<![CDATA[The First Age - Past Lives]]>

<![CDATA[The First Age - Past Lives]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Fri, 01 May 2026 14:14:43 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Ghosts in the office]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1927.html Sun, 07 Dec 2025 20:24:50 +0000 Matías]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1927.html [Image: Sajir9.jpg?ssl=1&fit=5120%2C2624]

[Image: Sajir9.jpg?ssl=1&fit=5120%2C2624]

Asha'man Sajir Nareth

The Black Tower of today was a far cry from the ramshackle farmhouse Sajir had first seen. Now, the main keep was a soaring black edifice of stone and saidin-laced concrete, strong enough to survive a siege but far more practical than its White Tower counterpart. He was prone to such moods from time to time, catching up to him as he studied the yards beyond the window of the M’Hael’s office.

Sajir’s examination of the office was measured with the tread of a man who found little to trust in stillness. He was a tall man, his movements few and economical. His long, dark hair was braided and adorned with silver ornaments today, lay against the black fabric of his coat. His dark, deep-set eyes, characteristic of Arafel, were sharp and restless, flicking over the room’s rich, dark wood and the deep crimson hangings that Daniel Larnier had favored.

Larnier. The fourth M'Hael to fall since Mazrim Taim. The burden of those deaths, the long lives Sajir had glimpsed for each of them in the Pattern's myriad strands lay heavy on his shoulders, a persistent, dull ache beneath his breast. What might have been did not always come to pass.

He focused on the room. The body, thank the Light, was gone. The blood had been scrubbed away with meticulous weaves, but the feel of the violence remained. A raw, grating discord in the air, like a discordant chime that still reverberated even though the striker was gone seeped into his soul. Had they a Sniffer, they may not have been able to stand in here, but Sniffers were few and far to find these days. So Sajir stretched his senses, tasting the faint residues of saidin, a chaotic, wild surge, followed by a sudden, brutal stop. It must have been Arikan’s signature, certainly. A Dreadlord they had all thought ten years dead.

A sudden, jarring stiffness seized him. His eyes went flat, fixing on the dark space just behind the M'Hael's large desk, and the world seemed to split into twin scenes overlaid upon each other.

Larnier, years younger, laughing with a woman. A flash of white-hot light followed, and Larnier standing before the Dragon Reborn, taking the M'Hael's pin. Then, a quick-cut image of the Dreadlord Arikan standing above his body.

The scene lurched, changing into something dark and distorted. Surrounding the dead M’Hael were shapes that were not human. Tall, gaunt figures, indistinct and smoky, they writhed and pulsed at the periphery, draining the warmth from the air, seeming to consume the very substance of the shadows.

Ghosts. Devils. The instantaneous, damning thought struck Sajir, an icy blade in his mind. The work of the Dark One, twisting the vision, confirming the deeper malice at play perhaps.

He blinked and the image shattered like glass, and the solid reality of the M'Hael's office snapped back into focus. He took a slow breath, the metallic scent of old, vanished blood filling his lungs. An Echo. Always about important things woven tightly into the Pattern. But this time, the shadowy figures tempted a deep suspicion. Arikan had not acted alone. Nothing about how Arikan had bypassed the vault wards. Nothing about the why of the Dedicated guard being left alive.

That last part grated on him. It was a lapse in the pattern of a man who killed for sport and spite. He remembered the pile of papers found scattered near the breached vault door. He had them tucked away in his own chambers in case there was a small, senseless clue hidden in them, but the senseless things often held the key to the most brutal truths.

He moved behind the desk. Auden, the new M’Hael, had given him leave to examine the scene, though the room had already been searched and rifled. The new M'Hael was already at work, distributing trusted Asha'man to the north. Shienar. Sajir snorted inwardly. Threats were constant in the Borderlands; one learned to live with them.

Sajir ran a hand over the polished desktop, seeking a stray thread of the Power, a forgotten memory, something. Larnier’s personal effects had already been cataloged. But something caught his eye: a small, ceramic mug filled with a dozen or more discarded pens, some with dried, clotted ink on their nibs, some half-chewed.

Pens. He recalled the report. A half-used fountain pen had been recovered from Larnier’s pocket. Why would a man carry a half-used pen on his person if his desk was full of them?

Sajir’s gaze drifted to the pigeonholes on the desk’s face, which held official-looking letters and correspondences. He had glanced at them before. Standard reports and nothing noteworthy. Now, he picked up a sheet of parchment, his mind turning over the anomaly of the pens. He looked closer at the looping, formal script all in Larnier’s hand.

His breath hitched. He had missed it before because the cipher was good. Too good. It wasn't simple code; it was a substitution based on the context of the letter itself, a weave of meaning hidden within mundane prose. A system so seamless that he had not even registered it as a code, only as slightly dense writing. A fastidious attention to detail, much like the one he had applied to his father's leather-working years ago.

“Fascinating,” he muttered, the Arafellin accent thin but present. He straightened, his gaze darting around the empty room.

The cipher would require a key. Where would Larnier hide such a key? Not a slip of paper in the desk, not with the level of caution this code implied.

The pen in his pocket. A half-used one. A pen that had perhaps written the key.

And what did men of great responsibility keep a diary for? A record of coded transactions. A personal journal. Daniel was not the sentimental type so much as Sajir could recall. But the pen was found on the body. The theft of the objects of the Power and the murder of the M'Hael were two distinct actions. But what if Arikan had come not just for the objects, but for the information?

If Daniel Larnier kept a diary, and the key to this masterful cipher was within it... then the Dreadlord Arikan had not only murdered the M'Hael and looted the vault, but he had also retrieved a personal journal before departing. A journal that no one else in the Tower seemed to know existed. And he had left the Dedicated guard alive simply because the man had not seen him take it. A far more efficient, far less chaotic move than Arikan’s usual style.

Sajir exhaled slowly, coming to a new understanding of this picture. He would have to share this. Auden, the new M'Hael, would not like it, but the Dragon Reborn must be told.]]> [Image: Sajir9.jpg?ssl=1&fit=5120%2C2624]

Asha'man Sajir Nareth

[Image: Lythia-Forsaken-outfit3.png?ssl=1&fit=4856%2C2196]

Sylvena

The earth beneath her hands thrummed with a low, bitter song.

Sylvena stood atop the half-raised parapet of Nargazor, her shadow stretching long in the blood-tinged dusk of the Blight. The walls below her curved in vast concentric rings, smooth and black as obsidian, growing outward like ripples of sanity in a sea of rot. The city would be a jewel corrupted, yes, but ordered, her will pressed into every stone and rune-bound line. Here, when the Great Lord’s storm came to sweep the land clean, his chosen would not merely survive. They would rule.

Her mouth curled in the ghost of a smile.

"I said deepen the root-folds, not widen them," she snapped without turning, her voice sharp as a chisel. "If the second wall is to hold, it must drink from the stone beneath like a child from the mother’s breast."

The two Dreadlords behind her Adevar and Lumein bowed low. They wore black, of course. Always black, as if it granted them mystery. Adevar had once been a High Seat in Andor, before he slit his mother’s throat and joined the Shadow. Lumein claimed he’d been a philosopher in Arad Doman, though he quoted only death now.

"Yes, Great Lady," they murmured as one, and began channeling, carefully, reverently, as if even the weaves feared to displease her.

She watched as bands of Earth and Fire laced together and plunged into the unfinished wall, the stone shuddering, groaning, then accepting the weave. The blight crept at the far edge of vision, a wall of oozing trees and grasping thorn, and it hated what she was doing. That pleased her.

Not so far now. Already the first three rings of Nargazor stood whole; solid circles of reality in a land that devoured reality like a starving hound. Each ring bore sigils bound with Earth Singing, her talent twisted now into something grander. Something necessary. Where once she coaxed minerals from soil and healed broken stone pillars, she now commanded stone to rise and seal out the madness. Green Ajah no longer. She was Chosen.

Sylvena turned, her armored hips whispering like a death chant. Her gown was black leather, cut into sharp lines and cruel symmetries, adorned with blood-rubies that drank light and gave none back. Her crown, dark as obsidian and veined with crimson, jutted like broken thorns from her copper-red hair. Even her gauntlet, spined and silvered, could cut a throat as easily as channeling could.

The Dreadlords would not meet her gaze.

But he didn’t even look up.

Amogorath hunched over a rust-stained table in the plaza below, his robes streaked with filth, his gnarled fingers stroking a bulbous vine that writhed in the iron box before him. The thing hissed. Something inside the box hissed back. He muttered to himself, words half-heard, like pieces of the Dark One’s own dreams made flesh.

Sylvena stepped down, her boots clicking against stone. The wards beneath her feet pulsed once, as if acknowledging her presence.

"You might at least pretend to notice the city being born around you," she said, folding her arms beneath her breastplate.

Amogorath did not stop working. “The walls keep the Blight out. That is your purpose. Mine is to ensure there is something left to inhabit them when it comes.”

"You mean to say you're breeding monstrosities."

He chuckled, soft and hollow. “We all are, dear Sylvena.”

She felt the draw of the Power at the edge of her skin, a familiar itch. The Dreadlords still labored behind her, sculpting the fourth wall from living earth, but she considered turning it inward. Just a touch. Enough to remind him what it meant to mock one of the Chosen.

But that was emotion. And emotion was the root of foolishness.

Instead, she walked past his table and down the long avenue that would one day be the Spine of the city. Already, sharp-angled towers rose in the inner rings, shaped by the Power, etched with wards and sigils of control. They were designed to endure the Blight’s fury and more than endure. Each held reservoirs of the One Power, siphoned from carefully hidden caches and held in silence until the Great Day. And the Blight would expand. It would. When the Dark One’s hand swept across the world, Nargazor and its sister cities would be the bastions that stood unbroken, where Forsaken would reign like dread kings over islands of order amid a sea of ruin.

"Let the Light rot," she whispered.

As she walked, the wards along the walls shimmered with faint green light, her own signature. The Weaves of Singing Earth, now blended with Fire and Spirit, bent the natural laws of decay. Within the walls, things could grow again of a kind. Crops bent to the night but nourishing. Trees that whispered in tongues but bore strange, sustaining fruit. No children played here, yet. No laughter. But there would be. There must be.

The Blight could not be erased. But it could be tamed. That was her dream. Her blasphemy.

And one day, even Beldragos would come to see its use.

Sylvena looked out over her city, dark and hard as her own heart, and smiled.

Amogorath

The worm cracked open beneath his scalpel with a wet sound like rotted fruit splitting. Its insides steamed against the chill of the Blightwind, though he’d cut the heat runes days ago. Still warm. Curious.

Amogorath blinked once. Then twice, slowly.

He tilted his head to listen not to Sylvena’s voice, which carried like a crow’s caw over the walls of her precious Nargazor but to the twitch of tendons in the thing’s broken flesh. That sound. Yes. That sound had been wrong before. Too wet. But now, now it was almost right. Almost.

"You're nearly singing, little one," he whispered, patting the twitching carcass. "Next batch will hum, I think."

His long fingers moved with the precision of a maestro. White gloves, stained now in browns and blacks, peeled the creature’s organs out in layers, coiling them into numbered jars. Some still pulsed. He let them. Movement was truth. Stasis was death. And Amogorath did not study death. He created life.

A true Chosen did.

Behind him, the city sprawled like a spider’s web order forced onto chaos. Sylvena's walls gleamed in their smug symmetry, each ring a monument to her ego. A girl crowned in thorns, strutting about in armor as if war were art. She had once been Aes Sedai, yes. They always liked playing soldier, those ones. Battle Ajah. How quaint.

He sniffed.

"You build, girl," he muttered, not looking up. "But I breed. And when the Blight swallows the world, it won’t be your walls that walk the earth. It’ll be my children."

The idea made him smile.

He straightened, slowly, his spine cracking audibly beneath the high black collar of his coat. The flesh beneath it was smooth as paper, his skin pulled tight over bone, but his eyes were bright, sharp, pale things that had watched cities burn and screamed instructions through ten thousand throats of a hundred thousand creatures.

Amogorath turned to face the heart of his garden.

The Blight rippled beyond the walls, dense with monstrous trees and glistening vines that pulsed like veins. His children writhed within it some hunting, some mating, some dying. All part of the song. He had bred the first Trollocs in the dark of his fortress, sewn from flesh of man and beast, with enough cruelty added to ensure obedience. Myrddraal were carved from shadow’s afterbirth, blind-eyed and soulless, and they had thrived.

But those were old songs. Ancient. Now, he was composing something new.

A four legged-thing skittered from the pit behind him, all ribs and twitching spines, its tongue too long for its mouth. It looked up at him and barked three syllables, barely formed. The middle one sounded like his name. Good.

He kicked it aside absently and moved on, toward the shade-shrubs. They grew in neat rows, each leaf the color of bruised iron. When crushed, they released a fog that ate bone. The Dreadlords feared them. Sylvena had insisted on keeping them outside the first ring. Foolish. They belonged in the city. What is safety, if not enforced?

Another cage: inside, a humanoid creature paced. It had no skin, only glassy, living muscle that flexed and twitched, constantly weeping black ichor. It had no mouth, but it screamed. Constantly. It didn’t need lungs.

"You'll be perfect for the border raids," he said, scribbling notes in a book bound in what had once been Aes Sedai flesh. "So easy to fear what you can’t understand. And the keenest mind will be befuddled by you, my darling."

He licked the end of his stylus.

Sylvena’s boots clicked behind him, each one a punctuation mark in her overdone soliloquy of authority.

"You might at least pretend to notice the city being born around you," she said.

Amogorath didn't bother to face her. He was already watching her, in the reflection of the iron cage, the way her dark armor moved like ink, the way the rubies in her crown pulsed as if feeding on her thoughts. She was so predictable.

So many of the Chosen had looked like that once. Grand. Beautiful. Poised for glory. Before madness. Before decay. Before they realized that immortality was boring unless you filled it with new toys.

"You do so love your walls, child," he said. "But I think in ecosystems. Yours is a prison. Mine is a paradise. Do you know how many species I’ve created since breakfast?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

"I forget," he muttered. "But they’re hungry."

Sylvena’s silence behind him was heavy, like judgment. But he’d been judged before. By the Light, by the Hall of Servants, by Lews Therin himself. All of them had called his work monstrous.

And then they died, and he lived, and his creations still walked the world.

“You build your circles,” he said softly, “and let me work."]]> [Image: Lythia-Forsaken-outfit3.png?ssl=1&fit=4856%2C2196]

Sylvena

Amogorath

The worm cracked open beneath his scalpel with a wet sound like rotted fruit splitting. Its insides steamed against the chill of the Blightwind, though he’d cut the heat runes days ago. Still warm. Curious.

Amogorath blinked once. Then twice, slowly.

He tilted his head to listen not to Sylvena’s voice, which carried like a crow’s caw over the walls of her precious Nargazor but to the twitch of tendons in the thing’s broken flesh. That sound. Yes. That sound had been wrong before. Too wet. But now, now it was almost right. Almost.

"You're nearly singing, little one," he whispered, patting the twitching carcass. "Next batch will hum, I think."

His long fingers moved with the precision of a maestro. White gloves, stained now in browns and blacks, peeled the creature’s organs out in layers, coiling them into numbered jars. Some still pulsed. He let them. Movement was truth. Stasis was death. And Amogorath did not study death. He created life.

A true Chosen did.

