An Early Evening Run

[Eidolon]

Malaika

Once the pain had gone, Malaika helped herself to the trays of food. She didn’t eat as though she was ravenous (she was) but certainly appeared to have a healthy appetite. Upon sampling the meat dishes, she discovered she preferred the spices to the beef rather than the pork, but ate bits of both indiscriminately, and used her fingers when cutlery was unnecessary. Tower fare was never meagre and often came from across the continent; because of that she recognised most of the flavours, as well as the variety cheeses, one of which happened to be her favourite.

She hadn’t intended the question to be so personal, though in retrospect she had phrased it that way so clearly she was more curious about him than she’d thought. The intimacies of other people’s lives were always a fascination, though usually only when it came from the person themselves - Malaika did not pay much credence to rumour and gossip; things of which there was no shortage in the Tower. She also didn’t offer empty sympathies for his family, or for his difficult life. Most people didn’t appreciate pity. Malaika certainly didn’t. She did listen with a thoughtful air, though.

I’d like to think she was a wonderful woman, and had quite the bright and sunny image of her built in my mind as a child … those childhood memories, as fake as they may be, are what I will carry with me to the grave.

There didn’t seem to be any feeling attached to the words, but that was a tactic Malaika used herself so she wasn’t entirely convinced that he was as unconcerned as he appeared. It was poignant enough that he had said it at all, or at least the wash of sadness she felt within meant she would not be soon forgetting the words or the image they conjured. The rawness of her emotional response made her wary, though, if only for its vulnerable nature. She kept expecting him to reveal the story as false, a trap laid to pull at her heartstrings. He certainly made boast of his talent for manipulation, but even knowing that, she was inclined to believe he told the truth. Duped or no, she didn’t suppose it actually mattered in the long run. If he did turn out to be a con artist after no more than the weighty gold marks in her purse, it would be a valuable lesson learned.

When he mentioned stiff, cold hands, he earned another moment of piercing attentiveness, this time over the rim of her teacup. She hadn’t expected him not to notice, of course, but the concern was surprising, as was the inventive method he used to express it. The smile as she replaced the cup in its saucer suggested she had caught his intended meaning, and that amusement remained as he explained the benefits of cayenne pepper. An endearing kindness, though she did not say anything in return. She didn’t suppose it would be very becoming for an Aes Sedai to smell like a cooking pot, but the advice was appreciated.

He made his youth sound like quite the grand adventure, but she was not so naïve that she didn’t have some idea of the sorts of things a child might have to do to ensure survival over the next child or homeless vagrant. She had very little comparable in her own history. Landing in Tear, alone and unleashed, had been the single most terrifying experience of her life, and the only personal experience she could think to try and relate. She remembered the mud; the smell of it, the feel of it, the taste of it. The strange platform shoes that had at the time signified her entire understanding of those foreign, horrifying people of the Maule district. Bloodied fish and nets. The shouting. She’d abhorred her freedom then, petrified of what she might do, who she might kill. And then she had been rescued.

That was the only time in her life she had ever been outside an institution, whether it had been one of family, the damane kennels, or the White Tower. The only time she had ever had to fend entirely for herself; a matter of days, and without the intervention, it would have undoubtedly killed her. I couldn't have survived the way he did. It had never occurred to her how reliant she was on the network of people around her. Though she'd never had friends of sorts - and even now spent much of her time alone - she had always been in someone's care whether directly or indirectly.

Her inquiries had darkened the mood. Not his; he seemed as cheerful as ever, but hers, for sure. She didn't speak for some time after he had finished. Silences like that didn't bother her, even with strangers, and she was usually oblivious to how they effected other people anyway. She was thinking quite deeply about what it must have been like, not entirely specific to Byron's own life, but generally; to all those unknowns whose reality it was now. Not everyone had the skill or fortune to earn a place and title at the White Tower. It was at that moment she made some rather definite decisions about Kasimir Nevaran.

Her gaze cleared and she made an apologetic gesture. I'm sure your mother would be proud was what she thought, though she meant the fictional mother of his memory rather than the possible prostitute who had died in a Caemlyn back alley. And she certainly didn't voice it, either. It would mean nothing coming from her, who knew nothing about him or his life. Better, instead, to simply move the conversation along with cool Aes Sedai indifference. She leaned over the table to select some bread and tore some off.

