Corvalen was born far from cities, in the long shadow of the Blight, where the land itself taught vigilance. The Borderlands were a harsh, unforgiving stretch of land, scarred by the shadow of the Blight to the north and the chaos of human ambition to the south. His people lived by watchfires and warded fields, measuring time not in seasons but in raids survived, in the number of nights the wolves had been kept at bay. Protection was not a calling here — it was the shape of life itself. Children learned to track the wind before they learned to read, to spot danger before it spoke. Every step, every glance, every silence had purpose.

From the moment he could walk, Corvalen absorbed this vigilance. He watched and learned, noting the unseen: a deer’s path, the bend of a river, the scent of smoke before it reached the village. His speech was sparse, deliberate; his body spoke a language of awareness. Elders trusted him with long watches far sooner than his age warranted, and he rarely disappointed. Animals did not shy from him. The land seemed to recognise him as one of its own — neither wholly human nor wholly wilderness, but something in-between.

His name was chosen with care. Corvalen — the one who stands the boundary. Not heroic, not boastful; it was a hope and a warning. His surname, used sparingly and almost privately, marked his family as watchers, oath-bound protectors whose duty stretched beyond memory, older than law or ruler. He inherited their quiet pride, their unspoken insistence on vigilance, and a sense that the world itself depended on those who stood unseen at the edges.

Even as a child, there was something feral in him — not violence, but intensity, a watchfulness that bordered on the unnatural. He moved fluidly through forest and snow, silent and precise. He had an instinct for circles and boundaries: the way a tree line might form a defensive perimeter, the pattern of patrols that ensured every blind spot was covered, the geometry of hearth and village that protected families without needing to be named.

The Awakening of Saidin

The first signs came subtly. A wound that closed too cleanly, a gust of wind that followed him as if drawn by desire, a branch bending just so beneath his hand. When he first reached for the Power — to push back a Blightborn incursion, to shield a child from harm — it answered with terrible readiness. The surge was intoxicating, not in pleasure, but in the sheer authority it granted.

Saidin burned. It obeyed — but it carried a pressure that did not release when he let go. A coiled tension settled into his body, as though something waited for him to falter. Corvalen did not name it madness. He named it danger.

He told no one.

He told no one. In the Borderlands, a man who admitted to channeling before the Cleansing did not survive long — whether at the mercy of the Red Ajah or through his own hand. He chose another path: discipline, containment, vigilance..

The Shape of His Madness

Corvalen’s madness did not take the forms commonly feared: raving, destruction, hallucination.

It took the form of intensity.

The world sharpened unbearably. Sounds cut deeper. Emotions hit harder. Restraint required conscious labour. When he touched Saidin, he felt a momentum vast and dangerous, as though a river of molten force ran beneath his skin, eager to burst.

At its worst, the madness whispered not commands, but justifications.

You could end this faster.
You could protect more if you stopped holding back.
You are already dangerous — why pretend otherwise?

That frightened him more than screams or visions ever could have. It convinced him that loss of control would be catastrophic — not someday, not abstractly, but imminently, and because of him. The belief rooted deep and hardened into certainty: if he ever allowed himself to channel freely, if he ever loosened restraint, he would destroy what he most wished to protect.

So he imposed structure.

He set rules for himself: never channel in anger, never draw deeply, never act without a clear boundary of purpose. He practised containment obsessively — repeating movements, breathing patterns, physical rituals that mirrored the invisible limits he placed on Saidin.

Circles mattered to him, even alone. He slept in defined spaces. He paced patrol routes in loops. He returned always to the same fires, the same watchpoints. He could not channel without preparation. Breath had to be measured. His stance had to be grounded. Certain patterns repeated: circles traced in ash or stone, careful positioning of the body, timing that followed rhythms older than reason. If a ritual was disrupted, he stopped immediately — even if the cost was high.

Outwardly, it appeared as discipline.

In truth, it was fear refined into law.

The madness expressed itself through hyper-containment. Saidin became something to be approached only through structure, only in service, only when absolutely necessary. He avoided displays of power. He refused leadership. He vanished before attention could gather.

This restraint saved him — and isolated him.

The Night Mind

When Corvalen slept, the walls he built thinned.

Dreams came thick with forest and shadow, circling back on themselves. Paths looped where they should not. Trees cast shadows that did not match their branches. Circles appeared — protective at first glance — but when he followed them, they were broken, scratched through, or inverted. He felt both hunter and hunted, bound by rules he did not remember learning. Every sound cut sharper, every movement was more exacting. Sleep was dangerous. He woke often, heart racing, convinced that rest itself could unravel him.

