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Raffe · 02-05-2023, 09:57 PM

Asha'man Araya

Somehow, even the coldest, greyest winter days seemed beautiful in the Ogier’s Grove. It was a place untouched by such trivial things as weather; ageless, perhaps, in the same way as the Aes Sedai, though certainly not as deceptive; the trees showed their age with every line and wrinkle, a proud testament to the years upon years they had been standing, growing both taller and deeper. It was peaceful, too, and less busy than the Tower grounds, which was why Araya was fond of visiting (less in the desire to avoid company, of which he was fond, and more for the beautiful tranquillity in which he could lose himself). It reminded him of his youth, in a strange sort of way; of the rustic and simple life he had lived with the Tuatha’an.

The pale Asha’man sat beneath the boughs of a particularly large oak, tucked into a hollow between its roots. He might have been hidden almost completely had he been dressed subtly, but the bright fabric about him was stark against the natural greens and browns of shadow and leaf, and the pristine white of the snow. It was not unusual to find him dressed in the eccentric clothes of the Tinkers (few, in fact, would have ever seen him donning the severe black of his title), and he had rather neglectfully forgotten the silver pins of his station too. He wore wide, loose pants of deep cobalt and a coat of scarlet, a scarf of sunburst orange about his neck and tucked down into his collar. The iciness of the season did not bother him much, for all that he was dressed warmly, and threads of fire had warmed his seat and melted the ice before he had made himself comfortable. In his hands, resting on one crooked knee, was a lute which he strummed softly, fingers nimble against the strings of the neck. He played to the trees rather than himself, though that was not a notion he would be apt to share. They were his audience, tall and silent and listening. He smiled, hummed somewhat tunelessly (for all his skill with the instrument) and changed key on a whim.

Trista Gaidar

Since she was a child, Trista found hobby in climbing. The trees on the Altaran coast, where she had been born, were not large or thick enough to be stable, so the cliffs along the coast were her first experience. Not until she was brought north had she discovered the magnificence of trees. They were a whole different beast, the levels of variety offered by their rising limbs allowed for a whole new sort of play. Truthfully, scaling, swinging, ducking, diving along the limbs was the closest to "play" the ever vigilant Gaidar came.

The trees in the ogier grove were the most exemplary specimens. The first time she had stood at their trunks, staring up into the great bows, she found herself thinking with a nearly child-like wonder that surely, they must go on forever. She had nearly fallen once in her quest to reach the top of that canopy, but had eventually succeeded. She was careful - the Aes Sedai were not wont to appreciate her gallivanting through the canopy (although none would ever really choose a word as free as "gallivanting" to describe the hardened Gaidar).

Now, reaching the summit of the canopy was still difficult, but even with the branches coated in snow the Gaidar scaled them deftly. Her uniform was similar to the one she wore for her training on the beam in the fields, cut to allow movement. The fabric was colored in soft browns and dark blues, blending well with the wintry backdrop of wood and snow, and made of a flexible material. She did not wear her Warder cloak, which would only have been an encumberence within the maze of bows.

Today she had reached the top of her favorite Great Tree in record time. The view was astounding, although Trista would never see it with the delight another would. She was beginning to relearn emotion, slowly, but it was a long and unforgiving path. Without it, the vibrancy of color was lost, the beauty of melody forgotten. For this, she did not stay at the top as long as one might expect, instead disappearing swiftly back into the mass of branches. She flowed from one to the next, eventually taking her from tree to tree to tree, finally nearing what constituted the lower levels of a massive oak. Below her, music drifted up to her ears from a vibrant patch of color nestled within the trees outgrown roots. She listened to the notes for some time before now, having followed them to the place she had come. Slipping along the canopy was a practice in stealth as well as agility, and she was a master. She made less sound than the wind that pushed the trees to sway and creak, as she dropped down through the limbs.

The man she gazed down at was familiar. Despite the odd clothing he wore, one glance of his face and Trista recalled his identity. Another woman may have blushed from the coincidence of finding him after her dream only a short night before, but the Void served as a buffer between expression and emotion. What little capacity for emotion she possessed. Since that night her headaches had returned, a cacophony of pounding drum beats trapped in her skull. The Void helped, but did not ease it entirely. Now, however, she found something in the soft notes from his lute soothing, pushing back the thumping until only a single, solid beat remained. The rhythm was somehow familiar, perhaps a song she had heard in childhood and forgotten.

Trista crouched on the branch for a time and finally lowered herself onto her side. She looked like a panther stretched out in the tree, lidded eyes watching him as if she were unsure if he was prey or predator himself, but she already sated enough not to care either way. The Gaidar waited until his fingers came to a pause before speaking. "Your music is lovely, Asha'man. You play well," her voice was prosaic, as it always was. Sneaking up on a channeler was never healthy, but as silent as she may be, in such close proximity if he held saidin he likely knew of her presence. Had he not noticed her, he might lash out with the Power in surprise, but the Gaidar was not afraid. She regained some measure of her will to live over the years, but a reckless disregard remained. She was not bonded, so no one would suffer if she were to die. A purpose for death would be nice, but she was no borderlander, bent on an honorable return to the Mother. Besides, no matter nationality, the dead did not complain.

Asha'man Araya

If the Asha'man was startled by the sudden voice, then he did not deign to show it. In fact, Araya's only reaction was to rest his head back against the bark and tilt his eyes upwards, the picture of casual curiosity, and still idly plucking chords. Asha'man. That alone told him the stranger must know of him, for there was little other indication of his rank, and indeed when his gaze settled on the woman stretched languidly in the tree, her form dappled beneath the canopy, he recalled her. Not her name, at least not immediately, but her face certainly, and the eyes most of all. Deep and listless, and the most striking shade he had ever seen. A strange woman, he mused, but not at all unattractive.

"Flattery will get you everywhere." He chuckled at the jest, and did not fully expect any retort. Despite the lidded gaze she gave, that blank, vapid expression seemed to reject humour, and he did not know her well enough to expect otherwise. He suspected it hadn't even been flattery as much as a simple observation. "Do you play, gaidar?" He smirked and turned his azure gze back to his lute.

Trista Gaidar

For all his expectations, Trista smiled at his comment. A bare upturning at the edges of her lips, too ephemeral to make it into her eyes. The expression was eerie on her otherwise dispassionate features. "Exactly where I want to be," she responded. Few knew her well enough to know that she had a sense of humor, cynical as it may be. This was not cynicism. For anyone else it might have sounded flirtatious.

She snaked her upper torso backwards, sliding it off the branch until she hung from her knees. She faced away from the Asha'man, then her back arched until her shoulders pressed against the opposite side of the branch. Her arms reached out to each side on the limb, supporting her in the same motion that she released her knees. Her feet, covered in soft leather leather boots that laced up her calves, pressed their soles against the trunk of the oak and she loosed one arm, then the other. She slid gracefully down the trunk, despite the divots in the wood and the extra loss of friction from the snow. There was a watery element to the way she moved, a fluidity that tied each motion to both those preceding it and those that followed.

She came to rest on the top of one of those standing roots he nestled in; the breadth was only a hair thick than on of her feet, but she had walked smaller in the boughs above, and did not appear to notice. "Not the lute," she answered his earlier question, crouching down on her toes and resting her elbows on her knees. The position was relaxed, and dryer than simply sitting down. "The flute, the violin," she named the two instruments she'd received lessons in as a child, "formerly. That was a lifetime ago." This time she was close enough he might catch the flicker in the depths of her eyes that mirrored a smile. Those eyes drifted slowly from his own to the bright scarf at his throat, before wandering back up. There was no judgment, just the same painful neutrality. They all had scars.

"Is this all you play?" This was a rare occasion; conversation was not something the Gaidar normally even attempted. A poor attempt, but an apt example of just how unnatural it was.

Asha'man Araya

Araya had not expected her to come down from the tree; she did not seem the type to engage strangers in idle conversation, though he admitted the Tower attracted many who were not always who and what they first appeared to be. He did not complain of her company though; in fact he welcomed it, blank neutral stare or no. Araya was a social man; he did not overly enjoy extended periods of his own company, and the Tower could be a lonely place. Especially for an Asha'man. It made him question, sometimes, why he remained - to travel was in his blood, after all. But remain he did, at least until the next whim chanced to carry him off, like a leaf on the wind.

He watched her climb down the tree with open appreciation for the fluidity of her form. That was another thing one quickly came to learn about the former Tinker; he was frank with his emotions and thoughts, and it did not take an expert at the Great Game to read his expressions, which he did not often make attempt to hide. The woman's lithe movements could make a cat look clumsy, he mused, and the slow nature of her descent only served to highlight the strength and control of her muscles. She had the sort of grace one might expect in a dancer, though he presumed the only dancing the Gaidar would do was with a sword.