Behind him, the city sprawled like a spider’s web order forced onto chaos. Sylvena's walls gleamed in their smug symmetry, each ring a monument to her ego. A girl crowned in thorns, strutting about in armor as if war were art. She had once been Aes Sedai, yes. They always liked playing soldier, those ones. Battle Ajah. How quaint.

He sniffed.

"You build, girl," he muttered, not looking up. "But I breed. And when the Blight swallows the world, it won’t be your walls that walk the earth. It’ll be my children."

The idea made him smile.

He straightened, slowly, his spine cracking audibly beneath the high black collar of his coat. The flesh beneath it was smooth as paper, his skin pulled tight over bone, but his eyes were bright, sharp, pale things that had watched cities burn and screamed instructions through ten thousand throats of a hundred thousand creatures.

Amogorath turned to face the heart of his garden.

The Blight rippled beyond the walls, dense with monstrous trees and glistening vines that pulsed like veins. His children writhed within it some hunting, some mating, some dying. All part of the song. He had bred the first Trollocs in the dark of his fortress, sewn from flesh of man and beast, with enough cruelty added to ensure obedience. Myrddraal were carved from shadow’s afterbirth, blind-eyed and soulless, and they had thrived.

But those were old songs. Ancient. Now, he was composing something new.

A four legged-thing skittered from the pit behind him, all ribs and twitching spines, its tongue too long for its mouth. It looked up at him and barked three syllables, barely formed. The middle one sounded like his name. Good.

He kicked it aside absently and moved on, toward the shade-shrubs. They grew in neat rows, each leaf the color of bruised iron. When crushed, they released a fog that ate bone. The Dreadlords feared them. Sylvena had insisted on keeping them outside the first ring. Foolish. They belonged in the city. What is safety, if not enforced?

Another cage: inside, a humanoid creature paced. It had no skin, only glassy, living muscle that flexed and twitched, constantly weeping black ichor. It had no mouth, but it screamed. Constantly. It didn’t need lungs.

"You'll be perfect for the border raids," he said, scribbling notes in a book bound in what had once been Aes Sedai flesh. "So easy to fear what you can’t understand. And the keenest mind will be befuddled by you, my darling."

He licked the end of his stylus.

Sylvena’s boots clicked behind him, each one a punctuation mark in her overdone soliloquy of authority.

"You might at least pretend to notice the city being born around you," she said.

Amogorath didn't bother to face her. He was already watching her, in the reflection of the iron cage, the way her dark armor moved like ink, the way the rubies in her crown pulsed as if feeding on her thoughts. She was so predictable.

So many of the Chosen had looked like that once. Grand. Beautiful. Poised for glory. Before madness. Before decay. Before they realized that immortality was boring unless you filled it with new toys.

"You do so love your walls, child," he said. "But I think in ecosystems. Yours is a prison. Mine is a paradise. Do you know how many species I’ve created since breakfast?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

"I forget," he muttered. "But they’re hungry."

Sylvena’s silence behind him was heavy, like judgment. But he’d been judged before. By the Light, by the Hall of Servants, by Lews Therin himself. All of them had called his work monstrous.

And then they died, and he lived, and his creations still walked the world.

“You build your circles,” he said softly, “and let me work."]]> <![CDATA[A New Assignment East [Fal Sion]]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1900.html Wed, 22 Oct 2025 23:18:45 +0000 Jared Vanders]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1900.html [Image: Zoradin01.jpeg?resize=674%2C1024&ssl=1]

[Image: Zoradin01.jpeg?resize=674%2C1024&ssl=1]

Zoradin Fel

Zoradin dismounted his mare, a black horse with a white stripe on her nose he had name Daien. She was a beautiful creature. Zoradin left the horse with the stable master. His gait was slow. As always, he was exhausted, but not nearly as much as he usually was. Last night he succumbed to his exhaustion. He had slept a few hours before he had started screaming. It was never enough.

A message from the new M'Hael had sent him on this trip. He had been stationed in Arafel, and was planning on investigating a fortress there. The whole thing stank, but when the M'Hael got through to him, he was ordered to immediately head or Shienar. The situation was dire. 20,000 Andoran swords were on their way. That spoke of the dangers itself. He was probably here to help hold the line, perhaps heal some wounds - if they weren't too bad.

He headed to the officers to report in. "Zoradin Fel, Asha'man," he said.

The officer scoffed. "I need an army and I get a single Asha'man that can barely stand," he sighed. "You can fight can't you?"

The Asha'man nodded. "I can hold my own with the blade and one power."

He looked at Zoradin incredulously. "Well - we'll need it. Need to hold until reinforcements arrive. We should have time if you need to rest for your trip."

"I'll be fine, Sir," he said.

There was some more back and forth as Zoradin got more on the situation. He was led to a barracks so he could drop off his gear and he headed to the line. They had to hold until Andor arrived. That was his only goal.

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Zoradin Fel

]]> <![CDATA[A Journey North]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1897.html Mon, 20 Oct 2025 18:50:40 +0000 Emily Shale-Vanders]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1897.html [Image: Amelia05.jpeg?resize=194%2C259&ssl=1]

[Image: Amelia05.jpeg?resize=194%2C259&ssl=1]

Amelia Thorne

Amelia had been traveling with the Andoran army for a few days. They were heading north to Shienar and since that was her direction, it only made sense for her to travel along with. She told no one she was Aes Sedai, but spent her time among the women who took care of the camps day-to-day routines. As a result, she remained pretty inconspicuous. After all, what Aes Sedai would spend her time cleaning dishes or washing clothes. It wasn't an odd thing for the Blue to do. She worked in charity, and you did what needed to be done.

Still, rumors were beginning to leak that they had an Aes Sedai in their midst. She couldn't hide the ageless nature of her face, and someone was bound to recognize it somewhere. Her decision to remain hidden hadn't been one of deception. It had just been what she had needed at the time. The name of their leader had been one that had got her attention, and had an effect on her personally.

Lord Taravin.

It was a name she had been familiar with for a long time. Her best friend growing up in Caemlyn had been of House Taravin. They had met again as Novices in the White Tower and had built a friendship there. They had studied together often and when times got rough as they often did for Novices and Accepted, they had found comfort in each other's arms. The name had provoked memories - from childhood and novicehood, the pride she felt when her friend had been promoted to Keeper, and the sadness she had felt with her death. The name had stirred something within her, and she had felt the need to keep herself more anonymous as she remembered her friend. As she remembered Corele.

But with the rumors, she couldn't remain hidden. It was best for her to let the Lord know that she was in her midst and to offer her services to the camp. Aes Sedai were after all servants of all. Likely he would read more into this than she meant. That was the great game. Bloody politics. Amelia approached a guard whose eyes met her as she approached. She had changed into a different dress - a blue one fitting for an Andoran noblewoman. Her attire before had been more subdued before. Her Great Serpent Ring was prominently displayed on the third finger of her right hand.

She approached the guard who opened his mouth to speak. "I am Amelia Thorne, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, and I would like to speak with your Lord to offer my services."

The guard's mouth remained open, but he recovered quickly. Amelia hid her amusement under a serene face. "I will inquire right away, Aes Sedai," he said with a bow. "Please follow me." Amelia gave him a polite nod in acceptance as she followed him.

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Amelia Thorne

]]> <![CDATA[Caster of Nets]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1896.html Mon, 20 Oct 2025 00:46:24 +0000 Daniil]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1896.html The 3rd Age

Lugard, Murandy

[Image: Belrik-forsaken2.jpg?w=1200&ssl=1]

The Forsaken, Bel'rik

The screams did not carry far in Lugard anymore.

A crowd had gathered in the southern amphitheater of the city, a great open bowl carved into the stone of the hills where once, it was whispered, the kings of Murandy had been crowned beneath the stars. Now, the stars bore witness to other things. Bloodier things.

The night air hung heavy with smoke and perfume, sweetened by the scent of burning oils and roasted meats, yet undercut by the copper tang of blood. Torches lined the stepped terraces, their flames whipped by the wind, casting shadows across the faces of hundreds of citizens, merchants, and low nobles. They leaned forward, some cheering, others grimacing, as the duel below reached its end.

One man knelt, his arm severed at the elbow. The victor stood: a woman with shaved temples and blood spattered across her bare chest. She raised her cudgel high, and the crowd screamed as it came down.

From the highest terrace, beneath a gilded awning, Lord Dmitry do’Bourdeau a’Marucci of House Marucci, High Seat and Patron of the Arena of Binding Grace clapped once. Slowly. Lightly.

"Poetic," he murmured, voice as smooth as silk soaked in wine.

He reclined, lounging like a cat amid the cushions of his viewing dais. His coat, Murandian cut, was of black-and-violet brocade, embroidered with wisteria vines that trailed down the sleeves in silver thread. His fingers, long and adorned with rings of lapis and emerald, toyed with a glass of red wine that he had yet to sip.

"She showed restraint, at first," he said, to no one in particular. "That made the ending so much more entertaining. She is a natural."

Around him, attendants murmured soft affirmations. One woman, a Domani, leaned in to refill his goblet. Another, a broad-shouldered man in Seanchan livery, waited quietly with a lacquered scroll tucked under one arm.

Bel'rik did not look at either of them. His eyes remained on the arena floor, where the victorious woman was escorted away by guards in black lacquered masks. Her opponent lay unmoving.

"The illusion of mercy breeds deeper despair when it is stripped away," he said. "Let that be tonight’s lesson."

He finally turned to the Seanchan messenger. "You’ll make sure the king receives my request for a levy of new laborers from the outlying villages."

"Yes, my Lord. Selection has already begun."

"Tell him not to select the strong. I want the desperate. The broken. The ones who would sell a sibling for a crust of bread. They fight best when they believe in hope."

The messenger bowed. The Domani woman smiled faintly, though her eyes were far away. Bel'rik studied her for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. He said nothing.

The night ride to the Marucci estate was not far: less than a league through Lugard's eastern quarter, but Bel’rik insisted on the full procession each time. It was spectacle, yes, but also a signal. The Seanchan might have cowed the city, but Lord Dmitry do’Bourdeau a’Marucci was the one who offered it up on a silver platter.

A dozen lanterns hung from silver poles, carried before his palanquin by mute servants in robes. Seanchan soldiers, impassive and austere, rode flanking him on both sides, their insectile helmets gleaming in the torchlight. Behind, a tail of House guards in dyed crimson and black formed a second, more theatrical escort. The contrast was not lost on anyone who watched.

Children watched from allies. Merchants stilled their hands. The streetwalkers bowed low. Inside his litter, Bel’rik reclined amid velvet and silks, his gloved hand absently tracing a carved armrest. The wheels beneath him jolted slightly at a stone rut, and he sighed.

“Wooden axles and horse sweat,” he spat. “And yet they call this a capital.” The Seanchan officer to his left inclined his head. "Your pardon, my Lord. Had we known you would ride tonight, we would have paved the route."

"Yes, yes. Perhaps next time, with ivory," he rolled his eyes, recalling the glass roads in the Courts of Relketh. But they wouldn't know of such things.

The officer said nothing, as expected. He appreciated that about the Seanchan. Loyal. Controlled. Efficient.

When the gates of the Marucci estate opened, Bel’rik’s procession rolled into a manor illuminated by a hundred lanterns. Slaves noted his arrival, holding aloft flowering branches from the estate's groves. The air was thick with the sound of strings plucked in minor keys and fountains bubbling away. The whole façade was as much prison as it was palace: a monument to beauty crushed beneath a time that did not deserve it.

He paused only long enough to let his boots be changed (not cleaned, changed) and his outer cloak taken. The bloodied elegance of the pits still clung to him like a second skin, and he wished to wear it a moment longer.

"Is the east wing prepared for tomorrow?" He asked his manservant who met him at the door. "Lord Othram and his Seanchan bride will require distraction. Perhaps another duel. Lovers, this time. One must weep."

"Yes, my Lord."

He passed through the frescoed halls, works commissioned in his image, of course, and down the steps into the conservatory, where the torches dimmed and the air cooled.

Lanterns hung in brass cages above a small, enclosed garden. Mist hissed gently from pipes in the floor, keeping the humidity perfect. Dozens of glass cases lined the walls, each housing a different bloom. He stopped before one: a deep violet blossom, its petals striated with crimson, like veins in marble.

"Callica moralis," he said aloud. "They used to say these only bloomed in the Terranean heights. A miracle they survived this long on such uncivilized lands."

He plucked a small silver knife from his belt and delicately trimmed a curling stem.

Durrick Ladei was millennia gone. That man had died before the War of Power, speaking truths no one listened to. Bel'rik had been born in his place, sharpened by failure, honed by centuries of bitter clarity. The world had not been saved by the Light. It had only been delayed in its dying. Still. There was elegance in decline in all things. All things except his blooms.

The door behind him opened without a knock. That alone was enough to make him turn, slowly. His attendants knew better. A lean man in courier's garb stood there, face shadowed by the torch behind him. He bowed.

"Apologies, my Lord. He would not wait. He has a message for you. Says it is urgent."

"He?"

The messenger stepped aside.

Beyond him, in the hall, stood a figure cloaked in dust-colored robes. Not Seanchan. Not local. And not expected. At first he thought it was someone else, but there was enough gleam of the jaw to discern it was not who he imagined.

Bel'rik's hand tightened on the orchid stem until it split in two. Then he slipped the bloom into his lapel.

"Let him in," he said.]]> The 3rd Age

Lugard, Murandy

The Forsaken, Bel'rik

+++

The first thing he noticed was the cold.

Samóch was never quite warm to begin with. Even the blazing beaches of Arad Doman barely registered as discomfort. But here, the wind cut through his clothes like teeth, and the darkness was thick, soaked into the stones like mildew. He buttoned his coat high, tightening the buckles. Each clasp snapped shut.

The keep loomed in the distance, slits glowing faintly like the eyes of a slumbering beast. The gates were drawn high. At night, in the Borderlands, even a king couldn’t bribe them open. Not with gold, armies, or honeyed words. So he took the slower route.

A raven. Old-fashioned. Impersonal. But effective.

+++

[Image: SamochForsaken.jpg?strip=info&w=604&ssl=1]

[Image: Ravi3A-1024x732.jpg?strip=info&w=1200]

Samóch & Raviel

Unlike Ashtaroth, Raviel did not keep him waiting.

He arrived at a crossroads outside the fortress wall. He could sense no trollocs in the area, but that did not mean there were not other of the Great Lord’s servants nearby. Samóch stood still, watching his breath curl into the darkness like smoke, unconcerned about such dangers.

“Your bird shit on my window,” Raviel announced, voice dry.

“At least it got there,” Samóch replied, stepping forward. “Rats are slower.”

“Mm. So you’re in a hurry.”

Samóch didn’t answer. He just watched the other man.

Raviel was unchanged: arrogant, perfectly groomed, wrapped in fur and jewels with a prince’s ease. While Ashtaroth wore his immortality like a joke, Raviel wore his like a crown. Regal. Vain. Absurd.

Samóch hated him for it.

“What do you want?” Raviel asked, not unkindly. Just bored.

“I need an illusion.”

Raviel laughed. A full, throaty laugh that scraped at Samóch’s nerves. The sound echoed against the road.

Samóch inhaled slowly. Counted to five. His nostrils flared, just once.

“You went to Ashtaroth,” Raviel said, folding his arms. “And he refused you.”

“Yes.”

“So now you come to me. Second best.”

Samóch didn’t answer immediately. The wrong tone here would send Raviel walking. And if Raviel walked, the plan unraveled completely.