"Was it with the caravans you did most of your travelling? Is there anywhere you haven't been?"

Byron

She certainly was the attentive one, wasn't she? He liked to think he was a middling to fair listener, he knew when to let someone talk and could usually get people to let go their painful secrets if it might help them forgive and forget. Amazing how much pain was released simply by voicing the source of it, getting it off one's chest so to speak. But, in Byron's case, it never did quite seem to work like that. The pain of the memories was still there, only buoyed by the thought that maybe someone else might benefit from the knowledge. Benefit in a matter that wasn't likely to lead to someone trying to stick a knife in his back, that is.

The stories of childhood left behind, she moved into the next chapter of his life, as what might have seemed but a simple caravan guard in the employ of Master Dekan. He flashed a knowing grin and shrugged slightly, "Well, I've little doubt there are plenty of places I haven't been. Two Rivers tabac is the finest around, but I've never actually been there. A bit out of the way right? I've never seen the inside of Mother's personal chambers either. Light, never really looked under my own bed at the Tower...which could well be where my riding boots are hiding, now that I think about it."

He topped off his cup of tea before it could quite run dry and took another well mannered sip. For a worldly orphan turned traveller, he had manners that well befit a member of some King's court when he saw fit to bother, "Much of the Borderlands, and both coasts. Tear is a stuffy place, but Amadicia...Light, but that is both an orderly and backwards place isn't it? Murandy, of course. Plenty of interesting stories there, if you're one for man eating teams of dogs and angry nobles. Likely fathered a few children there, if the Light forsakes me. The next generation of nobility could be an interest lot yes?"

Another precise sip of his tea, and he added just a pinch of honey to sweeten the flavor, apparently preferring each cup to be just a bit different from the last, "Master Dekan, you see, was not just a simple caravan master. T'was a spy, he was, or perhaps a spy master? I learned accents and manners and all sorts of strange little things under his tutelage. Had plenty of uses for a handsome and smart young lad. I was quite impressionable, became rather loyal of him for a time. Accents and daggers, how to change my mannerisms and appearance, fit in high or low as long as no one payed too close attention to me that is. Poisons too, truth be told."

Few could understand why he was so open about such things, but he always held a little bit back of course. Again, just like his years as a homeless orphan, he had done things, things had been done to him, that he'd never speak of to anyone. Each chapter of his life held a few such lumps of coal, but they were things he would answer to when he was finally kicked off to chat with the Creator, if the fellow felt so inclined. In those years he had also come to believe in the Creator more perhaps then some of the most fanatical of White Cloaks, albeit in a much less raving-lunatic of fashions.

"Although I can never quite be sure, I beleive he worked for various nobility, providing services for the ever muddled Great Game, whether it be between Houses in the same city, or at least kingdom, else between those of neighbouring lands. Even old Tock was in on it, could play quite the convincing guard, even with his bum knees. All he needed was the right uniform, and in a matter of days he was standing, or more often sitting, somewhere he might over hear some rather juicy tid bits of gossip." He frowned then, one hand up to run through his mess of hair, brushing a few errant lengths from his eyes.

"Tock was plucked from the Weave in Tear, as a matter of fact. Not that he was found out, exactly, but because someone said something they shouldn't have, and wanted no witnesses. Was quite the scare, wondering if we had been found out, whether we should cut and run or hold our places and continue our jobs. At the time, I was playing the part of a servant. I suppose I was eleven, give or take, scrubbing floors and running errands for Lord Paetriv. The fool lord that killed old Tock, point in fact. Gave me quite the beating that night, and I hadn't the faintest clue why at the time. Learned later, big investigation when the Captain of the House Guard realized Tock wasn't one of his men. Quite embarrasing. Before we left, I added just a few drops of an extract from a flower that grew quite abundant in the Lord's garden. A powerful laxative, I hear it's still oft mentioned at balls and banquets he attends. His seat tends to be closest to the privy, and farthest from anyone important."