Trista. The name came unbidden, remembrance sparked by the dull violet of her eyes now that they were bright in winter light instead of dark in shadow. It was funny how the mind could do that, but he supposed that though it had been years since that brief meeting in the Aes Sedai's Hall of Sitters, she was a memorable character. Those eyes... If he had been a man prone to such things, they might have made him uncomfortable, but there was little that could disturb Araya. Though he was a man of aesthetics, and it showed in the way he dressed and presented himself, he was also a man who saw beauty before ugliness, light before dark, and hope before doubt. He was not naive; the Creator knew he had seen enough years to know better than to see these things blindly, but he was also extremely laid back, tolerant, and accepting.

As such, Araya saw the spark in her eyes before the emptiness; the momentary flicker of a smile no sooner there than gone, and he smiled in response. He noticed, too, her gaze linger, if only fleetingly, upon the scarf about his throat. He wore the item for others' benefit as much as his own, for the scar was an ugly one and it always felt a waste of breath (on his part) to recant the story of how he had partially lost his voice. Sometimes the sheer raspiness of it was enough to insight curiosity, but he had found that most in the Tower were simply too polite to ask (he could imagine their faces should he joke that he had a cold).

"Formerly..." he repeated, and it half sounded as though he were disappointed she did not still play. His fingers slowed now, and the melody became soft, so that his whispered voice was clearer above it. "I suppose your 'instruments' are steel now. I find this is much more soothing for the soul." He smiled wryly, and shrugged in answer to her question. "Formerly. A lifetime ago, you could say." He had in fact only recently procured this lute in Tar Valon, and the talent of his youth had sprung as if like magic to his fingers, as if it had only been yesterday he had last played. He did not lie to say it was soothing, not least among the trees of the Ogier.

"You should try it. I would gladly teach you." It was difficult to say if that was a serious comment or not; certainly, he would teach her the instrument if she accepted, but equally he would not be phased should she shrug it off as jest. In part he was testing her; prodding and pushing to explore this enigma of a woman and her reactions. He was curious.

Trista Gaidar

As relaxed as his emotions were, the openness with which the Asha'man wore them on his face was strange to the Gaidar. Surrounded by serene Aes Sedai and the other hard faced Gaidin, Trista no longer expected emotions, from herself or others. The sheer absurdness fixed her gaze to his face raptly, while her own remained impassive. Feelings were as foreign to the Gaidar as they were natural to Araya, but she was not as completely devoid of life as she once was. She still, however, had the social skills of a mole rat, but perhaps that was why she actually considered the man's offer.

Those shallow red-violet pools eyed the lute with as much expression as ever. She never had much musical talent, and as deft as her fingers were at finding pressure points, throwing darts and twirling daggers, she doubted that had changed. She was too technical a person, and her imagination had hardly grown with the experiences that brought her to the Tower. The warder training regiment had stimulated that half of her brain, but also entirely reworked it; the Gaidar could think of a thousand creative ways to kill a man, and turn any mundane object into a weapon, but the notes of music floated over her head and into the wind without a hint of recognition.

All these thoughts skirted the edge of the Void and were fed into the flame within a flutter of her sooty eyelashes. Then, she nodded, "I will try." The small gesture was surprising, even to herself, which is why she was wont to vocalize it. She slid down off her root and into his divot, gauging the instrument with her eyes the same as she did an opponent before battle. She rested on her shins in front of the Asha'man, mindless of the moisture seeping into the fabric of her breeches. As relaxed as the position might be for another, her body remained visibly tense; a predator still but a cat none the less, with a need to sate her own curiosity.

Asha'man Araya

The last thing Araya had expected had been an acceptance, and he found himself pleasantly surprised, for all that her blank, unchanged expression showed not one ounce of willingness. Certainly there was more than met the eye, here, else she was simply humouring him and his eccentricities. Either way, the Asha'man was happy to take it at face value, both amused and curious. He smiled and let his fingers carress the strings in one final, idle chord as she slipped down deftly from the tree root and came to rest before him.

To the casual onlooker, she may appear relaxed, but for all his blase attitude towards anything remotely millitant, Araya had worked his way through the Black Tower and its stringent regimen. He could see the minute signs; not quite apprehension, but a readiness, certainly. For all the stiffness in her posture, he may as well have been holding a viper. His response was a chuckle, a low, throaty sound; a gurgle, almost, and an unfortunate sound for a laugh, but he had long since grown used to the effects of his scarring, and it no longer bothered him, else he had simply ceased to notice it.

"It will not bite, gaidar, and nor will I." The words were accompanied by a flicker of the lips, but the jibe was well intentioned. That errant cheekiness was a customary facet of his disposition, and he dished it out irrespective of rank or status or gender. With that violet stare and empty expression, for all he knew Trista might strike a dart through his neck there and then, but Araya did not tend to think on such things. He was himself before slave or king, gaidar or Aes Sedai. It earned him his fair share of reprimand, of course, but those were not usually the sorts of people Araya kept for company.

He passed the gaidar the instrument; a modest thing, with little ornamentation, but solid amd sturdy. A nice weight, too, which in turn gave it a nice timbre. He had bought it for sound rather than looks, which was unusual given his propensity for beautiful things, but he did love good music.

He shifted on to his knees, mirroring the woman opposite, if visibly more relaxed. "Rest the belly part on your thighs. Right. And then--" Unabashedly, he took hold of her hands to position them correctly, firm but gentle, resting her smallest finger on the soundboard, and stretching the fingers of the other hand on the neck. He had been playing so long it had become innate; he did not think, just played, but now he had to think, and it brought the smallest line of consternation to his brow, shading the brilliant blue of his eyes.

"Okay, now pluck this string here..."

Trista Gaidar

The awkward sound of Araya's chuckle drew Trista's eyes up from the lute's smooth surface, her brows lifting a hairsbreadth in question. She did not look at the scarf wrapping his neck this time, but was aware of it. Then he spoke, and despite the raspiness of his voice the man himself earned her full attention once more. A glimmer, lasting a little longer this time, deepened her otherwise vapid gaze. "I will." As dead as her voice usually was, the tiniest mirror of that glimmer sounded boldly where for anyone else it might have gone unnoticed. Her lips parted in a toothy smile that put the fear of the Light into her trainees. For Araya, there was no threat in the jest, just promise.

She took the lute from him as he shifted, facing her on his knees. She was acutely aware of how close he was. Trista was well accustomed to being near the men she called brothers; sparring in the heat of summer was often done while baring more skin than a Cairhienin at the Festival of Lights. Hand-to-hand spars meant being particularly intimate with your opponent's skin and sweat and warmth, regardless of gender, and that style of fighting was a specialty of the Gaidar's. She was not uncomfortable with men, but there was something about this one that made her... anxious.

That restlessness knotted in her back as he took hold of her hands. Forcibly feeding the tension to the Flame eased her muscles to an extent, but a wariness remained. A wariness that heightened her already exquisite attention to detail; the concentration sharpening his gaze into a pair of blue gems, the pressure from his fingers as he placed hers, the weight of the lute against her thighs- all were suddenly immensely important.

For a hollow instrument, it really was quite heavy.

Her head no longer ached, but the offending throb continued softly. Her heart beat soundly in her ears, steady but decidedly faster than the rhythm it usually held. She took a long, silent breath, pacing it to the slower, foreign cadence in her head. The sound was soothing in its own fashion, and a thought flashed across the Void that it was related to the Asha'man somehow. The idea was discarded as unfounded.

Trista plucked the dictated string, and each after it. The sound was correct but mechanical, and did not flow at all in the way it had for the Asha'man. Instant mastery was an unrealistic expectation, but a child may well have produced a more pleasing sound from the contraption. Araya was a patient instructor, and the Gaidar was not prone to frustration, but it became quickly apparent that the struggle may well be futile.

"Music is not a strength of mine," she spared Araya the task of ending the lesson. She did not give up easily, but at the rate she was improving they would remain in the Ogier Grove until the sun fell and rose again before she showed any semblance of prowess. Slender fingers, usually so adept and graceful, stumbled out the notes of a short melody he taught her. She held the lute towards him them, a smile dangerously close to genuine tugging at the edges of her mouth. "I think the trees prefer the sound it makes for you."

[[This is old, but just to give context to Araya and Trista's relationship. Timeline wise it's while he was still living at the White Tower, before he has retrieved Korene from the borderlands or has his house in Tar Valon with Hana]]

Raffe · 02-05-2023, 10:14 PM

[[should add that this was all written with Trista's original writer]]

Asha'man Araya

In all technicalities, she was an apt pupil. Araya’s expression relaxed; brief consternation at how to teach quickly swept up into amusement and, despite the rasp of his laugh and the unpleasant spasms of sound it could produce, he laughed well and often. The melody was simple - one of the first Araya had learned as a child, and with each twang of the strings rose a sense of nostalgia within the Asha’man. How long ago it had been, though, since he had travelled with the Tuatha’an. He forgot the years, sometimes - well, most of the time actually. Time was a blur, each day, month, year melting seamlessly with the last. He couldn’t even say how long he had been at the Tower now.