“I need to pass for King Daryen of Arad Doman. You’ve seen enough of him. You can manage it, surely.”

Raviel’s face changed. Not much. But enough.

“Daryen,” he repeated. His voice had sharpened as if he might spit.

Samóch pressed. “I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity for revenge. Come with me and I’ll show you what’s become of him. I think you’ll find it… satisfying.”

Raviel’s silence was thoughtful. Then, after a few moments’ consideration, he extended a gloved hand. They clasped wrists, and the deal was struck.

+++

His illusions were passable for courtiers, servants, soldiers. The dull-eyed faithful. But Daryen’s inner circle would require distance. Deflection. Charm. And just enough compulsion to blur the edges of doubt.
Samóch could work with that, even if it wasn’t ideal.

He told Raviel where Daryen was kept: still bound beneath the E’eve. It would be up to Raviel to catch the necessary glimpse if wanted satisfaction. Slipping into the High Lord’s estate should be easy enough for him.

Until then, Raviel moved through the palace like a shadow that didn’t bother pretending to hide. Everyone he passed was touched softly at first, like a breeze. A little nudge here, a forgotten question there. Compulsion was Raviel’s art, though few truly acknowledged him for it.

While he walked, Samóch lay in Daryen’s bed, wrapped in illusion, every breath synchronized to the real king’s body.

Come dawn, the King of Arad Doman would awaken. His face calm, his voice steady, his eyes full of resolve.

And none would know the difference.

Still.

As he lay there in the darkness, the silk sheets against his skin, a thread of unease coiled in his belly like a nest of worms.

If Raviel failed… if he left… if the illusion cracked… He’d have to face the Nae’blis with nothing but excuses. And he did not forgive failure.]]> “Yes,” Samóch said softly as the gateway snapped shut behind him, the air whispering with its departure. “I did enjoy that.”

And a part of him had. Watching Ashtaroth writhe on the spikes had scratched a very specific itch.

Still, the practical corner of his mind had believed the fool might actually accept the deal. Wouldn’t that have been simpler? Cleaner? Ashtaroth was skilled, no doubt. A perfect illusionist. A perfect tool.

But he had refused. And while Samóch wasn’t surprised, he was disappointed.

The easier path is rarely the one you get to walk, he reminded himself. But there are always forks. Hence the sudden jump across the world

+++

Samóch & Raviel

+++

His illusions were passable for courtiers, servants, soldiers. The dull-eyed faithful. But Daryen’s inner circle would require distance. Deflection. Charm. And just enough compulsion to blur the edges of doubt.
Samóch could work with that, even if it wasn’t ideal.

He told Raviel where Daryen was kept: still bound beneath the E’eve. It would be up to Raviel to catch the necessary glimpse if wanted satisfaction. Slipping into the High Lord’s estate should be easy enough for him.

Until then, Raviel moved through the palace like a shadow that didn’t bother pretending to hide. Everyone he passed was touched softly at first, like a breeze. A little nudge here, a forgotten question there. Compulsion was Raviel’s art, though few truly acknowledged him for it.

While he walked, Samóch lay in Daryen’s bed, wrapped in illusion, every breath synchronized to the real king’s body.

Come dawn, the King of Arad Doman would awaken. His face calm, his voice steady, his eyes full of resolve.

And none would know the difference.

Still.

As he lay there in the darkness, the silk sheets against his skin, a thread of unease coiled in his belly like a nest of worms.

If Raviel failed… if he left… if the illusion cracked… He’d have to face the Nae’blis with nothing but excuses. And he did not forgive failure.]]> <![CDATA[The Wheel Weaves A Chance Meeting]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1680.html Sun, 17 Nov 2024 03:10:11 +0000 Cadence]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1680.html [Image: natalie-dormer-margaery-tyrell_ak99.1248...=750&ssl=1]

[Image: natalie-dormer-margaery-tyrell_ak99.1248...=750&ssl=1]

The journey to Tear had been a good one for Kira. It had been 14 years since she had left Tar Valon and explored the world, and being Aes Sedai granted her certain freedoms that she hadn't had. The chance to go back to Tear (she no longer thought of it as home) was part of a journey that she had needed to do. Letting go of what her father had done to her so long ago would allow her to focus solely on the work of the White Tower.

The journey there had been relatively uninteresting. She had journeyed with a caravan, so at the very least she had company. It turned out, her father, although not well off had left her some money and with the stipend she got as an Aes Sedai, she had bought some new dresses and a blood bay mare she named Melody. So she had rode along side the caravan, oftentimes tending to the ills of those who traveled with her - scrapes, illnesses, or any other injuries travelers would likely get. This, and her status as an Aes Sedai, often earned her food for the trip there. She had also brought her harp along. As had been promised, the harp had been taken care of until she had gained the shawl after which it came back into her possession.

Her return trip she traveled with another caravan until she reached Caemlyn. It was then that the caravan turned west to head towards the Two Rivers. She was left alone to continue her journey back home - at least for now. Kira smiled as she thought of Tar Valon, remembering when she had first arrived how little she had wanted to be there. Now it was her home. She had sisters there and those who were more than that. It had been good to get away, but would be better to get back.

Lost her in own thoughts, she didn't notice the two men come out of the woods. It was Melody's hesitation that got her attention. One man grabbed Melody's reins, trying to hold the horse still as the other grabbed for Kira. Melody whinnied in protest. Caught off guard, he pulled her off. Kira acted with instinct, embracing Saidar and using a weave of air to cushion the blow as much as possible. It was still jarring to hit the ground, but she was unfazed, although she let out a slight scream. The man who had pulled her off began to search for her pouch - nothing more than a common thug. She began to form a weave to defend herself - more to scare the bandits than actually hurt them, but movement caught her attention and she hesitated, thinking she wouldn't have to.]]> [Image: natalie-dormer-margaery-tyrell_ak99.1248...=750&ssl=1]

The journey to Tear had been a good one for Kira. It had been 14 years since she had left Tar Valon and explored the world, and being Aes Sedai granted her certain freedoms that she hadn't had. The chance to go back to Tear (she no longer thought of it as home) was part of a journey that she had needed to do. Letting go of what her father had done to her so long ago would allow her to focus solely on the work of the White Tower.

The journey there had been relatively uninteresting. She had journeyed with a caravan, so at the very least she had company. It turned out, her father, although not well off had left her some money and with the stipend she got as an Aes Sedai, she had bought some new dresses and a blood bay mare she named Melody. So she had rode along side the caravan, oftentimes tending to the ills of those who traveled with her - scrapes, illnesses, or any other injuries travelers would likely get. This, and her status as an Aes Sedai, often earned her food for the trip there. She had also brought her harp along. As had been promised, the harp had been taken care of until she had gained the shawl after which it came back into her possession.

Her return trip she traveled with another caravan until she reached Caemlyn. It was then that the caravan turned west to head towards the Two Rivers. She was left alone to continue her journey back home - at least for now. Kira smiled as she thought of Tar Valon, remembering when she had first arrived how little she had wanted to be there. Now it was her home. She had sisters there and those who were more than that. It had been good to get away, but would be better to get back.

Lost her in own thoughts, she didn't notice the two men come out of the woods. It was Melody's hesitation that got her attention. One man grabbed Melody's reins, trying to hold the horse still as the other grabbed for Kira. Melody whinnied in protest. Caught off guard, he pulled her off. Kira acted with instinct, embracing Saidar and using a weave of air to cushion the blow as much as possible. It was still jarring to hit the ground, but she was unfazed, although she let out a slight scream. The man who had pulled her off began to search for her pouch - nothing more than a common thug. She began to form a weave to defend herself - more to scare the bandits than actually hurt them, but movement caught her attention and she hesitated, thinking she wouldn't have to.]]> <![CDATA[Three Arches (Solo Thread)]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1674.html Sat, 09 Nov 2024 03:24:33 +0000 Cadence]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1674.html Prologue

((OoC: This occurs in the past of the past lives timeline - just thought it would be fun to write Kira's arches))
[Image: natalie-dormer-margaery-tyrell_ak99.1248...=750&ssl=1]

Kira smiled as she finished her last story. The novices watching applauded and laughed. Listening to Kira sing and tell stories had become a sort of tradition for the girls on their very rare days off. Kira got to perform, which she loved, and the other novices got some entertainment, which they loved. Shiro had stopped by to listen for a short time and Kira gave him a bright and appreciative smile.

Kira was about to perform her last song of the day when the Mistress of Novices arrived carrying a bundle. Kira dropped into a deep curtsy. "Aes Sedai," she said, respectfully while praying to the Light that she didn't put a stop to these performances. The girls really needed this outlet.

"Kira, I heard you were singing today. I wondered if you might perform a song for me," she said and opened the bundle she carried.

It was her harp. It was the harp her father had given her so many years ago - a memory from before the White Tower. It was well polished, and the strings were in good shape. The harp had been maintained outside of her care. And the Mistress of Novices was offering it to her. Kira was conflicted. On one had, she had to obey the Aes Sedai. On the other, she wasn't allowed to have this. Not yet.

Kira decided to follow what she thought was right. "I'm so sorry, Aes Sedai," she said, making another curtsy. "The rules do not allow me to have this harp. I ask that it be kept in the possession of the White Tower until..." Kira hesitated, but only for a moment. "Until I wear the shawl of an Aes Sedai."

It was the first time she had said it. It was the first time she had told anyone that she desired this. As a novice, she was supposed to try to emulate the three oaths as much as possible. Kira was not lying. Since she had begun to heal, she had found a true family here. The other novices weren't just friends. They were her sisters.

"I can understand that," the Mistress of Novices said, wrapping the harp again. "I will continue to make sure this is taken care until it's owner is ready to reclaim it.

"Thank you, Aes Sedai. If you would like, I would still be honored to sing a song for you,"

The Mistress of Novices agreed and Kira began to sing. The melody was a known one, but the words were her own.

"The Aes Sedai went to town
To find herself a Warder
She saw a man there tall and strong
With a dozen bottles before him.

No! No! This one won't do
He drinks enough for me and you!
Go! Go! And search once more.
To find the one to shield you.

The song continued - a song of an Aes Sedai searching for the perfect warder. The novices and the Aes Sedai listened and applauded as she finished. "Very good, Kira. Now," she clapped her hands drawing the attention of the Novices. "Free time is over - you all have chores to do. Get to it!" A chorus of "Yes, Aes Sedai" and a multitude of curtsies met her words. "Kira, your assignment has been changed. You are to report to Aranea Sedai in the hospital wing."

Kira curtsied and replied, "Yes, Aes Sedai, Thank you!" and moved with haste to the hospital wing.

Kira found Aranea, Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah quickly. "Come, Kira, I have something for you to watch."

Kira had worked in the wing before. She actually preferred to work here. Her tasks weren't great - cleaning bed pans and laundering sheets and blankets mostly, but here she felt she made a difference. Aranea led her to a bed. A teenage boy laid on a bed, his arm misshapen from a break. The boy's eyes looked glazed over.

"What do you see?

"Broken arm," Kira said, stating the obvious first. "Eyes unfocused - but no visible head injury. Kira thought about it for a moment, then smiled. "You gave him something to dull the pain. Aranea nodded. "I'd also check for a fever - may I?" Aranea granted permission and Kira felt the boy's forehead. It felt normal.

"Just a broken arm. The first time you channeled, you healed a broken arm, yes?" Kira nodded. "I'm going to show you what you did that day, but first - you will never - NEVER - try this weave without permission from myself or another member of the Yellow Ajah. This is no party trick. If you mess this up, you could kill someone. Do you understand me?"

"Yes , Aes Sedai.

"Now, watch!

Kira saw the glow of Saidar surround Aranea and watched as she formed the weave. Kira's mouth dropped. It was complex. As the weave settled into the boy, she saw him shiver. She remembered her father doing the same. When the weave was finished, the boy's arm was whole - as if it hadn't been broken.

"Kira, the healing weave draws upon the body's natural healing system. There is a point where if you do this weave, they won't be able to survive it. This is the most important thing to remember when healing. You can't heal everything - no matter how much you want to." The Aes Sedai serentiy was in her face, but Kira could hear the slight tremble in her voice. Aranea had experienced this - and it was a memory she would never forget. Now - bed pans need to be cleaned. Get to work.

"Yes, Aes Sedai," she curtsied, moved to obey, but turned around again, a question in her mind. "Aranea Sedai - a question? Kira waited until she was given permission. "That weave - it wasn't simple. How did I do it?

"You have a gift Kira. The hands of a healer to soothe the body, and the voice of a nightingale to soothe the soul. I hope you will spend the time learning how to use those gifts fully.

That night, as Kira was getting ready for bed, a knock came to her door. She was tired, and a little bit irritated at being disrupted. It had been a long day. Still she answered and saw the Mistress of Novices outside her door. Come Kira - it is time for you to be tested."

((OoC - Set the words to the tune of Greensleeves, and you’ll know what Kira’s song sounds like))]]> Prologue

((OoC: This occurs in the past of the past lives timeline - just thought it would be fun to write Kira's arches))
[Image: natalie-dormer-margaery-tyrell_ak99.1248...=750&ssl=1]

Malaika
It had been months since Malaika had left the Tower, and it felt at once as brief as the blink of an eye and tortuous as the stretch of eons. Little of the city had changed, but the gaze that viewed it had. Her face had begun to slow long before she’d sworn on the oath rod, but she’d never felt old before; like the creep of autumn winds crumbled her bones to dust. Once she’d been fascinated by the many lives that played out under the protective shadow of the White Tower. Now they passed in a blur almost unheeded but for the acknowledgement of absence. Is this what it was to be Aes Sedai? To be free of every link, every connection, that bound her to the ephemerality of others’ lives? Finding Zurafai had ripped something free; she’d decided it was safer not to care, and wiser to retreat to the carapace of her own thoughts alone. Yet she’d still gone to the wedding.

The ceremony had been a simple, beautiful thing. Mere months ago, she’d have been enthralled at the union of words and emotions so freely on display; honoured to have been included in its witness, and captivated by the minutiae of a life she could not have. But beneath the façade of quiet serenity, she had instead found the day taxing. Insistent on maintaining her place in the periphery, she’d felt more observer than participant. Jealousy was not in her nature – at least, she had not thought so – but the surrounding happiness left her uncomfortable; a trespasser strayed onto territory in which she had no right to invest. Mistress Osilia did not seem to notice; when she was not smiling, tears were sparking in her eyes – oft times both at once. On numerous occasions she’d caught Malaika’s hands in her own, offering endless gratitude that the Aes Sedai had come, for the help she had given, for the gift she had bestowed. The emotion, though well and genuinely meant, fluttered Malaika with uncertainty. She felt fraudulent.

She stayed until it felt appropriate to leave – long before the celebration reached its zenith. Already she’d begun to feel dizzied by all the people, all the noise and laughter, until it felt like she viewed the whole thing through a sheet of glass that kept her distant. Afterwards, she wandered to the docks. Restlessness weighed heavy on her soul, now more than ever, but it was not the exuberance of a youth eager to fly the nest. It was something duller, flatter, and tied inextricably to the tatters of her identity. Her hands rested on the bridge railing, and she watched the waters lap up the sides of the merchants boats silently.

Andreu Kojima

Jai wasn't the only Kojima man to feel the call of wanderlust. Andreu had known it his whole life, but stayed back, imprisoned by the bars of his own mind. When thing turned sour and confusing, he let himself go, and disappeared into the anonymity of a city that often swallowed him up. Such as this day. He was a morsel for a hungry mob, swept along the currents of traffic, until the stomp of hooves and roll of carts were replaced with the footfalls of boots on wood: the docks.

