Bael Whiteye

Bael Whiteye, the White Watcher, is one of the few men who can claim to be anything resembling a priest of the Old Gods. A member of the ancient druidic order of the Old Gods, small and mysterious, Bael takes it on himself to act as a spiritual liaison between those of the North and beyond. Dedicated and shrewd, Bael has earned a great reputation for his massive knowledge of the Old Gods, and the rites and rituals in the North, to more than rival the Citadel of the south.

A lonesome man in his wanderings, Bael rarely travels with human but is known by most in the North, most commonly in Winterfell, Hardhome, and the Frozen Shore. He is constantly accompanied by his companions, Joramun the shadowcat, and Corvus the Raven.

Appearance and Character
Bael Whiteye is not the sort of man that is welcomed across many hearths. A face known all across the North, and a name whispered by most who still swear worship to the Old Gods, Bael is an antithesis to the soft Septons of the South. A long face of harsh lines and hard angles, Bael rarely softens it with a smile. There is a cruelty to his eyes; a deep, animal cunning, and when he does smile and laugh, it is always a mocking thing, of a man who knows himself to be smarter than everyone around him. Limp black hair hangs down past his shoulders, his remaining working eye a pale, lifeless, grey. The other is a victim of one of the many scars that mark his body. Three long lines, from the claw of some beast, cut down from his forehead to leave his left eye a blind ruin - where his name Whiteye comes from. Another map of twisting scars leave his cheek a gnarled ruin, and one long slash across his neck leaves to wonder how Bael is even alive.

As lean and wiry as a travelling Northener requires, Bael shows the dangers of the wild land. Frostbite marks his hands - both his smallest fingers are missing, and the middle on his left is shortened to one knuckle. His feet tell a similar story, and Bael walks with a limp in his right foot due to the toes that are missing there. More scars mark his upper body, as well as swirling blue tattoos. One weaving group of lines around his good eye matches those on his chest. His clothes are simple, but warm. Worn cloth, old leathers, and varied furs. One great big black bearcloak wraps around his shoulders, giving an impression of Bael being broader than he actually is.

As a druid, he wields items both of ritual and practicality. The staff that signifies his position and authority is of black ironwood, ritually carved with prayers in the runes of the First Men - excellent for supporting his limping gait through thick winter snows as well. A bronze sickle hangs from his hip, ancient yet well maintained, and hunting knife with a bone hilt, with Bael claiming it was carved from the bones of a different great beast each time.

Both of his companions are suited to his title. Corvus is a white raven, surprisingly intelligent, and with a wit well suited to the cruel mocking of his master. Like a magpie in his insistent searching for anything it finds interesting, it is unwise to leave anything of value around the inquisitive raven. Joramun is an albino shadowcat; fur as pure as the driven snow, and eyes of pale pink that glare balefully out. While usually protective - overly so - of his master, to those Bael consider's friends, Joramun's nature flips to becoming an oversized housecat, purring and rubbing himself against them.

Bael is far from a good man. He is a hard man, a product of his life, his beliefs, and the North. While he tries to be neutral, understanding he has to be if he is to be a true servant of the Old Gods, he still has his favourites. Astera, Lord Stark, to name a few. They are far and few between, and Bael makes like indication that they are. His personality shows his hard nature; usually sarcastic and biting, and snapping in irritation when he isn't. Moments where he truly shows a happy, nicer, side are few and far between. He is completely and utterly devoted to the Old Gods in what he does; everything is to ensure that belief in them is upheld, and grows stronger by the day. Just how far he would go is more uncertain; while there are dark whispers of human sacrifice that follow him, it is also acknowledged that those stories only ever involve criminals who would face death anyhow. Bael is an enigma; a mask that he keeps up as much as he can.

An Average Life - 363 AC to 376 AC
Bael was born simply. In a village called Irongroves, on the north-east borders of the Wolfswood, in the lands of House Stark. It wasn't a major settlement in any way. Truthfully, it only existed as a logging camp for the concentrated grove of Ironwood that grew nearby, hence the village's name. His father, Jon, was a blacksmith. A kind man, with arms the size of his head, and great bushy sideburns. His mother, Meera, was the village wisewoman, who worked with her own mother. Grandmother, as she was simply known, was more likely Meera's own grandmother. Or great-grandmother. No one was sure exactly, just as no one was sure just whose grandmother she truly was. All they did know was that she was ancient beyond belief, with one rotten tooth remaining, and an incredible knowledge of herbs, folklore, and of the Old Gods. Much of what was once known as lost, she claimed, and what was left, no one cared about. That last bit, at least, was true. The people of Irongroves lived a good life, and past the usual deference and offerings to the heartree, no one cared fanatically for the Old Gods.

