Basic Information
Age:16Nation of origin:Saldaean
Hair:Thick, tightly curled, unruly and dark brown
Eyes:Moss green and almond shaped
Skin:dusky
Height:5'4"
Description:Like most Saldaeans, has a large hooke dnose, and wide full lips. Her eyebrows are thick and dark to match her hair. Slender build
Voice:a low alto
Personality:Zhoaya is sweet, but quiet girl. She has learned to keep to herself and to remain unobtrusive. However she is highly observant. She prefers to watch and learn all she can before attempting something herself, and will practice obsessively in private before she feels ready to display a new skill. She is very patient, but prefers to have something to work on, especially for her hands. She is shy around strangers, volunteering little, but is surprisingly forthright when questioned directly.
Special Skills:harp, memorized several Saldaean epic poems, fine embroidery
Weaknesses:While she can read and write well, Zhoaya is largely uneducated, especially in areas of history, philosophy, or culture (exempting certain realms of poetry). Zhoaya has lead an active, work-filled life, she is healthy if not particularly strong.
One Power Breakdown
| Air | Earth | Fire | Spirit | Water | >Strenth | SkillPotency | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 5 | 3 | 5 | 7 (8) | 7 | 27(28) | 29 | 56 |
History
Zhoaya Faidhul was the seventh daughter born to Lord Mashuan, but the first and only daughter of her mother, a nameless tavern wench or farmer’s daughter met on some foreign campaign. Zhoaya came to her father’s house as an infant, squalling still for her mother, who lay already cold in the childbed.
During the Receiving Hour, an elderly peasant man, his face dark with years toil and anger, lays the red faced bundle before the Lord.
“And what is the meaning of this?” inquires his Lady from his side, a plumb rosy-cheeked cherub in her lap.
“I am here to return the child from whence it came. It has already taken my daughter, ruined though she was. I’ll not raise the bastard too.” The room bristles at these words, sharp steel scraping scabbards in a hiss of offense taken. The Lord stands, his hand motioning to stay eager hands, yet his eyes ablaze with green fire.
His Lady’s voice, sharp with hauteur- “And why should believe your daughter’s whelp to be my husband’s? Shall every unwanted child now be called the by-blow of the Lord of Teymuir? Have you not thought, old man, to look to the men of your own village before you come with such slanderous accusations to my House. Such an affront will not be-“
The old man has slowly untied the swollen knots on a small leather pouch; from within he withdraws a shining ring, brilliant against his earth –dark hands. “She said she’d had it from him…without his knowing it perhaps, I’ll give you…but it is your, Lord – is it not? The Thistle and Acorn?”
There is an audible gasp from the assembled. The Lady’s face flushes crimson, her husband’s hands curl into to fists. Another woman, hardly more than a girl, who till now had stood to the side, apart from the noble family comes then forward and plucks the heavy gold signet ring from the old peasant’s fingers. She bears a likeness to the Lord, her brow furrowed as his, her lips compressed to the same hard line. When she speaks her voice is low and soft.
“It is yours, brother. The Acorn bears the scar from your mischief with Baleron, do you remember?” She steps toward him, holding the ring before her. “He speaks true then, and the babe is yours as well.” She bends down and gathers the child to her, rocking gently to calm the babe’s screams. “There, there now.” She looks to her brother, “Of course you will take the child, brother. She is your daughter. How ever she was got, she is your duty now.”
At this his Lady stands, handing her own young daughter off to a maid quickly at her side. “I will not have it! I will not the child here, Mashuan. She will not be sister to my daughters.”
There is a heavy silence. The old man has slipped away unnoticed and the Lord now stands before now before not only the angry faces of the women of his household, but also many of his assembled folk. He unclenches his hands and returns to his chair. He turns first to his wife.
“You are right, Shova. There is no place for the child here. She will not be raised in this household.” He turns then to his sister, and hold a finger to stall her angry reply. “And you too are right, Maevren. She is my responsibility. I will see she is well cared for.”
Or so the story was told to Zhoaya. And that is how she came to be the foster-daughter of Reymen and Yosafya Faidhul, two cottagers on the lands of Lord Mashuan Haynoom, in rural southern Saldaea. After several heart-wrenching miscarriages the Faidhuls were happy to take child, regardless of her origins. They loved her as their own, and kept her well and warm. Indeed, they lived a bit better than their neighbors thanks so the neat monthly sum sent by Lord Haynoom for her keeping. But they could not stop the talk of others. In the village there were some who would often called bastard, and worse. Though she never went near the Keep, it was not odd for Zhoaya to see some member of the Household, from a distance. So she often kept to the cottage, keeping busy with needlework, wood carvings, and tending their garden.
So, when the opportunity arose to leave Teymuir, though she was still a season shy of thirteen Zhoaya decieded to leave the only home she knew and her kind, loving, hardworking foster parents. The event which occasioned her move was the marriage of the Lady Maevren, younger sister to Lord Mashuan, to a young minor noble in Mehar. The Lady Shova, glad for a reason to send Zhoaya, who was growing to resemble her father more with every year that passed, arranged for Maevren to take the girl on as her lady’s maid when she left to join her husband’s household.
In Mehar, Zhoaya blossomed. None there, save Maevren, knew her shameful history, and she quickly made friends. Maevren saw that Zhoaya was taught her letters, numbers, and to recite poetry and play the harp for her Lady and her companions. Several years passed and Zhoaya was a girl on the cusp of womanhood on the night the Aes Sedai came to the Manor in Mehar. Her husband away to Maradon , Lady Maevren received the Aes Sedai in her private sitting room and called for Zhoaya to serve the tea. Liendria Sedai appeared imposing and elegant in her well-cut green silk, her ageless face was veiled and framed by many chestnut braids with just a touch of grey. But when she spoke her voice was warm and motherly, albeit heavy with a Taraboner accent.
“My family is honored to receive you, Liendria Sedai. I trust your journey here from my brother’s house was not too trying. The roads this time of year are often awash.”
“As indeed they were, my dear, though I managed just as well. Your kin at Teymuir are all in good keeping, you’ll be glad to know. I was happy to meet each of your six nieces, such lovely girls. I tested each of them, this time. Too bad that none had the aptitude, I’d had hopes to bring a novice or two back with me now that my business is finished and I return to the Tower.”
At that the Lady Maevren arched her brow and gazed pointedly at Zhoaya over the rim of her tea cup. “It is certainly a shame you had no luck among the daughters at Teymuir, but if you would care to indulge our family once more, you might have another opportunity to fulfill your wish.”
Liendria Sedai appeared puzzled for but a moment, and then followed Maevren’s gaze to Zhoaya. After giving the sixteen-year old girl a hard look, she tsked and reached in to her belt pouch. As she unfastened its buttons she spoke, “Mashuan did not mention a seventh daughter… although the resemblance is of course quite marked, I now see…funny I did not notice it before. Ah, here it is. Now, child, come here and look at this stone…”
The next day, Zhoaya Faidhul found herself on horseback between Liendria Sedai and her Warder on her way to Tar Valon, in hopes someday to become Aes Sedai herself.