Trista had a mechanical method of playing and followed each instruction perfectly, and yet there was a soul missing from the sound. It was as hollow as the woman’s expression, and she appeared to gain no pleasure from the instrument. He wondered briefly over that as he watched her play, each note a duty, nothing but the obligation of the lesson, but he was not one to pry needlessly. It was clearly a facet of her nature, this strange listlessness, because he recalled her as much the same in the Hall meeting. If she did not want to stay, then she would not be here. It was that simple, and with that Araya abandoned the thought.

He had also noted the silence. She did not laugh when he laughed, nor gave any indication of the thoughts in her head. When she finally did speak, the words brought a wry curve to his mouth, but he did not flatter her otherwise, the way most men would to a pretty face. He listened as she played the short melody in its entirety - perhaps to prove a point, perhaps not - and then folded his legs so that he sat cross-legged, returning the lute to his lap. This time, rather than plucking its strings, he lounged on it, one arm draped across the wooden belly, the other hand resting lightly on the neck.

He watched the gaidar for a moment in mindless scrutiny - open in his curiosity, and unembarrassed by the brief moment of silence. She was close to smiling; he could see it in the faint tautness about her lips and the equally faint glimmer in her vapid eyes. She was not withholding it, clearly, but the expression was so minimal he might easily have missed it.

“A trade for a trade,” he said presently, grinning. That jesting tone was back. “Now it’s your turn to teach me something.”

Trista Gaidar

There was a lot of mutual observation passing between the strange pair. And they were strange, each an opposite extreme of the expected personality spectrum for their respective occupations. Araya baring the lighter side of an Asha'man, while Trista the darker side of a Warder. Still, if numbers were counted, - of Asha'man, Aes Sedai and Warders all - there were more who fell into Trista's end of that spectrum than Araya's. Darkness was drawn to power, it seemed, and the Tower was a shining beacon of the greatest power in the world. The weak were weeded out early by it, but even the strong that remained suffered for it.

Thoughts such as these never truly manifested in the Gaidar's mind. They were more of an awareness. The same as she knew the sun would rise in the morning and the sky beyond was blue; there was no need to think about it, one just understood that was the way it was.

She nodded absently, his words obviously expected. Altarans were a people who understood the importance of repaying favor, though they did not find debt in every action the way the Aiel seemed to. In a city where even elderly grandmothers carried curved daggers at their waist, if you did not pay a price willingly another may exact it from you in his or her own fashion.

Trista put her hands up in front of her, palms facing the Asha'man. He likely would not recognize the gesture, but if he did it still may not make sense. In Ebou Dar it would express her desire for a discussion not to escalate into a duel, and she was in no danger of that here. "My trade is in battle, and your Black Tower has undoubtedly versed you in that already. If there is an aspect of your training you wish to improve I may be able to help," her voice did not trail off, but halted with noticeable abruptness. She really was quite one-dimensional. Outside of the war she dedicated her life to, she had little to offer. Her only respite was that which had found her in the branches before.

Here eyes shifted upwards. "I can show you the Ogier Grove from a new angle, but you must be willing to climb."

Asha'man Araya

Araya was a little disappointed that she took his jest in absolute seriousness, as her hand gesture and solemn words seem to suggest. He had offered the lute lessons freely, and did not expect a repayment in any serious way. He was teasing, he supposed, but thus far it seemed to be yielding little. The intensity of his gaze dipped after a little internal thought, and then something of the carefree aura returned. What did it matter anyway? After she spoke he followed her gaze up to the lofty tree tops. It was high up there, but the Asha'man was never one to shirk an adventure. Or a challenge.

He grinned and stood, placing the lute safely in the hollow he had been sitting. It had been a long time since a boyhood of climbing trees with his peers, but the familiar comfort of saidin made him cocky. "I accept! Lead the way, Gaidar."

Trista Gaidar

The Asha'man's enthusiasm brought a smirk to one edge of the Gaidar's mouth. The expression was not the evil thing that turned the trainees' knees to water; it was more genuine- a facet of her true personality peeking through. "Keep up if you can, Asha'man," she challenged, her otherwise barren vocals laced with good natured sarcasm. She rocked back up onto her feet, and leapt up onto the standing root fluidly. Trista had an impressive vertical jump, but still was not quite tall enough to simply leap and catch the low branch she'd come down from. Not when there was an easier way, at least.

A few quick steps and the friction of the rough bark provided a foothold, allowing her to push off with one leg and reach the large limb. She swung up easily, and stood looking down at Araya. "Coming?" She teased again with a startlingly visible upward curve to her lips.

For all her provocation, Trista made no true attempt to lose him. If he struggled she would wait and assist if he needed. Saidin undoubtedly eased his way to at least some extent, so she did not really expect him to have trouble. In the beginning it was an especially easy trek; the climb was more horizontal than vertical, and here the large lower limbs of the trees meshed together relatively closely. Those limbs which were not so close required rather daring leaps, but Trista took them with ease. She had done this many times, and this particular path was the most effortless. For that reason in particular she used it quite rarely, but she was unsure of Araya's abilities.

The vertical climb was more taxing. In such large trees the branches were often several strides apart and up, but getting to the desired Great Tree had inadvertently found them at a height where the length between branches was manageable. Even slowed a fraction in light of her guest, the pace the Gaidar set was grueling. From the start they had traveled for nearly half the hour, and it was at this time she paused. High as they were, the branch she halted on was still half her height wide. She glanced upwards, but did not need to gauge the distance left. Habit told her where they were.

"We're about halfway to the top," she stated, her eyes moving to Araya. A normal person starting from the bottom of this tree would have needed at least two hours to get where they were. Her experience at navigating the canopy smoothed their way, but only years of conditioning and practice kept sweat from drenching her body. That did not mean she was without fatigue; making the journey twice in one day, in such a short interval, warmed her skin and deepened her breathing measurably. "Are you opposed to a short rest?" She could continue without, but felt the stress weighing on her muscles. There was no need to damage herself in leisure, and she did so hate being Healed.

Asha'man Araya

The propsect of the climb seemed to jump-start the strange gaidar. He chuckled, watching the daring acrobatics that lifted her back into the branches, and then attempted to follow suit in a not quite so daring fashion. The Asha'man was not so graceful in his climb, but something so trivial as outward appearance did little to phase his efforts. One did not come across many opportunities for careless fun in Tar Valon, and Araya grasped it with both hands, lips quirked never far from an inwardly amused expression. He might've enjoyed the view above if the climb had not required his full attention; though he had saidin as a safety net, the Light burn him for a fool should he actually fall.

I am not dressed for this, he mused as the loose, flapping material of his attire snagged on small shooting branches. The dense canopy shielded the bark from much ice, but he noticed the drop in temperature as they got higher. When they finally paused, Araya flopped on the wide branch, seemingly unafraid of the steep drop back to the ground. Though he kept himself in some fitness, he was not as strict with it as his training at the Black Tower had dictated, and certainly didn't come close to the rigours of the White Tower trained. Pale brows rose in his head. "Only half?" The words were followed by a scratchy chuckle, and then his eyes glanced over the edge of the wide branch. "Fortunate I am not afraid of heights, hmm?" Even glancing over the edge elicited some slight vertigo, but Araya was well balanced.

"A good place to escape from the world below, if one feels the need for escaping." Araya had his own demons and no need for hers; the words were light and not an interrogation. "I shall have to remember it. Especially if the view is magnificent as I imagine."

Trista Gaidar

Araya's unceremonious drop onto his backside was taken as an agreement by the Gaidar, who leaned back against the massive trunk, bending her knee so that the sole of one foot rested on its coarse bark, and folding her arms beneath her breasts. She regarded him with an expression bordering on amusement. His positive disposition was infectious, and even she was beginning to succumb to it. "I have always liked heights," she offered, her own eyes drifting over the edge. "I grew up on the Altaran coast, where the cliffs meet the ocean. My brother and I used to jump off into the water." The admission was more than most got from the Gaidar, and alarming for any who had visited the Altaran cliffs. They rose higher than the great trees, and leaping from the edge had been like growing the wings of a bird and taking flight. Trista had been baiting death long before the Tower, it seemed.

Her eyes trailed back from the edge of the limb, and up the form of the Asha'man. "The view isn't too bad from here, either," she said with a smirk. The Gaidar met his sapphire blue gaze shamelessly, the delicate planes of her face taking on a playful countenance. She was Altaran after all, and so, as a woman, felt no disgrace in being forward.