He had been fond of Tock, as much as he could be of what was essentially one of few men in his life at the time that didn't give him a kick in the ribs for a lark. Of course, that was mostly because Tock's knees were too bad to kick that high, but Byron had always chosen not to take that into account. And while he hadn't killed Lord Paetriv, the embaressment and damaged reputation had all but sunk the man's House into obscurity. Worse then death, in some people's opinions.

Malaika

Considering his own upbringing (or lack thereof) she was surprised he seemed so blasé at the possibility of being a father himself. Granted he spoke about noble houses, where the child would want for nothing… but only if the child was not renounced a bastard. It was the sort of thing she imagined would play on her mind if she were a man. Malaika would never have children, of course, and as an Aes Sedai was supposed to have forsaken blood ties, but she still felt a debt of responsibility to her nephew now that she knew of his existence. Even though she wasn't entirely happy at his presence, she couldn't send him away. Wouldn't. Perhaps if she were a man her thought processes would be different. She thought about that for a moment, chewing on some bread, and decided that like most things about Byron appeared, his care-free attitude was at odds with the man within. Whatever he said, she was willing to bet that he knew precisely whether or not he had children, and that they were cared for if he did.

“I’ve seen part of Tear. The Maule part of it… well, the mud part of it, to be specific.” She doubted she would recognise any of it now; at the time she had never taken her eyes from the ground, as befit a creature of her status back then. Sounds and smells she recalled mostly, and Mistress Charlene’s voice if she forced herself to more soothing memories. She didn’t say much more; she didn’t remember much more, and certainly nothing that would make sense out of context. Mostly she only mentioned it at all out of a desire to be reciprocal; it seemed they shared less than pleasant memories of the place.

His eccentricities made more sense now - even the meat on his ankles. Unconventional but effective. She noticed that he had spared the Lord’s life where he might have taken it, and though she might have put that down to his being a child at the time, she didn’t think it was just that. In view of his earlier words on reputation and the use of multiple personas, it had been calculated and efficient retribution, but still merciful. So long as one measured life itself more sacred than its quality, of course.

Malaika was eating for distraction rather than hunger now, absorbed by his story and her thoughts. She considered asking him if he had ever knowingly and purposefully taken someone’s life, but it was a selfish question and born of deep guilt rather than any actual desire to know his answer. The clinking of china and soft murmur of surrounding conversation suddenly felt surreal. Here she was, in a quaint Tar Valon teahouse, thinking of asking a man she had only just met if he had ever murdered. More than a little bit inappropriate.

“What happened to them?” They could not still be alive; not Master Dekan or any of them, for Byron to be walking around free with such secrets. She imagined death was the only release from such service - either his or his master’s, and since he was here it only left one alternative. Unless he was a hunted man, which was entirely possible considering he had eventually ended up at the Tower, probably the greatest refuge of them all.

Byron

Now that could well be a long winded answer, couldn't it? She had all but given him an invitation to spend the rest of the night talking; each of the men he had worked with had their own tale, none meant to be anything less then their own book of collected stories. But, on the other hand, few wanted to know the whole story; murderers and cut throats, scoundrels and drunks, abusive and immoral. Not one of the men Byron had ever considered his 'family' were paragons in the eyes of the Creator.

He was silent a moment, pondering both the little tidbit of her having been to the Maule, undoubtably before arriving at Tar Valon, filing that puzzle peice away with what few other tid bits she had shared. The Maule, as a child, then...something, and now twenty years later an Aes Sedai. Again, considering her age and apparent heritage, it was starting to become clear just how unpleasant a past she must have had. In his mind, considering what he knew, he would have been of the opinion that hers had been much worse.

"Well, Old Tock of course, bit it in Tear. Things went down hill from there. Master Dekan lost his edge, you see, as did the others. Most were old...well, old for that line of work anyways. Once you move out of your prime, it's down hill...aches and pains, memory isn't as sharp, reflexes as quick." He had no illusions that the elderly were useless, but there was no denying that everything started to add up after a while.

A sip of tea, a dab of beef and sauce on another slice of bread, and he started off again, meeting her eyes briefly with an apologetic smile, "Dergiyn was Domani I think. Had all the short temper and short stature of one, plus the accent...but of course, accents for us weren't as telling as most. He was the next to go, in a...a house of promiscuous women of the night? in a crossroads town in northern Illian. He wasn't handling his ale as well as he was used to...suppose it was a stronger regional brew? He hit one of the Ladies, tensions flared and the bouncer gave him a what-for over the temple with a cudgel. Didn't kill him, per say, but he never did wake up either. Master Dekan left him a ditch a few days later. A strain on the pocket book, as he put it."