Yet the Godswood of Irongroves was by no means small. Far from it. A great circle, a ring of alternating black Ironwoods and white Weirwoods, with a great, ancient, Weirwood in the centre as its Hearttree. No one knew the age or significance of the Irongroves Godswood, or why exactly it was so isolated from anywhere major. Yet it was clear it was important. The face carved into the tree was simple enough; an imperious expression, yet the feature that stood out was the crown of swords that graced that royal visage. For a man who would become so dedicated to his faith, in his childhood, Bael was as indifferent as his village. Even then, however, his formative memories were of those black and white trees. His first memory, a baby on his mothers lap as she wove flowers into a crown, crooning a lullaby in the Old Tongue. Another, playing with friends, hiding and seeking around the massive trunks. His first kiss, with the baker's daughter, nervous as teeth clashed. A year later his first coupling, sweet and awkward with the same girl.

That same year was when disaster struck.

Bael, as he had entered into his teens, had been supposed to work as his father's apprentice. Which he did; on occasion, yet the boy was clearly not built for that sort of work, much to Jon's frustration. And, to raise his father's ire further, it was clear that there was something Bael was good at. More and more of his free time was spent with his grandmother, who taught him the potions and herbs, the folklore and tales, and most importantly, the Old Gods. It earned beatings when he skipped his work to hide in Grandmother's shack, but the more they happened, the more he simply seemed to ignore them. It all came crashing down before it could come to a head.

It was a dark night in 376 AC when the raid came. Warning had not travelled fast enough from the Wall; the rangers from Watch, hard on the Wildlings heels, weren't close enough either. They hit early Irongroves early in the night. Bael barely escaped his burning house, the grunts of his father as he was butchered and his mother's sobs as she was raped ringing in his ears. Panicking, he headed to the first place he could think of - the Godswood. There he found Grandmother, half blind, fully mad, raving with an ancient sickle of bronze in her hands. Bael took the blade; and ensured that it tasted blood for the first time in hundreds of years as he cut down the raider that had chased him. In his shock, Bael was in no place to refuse Grandmother chivying him to work. Once again, the Heartree of Irongroves was graced with a grizzly sacrifice. Intestines looped from branch to branch, the Crowned Face coated in fresh blood, a ritual as old as time in the cold North. When it was finally dawn, Bael and Grandmother left their brutal artwork behind, heading back to their village through the trees - the ruin, more accurately. The rangers of the Night's Watch, the black clad killers, had come just before the dawn, and a brutal battle had been fought amidst the smouldering houses. The raiders were destroyed, and of the few rangers who had survived the phyrric battle, there was no sign.

Irongroves was now a burnt ruin, piled with the corpses of Northeners, Free Folk, and the Night's Watch. The only survivors were an ancient, decrepit, woman, and a scrawny child in shock, white hands still tight around the handle of his pathetic weapon.

Trials - 376 AC to 383 AC
In Bael's mind, the next step was clearly going to be leaving for Winterfell. Another town, anywhere they could survive at, give news on what had happened. However, he wasn't even really surprised when Grandmother said no. It was something he had been expecting; instead of doing anything that made sense, Grandmother forced him to get enough debris to make her little shack liveable again, and slowly build from there. Fortunately, Bael was a young fit man, Grandmother held a decidedly odd amount of practical information, and the Wolfswood held a wealth of food and whatever resources they needed, if they knew where to look.

The next few years were hard - terribly hard in the harsh North, but they made it. Their small hut grew more sturdy as time went on, Grandmother grew vegetables and mushrooms alongside her herb garden, and Bael did his best to hunt and trap. Neither of them saw massive success, but as it was just the two of them, they made do.

More importantly, Grandmother began to truly teach Bael. The sacrifice had been the gateway into her world, and Bael started to truly learn. Those men and women sworn to the Old Gods were extremely rare, and Grandmother had only ever been an apprentice, an acolyte, to one of those wandering Druids. She could not teach him everything; the rest he would have to find for himself. No one had seen a Druid for decades, after all. Yet Bael was taught the basics. The rituals, the prayers, where the Gods lived, the holy places, and what the Greenseers and the Skinchangers were. Of course, Grandmother said, it was obvious Bael wasn't one of them. He was a nobody.