As for an escape, she could not say. As busy as she was, Trista rarely had trouble finding time alone. She was a rough taskmistress, and the trainees hesitated to seek her out once they were free for the day. She was not without companions among the Gaidin, but even the unbonded such as herself were kept busy. The Aes Sedai rarely sought her out, but that was more a relief than a worry. The skirts - a term Trista had picked up from Akari, the Light shelter her soul - always made Trista uneasy. Not a particularly attractive trait, in one sworn to protect their lives. And she would protect them; odd as it was, she was more comfortable with the idea of dying for an Aes Sedai than carrying out a conversation with one.

Asha'man Araya

He supposed he'd probably been to Altara with the wagons, but since the Tuatha'an stayed away from cities and large settlements he had no particular memories of the place. Or any other place, either. It had all been much the same, and was perhaps moreso in the faded recesses of his memory; just one huge continent without borders. He'd never even bothered to learn the names of the countries until his training at the Black Tower, though that was not to say he had been ignorant. He'd known stories, cultures, accents, and clothes. The honour of the north and frivolity of the south. Life had been so much simpler. And much more boring.

"A brother, eh? I had a sister. Well, have I suppose. I've not seen her in a long time." She could be anywhere in the world right now, he mused, all grown up with children of her own. Though the tinkers were always on the move, he didn't doubt that he could find her and the others if he really wished it. But what would be the point? For all the closeness of family ties, it was all past now. They'd moved on to continue the search for the song, and he'd moved on to become an abomination. The irony made him chuckle in his lighter moods, and for all his 'claimed' ignorance of the great game, he saw, sometimes, the faint amusement with which the aes sedai viewed his fate. It bothered him little and less these days, if it ever even had. He was what he was, so let them laugh. Perhaps it would do them some good.

"I was a tinker, once," he disclosed with a wink. As if that wasn't obvious. He'd retained more of his past than was proper, and despite it all had never truly given up his pacifist sensibilities, but you couldn't very well follow the way of the leaf and be a weapon in your very being. Araya had accepted that much, but it didn't stop him refusing to wear a weapon. Blind folly, his comrades called it. Araya agreed that one day it would probably get him killed. "And for all that the aes sedai teach their protegees otherwise, our past never really leaves us. Makes us who we are, right?" He rubbed at the cloth round his throat. The scar itched under the sweat and fabric.

He chuckled at her flirtacious banter, and did not balk from her gaze. "Indeed," he agreed, and grinned mischievously. Araya was not unaccustom to female attention, but Tower women were a dangerous quarry.

As much as he was comfortable lounging around in tree branches all day, and with beautiful company besides, the gaidar had said short rest. He hauled himself to his feet, balancing himself with a hand against the trunk, and glanced upwards. "After you, then, gaidar."

Trista Gaidar

Trista's arms fell to her sides, the muscles of her abdomen contracting to straighten her into a standing position from where she leaned on the tree. She was not surprised at his admission, but knew he had not expected her to be. He was clearly unashamed of his past, and made no attempt to hide it. Trista was unashamed of her past, but knew that it made the skirts uncomfortable. She made no exceptional attempt to hide it, but neither did she flaunt it. In essence, what information Aes Sedai did not like, did not exist. If the Yellows who had discovered her inability to channel had told anyone, they never spoke of it. Even those Yellows seemed to have put her out of mind, though every once in awhile a sister assigned to Healing on the training grounds would watch her with a bit more interest than the others.

There was one other person that knew, because Trista had told her. Ellesei had been her roommate, and the first person she had called friend once arriving at the Tower. The northlander was gone now; to where, Trista did not know. Rumors said that she left to return to her home, and Trista had no reason to believe otherwise. Whatever had happened, Elle had a fierce spirit, and she was either alive or had fought to an honorable death, as northlanders so required.

Two short strides and she crossed into Araya's space. She stood in front of him, looking up, and a predatory smile slowly split her lips. Tower women were dangerous quarry, but they were also exceptionally skilled hunters.

Her fingertips lifted to tug softly on the bottom of his vibrant scarf. "I was a wilder, once," her otherwise monotonous voice was laced with mischeif. If he missed the soft sound of the article that turned that key word into a noun, the whole meaning of the statement changed. "And yes, you're right."

She leapt vertically and snagged the next branch, flashing upwards into the canopy. The short rest had been more than enough for the slenderly muscular Gaidar; this time, she did not stop until they had reached the top.

The summit of the monstrous tree was stable enough to support the weight of both climbers, so Trista did not worry about stopping short. The tree had once been even taller, but the top of the trunk ended in jagged, broken bark. Black splotches named the axe lightning. The jagged edges made good stabilizers however, and so she left room between herself and the trunk for him to stand, in case he needed them. She stood without fear, the branch under her feet still twice as wide as the thin beam she used for training.

Tar Valon spread out before them, the clean white buildings shining in the afternoon light. Beyond the western wall the river ran orange with sunlight, and the forests faded into the Caralain grass. The White Tower overpowered it all from where it rose in the center city, challenged only by Dragonmount in height. She watched the surreal scene for the second time that day, and was again painfully aware of how little it inspired her. For all the subtle affairs that drove life and death in Tar Valon, at this distance they were invisible. Tar Valon stood untouched by the ages; it never changed.

Her eyes shifted to the Asha'man. He was much more interesting to watch. His face changed.

Asha'man Araya

When she came close, Araya realised that Trista was actually much shorter than her long, lean legs suggested. And that was not the only deceptive thing about her; he was not quite sure he could decifer her strange nature, so very solemn and playful in the same instance, but as she tugged on the end of his scarf he was overcome by the somewhat insane (and possibly dangerous) notion to draw her into a kiss. A cheeky smile curved his lips, sparkling in his blue eyes, but neither thought nor action had much hold before she'd sprung up into the dense, broad green leaves, leaving him alone on the wide branch. Wicked creature, he mused, arching his head backwards to watch her dexterous climb. He had the feeling he was but a mouse being toyed with under the claws of a cat, and yet he wasn't exactly an unwilling party in the game.

As the gaidar began to disappear, Araya steeled himself for another lengthy climb. Half-way, she had said, and he sighed. Perhaps it was time to add a couple of laps around the practice fields to his morning routine if he couldn't even climb a tree (no matter how extraordinarily tall) without getting out of breath. He didn't imagine either the M'Hael or the Dragon would be much amused by this 'well honed' weapon...

Oh well.

It was not until he began the steep ascent that he actually considered what it was she had said. A wilder. He knew the terminology, of course, and saw the conclusion readily enough. As a channeler, even of the other half of the source, the thought sent shivers colder than the season's snow down his spine. For all that saidin was the bane of his unwanted fate, he would never now wish to be without it; it was the Black Tower's ideology he was at odds with, not the wondrous nature of his gift.

The woman's vapid eyes and expressionless face made some sort of sense now. One only had to look at the tattered remains of Kentrillo Orander to see the devastating affects of withdrawal (which was an altogether euphemistic way of putting it), and he felt a rare respect for one who could seemingly come out the other end so 'normal'. What he didn't understand is why she had told him, especially as his own disclosure had been in jest (and hardly a disclosure at all for its obviousness). Oh she had sultried the words. He hadn't missed that, but she had still said what she said. She had still told him, if not in so many words.

He had reached no conclusions by the time he arrived at the top, but the achievement of that dulled any melancholy thought. The Asha'man pulled himself up on to the final branch, and did opt to accept the space near the trunk for balance. This far up the wind was icy cold and whipped at his scarf and pale-blonde hair; he could shield himself from that if he wanted, but there was something alluring in the wild danger. Still, the fingers of his left hand curled around the jagged edges of bark as he peered out at the view. And what a view it was. How many people ever saw Tar Valon like this? Only the two of them and the Creator, no doubt. The awe was free across Araya's face, and he laughed.

"The deal is met, and surpassed I don't doubt." His eyes slid to the gaidar, only to realise she had been watching him this whole time. The laughter was stalled, if only to save the pain in his throat, but he did smile. "Now you can't tell me, gaidar, that I am more interesting than this?"

Trista Gaidar

Whether the pounding in her head was her own heart or a trick of the mind, it throbbed steadily in a place behind her ears. Though it refused to leave and had gained in speed, it no longer caused her pain. Since her encounter with the Asha'man it had faded, and though it felt somehow stronger now, the rythm had settled in the back of her head, slowly receding from perception. Even now it was not gone, but she had nearly forgotten it as she watched the former Tinker take in the vast scenery.

She smirked at his words, her gaze shifting back to the overwhelming view. "I have seen this before. The surface never changes, no matter the force or depth of the currents underneath," she vocally summarized her earlier thoughts, "Tar Valon is not so different from its people."