"Someone botched the job in Altara a few months later. I never did learn the exact particulars of what we were up to. Master Dekan never told us everything, just what we had to do and how much we'd make. They'd make, I rarely saw any cut of the profits. Happy to have a warm blanket and something to eat, right? Well, they kidnapped some small-time Lord's wife and daughter. I suppose it was squabbling between neighbouring houses, likely wanted to thin out the Lord's treasury and force them into debt. Well, some of the other men were a bit...rough, with the Lady and her daughter. She might have been fifteen? Sixteen? I was probably twelve or so, yes? Word of our hidey-hole got out. Lost three men that night. Myself, Master Dekan, and a few others escaped." His smile that time was just a tad too knowing; after Master Dekan had abandoned Dergiyn to die, young Byron started to have a real change of heart.

Years of abuse no longer seemed worth it, considering all he had to look forwards to was to be cut loose if he became a 'drain on the pocket book.' He wasn't fond of Dergiyn in the slightest, and had he been alone would have been shaking in disgust simply at the thought of what the man had been like, but it had been a wake up call all the same. A very important lesson learned. "The company fell apart after that...most of the others deserted, Master Dekan killed the last two himself one night. Poison, he had taken a turn for the worse. Thought someone was slipping something into his meals, kept going on the flavour just wasn't right...I think he thought it was Des Root, a subtle poison from a marsh plant common in Illian. Naturally, Master Dekan had no shortage of anti venoms and antidotes at his disposal, and took them accordingly. But I digress..."

Byron paused to top off his cup and flash Mistress Osilia a warm smile as the woman gestured to know if they needed anything at the moment before vanishing back into the kitchen. He was silent for a few long moments, sifting through the memories of that night on a lonely road in north east Altara, a tiny one wagon camp nestled in the trees. Master Dekan was in a fit of rage. 'Thief!' he cried, 'Murderers! Turn coats and vile spawn of the night! Taking my dreams, taking my coin! My mind!" He kept it quiet, not wanting to disturb the other patrons, but there was a shift in the tone and timber of his voice, the faintest hint of a Amadician accent, a mean voice made worse for a hint of madness.

"Slit Byaid's throat in his bedroll. He was a big lad, Borderlander for certain. Shienaran I think, turned to darker deeds then guarding the Border. Cowardly sort, but hid it well behind a bully's mask. Anges was a bit quicker on the draw, nearly got away but for Master Dekan's aptitude with the dagger. Even mad as a Illianer wasp his dagger took Anges in the small of the back at twenty paces in the dark. Drowned in the river after a nasty roll down the hill. And then it was just young'n Byron and Master Dekan."

He sipped his tea and watched her in apparent curiosity, as if trying to decide if she were truly interested in the story, or whether she believed a word of it. That was the beauty of his reputation; he told the truth more often then anyone gave him credit for, with just the right sprinkling of lie and misdirection that most thought that most every word that came from his mouth was a lie, a lark, or a tall tale. And for the number of names and stories he had, there were times he had trouble figuring which was which anymore. But, this was one that he would tell the Creator himself when the time came. "Des Root works faster if the blood if flowing, and better still when you spice someone's stew with a harmless paste made from it's leaves and put the root in the 'antidote.' He'd taken quite the dose that night, and by the time he turned on me it was already too late. Just stood and watched as the Light left his eyes...not that it ever belonged there to begin with. A foul man, he was. Broke the lock box, gathered my things, and walked to Tar Valon to start anew."

Malaika

It was disturbing that he had done so much so young; at that age, Malaika’s blissful existence had only just started to fall apart, and it was not until years later that she had found sanctuary at the Tower. She also found it ironic that his words mirrored her thoughts so closely, and her unasked question. The Wheel Weaves… She didn’t look at him while she thought about that, but turned her attention to refilling her cup. Left-handed this time. By the time she was finished, any reflection on her own past was done and put back in that dusty box in her mind marked ‘do not open.’