He had no dealings to draw him to the boats. He knew none of the faces darting back and forth on their errands. Yet he recognized the brokerage of deals. He suspiciously eyed men laden with cloaks and samples of their wares, imagining each one bearing weapons just out of sight. He had his own, of course. A knife tucked into the small of his back, hidden beneath the billow of a cloak dirtied across the hem from walking the streets the last two days. Unkempt, disarrayed appearance much like the growth stubbling his face randomly and the grit and grim caked beneath his nails. The pendulum of his identity swung constantly back and forth - charming, handsome, and suave when he wanted. Problem was, he usually wanted to run from the spotlight, not dance in the heat of it. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets as he strolled. Another pair of weapons, hidden. Andreu was hardly a trained fighter, but savagery made up for technique, although he wasn't completely oblivious.

He came to rest alongside a railing. A tiny shadow of a woman hovered nearby, but a cursory glance told him she was no threat however her ethnicity. Dru's prejudices were irrespective of race. Except maybe Aiel.

He curled the long distance downward, placing his forehead across arms draped over the railing, and listened to the sound of the water slapping the docks beneath. Despite the noise and bustle of the main highway in and out of Tar Valon, the River docks, he found a sense of peace and quiet. Perhaps because he was as far away from everything familiar as he could possibly be. It gave an active mind a moment's rest from the marathon of life.

He glanced up however many minutes later, surprised to see she was still there. The wind tugged at raven black hair, and curiosity slowly pricked at his conscience. He lifted his face from the rail and stretched his back, knuckling his spine as he uncurled. He focused on the way the air fluttered her cloak and hair, and shut out the fishy scent of stagnant water.

He opened his mouth to speak no less than three times, but caught himself before spilling empty words. It wasn't shyness. Light knew Andreu Kojima was not shy. In the end he drew a long, contemplative breath of air and rubbed his eyes. He should probably sleep soon. The manic high he'd ridden the last two days was crumbling beneath him.

Vladamir Gaidin

Caia'li's warder was a man of contradictions. Bow to an enemy, then cut him down. Break his back burying the anonymous dead, but unwilling to write a letter home. In the days after his sister-in-law and cousins left for Caemlyn, then traveled up river back to their snowy homelands, Vladamir whittled away the time jotting stanzas of poetry in one of the many taverns ringing Southharbour.

The deep crevices of his stoney face had become a familiar sight to the harbourmaster's workers and tavern maids alike. Only once in the past week had his expression softened to something near to amusement. That being when a dark-haired, pale-skinned serving girl wagered she could make him smile before the night was up. Well, it almost worked, but the lass tried hard.

A face that was decidedly not familiar was that of a roguish wanderer slithering through the docks of late. None took any interest in the man, but that only heightened Vladamir's worry over his identity. He moved with too much confidence to be a beggar, yet by all appearances -- and scents -- he was practically that. He was a tall fellow too, moreso than even Vladamir himself by an inch or so. Which meant he had the height of either an Aielman, but not the coloring, or he was northern. Shienaran. Though clearly he lacked the topknot of a warrior, the scowl on his face might as well have been a perfect match for a Lancer. In the opinion of an heir to the Lordship of Fal Sion Keep anyway.

For that reason, Vladamir had made to follow the man the last few hours. And to his surprise, the fellow lined up alongside a face -- at least a profile -- that was familiar. The quiet presence of one Malaika Sedai. They knew one another, of course, but primarily as shadows in the library, nearly back to his days as a trainee. Before either of them were veterans of the Tower.

His eyes narrowed. Tucking the tiny book of poetry in a pocket on his belt, he ensured the sword at his back was stable and the rest of his belt secure, and joined the pair, footfalls as silent as the long shadow of his form cast across the planks.

Unlike the northman, Vladamir came alongside Malaika much more closely, yet still maintained a respectful distance. He bowed his head to her and above her tiny shoulders shot the stranger a warning glance. This was not someone to bother, and he best be about his business. However, he kept his tongue, and instead turned toward the waters they both seemed so enraptured with. Somewhere down there, the world was churning with danger though they could not tell by simply studying the flat sheet of water coursing away from the island both he and Malaika Sedai called 'home.'

"Greetings," he offered, though did not wish to assume their familiarity such that he would offend her by being too informal. However, there was a reason he had interrupted, and so he explained to her quietly his concerns. "Forgive me, madam, but I felt it wise to join you.”

Malaika

Oblivion raised a fortress, and within it Malaika was sheltered. Time barely touched the place she dwelt, and though her gaze drew out across the water she’d be unable to recount any of what she’d seen. Her thoughts ran in circles; intricate, looping, elegant circles, but still circles. Academically she understood the weight of heaviness in her chest, but acknowledgement did little to ease the burden. Melancholy drummed like the dull patter of rain, and just as ceaseless.

She never noticed company - though even if she had, she’d never have intruded upon another’s retreat to silence. Her hands rested neatly on the railing, posture rigidly straight, unmoving as a statue. But she flinched minutely at the drawn out sigh of another’s breath so close. A gentle intrusion, all things considered, but she had been a thousand miles away. Her head turned at almost the same time another unheard shadow loomed, and her gaze diverted to a face she did recognise.

The solid shield of the man was an effective reminder. Tar Valon was a haven, but she should know better; these were not safe times. Some months ago the Tower had executed a young man for attacking an Accepted in a tavern, a travesty almost unheard of within the Shining Walls. She had not witnessed that morbid attraction, but even she had heard about it. A humble nod greeted Vladamir in return, quietly grateful for the solid foundations of his formality, and his respectful distance. If she continued to stand in silence, she did not think he would take offence. Given what little she knew of him, he would perhaps even prefer it to inelegant small-talk.

She did look to see what had plucked at the strings of duty and earned a Warder’s attention. The stranger looked vaguely of the Borderlands, though she was unaccustomed to such identification. Little curiosity ignited as she took in his dishevelment, nor the tired lines of his face. She considered retreat, to excuse the Warder his self-imposed obligation to watch over a foolish Sister, and to leave the stranger to his own contemplations. Burdensome though they seemed.

“You are not a beggar.” She did not qualify the judgement with whatever her cursory glance had revealed, but the words were softly certain. “And if you are a traveller, you do not look pleased with where your journey has led you.” It was not so much empathy as it was the desire to relieve the burden of accusation from the stranger’s shoulders that she spoke. Or prove the Warder’s caution, but Malaika did not like to think ill of others. She’d met another vagabond on these streets once, and he had revealed to be anything but. Appearances were a deceptive mask, but she also believed in privacy. She asked no questions, not directly at least. Some men would grasp at the promise of a listening ear. Or perhaps he would simply walk away.

Andreu Kojima

If Andreu had struggled before, the warrior's appearance unhinged him. How many times the last day had he shot suspicious glances behind his shoulder and saw that intense face? How many miles had he walked and yet that shadow persisted? Andreu lost touch with reality for far more innocent coincidences. The image of his baby brother stalking through the snow crept memory across his expression. And though the heartfelt curiosity of the good Lady glanced the edge of his conscious, it was too shallow a gesture to reach him. The rational side collapsed beneath the crushing weight of conspiracy.

His hands gripped the railing until the splinters dug spikes through his palms. If only he felt the sensation, but he was numb to anything but a whirlwind of panic. His heart beat wild, and he gripped instinctively, and curled his face closer to the earth, teeth grinding veins to suddenly ridge along his brow. The water was far below, and likely to swallow any attempt but the most able-bodied swimmer to stay afloat. The slap of it against the seawall appeared but gentle licks from their height, so innocuous. Deceptively friendly as its depth and speed.

Do not attack a warder! A desperate voice called within, the same voice that told him not to attack an Asha'man - or an Accepted. So tenuous was obedience, very little delineated when the voice was and wasn't heeded.

He sneered hatred at the man who so defiantly followed him to this peaceful spot and intercepted his only chance at reaching out, pleading for the help of another human being. The hilt of a sword loomed tall, though, and all of Andreu's thoughts suddenly froze glacially still. He released the railing and straightened, arms heavy at his side.

As soon as he made a move, the warder tensed to strike, but Andreu lifted his hands peacefully, reached behind his back, and withdrew a sheathed dagger he'd carried there. "Peace, be still." He urged with more of his own voice than he recognized. Gone were the usual clips of sarcasm, the hints of intrigue, and the tearing fabric of his reality. He knew what was real now. Such as the leather hilt and sheathe of the weapon laid atop his palms. It was small. A relic of the family's, though nothing near as significant as Asad's honorable sword. It bore the Kojima initials on the pommel, but was otherwise a humble weapon. Far unlike the enigmatic Andreu Kojima's usual manic selections. It was more befitting this version of him: old and worn and practically useless.

He laid it at his feet as some kind of offering to the two in his presence, and turned, resolute. In a flash, he hurled himself over the edge. Thankful he didn't know how to swim.

Malaika

Andreu Kojima

Vladamir Gaidin

Malaika

Andreu Kojima

Malaika

Malaika wasn’t skilled at reading the nuances in others – at least, not by looking at their faces – but in this case even she understood the gravity of how tightly the man gripped at the railing. Despair caved in the shadows of his expression, making a grotesque skull of his face, and her eyes were drawn in morbid fascination. The Tower fortified itself against emotion; what it felt, it hid carefully behind walls of serenity. Its daughters were no different. She was unused to seeing such a pure, raw display so openly bled out in front of strangers, and though the tragedy of it stirred some urge to comfort, she was unsure how to feel. Or why she felt some stirring of kinship.

She’d turned from the wall by now, though she didn’t move any closer. Little crossed the neutrality of her expression. Her formality was not born of blood and nurture, as for Vladamir, but of something far more intrinsic to her very nature. He didn’t provide much of an answer, but he may as well have unravelled before her very eyes.

Ill-practised at reading faces, even after so many years, but voices. Voices sang intuitively. She had lived a lifetime gauging the whim and desires of her masters by intonation alone, and something in his tone daggered shivers across her skin. Saidar flew on insistent wings, brightening every detail of her vision. Concern laced her glance at the coiled warder, then paused in askance at the stranger’s glare. It told a tale she did not understand, but unease pressed a steady instinct on her soul. A sense of dread began draining her pallor before she had any inclination of what he was about to do. Cautiously, she watched him lay the knife at his feet, eyes beginning to narrow to contemplation; she needed time to comprehend the mystery.

But then he jumped.

Her eyes widened. Malaika was habitually slow, but Aes Sedai do not earn the shawl without worth. Reflex shot out wide bands of braided air, and a single step closed the gap between her and the railing. No thought crossed the threshold of action; she burned perilously bright, not even sure if it would work - even saidar had limitations, after all. But the weave only snapped beneath his weight and momentum. The sound of his body crashing into the water haunted.

Light.

An Aes Sedai did not show fear, and whatever anomalies counted Malaika among the softest of her Sisters, betrayal of weakness was not one of them. She hadn’t screamed or gasped, and to an onlooker only appeared to return to the railing to observe the man’s watery fate. But inside she felt tremulous. If the depth of her distress touched her eyes there was little she could do about it

She did not understand the desire to take one’s own life; perhaps because hers had never belonged to her. The concept horrified her. But moreso, she had been so irreverently absorbed in her own self-pity, she had utterly failed to recognise the signs of his distress.

The failure struck her deeply.

The guilt would never wash clean; it settled into her skin as tight and unrelenting as the oaths she had taken so many years ago, and shivered her core with failure. Malaika felt as though she stood vigil at the railing a long time, every heartbeat a betrayal to the splash that resounded in her ears. The distress she felt was stark, but internalised. Shouldered alone, though the sobriety of her expression - its sheer stillness – hinted at how deeply she took it. Aes Sedai were not infallible, and Malaika did not hold herself to a pedestal of unattainable perfection. The Wheel wove the Pattern as it was meant to be. But she had been perched on the edges of a listless despair – a self-pity she did not deserve – and she took it personally. Face ashen, she yet gripped the power. Its sweetness tasted sick, but she held on. In case it was needed.

Other men came; they were ghosts in her peripheral, the splashes as they dived in after cruel echoes. Strangely displaced, she only stepped back when she realised she was in the way, though she was disinclined to lose sight of the dark waters below. Her gaze found the Warder instead. Solemn. She read nothing in the stone of his expression, but didn’t misconstrue apathy. She tried not to find condemnation in the blank lines of his face, but the shadows betrayed the rawness of her guilt. She saw it because she feared it. And perhaps because she deserved it.

The sailors might yet find a man gasping onto the last breathes of life. But rivers claimed life fast, and she already knew they would find nothing. Still, she stayed a long time in silence.

A few steps retreated her, finally, from the railing. Her brow clouded as she took in sight of the object shed before the man had jumped. Her brain had finally made a picture of disparate puzzle pieces, and when she knelt to retrieve the knife it was with understanding. She cradled the blade in both palms, disgusted to feel a note of anger amid the grief. Either he had not wanted to die anonymous. Or he left behind a family who must be informed of the loss. It was a burden, either way. A bitter burden. But one Malaika would accept wordlessly.]]> <![CDATA[A Dear Sister]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1582.html Thu, 01 Feb 2024 23:15:46 +0000 Eidolon]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1582.html
Her soft footsteps had purpose, but her mind still lingered with the meeting. If any had been present to witness her expression, it was the epitome of Brown stereotype, brows gently drawn, gaze caught in an intensity that lacked focus in the physical world. Fortunate, then, that she could navigate her rooms with her eyes closed. Her left palm pressed again her bedroom door, and saidar brought tender flame to various ensconced candles within. It was the only room in her apartments she would feel uncomfortable letting another see, the only part of her sanctuary she had made any effort to make her own. Convincing herself she had the right to do that – to put her physical mark on an actual space – had taken time, and made slow advances even now. One might struggle to see how – it was still very much generic – but to Malaika’s sensitivities, it was like a portal to the most private recesses of her mind.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and retrieved the key from her pocket. There was no hesitation; Malaika had made this decision, and arduous though the decision-making may have been, once it was made she did not balk. The ward about her bedside cabinet unravelled at her touch, the faint traces of saidar wrought by her own hand yielding to its mistress. The key turned, the drawer pulled out, and the envelope sat in the shadows within. She pulled it out, memories simmering at its touch, and flicked it open. The page within was folded neatly, and she smoothed it out on her lap. The script at its centre was in Chakai’s utilitarian hand; to the point, nothing extraneous but for the few details he had imparted from his sick bed, perhaps to remind her that the longer she let the wick burn, the less time before even this information would be useless.

She read it twice in quick succession, words carved in mind as if on stone, then the glow inflamed her and the paper burned. She watched impassively as it curled and blackened from the edge, and caught the ash in her right hand, where the heat found no purchase on pain.

Now she knew, and now there was a bigger decision to be made.

It was difficult to train her thoughts to the idea of time, to ingrain within her mind that – if she was going to do this thing – then she was going to have to work to a schedule. There was no leeway to spend a few days contemplating, as she would have liked, because if after her slow and laborious meditations she decided yes, then it would leave her no time to prepare - and that would simply be suicide. So she must organise herself and consider whether she did the right thing while she did so. There was no commitment; she could change her mind – come to her senses – even up until the last minute. It felt rushed, terribly rushed, but she had needed the last few days to steel herself to open the envelope, and the deadline was a thing outside of her control.

