Name: Bryndyn al'Quin
Height: 5’11” (180 cm)
Weight: 175 lbs (79 kg)
Eye Color: Blue
Hair: Dark blonde, slightly long and unkempt
Age: 18
Born: Deven Ride (Two Rivers)
Affiliation: none (currently a hopeful applicant to the Gleeman)
Description
Bryndyn is a slim, athletic rogue with quick hands, a sharper tongue, and a glint in his eye that promises both trouble and a good tale. Draped in mismatched colors and ever ready with a sarcastic quip, he fancies himself a gleeman in the making—though he’s just as likely to slip your coin purse as he is to sing you a song.
Backstory
Bryndyn al'Quin was born on a farmstead just west of Deven Ride. The youngest of five in a family that prized strong backs and simple virtues, Bryndyn was a square peg in a round hole—always more interested in tales than framework, and in music than mucking pigpens.
While his brothers and sisters rose early to tend fields of tabac and shear sheep, Bryndyn snuck off to Deven Ride to listen to tales in the inn. During festival days, his wide eyes were always fixed on gleemen in their patchwork cloaks. One performance during Bel Tine sealed his fate: a silver-haired gleeman told the tale of Lews Therin Telamon and the Hundred Companions, and Bryndyn swore he'd one day wear a cloak like that himself.
He grew lean and nimble from climbing trees and darting through the woods, dodging chores and trouble with equal skill. Though his mismatched clothes and sarcastic humor made him a frequent target of scoldings, he was never cruel—just too clever, and far too curious for life in the quiet Two Rivers.
At sixteen, Bryndyn left with an almost broken lute, a half-loaf of bread, and a head full of dreams. He slipped across the Taren, vanishing in the morning mist toward Baerlon, determined to chase stories and adventure on the road. Since then, he’s roamed from Whitebridge to Four Kings, telling tales in common rooms, stealing meals when he had to, and bluffing his way past more than one grumpy patrol on the Caemlyn Road.
Now in his late teens, Bryndyn is still more rogue than gleeman, but he carries himself like a man on journey to something great—or maybe part of the way into trouble. His cloak is still a patchwork of scavenged color rather than the real thing, but his stories grow better by the season, and his fingers ever nimbler. Some in Andor whisper of a trickster with a silver tongue who’ll sing you to tears—or rob you blind while you’re wiping them away.
Bryndyn’s chasing his name, his legend, and maybe a gleeman fool enough to take him on as an apprentice. Until then, the inns and byways of the world are his stage—and every town from Emond’s Field to Carysford is fair game for a little music, and maybe a little mischief.