As he continued, she picked at some more bread and cheese. Lost their edge, or had it taken away? It wasn’t what he said but what he didn’t say that she thought about the most. How much involvement had he had in the other deaths? A ‘stronger’ regional brew unravelling a drunkard? She sensed inconsistency, but didn't call him out on it; sometimes she thought about things too much, too deeply, and ended up drawing inaccurate conclusions. Other times she was unerringly correct. Either way, this time - the same as most times - she kept her thoughts to herself, and simply watched him with an attentive gaze. Curious rather than judgemental, she wondered if the man sat opposite was truly capable of such things. And at the tender age of twelve...

A master spy, as Byron had called Master Dekan, did not sound like the kind of profession where one went mad of their own volition; she had wondered that much even before the subtle confession, given Byron’s apparent silver-tongue. She did not think it fate, or even luck, that Byron had been last of the band for Master Dekan to turn his wrath upon, either. She saw the way he had used their own weaknesses and vices against them; had they not been the vile men they were - had they not succumbed to carnal desire, to rage, alcoholism and to paranoia, they would not have died. Did the fact he had had a hand in it change her opinion of him? She was not sure she knew enough to have an opinion, but it certainly shed a new light. She had assumed a prank gone awry had earned him a penance tending cabbages, but now she was not so certain. A dangerous man, she decided, and even more so for the fact that he seemed so guileless. So innocent.

She didn’t seem to condemn what she perceived, though; in fact, if it showed anything at all, her expression grew rather soft. Unless he were somehow unhinged behind that charming smile (a possibility she didn‘t discount entirely), or the whole story had been a bluff to gain her sympathies, she assumed there was much more to it. Nothing he had said suggested a motive for such well planned … actions. Malaika was generally charitable in her perceptions of people, and she did not want to think he would do something like that without cause. He had spared the Tarein Lord, after all. Master Dekan and his men were either much more depraved than Byron had even hinted, else something else had happened to provoke a child to such measures.

But she was judging again, extrapolating life-stories from the barest hints and reading between the lines of a history that might not even be true. Could be she was just too eager to see the mistreated orphan overcome difficulty to make something of himself. Perhaps, she thought dryly, he simply found amusement in watching another’s reaction to his choice of history on any given day. If that were true she thought him cruel, or maybe herself gullible.

Whatever his past and whatever his reasons for sharing it so candidly, it wasn’t her position to judge, so she didn’t. Or, at least, she didn’t voice any conclusions she had made. She wasn't sure what to say, actually. One would not know it to look at her, but his story had affected her, pulled her in, and considering that it might not even be true she was wary at revealing her feelings on the matter. She would rather appear cold than foolish.

“You would make a dangerous enemy,” she said. He could make of that what he wanted. It was sufficiently vague; he was a gaidin, and they were by definition dangerous to cross. She'd always wondered on the sorts of things that brought men and women to the Tower to become Warders, and considered them a strange breed of people to want to give their lives over to another. Actually, she didn't understand it at all. There were other ways to serve the Light or die trying. Not that she didn't respect what they were or what they did... but tying oneself so permanently and intimately to another? It sounded a lot like an invisible collar and leash, to her. If Byron was afraid of marriage, then Malaika was afraid of the bond. "Why Tar Valon, of all places?" She thought she probably knew the answer to that, but she was curious to hear what he would say.

Byron

He couldn't help but wonder how much she had pieced together from that story. There were openings and hints of course, but most took such things at face value, especially a terrible story with a happy ending. The right touch of show; expansive hand gestures and voices, and most people would simply take the story as it seemed. A series of bad goes and one final lucky break for the young boy Byron.

She, however...he had little doubt in his mind that she had picked up on it. Her statement was proof enough for him; she knew he was a Warder, so why even bother implying he was dangerous? Unless she knew how underhanded he could really be. Finally! Was someone understanding? Not that it would likely mean anything for him anyways...she didn't strike him as a gossiper despite how much she enjoyed listening.