It will be what it will be. The Wheel Weaves as it wills… The thought calmed her, at least a little.

The only thing she wished for was an ally, someone she could trust enough to divulge what she was thinking and why. She thought of Byron, probably because he had a knack for making the crazy sound sane. No doubt he would even be able to convince her she was doing the right thing, which would have been welcome amid the flurry of her fears. And, well, if he told her she was stupid, then she would know her plans really were crazy. But she didn’t have the luxury of an outside opinion – not his, or anyone’s. She didn’t trust her sisters to advise her in this matter, because she doubted a single one of them would understand, or would be able to give their advice without salting it with their own interests. And Kasimir? Even if he was not in Ebou Dar, she would not involve him in something so risky. She was truly alone in this.

It was not so bad. Though she wished for someone to talk to, she also knew that an Aes Sedai ultimately made decisions for herself, and she could not expect someone to shoulder the burden for her. She considered this as she sat at her desk, quill held aloft in her hand, head tilted to one side. It was truly strange to not have to answer to someone anymore - to truly be able to make decisions for herself, and reap either rewards or consequences. There were her Ajah Sitters, of course, and the Council, but there was also the fact she was Brown. How many women snubbed their noses at the Ajah because of its reputation for being cloistered and fusty, when it truth it was perhaps the most free Ajah of them all. Even Blues, who travel the world on whim, must rationalise their Causes, must ground themselves in morals. A Brown's only fences were the pursuit of knowledge, and that was such a vast and uncompromised field that Malaika did not think she could detect the fences at all.

I have to know. The mantra of any true Brown, and she wrote it at the head of her parchment, above all the pros and cons she had thus far ordered into neat columns. It someone negated everything she had just written. She had spent years under Broekk Sedai's wing, had even considered White at one time, and it showed in the logical progession of her thought patterns - even in her habitually chaotic way, she liked order and reason. But this... this feeling washed away logic. I have to know...

How time passed quickly when you willed it not to – when you were counting on those seconds and minutes to prepare. She had poured over maps, practised weaves with a precision and diligence she had not needed since the one hundred weaves, researched every obscure eventuality she could think
of – and all the while she maintained her usual appointments and gentle mannerisms, despite the blooming uncertainty and late nights contemplating.

Two weeks had not been long enough, not for everything, but it would have to suffice.

Her dress was unusual, more fitted and practical for travelling. A belt cinched her waist, Kasimir’s daggers sheathed on either side of her hip. A thick cloak negated any self-consciousness she felt over her figure, so uncommonly blatant (by her standards) in these unusual clothes. It felt conspicuous, but in fact cut an ordinary, plain figure. The serpent ring she kept on her finger, for now at least, and she twisted it lightly around her finger, her only outward concession to the tight ball of anxiety she felt within. Her gaze took in her rooms, shadowed in early morning light, and she wondered if she had remembered everything.

A finger strayed to the hilt of one dagger, its weight unfamiliar despite being balanced on both sides. Kasimir had warned her against carrying weapons you were not one hundred per cent proficient with, because more often than not they would be used against you rather than serving for your protection. She understood that, but it was better than nothing. Where she was going, she might not be able to rely on the One Power, and this was as close to a contingency plan as she had. She might have gone to the Master of Arms for aid – one did not have to bond a gaidin or gaidar to benefit from their assistance – but she had been loath to share these plans with anyone. They were too personal, too close to her heart, and she did not want to share them with a stranger. Even if it put her person at additional risk.

The Light send she did not live to regret it.

Do I have everything I need? Her heart quickened in these last moments. A mental check, the rote of it intensifying that flutter in her stomach. Her purse, filled with far Tar Valoni coins, hung a heavy weight in the deep pocket of her skirts. She had checked her satchel a thousand times, unpacking and repacking it with everything she could imagine needing. It lay at her feet, neatly buckled, waiting. Eyes half lidded she counted the contents twice in quick succession, and then her eyes opened, steely in resolve. If she had forgotten something, it was not going to come to her now; she was ready, as ready as she could ever be.

She considered the planes of her furniture, the velvet fall of her curtains, the fresh cut flowers of her sideboard, and wondered if she would ever see any of it again. An Aes Sedai wanted for no luxury, and sometimes Malaika felt a burrowed guilt for how little she noticed the lavishness. She was not vain or proud or over-indulgent, but sometimes ignorance seemed as bad; to not notice when servants scented her bedsheets with lavender to help her sleep, or when they tidied the debris of living without prompting; whisking away empty plates, bundling laundry and plumping pillows – the smallest kindnesses, and that was how she thought of them, despite knowing it was a servants job. How much she had to be grateful for, and she was risking it all on the whims of her heart.

She wondered if she should say goodbyes, then wondered who she would say it to if she could. Some sisters were close, but her life was sometimes… lonely. That feeling had been nestling in her soul since Kasimir left, haunting her nights and urging her thoughts to her sister. Her damane sister, she knew now. That song of sorrow captured her heart, her thoughts, her everything; like calling to like across the distance. Foolish, selfish… human. She was stalling, thoughts running in melancholic circles with all the philosophic meanderings of a White. Allowing her lips to purse, to steel the evanescent emotions within to something sturdier, harder, she lifted her bag and settled it on her shoulder. She turned her back on her room; it was filled with things, trappings of a life that meant nothing if she could not put the power she had built to use. The door to her study opened with a click, and saidar flooded her aspect – bringing certainty and beautiful calm.

The space behind her desk split like molten silver, then widened, shimmering the air like heat. Malaika did not look back when she stepped through.

Malaika blinked, gripping the edges of the basin, droplets of water pooling on her lashes. Cold water slid down her nose, down her cheeks, and trickled from her chin. She watched each droplet as it hit, contemplating the tiny ripples as they spread outwards, before she finally pressed her palms to her face. When she looked up, the face that greeted her in the mirror opposite was not her own. The eyes were dark and unremarkable, the nose stronger in profile. The hair brown, straight, and pulled back in a braid that tucked round and tied at the base of her neck. Over the past weeks she had worked hard on that face, hoping to create a physical representation of the strength and determination she would need. And to erase any trace of her ancestry; that was imperative.

She turned away. The cold water hadn’t eased her anxiety or cleared her head, but it had been better than brooding – better than worrying. It was a strange sort of stasis up here, counting the moments before she would descend to the common room below, and then her thread in the pattern would play out its fate. In these last moments of calm she paced. The room about her was small and serviceable; thin mattress, warm blankets; a water basin and mirror, an antiquated chest of drawers. No hearth, but a thick, well-worn rug over the floor-boards. The shutters fit well, preventing any draft, and there were no unwanted guests. It was far from the comforts she was used to, but it was the least of her thoughts.

She was at an inn on the edge of a merchant route in rural Altara. At this time of year it was near vacant of patrons, but there were enough that she didn’t feel isolated or overwhelmed. That had been part of Chakai’s criteria in establishing this meeting; somewhere out of the way, alone. She was not sure how he had managed that, and kept herself from wondering too deeply. All her brother had been willing to impart was that she was to be representative of a party interested in seeking a sul’dam’s aid. The Empire must have changed much if sul’dam were open to such private persuasions, but it had been many, many years since Malaika had shared anything of Seanchan but her blood. It was enough that the meeting would take place at all, and should she find herself in a dangerous situation as consequence… well, she had been aware of the risks before she had ever woven the silvery Gate to Ebou Dar.

She had arrived early with thought to steel herself, but now that she was here she only felt anxious impatience. It had taken three days to travel from the Gate she had opened outside Ebou Dar, to here; she had planned her route carefully, and had encountered no problems. Everything had run smoothly. Too smoothly, if she was going to be cynical, but she choose to believe in her own control of the situation. She wondered if that control would fall apart when she saw the collar about her sister’s throat. Sweet Zurafai, the single hope that had comforted her for most of her life since the collar. Anger swelled, and hope and despair and determination.

I am coming for you Zurafai, I am coming.]]> <![CDATA[Tea and Books]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1581.html Thu, 01 Feb 2024 23:06:25 +0000 Eidolon]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1581.html
Today she spent some time wandering the open markets, politely declining the calls and charms of merchants. She had never had materialistic tendencies in relation to herself, but she did appreciate beauty; she liked to look, to explore, to contemplate, but not to own. These days she was careful not to let her curiosities land her in trouble; few sellers took kindly to a browser who appeared interested, even asked questions, but did not buy. A few times, in her early explorations of the city, she had bought items she had no need or desire for, because she had suddenly become aware that she had spent considerable time asking after curios she had no intention of purchasing. It was more beneficial to smooth feathers than ruffle them, and coin was no issue.

At first glance, one might not realise that the wanderer was Aes Sedai, though this was an unintentional deception. As with most aspects of her appearance, Malaika cared little for aesthetics. She did not dress extravagantly – her gown was neutral, unadorned and loose about her frame – but the workmanship and cloth was fine, as one would expect of one wore the ring. Aside from the natural softness of her features and luxuriant fall of black hair down her back, there was nothing to accentuate her femininity. There was no indication of a waist beneath the light beige fabric, and there was no embellishment at the bust. The neckline scooped, revealing her collarbone, but only because she disliked the constraint about her neck. No jewellery, no face paints. She cut a very plain figure, which was perhaps the only conspicuous thing about her.

As was often the case, at some juncture of the outing, Malaika found herself at Mistress Osilia’s teahouse. It was her habitual sanctuary outside of the Tower, a place she gravitated to for comfort as surely as her own rooms – though they, of course, were not as comforting as they had once been. Cosy as an Aes Sedai’s sitting room – if a touch less extravagant – it was ornamented with arrangements of stuffed chairs and low tables. Flowers adorned sidetables, and bowls of dried herbs infused the heat of the hearth with the scent of relaxation. The clink of china, the low buzz of conversation; the familiarity eased her worries and centred her back to herself.

The place was rarely empty – it was too popular for that – but it was more gentile than a tavern or inn, and more suited to Malaika’s tastes. Truly, though, it was the memories that had cemented her loyalty to the place. She had promised she would return after that first night, and had kept to her word and then some. Her visits were frequent – if punctuated with weeks, sometimes months, of absence, depending on her duties at the time. Mistress Osilia knew, by now, that Malaika was no high born noble, but an Aes Sedai. Still, their relationship maintained the amiable nature it had
begun with – and that was another aspect of the place that drew the young Aes Sedai. Mistress Osilia spoke to her like a person, not a title, and she was the only woman Malaika ever indulged in ‘chatting’ with, without feeling it a chore – even enjoying it.

More often than not Malaika dined alone, but Mistress Osilia did not seem to mind her taking up a whole table. As she had today, she often brought Tower work with her – the sorts of projects she indulged when more serious or private matters were proving frustrating or unattainable. Anywhere but Tar Valon, the sight of a lone woman surrounded by books and journals in a teahouse would have been odd. But here, in the city that cupped the shining walls of the White Tower itself, there were plenty of odder sights. Amidst the books were various plates of pastries (the beef stew she had consumed for lunch had long since been cleared away, before her books had appeared from her shoulder satchel), which she nibbled at from time to time. A pot of black tea sat on her left, the cup in its delicate saucer half-full, steam still gently roiling about its surface.

For the past hour or so, now, she had been consumed in a hand-sized novel spread out on her lap, head bowed, dark hair pushed over one shoulder. From time to time her fingers paused at her lips before she turned the page, eyes narrowed in contemplation. Her mind drifted to the stars in moods like this, a blessed release from the darkness that had consumed her thoughts this morning.

Mistress Osilia hadn't a single issue with Malaika taking a table to herself. Even had Malaika not been Aes Sedai, the invitation would have remained extended, as the woman was a fine addition to Osilia's regular clientèle, and there was always a chance that Malaika's continued presence could draw that fool Byron back at some point. The lad had been absent for some time now, but such things were common for the supposed Warder.

As always, the tea house remained neat and clean, and Mistress Osilia had even taken to employing some added help. A pair of women of disparaging backgrounds, a single mother that needed the income and was a diligent worker, although the cook made no shortage of hollow complaints of having a baby in the kitchen during the day, and an old widower of equally amiable personality. This day, Osilia deigned to let her hired help run things, at least for a bit, as she finally drifted over to Malaika's table, a tray with a fresh pot of tea and some biscuits.

Of late, Osilia had been beaming, and been noticed to be paying a touch more attention to her appearance, and might even be described to have a bit more bounce in her step. She took the chair opposite Malaika much as a friend might simply invite themselves to a friend's table, after setting the tray out in the centre and being so forwards as to top Malaika Sedai's cup then readying her own.

She was well aware how much Malaika enjoyed her books, and wasn't the type to force conversation, but to any aware of such things Osilia clearly had something she was eager to say. But, she simply sipped her tea in silence waiting for Malaika to spark the conversation. The young Aes Sedai was a wonderfully intelligent woman, but a touch naive when it came to others...it simply wouldn't do, in Osilia's opinion. No, especially with an influence like that fool absentee Byron. That lad was always willing to lend an ear, if you could keep his mouth shut long enough to get a word in edge wise at least.

Malaika didn't notice, at first, the addition to her table; it was not rudeness, if it might be construed as such by one who didn't know her, just that she was lost in the leather-bound world in her palm. She always felt outside of herself when she studied, like she physically sorted facts and theories into associated piles in her mind's eye. It was such a consuming feeling that the actual world around her was of muted sound and colour, and very little could draw her back to it before she was ready. That was the result of years of tuning out distraction, and of late, the regularity of studying alone. She was working on that; being conscious of what was around her without compromising her reading - in mind of her own safety, if nothing else - but it was a slow transition.

She actually caught Osilia's presence by accident, when she looked up from her pages, frowning softly, contemplating the implications of the sentence she had just read in relation to something she had read in another book. It was a moment before the stupor of thought cleared from her gaze, and Mistress Osilia's features grew sharper in her line of sight. Malaika's greetings to those whose company she genuinely enjoyed - particularly the shy smiles - were subtle but heartfelt things. Her eyes crinkled warmly, but the lift of her lips was negligible.

"Mistress Osilia," she said, book folding over her thumb. She had watched the teahouse mistress bloom over the past few months, and nurtured where she could that budding relationship with the blacksmith. Not that she would ever push for information, or even interfere at all if not for Byron's lead and her shared belief that it was what Osilia and her blacksmith truly wanted. That subtlety she noted, the fact Osilia clearly had something to say escaped her; but she had Malaika's attention now anyway. "The Light finds you well?"

She set her tea cup down and gave Malaika her full attention. "It does. Light shine on you as well, Aes Sedai." She smiled broadly then and leaned in a bit, pleasantries of greetings aside. "He wanted to meet my parents." She seemed on the verge of a fit giggles but managed to keep it contained with an equally powerful air of frustration. "Wool headed fool of a man that he is wanted to meet my parents. Does he understand how foolish that is? We are both much too old to worry about those sorts of things. And besides, I haven't spoken to my parents in almost twenty years. Honestly, what was he thinking?"

Her excitement had taken over for the moment, and she went on without hardly a pause, "So of course he explains, and shows how much of a wool-headed lumox he is, that he cannot possibly propose without asking my father for permission. So I had to explain to him that my father passed away years ago, and being a fool man he thought that because he had been so insistent, that obviously I must hate him."

She took up her tea cup and sipped in a clear attempt to settle herself, but she couldn't help herself. "So then he kept trying to impress me and only made a fool of himself. And when I set him straight, he got upset for no good reason and refused to listen to how much a fool he was acting. So then we weren't talking." She sniffed in irritation and took another sip of her tea before barrelling onwards.