Sometimes, the dreams brought the lake. The water was black, not with depth, but with absence. Nothing reflected him — only motion beneath the surface, pacing, pressing, waiting. He woke with Saidin humming in his veins, dangerously close to the surface, fingers twitching, hands ready to seize power before he had time to name it.

And always, in the shadow of these dreams, he felt something else. A presence at the edge of awareness — too deliberate to be random, too persistent to ignore. Corvalen did not recognise it, did not seek it, and yet he felt drawn — curiosity and wariness entwined, like a predator sensing another intelligence beneath the foliage. It whispered not commands, not words, but impulses: subtle suggestions, half-formed urgencies, intimations of what he could do if he let go of restraint.

He told himself it was the madness — a voice of the taint, testing him, seeking a slip. That it had to be. Better to assume danger than trust. Sometimes, it felt almost gentle, guiding his hand when Saidin stirred. Sometimes it pressed, insistent, coaxing him closer to what he knew he must never release. He never saw it clearly, never knew its shape — only felt the pressure of its curiosity, the edge of its awareness.

He did not speak of it. He did not seek help. Instead, he did what he had always done when faced with dangerous power: he contained it. Sleep came in short spans. He rested with wards laid unconsciously into habit — posture, breath, orientation, the quiet geometry of lying still until the pressure passed. He altered his nightly routines. No channeling near sleep. No drifting meditation. He reinforced his internal habits — mental circles, measured breath, memory anchored to physical sensation. Old techniques, learned alone, refined under the threat of madness, became shields against both the wild surge of Saidin and the foreign intelligence threading the edges of his mind.

If this was Saidin turning against him, then it would find no easy path.

Even so, the lines blurred. The pressure and the presence were entwined: each dream spun the thread tighter, each twitch of Saidin a reminder that the waking world and the dream were never wholly separate. Sometimes he woke with the taste of iron in his mouth. Sometimes with the certainty that his heartbeat had not been entirely his own. Once — only once — he woke with his hand clenched in a perfect circle, fingers biting into his palm hard enough to draw blood, though he had no memory of closing them.

He hardened when the presence lingered. He refused to reach back, refused to explore. Instinctively, he braced like a guardian against force. Whatever lay beyond that thinning veil did not feel outright hostile — yet it was uncontained, unpredictable, unsafe. Better to resist than to understand.

Power that cannot be contained must not be invited. He did not break the pressure. He absorbed it. That, too, cost him.

Sometimes, the faintest pulse in those nights made him wonder whether his solitude was sufficient to keep him safe.

Wandering

Corvalen survived the years before saidin’s cleansing not through denial, but through relentless vigilance. He did not build, did not rule, did not gather followers. He endured. Power was never identity; it was responsibility sharpened to a blade. When he had to channel, it was brief, precise, and always followed by days of containment.

When awake, he travelled. He walked the Borderlands alone, moving from village to village, offering protection without name or claim. He remained outwardly human, presenting as a quiet, capable wanderer. Yet the edge of his presence suggested something uncontainable — a predator attuned to every shadow and whisper. Every act of protection carried the dual weight of duty and self-preservation: his survival ensured the safety of others.

He intercepted raiders, warded off wild beasts, guided lost travellers. He lived as a moving presence — a guard here, a caravan escort there, a nameless sword on the roads between threatened villages. When he had to channel, he did so out of sight, at night, or beneath chaos where cause and effect could not be easily traced. He learned to let others take credit. Sometimes stories spread — of a man who appeared when the land was threatened and vanished before thanks could be given. Legends grew. He never lingered long enough to be named.

To the Red Ajah, such rumours were indistinct. To Corvalen, they were proof that he remained unseen.

He accepted loneliness as the price of control.

The Lure of Beauty

Despite his vigilance, Corvalen was drawn to artistry: the pluck of lute strings, the cadence of gleemen’s tales, dancers tracing patterns across floors. He did not participate, did not speak, and rarely applauded. Yet he remembered every note, every gesture, every pattern traced through space. The way a lute string vibrated, the subtle arc of a dancer’s movement, the cadence of a storyteller’s words — they lingered in his mind long after the performers left.

In these moments, the coils of restraint softened. The wildness beneath control relaxed just enough to feel. The pull toward beauty was a quiet echo of desire, a reminder that his life was not solely duty and containment.