"Well, I could say that most of Master Dekan's coin was gloriously fat Tar Valon crowns. But, I had no such luck. The man had much of it in writs, signed and sealed under his various names. There was little I could do to get those at the time...Light, could you imagine the looks if I showed up and signed for such sums? Certainly, I could copy his signature easily enough, had plenty of practice learning the nuances of someone's signature. But no one would give it to a child sadly." He finished his tea in short order, one final sip before setting the empty cup aside, producing a handkerchief from somewhere with a practised flourish and flick of his wrist, quietly tidying up with all the fuss of a obsessive compulsive Cairhienin servant. Quite at odds with the high class of manners he ate with.

"Luckily, there was still a small fortune. Unique trinkets, coin, jewelry. Packed up what I could carry, burried the rest somewhere only I was likely to find it. Some clothes, mortar and pestle, a few odds and ends, and off I went. But where to go? I could have settled anywhere, tried starting new, but I had no formal education. For all my skills and airs, I didn't really -know- anything." He could read, but was terrible with numbers, knew little of formal history and had a terrifyingly hodge-podge about of society from the nobility down to the criminal underbelly.

He pondered a moment, clearly thinking over just why and how he had ended up at the Tower. It was an odd story, to say the least, but strangely befitting his origins no doubt. "Well, one day I was back in Four Kings. Light, but life is very different in a city when you've some coin. Oh, the buildings are the same, the sights and sounds. But the Guards don't watch you as close, the people don't shy away. Food is better too. Hot, fresh. Warm bed, clean water. But, old habits die hard yes? For all my new found wealth, I was still a boy and had romanticized the whole idea."

He grinned impishly, shrugging it off as if he were appologetic about it. A young boy turning back to the only life he knew rather then being brave enough to find something new. "Purse strings cut much easier when you've a fine knife forged in Shienar rather then a filed nail, yes? So back to the purse strings I went. One day, there was a very severe looking woman, fine dress, walking the streets. Cut her purse and started to pull my vanishing act. But it was a heavy one wasn't it? Full to the brim. Not sure where he came from, but a pair of the city Guard found me on the spot."

He frowned then, one hand raising to check his hair, "One grabbed my hair, gave me a good yank. Think he probably pulled a few strands free, hurt a fair deal. I was done with being beaten and abused, done with being helpless, so I fought back. First time ever that I really fought back. That Shienaran knife did just as well with skin as with cord, and I got one of them in the thigh, and it was down hill from there for me. Came too in the stockades, they pulled no punches and I felt every inch of the bruises. Took ill fairly soon after. Broken arm got infected and they just left me rotting in my cell."

He grew a bit more serious and distracted, drumming his fingers on the table to some upbeat tavern song, quite the counterpoint to his tone and story, "Fever and pain. Light, but it hurt. And the dreams? Don't remember many, but most were bad. Never did learn how I recovered, but one day I was alright. Hungry, so hungry though. Couldn't rightly eat when I was lost to fever and delirium yes? Lost a lot of weight. But, I was fine. The guards returned my things and sent me on my way."

Most of his dreams had been terrible things, but there had been one. One dream that stood out perfectly after all the years. A long winded chat with a pleasant, patient, enigmatic fatherly fellow, of all sorts of things. Of where he had come from and what he had done, and most importantly where he should go to best use those skills. And voila, the Tower. "The third chapter of my adventures started that day, with a long walk to Tar Valon and the great, glorious, beautiful Tower at it's heart. Enrollment and training was quite the challenge certainly." Another impish grin, no doubt a sure sign that much of the challenge of his training had been his own fault, considering his odd outlooks on life.

Malaika

“All roads lead to Tar Valon and the Tower…” she said with a knowing half-smile. He’d probably had less choice in his current profession than he even realised, particularly if he was as clever as it seemed. Crime was low in Tar Valon for a reason; punishment was swift and no-nonsense, and the Aes Sedai were law. Byron been both lucky and unfortunate to have tried robbing a sister in Four Kings, depending of whether or not he was content with the way his life had panned out since. The Tower rarely let talent get away, wherever they found it and irrespective of past sins. Especially one so young, and presumably impressionable. The White Tower was home to the elite, to the heroes… but look even a little bit passed the veneer, and you would find that it was full of waifs and strays.