"It took me a week to get him to listen to me, and only after I told him to come here of course." Of
course, she had indicated there had been some sort of emergency, but that was only because the fool man obviously wouldn't listen to reason. And of course she could not possibly slump so low as to go to him. "So then we argued for hours. But he finally saw how wrong he was." Or more likely had given up on arguing.

Another sip of tea, clearly reminiscing on how foolish a man he was. "Well, the reason I had my eye on him all this time is that he has at least moments of intelligence. And once he saw the error of his ways, he proposed." She was beaming again, sipping her cup of tea and watching Malaika, eager to see the Aes Sedai's reaction to the news, although there was a fleeting understanding that the woman seated opposite her was not quite the social butterfly as some.

The sudden spill of words took Malaika a moment to comprehend. She had never seen Mistress Osilia so excited, so fit to burst, and in that instant she just marvelled at the unadulterated display of emotion, and found it quite beautiful. “Proposed…” There was the hint of question in her voice, as if to ask ‘propose what?’ before the slow dawn of realisation lit her eyes. “Marriage?” Now that the tumbling words had coalesced into something intelligible, she felt embarrassed she had not understood from the off.

“Mistress Osilia…” She had little idea how one was supposed to react in these circumstances. Marriage at the Tower was either clandestine or non-existent, and though Malaika was not so cloistered that she did not understand that this was not the case beyond the Tower’s walls, her emotional reactions were so inhibited that she was suddenly worried she might offend the woman – her friend, if she might use such a word – by seeming so unaffected. “Congratulations, congratulations to you both.” The blessing was sincere, if somewhat timid, and the gentle smile that graced lips and eyes was something rarely seen. Earnest as she was, it somehow felt lacking, and in a motion half forced, half instinctive, she reached across the table to grasp the woman’s hand – and that, willing contact, was rarer still.

Light! Would that Byron was here to diffuse the situation with exhalations and flailing, his congratulations imbedded in the good humour and grins beneath the mockery. After a moment and a fond squeeze of the fingers, she retracted her hand, cheeks strangely flush, as though she was concerned she might have offended the woman by touching her at all. “How did Byron take the news?” In much the way she imagined, she suspected, though secretly he would be very pleased; it had been his gentle persuasions that had pushed these too along the path to each other in the first place, if the feelings themselves had already been there.

Mistress Osilia's beaming made a sudden turn for the worse, as only a woman could do. One moment she was ecstatic with Malaika's seemingly awkward yet heartfelt words, then she was trying not to scowl as she took up her tea cup with a sniff of displeasure. Byron indeed! The man hadn't made an appearance in days, and after spending so much effort in getting the two of them together! "I wouldn't know how his high and mighty Byron has taken the news. I've yet to tell him. He's off on one of his adventures, I suspect. Getting into trouble someplace."

She had asked around, and learned from the goods-master she dealt with for some of her imported food stuffs that Byron had been looking into ships north bound a week or so ago, but that was the end of the trail as far as she could tell. No one seemed to know where the man had gone off to, but she was certain he was not still in the city. It wasn't his style not to stop by at least once a week when in Tar Valon. And if Malaika Sedai had no idea he was away, then clearly he was up to no good. "Honestly. Fool man, you just cannot rely on him for anything can you?"

"Enough of him though. Fool wool-headed sack of moldy hay that he is. The wedding is to be in six months and three days, and have a list twice as long as as my arm of things that need doing." She shook her head ruefully, hiding a small smile as she sipped her tea.

Oh Light... The Brown felt as though she were walking on a lake of ice without knowing which way to tread to shore. No sooner had she said something to make Mistress Osilia beam, she had obvious said - or done - something to provoke the emotion to suck from her face. A moment later, she realised it had been the mention of Byron. It did not surprise her that he had gone off galavanting, but it did slightly that he had not said goodbye to Mistress Osilia, given the high regard he held her in. Then again, he was gaidin, and the Tower did not always allow for such things. She didn't deign to answer the question, only used it as an opportunity to sip at her recently refilled tea.

"Six months and three days," she repeated, unsure if this was a long or short amount a time for such a thing, but assuming from context that it was less than ideal. "Is there anything I can do to help?" I'm going to have to try and find out where he is. Six months and three days, and Mistress Osilia would never forgive Byron if he missed her wedding. Not that Malaika had the eyes-and-ears for such a thing, but as one also of the Tower, she might have a better chance of finding him. Perhaps.]]>
Today she spent some time wandering the open markets, politely declining the calls and charms of merchants. She had never had materialistic tendencies in relation to herself, but she did appreciate beauty; she liked to look, to explore, to contemplate, but not to own. These days she was careful not to let her curiosities land her in trouble; few sellers took kindly to a browser who appeared interested, even asked questions, but did not buy. A few times, in her early explorations of the city, she had bought items she had no need or desire for, because she had suddenly become aware that she had spent considerable time asking after curios she had no intention of purchasing. It was more beneficial to smooth feathers than ruffle them, and coin was no issue.

At first glance, one might not realise that the wanderer was Aes Sedai, though this was an unintentional deception. As with most aspects of her appearance, Malaika cared little for aesthetics. She did not dress extravagantly – her gown was neutral, unadorned and loose about her frame – but the workmanship and cloth was fine, as one would expect of one wore the ring. Aside from the natural softness of her features and luxuriant fall of black hair down her back, there was nothing to accentuate her femininity. There was no indication of a waist beneath the light beige fabric, and there was no embellishment at the bust. The neckline scooped, revealing her collarbone, but only because she disliked the constraint about her neck. No jewellery, no face paints. She cut a very plain figure, which was perhaps the only conspicuous thing about her.

As was often the case, at some juncture of the outing, Malaika found herself at Mistress Osilia’s teahouse. It was her habitual sanctuary outside of the Tower, a place she gravitated to for comfort as surely as her own rooms – though they, of course, were not as comforting as they had once been. Cosy as an Aes Sedai’s sitting room – if a touch less extravagant – it was ornamented with arrangements of stuffed chairs and low tables. Flowers adorned sidetables, and bowls of dried herbs infused the heat of the hearth with the scent of relaxation. The clink of china, the low buzz of conversation; the familiarity eased her worries and centred her back to herself.

The place was rarely empty – it was too popular for that – but it was more gentile than a tavern or inn, and more suited to Malaika’s tastes. Truly, though, it was the memories that had cemented her loyalty to the place. She had promised she would return after that first night, and had kept to her word and then some. Her visits were frequent – if punctuated with weeks, sometimes months, of absence, depending on her duties at the time. Mistress Osilia knew, by now, that Malaika was no high born noble, but an Aes Sedai. Still, their relationship maintained the amiable nature it had
begun with – and that was another aspect of the place that drew the young Aes Sedai. Mistress Osilia spoke to her like a person, not a title, and she was the only woman Malaika ever indulged in ‘chatting’ with, without feeling it a chore – even enjoying it.

More often than not Malaika dined alone, but Mistress Osilia did not seem to mind her taking up a whole table. As she had today, she often brought Tower work with her – the sorts of projects she indulged when more serious or private matters were proving frustrating or unattainable. Anywhere but Tar Valon, the sight of a lone woman surrounded by books and journals in a teahouse would have been odd. But here, in the city that cupped the shining walls of the White Tower itself, there were plenty of odder sights. Amidst the books were various plates of pastries (the beef stew she had consumed for lunch had long since been cleared away, before her books had appeared from her shoulder satchel), which she nibbled at from time to time. A pot of black tea sat on her left, the cup in its delicate saucer half-full, steam still gently roiling about its surface.

For the past hour or so, now, she had been consumed in a hand-sized novel spread out on her lap, head bowed, dark hair pushed over one shoulder. From time to time her fingers paused at her lips before she turned the page, eyes narrowed in contemplation. Her mind drifted to the stars in moods like this, a blessed release from the darkness that had consumed her thoughts this morning.

Byron

Byron Gaidin's idea of training was far from normal. Most often, he seemed simply to be enjoying life as any carefree and foolish man might. Gambling and drinking, sharing stories and telling jokes. Much of his training happened away from the Tower's actual training fields, as much of it was just too down right odd to be perfected there. Learning common regional lore? Accents? Rumour gathering and making contacts? Hard to do surrounded by trainees and Aes Sedai too busy enjoying the glistening of sweat on some muscle bound Warder's shoulders.

He often felt there was many things a Warder should know, that went beyond how to swing a sword or scare the wits out of a man with a look. Some Aes Sedai had more use for a man of wits and charisma then just another sword swinger, and it was to those that his strange cache of skills might appeal. If any where to take notice of them, which was decidedly unlikely considering his odd hours and activities.

That night was a prime example of his odd ideas. What was the best kind of training? The sort where you were motivated. Sure, a man could go for a run. But simply running? Was that truly enough? Not in his mind. Vaulting fences and crates, however, now that was good training. Got you used to over coming obstacles on the move, especially when say…running from guards (or an angry husband) in a city. Now most cities weren’t as clean as Tar Valon, but he would simply have to make do with what he had.

Now, simply running and leaping for the sake of running and leaping wasn’t quite good enough either. No, you were likely to take the easy way, likely to duck around a crate rather then go over it. Or slow down for a fence, to make sure the drop off the other side was clear instead of leaping it boldly and dealing with the consequences when they came. How to achieve that? By being chased, of course. Now, he was fairly confident a few hired dock hands or even some borrowed guards weren’t likely to be a good challenge. So what was?

Dressed rather casually, in a featureless set of boots and brown trousers, a comfortable shirt that he wouldn’t miss and a modest grey vest, Byron flew through the alley at a full run, eyes wide to help pierce the heavy gloom of the late evening’s shadows. He lithely bounded over a pair of old crates stacked against one wall of the alley. He was breathing heavily, the added weight at his ankles becoming acutely noticeable with each step. He’d only been at it a few minutes and was already getting winded.

And his pursuers were a bit more motivated then he had expected. A trio of stray dogs were hot on his heels, barking wildly as they gave chase. He doubted they would actually try to hurt him even if they did catch up, they were more interested in the slabs of lightly seasoned, uncooked beef strapped to his ankles. But, it was probably time to end the chase and let them have their reward. Spying a tall fence ahead that separated a storage yard from the street adjacent, Byron redoubled his efforts and let out a frustrated curse as the dogs closed on him, sensing a quick end to the chase.

Bounding another crate, he got two long, determined strides and threw himself up at the fence top. Hands grabbed the weather worn boards and he threw his body length wise over the top, the three hounds letting out a fresh deluge of frustrated barks of their own, pawing and scrambling at the bottom of the tall fence even as Byron vanished over the top. There was a moment’s hope that the street he was about to fall into was empty, and as he cleared the fence and got a good look he was glad to see only a few people strolling it’s narrow way.

He fell lightly, pushing off the fence after wrenching his body into position and landed easily on his feet. The dogs continued to bark and whine at the other side of the fence, too focused on the trail of the scent to find a way around the fence. Wearing his usual charming smile, Byron knelt to untie the slabs of meat from the sides of his boots, breathing heavily as he tossed them over the fence to the now very pleased yipping of his training partners.

“Well done boys, well earned. Light, but you’re faster then you looked. If I were of the mind, I’d adopt the lot of you. But, I’ve a hard enough time remembering to shave in the morning, let alone tend three dogs right?” He was grinning warmly, his breath coming back to him quickly and talking to the likely very distracted dogs on the far side without a hint of a care as to what anyone walking past might think. He was sweaty and dirty from his run, and had had slabs of meat tied to his feet. And now he was talking to dogs? No doubt the casual passer by would simply assume he was some sort of potentially harmful, or at least unpleasant, crazy person and shirked past without provoking his attention.

Malaika

Malaika had only been in the city a handful of times, those visits all closely following her raise to the shawl, and only then with her sisters for company (and often at their urging in the first place). Many things had put her off; her memories of travelling to Tar Valon, which were a mess of fear and confusion - the savage roil of the sea and the blind panic on shore; strange peoples blurred like dense forest trees, and foreign accents that burned her ears if she ever cared to think on it. Which she very rarely did. Almost her entire life on the mainland had been behind the shining walls of the Tower, and until very recently she had never felt the urge to truly see what lay beyond it; she couldn't miss what she had never known, and her Brown shawl and the extensiveness of the Tower's library was reason enough to never contemplate leaving.

Ebou Dar had changed that, as well as what she had seen of Arad Doman. Curiosity burned like wildfire through her old contentedness with life - she had never had freedom like this. Lianora and Kekura had told her she was free the day she donned the white, and back then she had believed that that was freedom - to her, fresh from the leash, it had been. But this was ... different. To go where she pleased, talk to who she pleased. She’d spent years in her ajah halls, never even wondering about the world outside beyond its histories and artefacts; its writings and scholars and treaties. To experience these things had never really crossed her mind before.

She’d come seeking stories from sailors and dockhands - to hear it from their mouths, so to speak, but she had little experience with people either. Most had been bemused by her odd requests, and none too few had grown irritated; without the serpent ring to protect her, the afternoon would have like as not gone very differently. As it was, she had spent hours in the company of such phrases as “With all due respect, Aes Sedai, the men are very busy” and “No time for that, Aes Sedai, find your answers elsewhere.” She supposed it was unfair of her to expect them to take time from their work; they had wives and families to feed, and she did not. A few had directed her to taverns scattered about the dockside, but from the raucous noise emanating from most of them, she had been less comfortable with that idea.

As the afternoon light had begun to grown dim, she had decided to head home, but Tar Valon was bigger than she had imagined and in the closing dusk the dockside had turned into a warren of alleys and side streets. She was quite lost, she had no doubts about that. Something like fear tingled coolly over her skin, at first; she’d not been this close to danger in a long time (her encounter with Chakai non-withstanding) but the feeling fell flat … she was an Aes Sedai in Tar Valon, after all, and far from completely vulnerable. I know nothing about this city. About its people and their lives. Perhaps she should ask one of her sisters to show her around; they would probably be amused by her interest, and all to happy to oblige, but she was left with the feeling that that tour would only show one side of the coin.

Another cramped street. She would have to ask directions, eventually, which felt like something of a failure. An Aes Sedai lost in Tar Valon, she thought dryly. Not that anyone would know unless she told them, else they had close knowledge of the Tower and its people. Her face was yet ageless, and she didn't tend towards extravagant clothes even when she wasn‘t making a concerted effort to blend in. A navy cloak covered a plain dress and sturdy boots, the hood down and hair spilled like ink down her shoulders. She had the ring, of course, though that was tucked away with her hands for warmth.

A great deal of barking and yipping drew her attention. Most people hurrying along the narrow street ignored it as though it was something normal; Malaika watched their down turned faces as they passed curiously, as much enamoured with the normal denizens of the city as she was with the city itself. If her open appraisal offended anyone, they did not deign to show it, and Malaika was somewhat amused with being so thoroughly ignored. Then a man leapt over the fence a few yards ahead, nimble enough that he appeared to do such things often. In the dark street, the buildings crowded over like crooked teeth, she supposed she should feel fear.

By now she had stopped walking, and watched as he untied … meat? from his shoes. It was meat, and he threw it over to the sound of excited yips and barks of victory. How very … odd. He was filthy and glistening with sweat in the yellow lamplight; she had taken him for a thief, but now was not so certain. She intended to carry on walking, but ended up stopping - some small distance away, for safety’s sake. It was too bizarre a scenario to simply walk by.