These encounters were dangerous — they teased longing, emotion, vulnerability. Yet Corvalen never acted on impulse. He admired, stored, and left — a guardian of beauty as well as people. A watcher who could witness without taking, moved without surrendering control.

The Cleansing

When word came that the Dragon Reborn had been found, Corvalen felt no awe. He felt weight. The world shifted its posture overnight. Borders tightened. Fear spread faster than fire. The Blight stirred, as if sensing inevitability. Corvalen listened, watched, and continued his work.

Then came Falme. Light and shadow clashed on a scale no single man could contain. He did not witness the battle firsthand, but felt its echo — a pressure like the drawing of a vast breath before a storm. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that endurance might not be futile. If the Dragon could stand, perhaps restraint still had meaning.

When the Cleansing came, he felt it at once — not as joy, but as sudden silence. The pressure vanished. The coil unknotted. Saidin flowed clean, vast, and terrifyingly free.

For the first time, nothing external restrained him.

And that frightened him more than the taint ever had.

Thresholds and Choices

For decades, Corvalen had moved alone, patrolling villages, borderlands, and roads where Blight-born threats lingered. He had learned the rhythm of survival: brief appearances, swift interventions, and vanishing before attention or gratitude could weigh him down. His life was deliberate, ordered, and isolated. Circles of patrol, circles of ritual, circles of sleep and wakefulness — each a protective measure, each a boundary against chaos, both within and without.

And yet, the Dragon Reborn had been declared. Falme had burned. The world, already frayed at its edges, was shifting faster than he could track from the Borderlands alone. Reports reached him: armies moving, nations trembling, the Red Ajah hunting with renewed suspicion, the Black Tower forming men as weapons against what was to come.

Corvalen understood one truth immediately: isolation was no longer sufficient. Danger now moved beyond villages, beyond forests, beyond even the edges of his perception. The shadow — that faint pressure he had felt brushing against the edge of sleep, testing circles he had spent a lifetime perfecting — stirred with a new intensity. It was curious, watching, waiting, reminding him that power left untended could become catastrophe. Alone, he could contain himself. Alone, he could survive. Alone, he could fight when necessity demanded. But alone, he could not influence the wider pattern of events that now threatened the world itself.

The Black Tower offered something new: structure without surrender, comrades without compromise, purpose beyond the patrols he had long accepted as his life. And yet, he hesitated. Trust was a scarce currency, harder than steel, earned slowly and tested continually. To place himself among men trained to wield power, men he could neither fully command nor fully ignore — it required a leap he had avoided for decades.

The shadow shifted in his dreams that night, brushing his awareness not with threat but with attention, as if noting that the barrier between his solitary vigilance and the wider world was faltering. He understood, instinctively, that some forces — external and internal — could not be held in isolation indefinitely. The world demanded engagement, even if it carried risk.

He spent the next days testing the idea. A Tower representative arrived near one of the border settlements, seeking men capable of controlling the One Power and willing to endure rigorous training. Corvalen observed from the forest, circling the camp, listening to patterns of movement, the coordination, the discipline. Everything spoke to a principle he had always valued: mastery contained within boundaries. Men trained not just to use power, but to wield it with foresight and accountability.

Finally, he acted. Not openly, not as a volunteer eager for instruction, but as a guardian assessing whether joining could serve the greater purpose without compromising the rules he had built for survival. He presented himself quietly, offering evidence of his skill, his discipline, and his long history of protecting those who could not protect themselves. He made no boast, accepted no fanfare.

The Black Tower saw a man whose control was unusual, whose methods were meticulous, whose instincts bordered on something older than the Power itself. And they accepted him — not fully, not immediately, but as one to be integrated carefully.

Corvalen understood that this was not surrender. It was adaptation. The Tower provided structure where he had built his own; comradeship where he had long accepted solitude; reach where he had known only fleeting influence. He could still patrol, still intervene quietly, still guard — but now he had the leverage to shape a wider circle of protection.

Even here, the shadow lingered. Its presence was subtler than in the Borderlands, threading along the edges of sleep, testing the circles he drew around power and action. It did not command, but it reminded him of what he had always known: vigilance is survival; restraint is protection; the one who stands the boundary must always endure.

And for the first time in decades, Corvalen realised that enduring did not require isolation. It could also require choice.

