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.