She peered through the fence, placing her scarred hand against the metal links, but couldn't see the dogs beyond the crates in the gloom of the alley, only hear them as they gnawed at and fought over the meat with throaty growls. The noises were minuscule compared to the beasts of Seanchan, but a faint fondness crept over her features anyway. The creatures her brother had used to bring home had been far bigger and more awe-inspiring than a couple of stray dogs, but she had always had a soft spot for strays. That expression disappeared as she turned to the stranger, replaced by something vaguely bemused.

“You do that for… fun?”

Byron

He had years of training under his belt. Even as tired as he was from that short jog, he still managed to stay aware of anyone close by. Especially attractive women that he was certain he had seen before. Tar Valon was far from a small city, and Byron often prided himself on his ability to remember the faces and names of those he had met, so this was clearly a situation where it was someone he had seen but not spoken to. So the next question he had to ask himself was the why. Why hadn't he spoken to her? Married perhaps?

With the last peice of beef vanishing over the top of the fence, Byron knelt over one last time to carefully brush some of the loose dirt from his pants, properly blousing them into his boots. There was a long gap between when she spoke and his reaction, almost as if he simply hadn't heard her, and when he did finally react it was with apparent surprise.

He glanced up with an almost bored expression, gaze sweeping the street around him as he finished with his second pant leg, and his eyes passed over her once before snapping back. A surprised and very mild curse and he took a half step back, quickly brushing at some of the dirt on his shirt then vigorously wiping his hands clean on his pants, accomplishing little to improve his appearance. He hadn't worked up quite enough of a sweat for his hair to be clinging to his head, but a few wet locks hung over his forehead and threatened to poke him in the eye at any moment.

"Light woman! Your ilk should be a bit more careful sneaking up on some poor fool of a man. Blood and ashes, give a lout a heart attack if he goes looks on such a lovely sight so blasted suddenly!" He sounded rather serious. Not angry, simply providing a much needed warning, and he had a strong Arafelin accent without any of the looks. To a practiced eye, he was more likely of a midlands origin; southern Andor perhaps.

He started as if realizing the tone of his voice and flashed an apologetic smile, scrubbing his hands together almost nervously while getting some more of the grime off, "Apologies! Light, I'm about to fall apart at the seams aren't I? Taken off guard is all, not quite feeling the king of my castle at the moment."

He brushed a now mostly clean hand through his hair, flicking back some of the errant bangs from his eyes and finally dropped the act. Not that there was much of a change asides the confidence in his eyes and the change of accent, changing from the thick Arafelin gone and replaced by something a bit more worldly, his tone and voice warm. "Yes and no, good Lady. Training, and while most men do so enjoy working up a good sweat, I do so for necessity."

Malaika

He didn't react for a long time, and Malaika was content to wait for a while; she folded her hands in her cloak and watched as he made an apparent (and admittedly quite useless, given the state he was in) show of brushing himself off. She had a similar habit - of taking time to respond, that is - and she assumed he was stalling for time or ignoring her in the hope that she would move on quietly - she even considered that he might be deaf, and she probably would have passed by if she'd not grown bored wandering foreign streets in the hope of returning to someplace she recognised. Not that she intended to ask a man who tied raw meat to his boots for directions, unless he turned out to be a little less odd than first impressions made it seem.

He 'noticed' her in a rather theatrical fashion, since Malaika wasn't sure she believed he had really been ignorant of her presence, and she accepted his mild scolding without much outward expression. It was not a reaction she had been anticipating - and she had certainly not been sneaking - but she didn't choose to say anything in return. Perhaps he simply did not want to be observed. His looks didn't remotely match his accent, either, but Tar Valon attracted all sorts. The problem was less that discrepancy and more that he was acting... well, strangely. Lovely sight? She wasn't astoundingly beautiful like Fate, or even striking in the way of someone like Lythia. Is he making fun of me? The maids her ajah sister Adira sometimes tried to foist on her, particularly around feast times, always called her ‘exotic’, which Malaika had always assumed a polite way to say different.

And then something about him changed. She tilted her head almost imperceptibly, eyes slightly narrowed, unsure if she was being toyed with.

"Necessity..." she repeated sceptically, and then was quiet for a long time. The accent had dissolved, as had the bumbling attitude and even the formality with which he spoke was now different; subtle shifts that changed a persona, to Malaika's eye. A ruse, or something less intentional? Broekk had told her of personality disorders, a prism of different people all trapped in one body, but probably that was the dark, cramped street talking rather than reason.

What to make of it..? Well, she didn't really know, and time wasn't exactly lending itself to serious thought on the matter. And she had been staring, she realised; not exactly rudely so much as with a mix of curiosity and puzzlement. Since he appeared somewhat normal, now - or at least acted like everything she had so far witnessed was entirely usual - she mentally shrugged and simply took it in her stride, removing her invasive gaze back to the fence in order to gather muster for some sort of answer.

"Not a Lady," she ended up saying, eyes returning to the odd man. "My name is Malaika, and I didn't intend to pry. I was curious. Am curious." She paused and wondered if it would be considered socially rude to inquire further; she had discovered today that most ordinary people did not like a stranger poking around in their business, and in particular asking inane questions about ordinary things that, to one who had never observed the hustle and bustle of a mainland city, was quite a fascination. Malaika did not have this problem with her sisters; in the comfort of her ajah halls, the pursuit of knowledge via any means was encouraged.

"Is this sort of thing ... common, in the city?" she ventured, "Or do you have a particularly uncommon profession? I am not that ... familiar, with this place." To one with an ear for accents, as apparently this man had, that might sound odd coming from someone with an accent as neutral as hers; the slurring inflections common to her Seanchan heritage had mostly faded after so many years at the Tower, so she pretty much sounded as though she was from Tar Valon, or at least had lived here a good number of years.

Byron

Well she certainly seemed perceptive. He couldn't help but feel the part of an blacksmith's puzzle being studied and measured. Compared to feeling the part of a prize bull on auction, it was an almost pleasant change. Pleasant if not for the fact that with such inpsections came the danger of someone actually figuring him out. What was he without his mysteries and eccentricities? Well, asides from being an amazing dancer and outlandishly handsome of course.

Worse still, the woman had managed to play straight to his greatest weakness...or at least, of the moment, he was rather fluid that way. Curiousity. How could one learn, better oneself, gain confidence and power and friendship without curiousity? It was also an invaluable peice of leverage in a game of cards. Keep your opponents curiousity peaked, they didn't focus on the cards. And back to square one, his mysteries and eccentricities were his weapons of choice for keeping fool rich men from getting his coin.

"Well, I certainly doubt you are a wench. Not a man, although I have met some very questionable fellows in my day. And I rue the day I'm offended by a question." He glanced at the fence, the sounds of the dogs having calmed and drifted away once they had finished their well earned meal. "Now that is an interesting question. Most would probably think I'm a thief, something that simply makes no sense at all now does it? Unless I stole the meat. But why would I tie it to my ankles? Ah!"

He brought a fist to his hand with the sudden exclamation, a victorious grin on his face, "Ah yes. Maybe I was caught thieving, and the would be victim had his men tie the meat there and loosed his dogs on me as punishment?" He let the idea stew a moment then shook his head in dismissal, "No, that wouldn't make much sense either would it? Honestly, this is Tar Valon not some backwater Murandy township. And even so, it's more so for the thrill of the hunt, and where is my hunter? No, certainly not that."

"Well, good Lady Malaika, this sort of thing is so uncommon that I would wager I'm the only one in the city that practices it. And the reason I do is is as training for my uncommon profession." She hadn't asked what his profession might be, so he left that unanswered. Now, as for what to make of her. Now foreign accent that he could notice, it was as if she were indeed a Tar Valoner. But then she had said she didn't know much of the city. Or the neighbourhood, at least. So she had the neutral accent of a city dweller, yet without the knowledge of someone who really lived in the city.

Sheltered, perhaps? If that were the case, it opened various possibilities. A rich, over protective merchant who kept his daughter hidden away in the safety of his estate? Someone like that could certainly be both curious and naive, but she had a level of confidence that didn't quite apply. Her style of dress better fit the maid rather then the daughter. Perhaps she had had her maid bring in a dress she could wear as her disguise? But then wouldn't the maid have come with her to keep her out of trouble? So perhaps she had forced her maid to bring it? No, she didn't seem the type for that sort of treatment.

"Well, I dare say I could use a cup of tea and some supper of my own. Have you eaten yet Lady Malaika? Not far, a comfortable tea house favored by the more cultured merchantmen that visit the city. I've little doubt the house Mistress will frown over my state of dress, but I suspect she rather enjoys my stories too much to turn me away." He raised a hand indicating the direction of the tea house and even turned as if he would start walking with or without her, all the while sporting his usual charming smile.

Malaika

For all that he chatted with ease and confidence, Malaika noticed that he really told her very little of substance. He played at being open, but in reality he kept his cards close to his chest; her question was lost in a cloud of charm and wit that would make most women smile and forget what they had asked. Poor luck for him that this woman happened to be Aes Sedai. She had never realised until now, away from the confines of the Tower, how ingrained the Great Game had come to be in her. She had always considered herself only lightly touched by that particular trapping of the ring and shawl, but apparently not. Or at least by standards outside the Tower.

She had no inclination to pry deeper into his affairs, curious as they were, if the attention was unwanted. Whatever he was and whatever he did for a living was his own business, and either he intended her to work harder to find answers or he meant to keep her in the dark. Providing he was Light-fearing and meant no harm, he could keep his secrets; it had been a long day and she was content to find amusement in the weave of his outlandish fabrications without trying to fathom out the truth behind them. No more than her mind did automatically, anyway.

"Eaten?" The intruding thought caught her off balance. Any scrutiny that had been in her gaze moments before evaporated, now, like early morning mist. The expression that was left was a very human one for an Aes Sedai, if any here had known that was what she was, but less uncommon for a Brown. It was not at all unusual for one of her ajah to overlook such mundane, earthly things as meal times. Malaika was terrible for forgetting if not for intervention from the Tower's servants, her sisters or her nephew, and today she had spent the whole day alone in the city. Adira had reminded her to take coin for food, but now that she thought of it, that coin still weighted her down on one side.

The surprise softened from her face. She was hungry - starving, actually, now that the empty pit of her stomach had been brought to her attention. He’d phrased the offer in such a way that seemed to imply her acceptance, but had also turned to leave as though he would be unconcerned should she refuse. Malaika was not in the habit of dining with strangers, particularly men, but she was also quite disorientated in an unfamiliar part of Tar Valon. And she had never been to a tea house.

The last time she'd thrown caution to the wind it had cost her. She wasn't eager to repeat her mistakes, or make new ones, but was not suspicious by nature - and wanted to enlighten herself to life outside the Tower to boot. His charm, a glamour or an act though it might be, did its work enough to elicit something of a smile from the young Aes Sedai. What an odd situation I've found myself in.

"Do you have a name?" No, perhaps that was too vague a question. Given his earlier evasions and laid-back humour, he was like to simply grin and tell her yes, he did have a name. She was not interested in whether he offered the truth, but she did want something to call him. “A name I could call you by, that is. It would not do for a ‘Lady’ to accept tea from a stranger, no?” She had already told him she was no Lady, but since he used the title anyway she wasn't going to correct him again. She supposed he had every right to be as curious of her as she him, for although she hadn't been the one with slabs of meat tied to her ankles, she
was for all appearances a young, unescorted woman wandering about after dark. And seemingly without care to the danger, which even in Tar Valon was not non-existant.

She followed the direction of his hand, but slowed when she reached his side. She had little idea where she was let alone where they were going, and waited for him to lead the way. Since she had already gleaned as much as she could from his appearance and manner and didn‘t wish to make him uncomfortable, it was their surroundings she watched as they walked.

"Have you lived in Tar Valon long? You sound well-travelled." She was remarking on the flawless Arafelin accent, though she supposed he needn't have been there to have learned it. Tar Valon attracted people from all quarters, and he might never have left. He had mentioned telling stories, though, so she was inclined to believe he had travelled. Perhaps he was a Gleeman, though he didn't wear the motley of one (keeping his performing clothes clean?). Actually, that might go a long way to explain his eccentricities...]]>

Byron

Malaika

Byron

Malaika

Byron

Malaika

Malaika Sedai, Brown Ajah

Sat cross-legged on the floor, papers and books piled high and far around, Malaika drummed her fingers lightly across her forehead, eyes half lidded, clearly in the midst of serious thought, when the door to her quarters opened and soft footsteps across the carpet shattered each painfully captured thought to oblivion. Kasmir. He usually knew not to bother her when she was so engrossed in her work, as the strewn-across-the-floor-seats-and-tables mess usually signified. The chaos was structured, but it was still chaos; such visualisation helped Malaika work, and each pile of paper had point, form and meaning in her own mind. Interruptions sent such delicate organisation crashing down, though, and often before she had had the chance to write the connecting thought processes down.

The Aes Sedai sighed, though it was the only sign of irritation she allowed to surface. She had all but given up chastising him for letting himself in, since countless warnings seemed to fade more and more quickly after an initial effort to knock. It was her own fault; if he was such an annoyance, she could easily send him away, or set wards upon her door to prevent such inopportune disturbances, but the truth was she was growing used to his presence, and even enjoyed his visits occasionally. He was not Chakai, but there were times he reminded her so vividly of her brother - the way he had used to be, that is - that the distinction grew blurred and his company became a comfort more than a nuisance.

“Sorry,” he said, dark-as-night eyes travelling over her kingdom of book and paper, then back to her, with an air of apology. And he did actually look apologetic, too, which was strange. She noted that he fingered a letter in his hands, turning it round and round until the edges had softened.

Malaika pulled her hair over one shoulder, briefly massaging her neck while her thoughts shrunk and softened and she recalled that she should probably say something. “It’s okay.” She stood with a practised grace, and extricated herself from her working space, pausing to settle a few pieces of paper that alighted from their piles in the wake of her trailing skirts. “I’ve hit a point at which I’m stuck; I could use a break, I suppose.”

He had not stopped frowning; not a single quip left his lips at the state of her apartments, or her unconventional methods of work. Usually he would grin and tease and call her a sham of an Aes Sedai in such playfully errant ways that she was always unsure whether or not to tell him off for it. Certainly she would not have tolerated such insults from anyone else, whether they were meant in harmless jest or not. I’m too soft. Far, far too soft. The thought made her angry sometimes, until she realised she would rather be soft than humourless. “Did you need something, Kasimir,” she said to the silence, and it was not quite invitation as much as impatience. Thoughts of the Collam Daan, the subject of her research, still swirled around in her mind, distracting, and though she had soothed his interruption with the fact she really did need a short rest, she did not want to be away from her studies for long.

“Here.” Without preamble, he passed a letter sealed with blue wax, and she realised that he had not been holding one document, but two. Puzzled by his apparent mood, but beginning to suspect the cause of his mute tongue, Malaika opened the letter and unfolded it out. She scanned the words. Her eyes flicked up for a brief moment. “It’s from Sharain.” Not Chakai. Still, it was a wonder to receive anything at all, not least because it was addressed to her. She did not anticipate good news…

There was no room to sit, so as she read she leaned against a dresser untouched by parchment. One of the Ajah’s servants had set a great blue vase upon it, a mountain of winter flowers scenting the sitting room with a floral hint. Malaika had not even noticed until now where the wonderful smell had been coming from.

At the conclusion of her read, she held the letter back out to Kasimir, frowning.