The wind gusted, tugging at her braid and sending a spray of what raven hairs had come loose across her olive cheeks. She ignored the few unruly wisps, though she had to look through them as she turned her face back towards Araya. "But you," she paused, a smile creeping into her eyes "your face changes." A strange logic, but clearly the Gaidar did not think it so.

Trista finally brushed the freed tresses behind one ear as another gust of wind disturbed the tree tops. She maintained her balance without thought, but it did not stop the thrill rushing up her spine. It settled in her diaphram, fueling a fire that enchanted her dark eyes. A weaker person might become addicted to the danger of it all, but Trista kept herself in check. She had a duty to the Tower and its denizens; if she had longed to end her life taking unnecessary risks, she'd have never stepped foot inside that gleaming white wall.

Raffe · 02-05-2023, 10:21 PM

Asha'man Araya

"It does? How very unpolitical of me..." Araya smirked. He was surprised by her answer, for he couldn't quite fathom any other reason to make such an arduous journey if not for that view. Perhaps he saw it differently; for him it held a sort of kinship, that solid unchanging landscape. Araya had decades upon decades left to live. The Aes Sedai had the constraints of the oath rod to sever their lives short, and even then they ran in to the centuries. Without the oath rod, the Asha'man might live yet more centuries beyond, if they happened to survive the Last Battle. All those years... And all all those years spent alone.

The people below, too small to see, with their lives, loves and deaths were as detached as the view made them seem. Of course, Araya was yet young and not yet passed the milestone of the average human lifespan. For now he could dip in; enjoy life with a fresh perspective and forget that he would still be young when their grandchildren were old. But how long would it be before he was but a spectator, too jaded to indulge in the trivialities of those lives? He could hope never; he could hope he would not live that long. But for now the majestic view of Dragonmount and Tar Valon was of a comfort; the one thing, Creator willing, that would remain when all he knew now was gone. It made him wish, sometimes, for the closeness of an ajah, or to recapture something of his days with the tinkers. His Brothers of the Black Tower were in naught but name; nothing glued them together but the Dragon. Araya had freedom unrivaled, but it had its price.

It was a strange thought, but Araya was as quick to melancholy as he was to laughter, or near any other emotion. He supposed Trista was right about that; his face was a canvas; always open, always genuine. Perhaps that was unusual, but if she found amusement or intrigue in it he wasn't about to stop her. His own gaze remained on the view, though he could see the dark-haired gaidar in his peripheral, utterly fearless on the thin branch.

Trista Gaidar

The late afternoon light played across the smooth planes of Araya's face as thoughts passed silently behind his eyes. They were a brilliant blue, and fit his attire well, even as they danced to the whims of emotion. Trista had never been exposed to the Cairhienin Game of Houses, but she imagined nothing could be more convoluted and elaborate than the fancies of Aes Sedai. She had lived among them in the Tower long enough to read a face, if not so well as a person born under the rule of the Sun Throne. She knew his expression, though the Aes Sedai hid it well.

"You're lonely." The lack of inflection in her voice made it a statement, not question, but she was not one to speak her thoughts without reason. That an Asha'man might feel himself alone in the White Tower was not surprising, but she had a sense that it was bigger than that. How could it not be, when facing a view of such breadth?

For all she found herself alone often, in her earlier years at the Tower she would not have understood. For most of her training she had been borderline mindless, acting based on orders alone and taking orders blindly. She still did not question the orders she was given, but she had some say now in who she took those orders from. Where before she had cared no more for the company of humans than for the company of furniture, she had grown to appreciate consciousness in some of the people around her. Trista did not think about whether or not she had improved (physically, mentally, emotionally) as much as she was simply aware of herself, and so knew when change occurred. She was not so completely an empty shell as she had formerly been, but with the return of self came the return of everything it entailed- dilute as it all may be. Including loneliness. Including desire.

These thoughts glittered at the edge of the Void and were consumed by the flame within the time it took her to inhale. She had been watching him from the corner of one coal-lashed eye, but turned her body to face him now. A distance not quite the length of her foot seperated them, and while that distance was appropriate for standing side-by-side on a tapering branch, it felt much smaller chest-to-chest. He could step back, of course, but at less than arms length would find his back pressed into the bark of the Great Tree.

The wind whipped his scarf between them and she deftly caught it once more with her fingertips. A slow smirk drifted across her lips as she looked up at him. "It is not very becoming of you," she said as her fingers gave another set of quick, gentle tugs on the bottom of his scarf.

Asha'man Araya

Such an astute and to the point observation stole his attention abruptly from the view. Araya's eyes widened a little. For all of her comments about his open expressions, he had not quite expected so credible a conclusion. Perhaps because her own expressions remained void so much of the time, he had never really anticipated her to recognise what it was she saw - let alone vocalise it, and yet there it was in one stark comment. Most people would not have been so bold as to state it aloud, and many men would have taken issue with the revelation of any weakness. But it seemed neither of them were particularly ordinary.

For the briefest of moments Araya's eyes returned once more to the distant landscape. It was not that he minded her reading him so easily or felt embarrassed by what she saw, but more that he had never really thought about it in so base and plain a way. Not something he cared to dwell on, least of all here and now, but he supposed it was true. No supposing. It was true. To be an Asha'man or Aes Sedai was to be an island, for all the pretence of unity. To be an Asha'man among Aes Sedai was also to be alone. But it went deeper than that, for Araya. He did not always shoulder it easily, but what else was there to do?

He wanted to laugh at how something so simple as a view could affect him so, but nothing of the sort came out of his mouth. It was not his intention to offload his philosophical struggles, though; they were his to burden, and like as not were uninteresting to another. He smiled down at her as she turned to face him, mood mellowed but not unkind. Every time he thought he had worked the woman out she did something surprising. But that was women for you. The small smile grew a fraction as she tugged on the bright orange scarf.

"You're right," he said, letting go of the jagged bark aiding his balance and unwinding the cloth about his neck. That moment of instability, wind whipping his clothes and hair, was liberating for all that it set his heart racing. The tree trunk was still a step away should he slip and fall and the shifting of his arms wavered his balance; at this height even saidin would not be much of a safety net. But he didn't slip and he didn't fall, if his balance was not as perfect or effortless as hers. He neither flaunted nor hid the jagged scarring revealed across his throat. It was simply there, angry and raised with pale scar tissue. It was a lucky wound to have survived.

"Perhaps it would look better on you." The orange material fluttered in his hands, and he placed it loosely around the gaidar's neck. The ends he kept lightly in his grasp to stop them flying in the wind, though they waved about in the wind in an effort to fly.

Trista Gaidar

Trista's eyes flickered from his face to the scarf, curious at the action of his hands. Her words had not been referencing the vibrant material, and there was a split second she wondered if he had truly misunderstood. His openness was misleading in itself, to one so accustomed to expressionless faces. Perhaps it was a clever ploy to change the subject, but then again, it hardly mattered to the Gaidar. If the Asha'man did not want to speak of it, she would not. If he just misunderstood, she could not complain at his interpretation.

Instinct tickled the Void with a feather of suspicion, and only acute control over her muscles kept them from tensing. Letting another person wind a strip of fabric around her throat was dangerous, and before she knew what she was doing, the Gaidar had mentally checked off every pressure point and physical action she could take should he make the wrong move. Her face did not show it except in the sudden stillness that seized her features, and even that was gone in an instant. In a way she trusted this strange Asha'man, but years of training were not easily suppressed. If she wanted to, that was; they were still very nearly strangers.

Yet, she found herself smiling in what could only be described as fondness when it rested on her shoulders. There was no softness in her face, merely an underlying sense of enjoyment. The material held the heat from his neck, and was warm against her olive skin. She was aware of the scar she had heard all along in his voice, now brought to light, but only in her peripherals. The remnant of a terrible yet lucky wound, but she had seen scars before.

She regarded him, sobriety and mischief - however diffused they were in the vacuum of her eyes - battling for dominance over her gaze. "A gift for a gift," mischief had won her voice, and laced the paraphrase of his earlier words. A slender hand snaked up behind his head, long fingers finding purchase in the golden locks of his hair. Of course, fluid and fast as all her motions, he could stop her if he wanted to- or so she had been taught to believe of all weavers of the Power. She forced him down roughly and caught his mouth with her own, thoroughly reimbursing him for the blazing bolt of sun at her throat.

Asha'man Araya

He was vaguely amused by how unimpressed Trista looked, standing there with the bright scarf whipping like tongues of fire about her still and expressionless face. It never once occurred to him that the subtle tense of her features signalled how close he had come to fuelling her warrior instincts; he was altogether too trusting, for all that his training and life experiences taught him again and again to be cautious, and sometimes he was naïve enough to take for granted the reciprocation of trust from others. It never even registered that the scarf could be a weapon, or that her initial reaction was anything but the usual void of unreadable feeling, if she felt at all. When she smiled slightly, his own lips quirked a mirror of the expression. Strange woman. And yet he liked her. Though she was aesthetically beautiful, it was the enigma of her that attracted him most; the smallest curve of her lips, or the briefest sparkle of reaction in her otherwise dull eyes. All this, and he knew next to nothing about her.