However the Gods, it seemed, worked in stranger ways than that.

It was after Bael had truly gone into adulthood, becoming a wiry young man, that odd dreams came to him. Relieving the night of the raid in vivid detail, flashing scenes that slowly merged into stronger flames - flame that came from above, not below. He always woke sweating, but said nothing to Grandmother. She would just mock him for his bad dreams. Things changed when Bael turned twenty, however. In a trip into the forest, he found a raven - white as the snow, that wouldn't stop following him. Irritatingly, it even followed him home, and refused to leave his side, quorking at him whenever he snapped at it, nipping with its sharp beak if he tried to shoo it away. It took him far too long to remember his Grandmother's lessons on the matter, and realise the thing had imprinted on him.

It was sign to the young man. Any doubts about his Grandmother were swept away, and Bael knew that he had to walk this road. There was just the issue of leaving his frail, old, Grandmother behind. When he came to her with this new fervour inside of him, they talked long into the night, his raven at his side. Corvus, he'd named him. With Grandmother being unable to survive on herself, they both knew what had to happen.

The next morning, the Heart Tree was fed once more, and Bael went on his way, his mortal bonds severed.

Travels - 383 AC to 392 AC
For the first few years, Bael toured the North, finding those men and women who had been like his Grandmother, those who knew bits and pieces of the Old Lore. He started to sketch a rough map of what had been lost, drawing it together to find what he needed to know to be a true Druid. His name started to spread, of course - there were so few Druids that anyone new was immediately of note. However, Bael started to realise that he wouldn't find what he wanted south of the Wall.

It wasn't hard to head Beyond the Wall - Bael was surprised how easy it was, in truth. A trading vessel from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to Hardhome. He hadn't been sure what he'd find there, but a genuine town wasn't one. As far as the Freefolk could have a town, he supposed. Bael stayed in Hardhome for a year. He found himself respected there as a Druid. It seemed that even if they saw the Old Gods worshipped softly in the south, the priests were respected universally.

When his grasp of the Old Tongue was at a good enough level, Bael decided it was the time to make his way into the forests of the lands Beyond the Wall. It was much, much harder going than in the North. The people were more independent, harder to impress, and there was just less of them. Truth was, that Bael respected them much more anyhow. He admired their tenacity, their independence, their increased devotion to the Old Gods.

His work paid off, in the end. Bael found a true Druid of the North. Gnarled, old, covered in the swirling blue tattoos that marked them, named Snorri. Initially, the man refused to accept him as his apprentice. That changed, however, when he saw Corvus, and realised the bird was imprinted onto him. After that, he was an apprentice - if with a reluctant one. Bael never felt that Snorri was a master who truly wanted him. Oh, Bael learnt, but it was a harsh training, with him coming close to death multiple times. It was then that Bael earned his first permanent injuries - losing his toes to frostbite in one test that went too far, and in one angry, drunken, fight, a knife from Snorri flayed open his cheek, leaving the gnarled scar there.

It was 389 AC when Snorri finally deemed Bael worthy. He took him to the great Weirwood grove near them, nine enormous Weirwoods that had stood the ancient test of time. First came his tattoo, swirling blue lines along his cheek. Then, carving his own staff of a weirwood branch, marking it with runes of prayers and ones personal to him as Snorri taught him the written language of the First Men. It was odd, however. His dreams the night before, of fire and blood as they had been so many years ago, had set him on edge. He hadn't had those odd dreams for a very long time. Perhaps Bael should've expected the betrayal more.

Bael didn't realise what was going on until the knife was already at his throat, slitting through his windpipe, sending him choking to the ground. Snorri, it seemed, had never truly been able to stand the weak kneeler, and Bael's suspicions had been right. The tattoo on his cheek? It meant Slave. That was what Snorri had marked him with, as he prepared to sacrifice the young Druid.

Bael was saved by Corvus. The white raven flew down in a fury, the strike at Snorri's face with beak and talon, to leave the old man screaming, bleeding, and blind in the snow. As Bael held the shallow cut on his throat shut with snow, counting his blessings that it hadn't cut any of the true vessels of blood there, he crawled over to his former master, and butchered him with his own hunting knife before falling into blackness.

