that's when the world she knew went white.