As if to illustrate that point further, she proceeded to catch him completely off guard.

Araya's balance wavered as she pulled his head down. For a moment he feared falling, and then he realised she was kissing him. A gift for a gift. He might have chuckled if his mind hadn't already been elsewhere. All thought fled, the view and height and importance of balance also forgotten. His returned kiss was gentle for all that hers was passionate, and it seemed to end all too quickly. When they broke apart he smiled, a somewhat boyish expression on his smooth face. Briefly, he worried that it had only been out of some strange Altaran honour custom; a gift for a gift, just as she had acted so seriously over his earlier jest. And then he checked himself. You don't even know her. Reluctantly, he let the thought go. A kiss didn't have to mean any more than a kiss. They had been teasing each other the whole climb.

He didn't step back, though there was just enough room to retreat from intimacy's range, but found he wasn't quite sure what to say. Women were difficult to understand at the best of times, and this one was more difficult by ten-fold. He settled for a soft smile. "Well, that was definitely worth the climb," he said, and wondered why he'd said it. It wasn't like him to become so flustered, and he assured himself that it was probably only because he knew she could read him so effortlessly.

Trista Gaidar

He did not stop her. Soft as it were, Araya returned the kiss, and Trista's mind was silent for it. Not silent in the way the emptiness was silent; rather, it was the silence of focus, when the mind was consumed by one single thing so completely that there was no room for distraction. The quiet made the duration of the endearment at once endless and abbreviated. When they parted she did not immediately release him, but met his innocent smile with her own wolfish grin so closely their lips were in danger of meeting again.

Then she released him. And then she wished she hadn't. A strange sensation she did not even attempt to define twitched at her stomach. As his face drifted between worry and uncertainty that feeling only tightened, which is not what she might have expected. She disregarded it, of course, but she could not resist the mixture of pride and amusement at knocking the Asha'man (metaphorically) off balance. Why those feelings, she could not say. The Gaidar was an amatuer at picking apart such complex combinations; normally her emotions were quite discrete.

Luckily, the Gaidar had no desire to pick them apart. Emotions were meant to be experienced, not reasoned with. So long as they were kept in control, but even before the severing, that had never been a problem for Trista. His features settled into a gentle smile, and Trista was content to watch the way the light played with the smooth planes of his face. His words made her laugh. For the usually lifeless Gaidar that was little more than a pleased hum from her throat, but by now the Asha'man had probably picked up the translation.

"Now you can't tell me, Asha'man, that I am more interesting than this," for all they were his words, they sounded much different in her smooth, nearly inflectionless voice. The gentle tease stood out in her tone, as her eyes drifted back to the startling breadth of Tar Valon. She decided that she needed to find some words of her own, however. Unfortunately, the only thing to come out after a short pause was not what she had been looking for. "The sun's going down. We will need to descend shortly," the observation was almost disappointing. She glanced back at him, and her smirk returned. "Or we might have to stay up here all night." The undertones of her voice said that it was not a bad idea. It was also not entirely true- simply, it would be a more dangerous trek to the bottom, but they could do it if needed. Being Asha'man, he might even be able to Travel, but as a Gaidar she did not explicitly know why some could do certain things with the Power and some could not. Strength had something to do with it, but then there were certain things the weak could do that some strong could not; it was a very complex system, as all things related to the Power inherently were.

Asha'man Araya

A laugh. It felt like some bizarre triumph, and elicited the same response in the Asha'man. "Can't I?" His brows rose in jest, but there was clearly an element of truth behind the light tone. He might not have used the word interesting in this case, but she did hold his attention quite thoroughly. "You underestimate yourself." He grinned and, though her gaze had already departed to the view of Tar Valon below, watched her a moment longer. It seemed pointless to try and fathom her out, but he could not help but succumb to the intrigue.

Araya had not paid any mind to the time; he usually didn't, but when she mentioned the sun his gaze spread over the horizon. He'd not been relishing the climb down, and had put it to the back of his mind until now; travelling up had been demanding enough and the impending darkness would only make a tricky task tougher. Not unmanageable, but it was not just the difficulty that made him reluctant. Her comment was sobering, though, and content as he was to remain, he would not keep her from her duties with the Tower.

"You're the expert. I bow to your judgement." His eyes returned to her just in time to catch the smirk. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the comment, though smiled quietly in return. "Though if we stay, I'm not standing all night." His head indicated the severed trunk behind them. Ice and evening frost had settled into the jagged wood, but it was nothing that a trick of saidin could not sort out. There was also no protection from the winds this high up either, but he could help there, too if need be. "Is it safe enough, do you think?"

It had been a long while since he had spent a night out under the stars; too long since he had last been on the road. That prospect, along with the company, was inviting, but he deemed to leave it in the gaidar's hands. And though his lute remained at the base of the tree, he had no particular fears for it. Thieves were uncommon in Tar Valon, and though Asha'man did not get the same sort of stipend given to Aes Sedai, it had not been so expensive he could not afford another.

Trista Gaidar

Trista's eyes followed the gesture of his head, and that amused sound hummed from her throat again. She had not expected him to take her seriously. Her torso twisted so that she could look behind them, from where the wind was currently originating. Great Trees even more massive than the one on which they stood rose from further within the Ogier Grove to block her view. They were what twisted the wind so awkwardly, but they also helped slow and deter the strongest gusts from knocking them off. That wind was only a little chill now, but once the sun fell it was going to be cold enough to freeze water.

"Provided we stay warm," the smirk had left her lips, but remained in her words. She was surprised to actually be considering the idea, but she had no one waiting for her back at the Tower. Not until the next morning well after sunrise would her trainees be waiting; normally they would have been expected on the fields before the sun crested the eastern horizon, but she had run them particularly hard today. She was not entirely heartless - and of course, she risked injuring them if she worked them too hard - and so gave them the morning to sleep it off.

She had been on top of the broken tree before. The tree must have been much taller before being struck, as even at this height the trunk was three strides across- four, if not for the jagged way it was broken, rendering only the center flat. The edge facing into the other trees rose taller than Trista, showing that it must have fallen towards the center of Tar Valon. She nodded towards it, signally that he would need to climb up first. Agile as she was, the branch was not wide enough for her to slink by without potentially knocking him off.

Raffe · 02-05-2023, 10:33 PM

One of the effects of his free emotions was that he tended to take others literally and at face value, and sometimes he even chose to rather than struggle with the discrepancies between what people said and what they meant. In this case he was a little unsure, mostly because Trista was so difficult to read, but he didn’t dwell too much on it.

“Of course.” Araya turned to survey the platform, one hand firmly on the edge to prevent himself from overbalancing, and didn’t appear to catch the smirk in her voice. He wrenched saidin under control and warmed the wood of ice and water so that they wouldn’t freeze their backsides off, then pulled himself up onto the severed trunk. He considered offering Trista a hand, but thought better of the gesture; she was more capable than him anyway, so he waited at the centre, sitting with his legs drawn up, arms lounging over them.

After Araya had pulled him self up, Trista closed the distance between herself and the trunk with two short strides and vaulted easily onto the makeshift platform. There was no showmanship to her fluid movements, just a raw grace that came from long years of practice and conditioning. She folded easily into a sitting position next to the Asha'man. For as fluid as her motions were, her still frame was surprisingly rigid, cross-legged and straight-backed. There was nothing special about the stiffness of her body; no signal she was trying to give. She was just unaccustomed to relaxing in public, and Araya was still contained in that category. In truth, there were very few who fell outside it.

Her eyes remained fix on the view, but her mind was elsewhere. She sat in silence for a short time. "How does a Tinker come to be Asha'man?" she asked finally. Her voice was unassuming, and lacked the irony another's voice might carry at such an absurd thought. The technical answer was that he had the ability to wield the Power and therefore would become Asha'man; however, if the Black Tower's regiment for its initiates was as strict as the White Tower's, it was possible that not all male channelers became Asha'man. Trista knew little of the dark Tower standing at the base of Dragonmount, but then, that was why she asked.

“The Wheel Weaves. And the Blight kills.” On a whim, he wove a wall of air about the trunk, then leaned over to rap it with his knuckles and show the gaidar it was there, though probably she would have felt the wind die down. He had left a slim gap leading to the branch they had climbed from, though she would be aware of that too; the wind had not completely ceased. The hole was for Trista’s benefit, lest she feel enclosed or trapped against her will; it was rare to find someone who trusted a channeler, let alone a male one, and certainly not one who was a stranger. It meant it was colder, but once the sun dipped he could use the Power again to remedy that should it become intolerable. The point of the invisible wall was not so much to act as a buffer to the wind anyway (though it did that too) as a reassurance that he would not accidentally roll off should he happen to fall asleep.