When he appeared to apologise for returning to the life of a cut-purse, she shrugged and wondered why he felt the need. “When you know nothing else, you stay with what you know.” They were his own words, actually, echoed back because she understood. And because he was far more eloquent with words than she was. She didn’t blame him, didn’t judge him either. How could she anyway, with her own past coloured less than white? I would have made a terrible Grey, she mused absently, though it wasn’t even an ajah she had ever considered. She was too forgiving, too accepting. Such weakness would probably be her undoing, unless with age came the cynicism she observed in so many others. Actually, if her fellow Brown Adira's nagging was anything to go by, it was recklessness that would ruin her (really, it was not a word anyone could use to describe the serious Brown. One foolish decision did not a reckless sister make).

Amidst those thoughts, she wondered which Yellow had been responsible for the Healing, presuming that it had been a Yellow and not simply a gifted sister from another ajah. Apparently, it had been sister with a fat purse in any case, and with a gaidin who’d cared enough to set the young thief on the right path - if she understood that part right. She sipped at her tea, thinking quietly. It was quite cool by now, since she had been rather more occupied in her role as listener, but either she still didn’t notice or it didn’t bother her.

“I’ve never spent much time on the training fields, and I don’t know what other sisters look for in warders, but it seems odd to me that you’re not already bonded.” He'd only implied that he wasn't, and it had been before she’d pieced together what he was, but twice had shown discomfort with becoming old and useless. She wasn’t trying to insinuate there was a reason he was unbonded - that he was somehow flawed or anything insulting like that. Her mind had actually looped back to his comments on Greens and marriage, but she often forgot that others weren’t privy to the twists and turns her mind took when her lips were silent.

She was making generalised assumptions again, but since he had attained the rank of gaidin (no matter the reasons that had initially led him to the Tower) she presumed it was a route he was now devoted to. If warder training was anything like novice training, it wasn’t something you could just muddle through; it required hard work, and dedication. Whatever her own mixed up thoughts and fears on the subject, it seemed a shame to see talent and hard effort wasted. But perhaps he didn’t seek a bond; some didn’t, and came only for the training and education. She couldn’t tell which it was with him. He seemed an odd juxtaposition; complaining of infirmity on the one hand and shunning commitment on the other. Which was why she asked.

Byron

"Aye, it is what they say isn' it? But I've no doubt some people take it just a touch too seriously right? 'Don't go too far, little one. The Aes Sedai are just down that road you know.'" He had the sound of a grumpy old lady, waggling a finger at a troublesome grandson, trying to scare him into staying out of trouble.

He glanced about the room briefly and upon seeing the coast was clear cast her a wink before shifting in his seat, draping his legs over the arm of the adjacent chair once more, settling in comfortably and lounging like the ill mannered slacker he so oft pretended to be. "Now see, you should visit the yards more often. Get some sun, for starters? And there are all sorts of things to be learned. Fighting styles, weapon tactics. I suppose it can say a lot about a person, their weapon of choice and how they wield it? Brash and aggresive or with refrain and guard. The real enigma are the ones that can change their style at the drop of a hat."

He had a vaguely melancholy look about him as he pondered why he wasn't Bonded yet. There was a wide variety of reasons no doubt. "Well, perhaps some Aes Sedai find my way with words daunting? My looks too distracting? My penchant for avoiding direct conflict disappointing? My reputation repulsive? Truth be told, I suppose I have simply yet to find anyone that I might be compatible with, someone that would most benefit from my unusual skills."

Having his feet on the chair didn't last long as Mistress Osilia emerged from the back room with a kettle of hot water, intent on topping off their tea pots. She cast him a glare as sharp as any knife's edge and Byron let out a surprised yelp and sat up straight again, doing his best to look innocent and apologetic at the same time. She approahced the table with the kettle on her polished tray, frowning down at Byron a moment before looking to Malaika next, "So he hasn't put you to sleep then yet, has he Lady Malaika?"

Byron frowned and let out a quiet harumph at the accusation, arms folded heavily over his chest and hunching in on himself. "She thought I was a Gleeman! Light, but if I've earned such a first impression shouldn't I be keeping it up then? A standard to uphold right good Lady Malaika?" He seemed hopeful that she might stand up for him and defend him from the low reviews Mistress Osilia seemed to offer of him on such a regular basis.