Surprisingly, Bael didn't die. It seemed he had been found by a patrol of Freefolk, who said they were from the Blackadder tribe. Recognising the two men as druids, they had simply taken the still barely living Bael back to their village. Understandingly, it took Bael a long time to be brought back to life, nursed by the Chief's daughter - a young girl named Astera, whose head he filled with stories, tales, and legends. When Bael finally left, he swore a life debt to both Astera and her father, and truly realised the respect that he held as a Druid. As well as the responsibility that came along with it.

Bael decided that after his ordeals, after being forged into a true Druid through these trials, it was time to return back to the North. His trials were not over yet, however. As he approached the Wall, the warning that Corvus gave him was crowed too late. A pack of wolves set upon him, hungry and looking for easy prey. Bael was knocked down swiftly as he attempted to defend himself with his staff, a claw raking across his face to leave one eye a ruin. It seemed unfair that after everything, this was how he died.

Once again, it seemed that nature, the Gods, his luck, any of them were determined to save him. There was a blur of albino fur, howls of pain and animal snarls of fury. As Bael staggered to his feet, he came face to face with an albino shadowcat. Panting, mewling gently from the wounds he'd taken from the wolves, and staring with surprising softness at Bael. It seemed the Druid had been imprinted again.

The Third Horseman - 392 AC to 394 AC
On his return to the North, Bael waded into the middle of a crisis. The great famine had caused unrest, and he could feel, he could see it, boiling over. It was frustrating; if he hadn't been gone so long, perhaps Bael could have done more. As it was, he spent his time touring the North, heading to those points in the realm where the people balanced on the edge of the knife, soothing into peace. He was far from a lackey of the Starks, far from a kneeler after his time Beyond the Wall. But fighting while people starved helped no one.

After the battle that marked the end of it, Bael appeared to the new Lord Stark. He was well known through the North now; Bael Whiteye, Druid, Priest of the Old Gods. To Jon Stark, Bael made an offer, a promise. He would ensure that this sort of thing did not happen again, ensure that the people of the North remembered themselves, remembered the Gods, and did not infight like the Southerners did. They were, one and all, better than that in Bael's mind.

The Coven - 394 AC to 402 AC
Whiteye kept to his promise. In the next years, it seemed as if he visited every hold in the North, every village, at least one. His distinctive face was recognised more often than not, and the name of Bael Whiteye even more so. Bael started to work on correcting the mistakes of his predecessors - he ensured that he truly had students, men and women who he found to have that spark that he searched for, to serve as Druids alongside him. It was Bael who founded the Coven, the small group of Druids that he had raised up, with him as not quite its leader - more a first among equals, but a greatly respected one at that.

Red Winter, Black Dragon - 402 AC to 405 AC
He wasn't sure what it was when the Red Winter came. Logically, he should've stayed in the North. Gone to Winterfell, perhaps, hibernate the Winter out. However, his dreams started to act up again, as they hadn't for so long. So, if reluctantly, Bael headed Beyond the Wall once more, during the coldest winter he had ever experienced. Even for an experienced traveller, it took its toll. When Bael finally arrived at the Blackadder holdings, he'd lost enough toes to walk with a profound limp, fingers frozen to ruin, as weak and limp as a babe.

When he recovered, he found that his premonitions had been correct. Astera needed help, it seemed. After their reunion, he threw himself into assisting her and the strange dragon rider who had arrived as well, and she seemed to know. Bael helped rally her people, inspire courage, tell them they were chosen by the Gods - whatever he could do, because he certainly couldn't fight. Seeing Astera having grown to be such a strong leader, a strong woman, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in the girl who had saved his life.

When it came for Astera and Maegor to go and take their sword, Bael did not follow. He knew where they were headed - he'd heard the stories, and out of respect, it was not a grave he wished to disturb. He also knew that nothing was going to stop a dragonrider, and reluctant to chastise Astera, he stayed silent, watching them go North. On their return, and Maegor's depature, Bael took the opportunity to remain with Astera for a while, reforging a close relationship between them.

The Herald - 405 AC to Present
On his return into the South, Bael has taken his responsibilities with pride. He still travels the North, offering advice, stories, help, sneering mockery, where it is wanted and where it is not. Deep inside, however, he fears that once again something terrible is coming - and is determined to see the North weather the storm, no matter what that cost may be.