That done, Araya laid back, legs still bent at the knee to stop himself slipping down the uneven bark, and hands resting lightly clasped on his stomach. Despite that he could tell her posture was stiff beside him, he had no qualms with relaxing, in company unfamiliar or otherwise. “I used to do this a lot when I was younger. Spend the night outside, I mean. There’s a beautiful fearlessness about the Tuatha’an, for all that people call them cowards, and I wouldn’t have given that life up if I’d ever had a choice. Me and every other poor sod dragged to Dragonmount, I don’t doubt. But the Black Tower needs every weapon, whether they gain the pins or not.”

At night in his soldier bunk, he’d used to tell himself stories to preserve the innocent world of his youth, but that didn’t feel like the sort of thing he ought share with a stranger. It went without saying that the transition between pure pacifist and weapon had not been easy or quick, and for all intents and purposes, the scar across his throat had been the catalyst for him ever being raised beyond the rank of soldier. He remembered the heavy weight of the sword he had used to protect himself - the first he had ever touched - and the months of voicelessness that had followed. No voice, no stories, and no sanity; only the memory of the blade in his grasp and hot blood seeping through his fingers. It had all served to end his resolve, shake his beliefs, but it had taken a further push for him to ever earn the right to the title of Asha’man.

He tapped his throat. “This earned me the sword pin. It’s hard to turn the other cheek when your life’s pouring red through your fingers. Then, when I was…” he paused, and realised how irreverent he was of time. “Twenty-five, or around, I suppose, I was sent to the Blight.” He chuckled dryly. “There’s a reason why you don’t see the wagons north. Experiences like that change a man. I earned the dragon pin that year.” And lost his soul, if he was going to be morbid about it, but he’d long since accepted the bizarre nature of his predicament. For the most part, anyhow. The Creator knew that since acquiring the dragon pin, Araya had accepted the obscurest of missions and kept his head low. He had no thirst or desire for power or recognition. He was a weapon, but until Tarmon Gaidon, he didn’t have to act like it. Day to day he carried no weapons but saidin, and he owned but two; the sword that had nearly killed him, and the one that had saved him. “And that’s more-or-less how this Tinker became an Asha’man. Though if you’re asking whether or not I still believe in the Song, then the answer is yes, I still do." Or maybe he simply wanted to, but either way it shaped the man he was.

Araya watched the slowly darkening clouds as he spoke, and did not seem affected by his words as he had been by the view; he'd told this tale before, and no doubt would again. It was a common enough thing for others to wonder about him, particularly since he made no effort to hide his Tuatha'an roots.

He might’ve returned the question, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. She’d offered the nature of her loss without prompting, but it was another thing entirely to speak about it, and while he didn't doubt she had come to terms with her past in some way (how else could she still even be alive?) he didn't feel the need to draw the whys and hows from her as an Aes Sedai might. A severed channeler becoming a gaidar; the one profession she could choose that was so intrinsically involved with all she had lost. It was as strange as a Tinker Asha'man.

The wind cut off suddenly, as opposed to slowly dying off, and Trista was immediately aware of the invisible wall. Living in the White Tower, one learned to recognize when the Power was being used even when it was not blatantly obvious. She was aware of the space as well, creating a slight draft and soft howl as the wind gusted by.

She listened to his story without physical reaction. The tale was more of an answer than she expected. For all it was spoken in his harsh voice, she enjoyed it. Her eyes stared unfocused into the distance as she listened, but when he mentioned his age at gaining the pins she watched him from the edge of her vision. She wondered idly how many years his smooth face hid; how long ago these events had passed. Not too long, she thought. A smile like his would probably not survive long under the will of the Towers. There were Aes Sedai with gray in their hair that smiled, but not like that. Devastation sought out those most determined to keep such a smile, and shredded them mercilessly for all their effort.

The Aes Sedai and her (former)Asha'man-Warder in charge of Trista's Accepted of the Sword Mission were a perfect example, and Araya's mention of the Blight merged easily with the Gaidar's path of thought. From the Dark One's disease-bitten land grew the most awful of creatures, and the few scars Trista had lay at the no-longer-attached claws of such beasts.

"A terrible place, the Blight," she agreed. "As an Accepted of the Sword my company was sent on assignment there. We were attacked by Darkhounds before even crossing the Mountains of Dhoom," she chuckled then, though she could not have said why it amused her if he asked. "If only I could say that was the worst of it. The worms earned that prestige," wretched creatures, gigantic and pulsing; rather slimey as well.

"I was..." she paused, a tiny line forming between her eyebrows as she tried to remember her age then. "Well, I am twenty-five now. I must have been twenty, maybe?" She shook her head a little, her lips forming a wry smile. "Time runs together for me, sometimes. Surrounded by the ageless, I suppose it is not surprising," her voice took on a sardonic note at that last. Just as she could not touch that torturous light, it could not reach her. Not as anything other than a silent taunt, anyway. Unbonded, she would age the same as any other nonchanneler. Judging from her current progress, she would likely grow old and die
before a skirt decided found her suitable. A bittersweet relief, that. But then, Trista knew that in reality unbonded Gaidin and Gaidar were naught but meat shields(more so than bonded Warders, that is), and were rarely given the chance to grow old. Face death enough times and he will win, regardless of skill. "Luckily, growing old isn't really a choice," she laughed outright that time, clearly not disappointed.

For all the cruel realities of the Blight, Araya managed to savour fond memories of even that time. The fear, blood and sweat was offset by the striking camaraderie he had experienced of the Borderland people. Their spirit and determination to fight and die for each other, for their nation, and for all that lay blithely south, it was unfathomable, and yet there was something so admirable about it. “If it’s worth the prize, it’s worth the fight. What’s one soul among thousands?” It had been that sentiment that had finally caused him to stray from the extremist stance of the Tuatha’an, rather than the absolute necessity to not only defend himself from Shadowspawn, but kill for his right to live. If a Saldeaen named Kaeon had not barked that at him the night he’d arrived, feeling sorry for himself in the company barracks, he would’ve been dead on the first day. Thus Araya would bear steel so that his people did not have to, but he would not do it blindly, and he would not do it carelessly. Where he could he would lay down his arms, but the Dark One and his filth, after all, would not listen to reason or be humbled by an enemy that took the moral high ground.

He listened to Trista quietly, not wishing to interrupt what was probably the longest string of words he had heard her put together. Her voice carried little emotional attachment to what she said, but that only made the smallest inflection seem to carry the greatest weight.

“Twenty-five? You’re just a pup!” He laughed, though truth be told he was not a great deal older. It was hard to tell his exact age; Araya would have had a young face even without his channeler’s blood, and while he would not become ageless like the Aes Sedai, the ageing process was slowed dramatically. He found it somewhat amusing that she was as negligent of time as he, though something of the sardonic lilt to her words sobered him.

He was not quite sure what to say to her; expressed condolences would be meaningless and he had not one even vaguely similar experience to draw on in sympathy; it would be insulting to even try and assume he could know what it was like to live with day in and day out. Part of him wanted to say that she was better off freed from the responsibility, but it seemed insensitive and blinkered on his part. Who was he to decide that her life would have been better or worse if she had become Aes Sedai? He might try to argue that life did not begin and end with saidar and the White Tower as the Aes Sedai proposed, but if he could choose between his people and the power now that he had tasted saidin, would he really choose his people?

There wasn’t anything he could say. He knew that, and probably she did too. In the end he was silent for a while.

He had assumed somewhere in the back of his mind that she was unbonded, else she would have had duties and an Aes Sedai to return to this evening. Perhaps the sisters feared her, the incarnate of every channeler’s greatest fear, or perhaps a bias of tradition towards gaidin left her overlooked. Either way it was a loss on their part; one had only to watch the formidable grace with which she moved to realise she was a deadly warrior. It appeared she had been gaidar for as long as five years. Would the Aes Sedai really let her talent and willingness go to waste? He was not sure he condoned the ethos behind Warders, but it was not his way to judge another’s decision. Trista appeared to live for duty. What more was required of a Warder?

The White Tower’s apparently casual attitude towards human shields had a tendency to irk him, perhaps most of all because the bonded warrior was essentially tied in body and mind. The Asha’man had no such bizarre tradition; the majority did not bond at all, but for those that did it was an intimate offering more eternal than spoken vows and marriage bands, not an exchange of services. Perhaps it was simply his romantic, idealist nature to think that. Men and women would not travel the breadth of the world to join the White Tower’s elite if it were such an abominable idea, and though the Tower’s trainee ranks were lacking right now, it was not for want of the willing.