Personality

Corvalen is defined first and foremost by his sense of duty. He approaches the world as a watcher and protector: others’ safety comes before his comfort, his ambition, or even his rest. This manifests in near-obsessive vigilance — he notices movements, sounds, and shifts in the air that others would dismiss. He rarely relaxes fully; even in quiet moments, part of his attention is always on unseen danger.

He is exceptionally disciplined, a man of routines and structure, yet that discipline masks a restless spirit. He moves constantly, whether walking patrol routes, training, or pacing in thought. Long periods of stillness make him uneasy, as if inertia could allow chaos to creep in. His rest, even after the Cleansing, is deliberate, with mental and physical “circles” to anchor him.

Corvalen rarely speaks without purpose. He listens first, evaluates, and then acts. This makes him appear aloof or cold to strangers, but in truth, he is deeply empathetic — he simply measures the consequences of every word and action before offering them. He prefers to show care through deeds rather than conversation.

Though he has mastered restraint, his wildness has never left him. He reacts with animal precision in moments of crisis and is attuned to natural rhythms, movements, and danger in a way others cannot match. This sometimes gives him a predator-like presence, especially in the wilderness, or when training others; he can seem simultaneously calm and electric, waiting for the exact moment to move.

Corvalen is quietly fascinated by creativity and expression. He notices musicians, gleemen, storytellers, and artisans with a lingering intensity. Their ability to shape the world through beauty and skill — unforced, instinctual, and alive — resonates with his own nature. While he rarely approaches them directly, he observes from the edges, sometimes leaving small tokens of recognition: coins, a word of encouragement, or a barely perceptible mark of respect — like arranging a musician’s instrument or smoothing a scroll — never overt, never seeking thanks.. He admires those who create order, harmony, or beauty without coercion — the parallels to his own approach to the Power are not lost on him.

He respects structure and law, but only insofar as it protects the vulnerable. Corvalen does not crave rank or recognition; he acts from principle rather than ambition. His loyalty is absolute to those who embody duty and restraint — but he will act independently, even against orders, if it protects life or prevents catastrophe.

Corvalen’s heart is loyal, patient, and protective, yet it is measured by the principle of containment. He experiences deep affection, but rarely allows it to distract him from responsibility. His love, admiration, or care is often expressed in subtle ways — a protective gesture, a word saved from judgement, or an unobtrusive presence when needed most. In moments of danger or crisis, his attachments reveal themselves: he will bend or break rules to safeguard someone, risking himself without hesitation.

Even amidst the Black Tower, he preserves private space. He often eats alone, walks the grounds at night, and isolates himself in ritual or study. This solitude is not loneliness but maintenance — the mental and spiritual architecture that allows him to contain power, madness, and the pressure of responsibility. Those who intrude without consent encounter a man who is polite, focused, and quietly intimidating: capable of connection, but fiercely self-contained.

Corvalen’s relationships are defined by a paradox: he is simultaneously intensely aware of others and almost unreachable. He protects without claiming, observes without judgement, admires without interference. This duality makes him magnetic and enigmatic, yet prevents any bond from overshadowing his life’s principle: power and love must never endanger those he is sworn to protect.

Quirks and Habits

• Circles and Patterns: He traces circles in ash, dust, or the air when thinking. This is both grounding and a subconscious echo of the discipline he imposes on Saidin.
• Night Vigilance: Corvalen often sleeps lightly, waking at subtle shifts in sound or temperature. He sometimes patrols the Tower grounds in the small hours, even when not asked.
• Minimalist Habits: He carries few possessions and keeps only what is essential. His quarters are meticulously organized; everything has a purpose or place.
• Quiet Hum of Focus: When working with Saidin, tracing patterns, or training others, he often hums a low, almost imperceptible tune. It helps him maintain rhythm and containment.
• Selective Humor: Rarely, and only with those he trusts, he allows glimpses of dry, almost mischievous humor. It catches people off guard because they expect severity, but he uses it sparingly, like a spark in the dark.

Previous Lives

Corvalen is the embodiment of the watcher. Every habit, quirk, and instinct — from circles traced in the dust to his admiration for artists — is a manifestation of the same principle that has guided him through all incarnations: observe, contain, protect, and act when the moment demands it. Wild, disciplined, and haunted, he is a man shaped by centuries of vigilance and the quiet pull of forces older than any Tower or king.

• 1st Age: Dominik Vas
• 6th Age: Cernunnos
• 7th Age: Lancelot du Lac