“Your… your father wants to see us.”

He nodded grimly. “But we’re not going to go, right? There’s no point.”

“Perhaps Chakai wishes to reconcile with you.” She tilted her head, observing the glower lowering his brows. He had her full attention, now, and he never appeared to like the way her gaze seemed to understand far more than he ever said. “You are his son,” she added gently, although somewhat firmly. Kasimir was a man grown and could make his own decisions, but it was in her interests to heal this rift if she possibly could. It would be something, at least, to make her own situation feel better.

“So you want rid of me?” he snapped with sudden ire, as though her words had loosened a spring he had been holding coiled. “Cart me back to Ebou Dar the first chance you get?”

She didn’t roll her eyes, but she certainly felt like it. Perhaps she coddled him by keeping such sentiments to herself; for tolerating his fiery temper because she understood the brief and intense bursts of flame that compelled his moods. She knew he meant nothing by it; knew that his childishness was rooted, almost always, in thoughts of his father. “Oh for the love of the Creator act your age, Kasimir. If I did not wish you here, I would have sent you away, hmm? Stop filling your head with all that useless pity."

“I’m sorry, Aes Sedai,” he murmured, folding his arms and glaring down at his feet. He missed the amused smile that curved her lips. Such a child! She did understand, at least in part, although she did have to wonder how it was he had not gotten himself into serious trouble with another sister yet. Perhaps it was only Chakai that stoked his juvenile rage; she would be willing to warrant it so, because though he was feisty in temperament, he was not generally of such a foul disposition.

“You should at least think about it. Running away from your problems will not fix them, and I would not like to see you carry regret to your grave.”

Kasimir

Kas hated it when she did that; spoke as though she read his thoughts as easily as she read her books. Aes Sedai really couldn’t read minds, or so everyone here said, but Malaika’s ability to cut to the quick was disturbing. He desperately wanted to shout at her. No, not really at her, just at something - someone, so he could ignore that feeling burrowing within. Guilt? No, surely not. But something uncomfortable, and that something only made worse by Malaika’s words.

He looked up at her, standing so apparently innocent (not that any of the Light-forsaken witches could even be called that), and with that bloody stare, as though he were an insect under glass. He couldn’t even hate her for it, because there was often a softness behind it; an interest that wasn’t clinical, but compassionate, as though she were emotionally invested in his struggles. He supposed she might be - she was his aunt, after all - but he had also seen that stare pressed down on others. She seemed to care a great deal for others, or at the least was of an empathetic nature.

May as well tell her. “He’s sick,” he said, and hoped he kept the bitterness from his tone. Probably not; not to her, at least, since all these Tower-trained women seemed in tune to the slightest nuance. “My sister Jahzara says he doesn’t leave his room, nor even his bed. His leg, I suppose. Else she’s saying it just to guilt me home.” He wasn’t sure he believed that entirely, if he wished it were true. It would be far easier to dismiss, then. What if he dies? Kas had wished that, guiltily and to his shame, but he had never really [/I]meant[/I] it. Could I live with the regret of never seeing him again? All that hatred stagnating without resolution.

Was this what Aes Sedai mind games felt like? She didn’t say another bloody word, and yet it was like she controlled his strings as surely as any puppeteer. I’m not running, he thought fiercely, but if he couldn’t even confront his father face to face, then what else did it look like? He glared down at the letter in his hand, at the blue torm’s head seal, and wanted to crush the wax in his fist; wanted to watch it erode and crumble… but that rise to temper would only show how much he cared and prove the precise nature of her words.

“Fine. We’ll go, if you think it will make any difference. But it’ll be a wasted trip if anyone thinks I’m going back to Ebou Dar.”

“You don’t have to stay there,” she said, and there was a lightness to the corners of her lips, as though she were smiling. “You just have to face your father.”]]> [Image: Malaika-av.jpg]

Kasimir

Kasimir Nevaren,
Tar Valon

Kasimir Nevaren spun on his heel, pulse thumping cool anger at his temples. The busy market square built up to a cacophony in his ears, fuelling that fragile temper to a climax.

“WHAT did you say?”

Three months had passed since he’d left Ebou Dar; three long months of hitching rides that had inched him at a frustratingly slow pace towards Tar Valon. His body and blade were all he had to offer in return for those favours; muscle work, mostly, and occasionally as hired protection for those too poor to afford real mercenary help. They say all roads lead to Tar Valon and the White Tower, but it seemed everyone was going every other way but Tar Valon. Now, though - finally - he was here, and though all sensibilities told him to find an inn and bed down for the evening, lack of coin and lack of patience drove him on mercilessly.

Kaz was frustrated and tired, and he didn’t even know if the Tower would hold the answers he sought. The sooner he found the woman, the sooner this whole matter would be resolved and he could… could what? The thought of channelling women so close sent a chill through him; the vice grip of years of teaching. He thought about the invisible bonds that had held his hands rigid by his sides…

… No, don’t think about that.

Oblivious to the scruffy mess of his dark hair, to the stubble weaving across his cheeks and to the staleness of his clothes, Kasimir marched through the streets, single minded and ignorant to those around him. His brows were drawn over black eyes, his fists clenched. One foot followed the other; left, right, left, right.

Until this.

He longed for a bath, for a shave, and for some bloody sleep, and this little twerp of a man had just trodden all over his last fuse. Blood and ashes, could he not just make his way in peace?

“I asked a question. What did you just say to me?”

“I…I said…” The man looked at him quite dumbly for a moment, rubbing his arm, and Kaz was about to turn away and ignore the whole thing. But then… “D...does Tar Valon just let any old riff-raff in nowadays?”

A crowd had gathered, apparently to watch this spectacle of the vagrant and the well-dressed man, and their presence and support appeared to lend the confidence for back-chat. Kaz frowned. Light, did the whole world outside of Altara lack any sort of manners!? You couldn’t get away with saying that to a perfect stranger in Ebou Dar. The young Ebou Dari flipped a dagger into the palm of his hand.

“That,” he said. “Is rude.” A flick of the wrist and the dagger was pointing firmly at the man, who’s face had become very pale. Kasimir was about to offer the challenge, but apparently the sight of the bare blade did not go down so well. The man screamed, loud and high as a woman, and before Kaz could so much as blink at the strange reaction someone had grabbed his arm and twisted it harshly behind his back. He yelled, dagger clattering to the floor, and presently found his face pressed in the dirt.

“He bumped into that man,” someone cried above the sudden ruckus. “No apology, nothing. And then he turned a knife on him!”

Kaz sighed. Or tried to; the knee pressed into his back made that difficult. “Malaika Sedai!” he shouted. “I came to see Malaika Sedai!” And Creator above let that be enough to save him…]]> [Image: kas.jpg]

Kasimir Nevaren,
Tar Valon

Eithne and Malaika, Brown Ajah

Plans had gone awry and Malaika's mentor, Eithne Sedai (along with her atha'an miere gaidar, Anura), had replaced Brenna on the impending trip to Arad Doman. Ke'sera Raldiin of the Gray (a Domani herself), her Warder Dolaran and a rather quiet sister of the Blue had also joined the party, and they convened on a grassy bank outside Tar Valon on the morn that they were to Travel.

Ke’sera Sedai smiled brightly and chatted amiably all the way; one would not think she had been summoned to interrogate a suspected spy, but her chiming voice was an easy enough distraction from the tight knot in Malaika’s stomach. She listened, nodding when appropriate, but found her thoughts drifting to what lay ahead. Under Eithne's tutorage, she had spent the previous day perfecting the threads of illusion to disguise her features best she could. Though her hair remained sleek and black and her skin pale, her eyes were no longer tilted, and her face, usually soft and rounded, was angular, her nose straighter and more prominent. There was little she could do for her accent, but years in Tar Valon had dulled the slurring inflections and holding her tongue was certainly something she was accustomed to anyway.

“Sister, if you would.” As a matter of politeness, Eithne, as the oldest and most senior present, directed the proceedings. The older Brown was resplendent today in folds of bright, clashing fabrics and colours. As a former Tinker, she adopted a myriad of different styles, today including the dazzlingly slashed skirts of Ebou Dar. A sash of emerald green nipped in her ample waist, and a garland of dried winter flowers held back her ebony locks.

Beside her, her gaidar was not much subtler in dress. Amidst Anura’s leather armour were flashes of bright silk - among them a royal blue at her breast and a hanging sash of scarlet at her waist, which loosely caressed the sheathed rapier there also. A yellow bandana held back the black hair from her face, revealing a number of gold hoops through her ears. She was a wild looking thing - intimidating, surely, but Malaika had spent enough time with her to see past the stoical Sea Folk exterior.

At Eithne’s word, Ke’sera grew bright with saidar. A silvery slit tore a neat line through the air, widening to a hole enough for two astride should they walk closely. Malaika's heart was in the pits of her stomach as she peered through to the scenery beyond. She had never left Tar Valon - had barely explored the city itself - and now, mere feet ahead of her, lay a country leagues and leagues away, unaware of her very existence and untouched by the everyday dealings of the Tower. She had read up on Arad Doman, of course, but it did little to prepare her.

"Come, Sisters." Eithne's bright tones lifted her from reverie in the effortless way they so often did. She had merry countenance that opened many hearts to her charms, and her easy presence was a welcome relief to the discomfort Malaika usually faced around others; indeed, the vibrant woman had been a very specific choice of mentor for the serious and reserved young Aes Sedai.

Led by the Warders Anura and Dolaran, the four Aes Sedai stepped through the gate…

They arrived in an empty courtyard, by a grand fountain gushing an exquisite and complex flow of sparkling water. The centrepiece was a bronzed statuette, the woman’s curvaceous form flaunted in traditional Domani dress of such craftsmanship that one could swear the mock fabric really did shimmer in the light. In her hands she offered a bowl of fruit, and there was a captivating smile on her full lips.

“Talhia Raldiin, my great, great grandmother,” said the Gray, Ke’sera. She pointed to the bowl. “Legend says she enticed my great, great grandfather with that, and he always swore nothing tasted as sweet. I fear he may not have been talking about the fruit.” She laughed throatily, despite her Warder’s disproving look, and waved them across the square. Malaika glanced once more at that scantily clad statue as they passed, her ears burning beneath the thick velvet of her hair. And such a comment from a Gray as well!

Eithne did nothing but smile in that quaint, merry way of hers, but made no comment, and the Gray presently led them out of the high walls that surrounded the court. They surfaced in a close-knit warren of roads, but soon found their way out to a busy market-place. The sheer amount of people - and the noise! - was enough to take Malaika aback. She paused for a second, until Eithne’s hand pushed gently into the small of her back.

“Off we go, Sister,” she said in hushed, kind tones. Ke’sera had already stepped out, her Warder on her heels, and Malaika swallowed back the sudden, unexpected swell of fear. Afraid of what? she asked herself, and found no answer but the irrational. The Aes Sedai test had been far more than this - she had faced that alone, and here she was among her sisters. Bracing herself, she followed the Gray, and though that first step was an accomplishment all in itself, if for no audience but her own mind, she found that her initial panic was quickly swept up in sheer awe.

The Blue, whom had never parted with her name, left them soon after. She gave little more than a cursorily nod to her sisters, but Malaika was too enthralled to much notice her departure. The young Brown tried to be surreptitious in her wonder, but stare she did at the bustle around her; the swathes of swirling sheer fabric and scent of spice and musky perfume; the tall, copper-skin women with their lustrous black hair, calling out their wares with seductive smiles; the men with their elegantly curled moustaches and bronze rings through their ears. The accents, the bright colours - even the temperature was different. (and certainly the temprement - to her left she could hear the warring tones of a man and woman, if not the cause of the argument).

“Bandar Eban,” she murmured, trailing after the Aes Sedai and Warders. Anura led the way through the market square; she was at ease in this place, the red sash tied through her belt loop swaying with her hips. It was not unusual for the ath’an miere to trade with the Domani, Malaika recalled, and clearly the gaidar had been here before. People stood aside to let them pass, and some stared. Eithne paid none of it any mind, and Malaika emulated her indifference for the most part, but within her heart beat a torrent in her chest.

Such colour, such vibrancy! It was as if the pages of her study books bounded to life around her, and the thrill of it was immeasurable, if so far it felt a little surreal. The pleasure was short-lived, for they did not stay in the market-place long. Soon the rows of bright tents and treasure-laden wagons gave way to quieter streets. Anura led them on to a stone building, its carved doors patrolled by two men in the armour of Domani soldiers. Here Eithne took the lead, her gaidar close to her side. Malaika stood a little behind Ke'sera, curious but composed.

"You are expecting us, I presume," the older Brown said.

“Aes Sedai.” The guard bowed low, a fist to his heart. Malaika was excited to notice the Sword and Hand emblem on his chest - a symbol she had seen so many times copied into books on history and politics. Here, though, picked out in stitches of gold, it seemed to mean something. She managed to control the wide-eyed look that threatened to break the calm exterior of her expression, but a rare smile played on her lips. When the guard looked back up he glanced at her strangely, as though she were some slow child, but did not linger on it (with her young face, he had no reason to believe she even was Aes Sedai). “Of course. It is this way.”

They followed him into the building and down a series of steps. Some of Malaika’s mirth dampened as they descended. She thought of the Tower’s basements - of the secrets and horrors it held - and remembered that they were here for serious business. Seanchan business.

Eventually the guard stopped at a heavy oak door, tapped once then opened it. "He is within, Aes Sedai."

Eithne nodded and led the way, though Anura's frown suggested she was not happy with that particular arrangement. Malaika waited for the Gray and her Warder, but Ke'sera gestured her in first, so she followed her mentor into the dank room. Stale sweat and fear assaulted senses that had earlier been seduced by the delights of the Domani trading grounds. It was empty but for a few chairs, its centremost one occupied by the prisoner in question. He was bound by hands and feet, his dark haired head limp over his chest. Two Domani guard flanked both sides.

Malaika worked to keep her expression neutral against the barrage of emotion she felt within and she found it hard to look upon her countryman; instead her eyes flicked to Eithne, seeking some sort of direction, but the woman did not break her eyes away from the bound man. Though it left her feeling uncertain, Brenna had made it clear she was here in the capacity of a student, so she melted against the shadows and prepared to watch events unfold.

“Four days,” the guard said. “And all he swears is that he is innocent. His armour is in the corner, the blade too.”

“Indeed,” said Eithne absently. She looked up at the guard, her green eyes pleasant. “Thank you, soldier. We will take it from here. And you must give our thanks to King Daryen; the White Tower is much appreciative of his cooperation in this matter.”

The guard, slightly offset by this dismissal, paused before nodding stiffly and signalling the two other men out. “Should you need us, Aes Sedai, you have but to call.”

They closed the bulky door behind them.

Malaika felt Eithne embrace and brighten the light of the room; the torches blared and a small ball of light sparked into being by her head. The older Brown retired to a chair in a corner, pulling a book from the confines of her voluminous skirts, Anura hovering by her side.

“This is your field of expertise, Ke’sera,” she said flipping to a page marked with a bright pink slip of silk. The Gray nodded and Eithne turned to her reading as though tucked away in some comfortable corner of the Brown Halls. Something of her composure bothered Malaika somewhat and she stole a glance at the shackled man, realising that there was a sick, weighty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Eithne’s voice broke through her thoughts. “And Malaika. As our authority on the Seanchan, perhaps you might take a look at the young man’s belongings.”]]>

Eithne and Malaika, Brown Ajah