He sat up, his shoulder against hers, and while she looked out at the view, he looked at her. Though nothing had changed in her demeanour, the words she spoke were uncomfortable to hear. Bitter acceptance rang through the humour. He might’ve laughed along with her and brushed aside emotion so raw it cut to the bone - it was none of his business, after all - but he couldn’t let himself do it, brief acquaintance or no.

“If you wanted to die you’d be on the Blightborder, not here.” It was a strange person who lived in the heart of all they had lost. For all that Araya might love his people, he would never return to them. He wondered briefly if it was acceptance she was looking for from the Tower, from the Aes Sedai. To be a part of that from which she had been excluded. “Is dying young really how you see your life spanning out?”

Trista turned her face to look at him, only to find him already watching her with brilliant sapphire orbs. She regarded him silently for a short time, her own eyes lidded and flickering with fondness. Where some put a great deal of thought into their every actions, Trista's were just natural reactions to her environment. She had no agenda beyond existing; she was a weapon to be wielded, though she was not as blind to the sisters as the sword is to the hand. Still, to explain her actions required a self-awareness she was not practiced with.

"No one living genuinely wants to die," she stated with as much certainty as if she had said the sky was blue. Death was a surprisingly simple thing to achieve if that was what you really wanted, after all. "When I could not trust myself with my life I gave it to the Tower." Intense training was not so bad when you had nothing else; one of the reasons for her young age at receiving the cloak. "So long as an Aes Sedai does not want me, I belong to the Tower. I can be used without fear of repercussions should I die." The explanation was one explained early on in her training. The Warders made certain the initiates understood the need to be bonded, and used it as motivation for the trainees to either strive to be the best or leave and resume a normal life. Trista had not needed motivation. The constant distraction a severe regiment provided was more than enough.

"If I am skilled enough, I will survive." And that was all there really was to it. She was likely to survive longer than most did. No one who wore a color-shifting cloak lacked even above-average ability, but Trista was by far one of the most skilled in the unbonded lot. A mutual distrust between her and the sisters was the obstacle that kept her from being chosen. An obstacle that, despite her best efforts, she could not muster a want to overcome.

She uncrossed her legs, and pulled one up to her chest while the other stretched out. She leaned back a little on one hand, her other arm draped over the bent knee in front of her. There was something calming about this Asha'man. Something she trusted, despite the suspicion ground into her by years of living with the Aes Sedai.

She laughed again, the smooth sound that hummed from her throat. "The skir-" she swallowed the word as it tried to come out. She was surprised. Firstly, because she had come dangerously close to letting the pet name slip out. Secondly, because she had not expected to speak out loud. "The Aes Sedai," she said, deciding she may as well finish, "they make me uneasy." Her smile was apologetic; she meant no disrespect towards the sisters. Her eyes met his, resolve standing out in their blood-violet darkness, "But I will die for them."

He didn't agree that any death could have no repercussions at all, although he understood the specific repercussions she meant. It hardly seemed justified to pick and choose like that. She made the unbonded warriors sound like cattle; nothing but a commodity, rare perhaps in skill, but still entirely expendable. All truth told, though, the Asha'man were little more than fodder themselves. When Tarmon Gaidon came, they would be on the front lines; first to fight and first to die. As much as her attitude towards life and death - and more specifically her own life and death - alarmed him, he saw reflections of himself there. Somewhere along the path of the inevitable, he had made a conscious decision to earn the pins, and with it his life had become the property of the Black Tower as much as hers was of the White.

His lips flickered as she stalled over her words; not in amusement at her as much as recognition that she had obviously relaxed somewhat. By his expression, it was clear no apology was necessary. He wasn't sure why she might assume he'd take offence except that such notions must be ingrained as part of her training. The Light forbid that one should speak badly of an Aes Sedai, after all. Araya saved reverence for those he found deserving, not that he would intentionally anger a sister to her face. That would just be foolish; they were still women, after all, and the wrath of any woman was unrivalled. Let alone one that could channel. He'd learned that lesson before.

It wasn't surprising that Trista found herself uneasy around the Aes Sedai; most people were, and the gaidar probably had more cause than most people. It might make her career an odd one, but she had already explained her reasons for pursuing it. Even so, her words made her sound rather resigned to being unwanted - to not having bonded, nor have prospects for it. Clearly there was an issue on her end also; limited as his knowledge of the inner-workings of the Tower was, he knew enough to realise that if she truly desired a Bond, she would not simply be waiting for it. That apparent apathy, though, was suddenly offset by something quite fierce in her eyes, as though she were daring him to claim contrary.

"I don't doubt it,” he answered, then grinned. “And I also don’t doubt who’d win in a match of blades.” It most certainly wouldn’t be him if it were a contest of skill alone. He pulled his gaze away to watch as the sun spread long red fingers across the sky. “They can’t all make you uneasy, though, Trista. The Aes Sedai. You speak fine to me, and I’m practically a stranger. Is it the bond itself that bothers you?” He wondered if she would be able to feel a stronger sense of saidar through another woman - or perhaps if she feared it - then abruptly shook his head. “Nevermind. Perhaps that is too personal.”

As the sun slowly sank into the horizon, Trista looked into the sky above it thoughtfully. She was aware of how odd her situation was, but had never actually considered it. A Gaidar unconcerned with being bonded may as well go sell herself as mercenary, or find a life outside the Tower that suited her better. She had family still; a mother and father who would probably appreciate knowing one of their children survived. She might even have other siblings, considering how young her mother was when the Aes Sedai came. But losing the Power, coupled with the abuse she had endured afterward, washed away who she had been. She remembered her past self - a laughing, smiling child like any other - the way she remembered Jain Farstrider in his lore. An impersonal character, who no longer existed regardless of whether or not he once had.

She was apathetic to the whole cause, in truth. She would train the Tower's youth and serve the Tower until she was chosen by an Aes Sedai. If that never happened, oh well. She was useful, and they could ask no more of her.

His question drew her gaze momentarily, and she shook her head as he tried to wave it off immediately thereafter. "There are some I would choose to keep company with over others, but they are all Aes Sedai." She hesitated, unsure of how to explain, or where to start. The beginning was logical, but she did not wish him to think her immodest or dramatic; unloading such a story on someone she hardly knew.

"My brother, Forrest, was a wilder. An Aes Sedai took him, and returned for me when I came of age. Unfortunately, that sister only served the Tower under the conditions her true master designated. I discovered later that her task was to lower the number of initiates at the Towers," Trista stopped, looking back at Araya to gauge his reaction. The Asha'man should be aware of the existence of the Black Ajah. Surely the Aes Sedai did not keep the facade up with even their brothers. Still, it was a dangerous topic, even if she did not out right say it.

"I survived," her voice flickered, barely. She no longer regretted that survival, but it was a powerful memory. The remembrance was only of the regret, however; her subconscious had long developed reflexes that kept most of those memories at bay. As for Forrest, she could only assume he had not made it.

"And have forgiven them," she continued, "but it is a hard thing to forget." Trista had experienced a bond, once, during her test for the medallion; aside from that, she knew only what she had been taught. But no, it was not the bond that tweaked her nerves so.

The smile faded from his face, and his jaw tensed.

The Black Ajah was probably the worst kept secret of the Tower, but the Aes Sedai would not admit to it as much as the Asha’man would not confess that there were those among their own ranks who fell to the darkness. It was absurd to think that channelers could not succumb to the same temptations as ordinary men; if anything, the pull of attraction was stronger, which was perhaps why the denial was so vehement. That refusal to acknowledge the Black Ajah only served the Dark One, in Araya’s opinion; to make something nameless was only to bolster the fear that surrounded it, but it was not for him to decide. The Aes Sedai had customs and tradition to uphold, and since the Asha’man were no better (and were little more than pups trailing behind their mother besides), he didn’t really have room to stance his disagreement. Aside from that, Araya had no intention of getting involved in the politics of either Tower, for all the strength of some of his opinions. He was quite content to take the path less travelled on his own, and Light willing remain unnoticed by those who might deign to bring him back into line.

Forrest. For all that he suddenly wished he could give her some good news amidst the bleak story of her life, he didn’t recognise the name, but since she didn’t ask he did not say. He did not know all the men of the Black Tower, after all, and it had been a number of years since he had even set foot on its grounds. Part of him wanted to offer her some measure of comfort - or at the least an apology for bringing the topic up, for all that she had waved away his retraction of the question - but neither surfaced beyond thought. One did not have to make a large leap from Aes Sedai of the Black Ajah to a severed channeler. It was a disturbing notion, and one that kept him silent for a while after.

“Then you’re far more forgiving than I would have been,” he said eventually. There was something disheartening in realising that for the truth; where once he would have turned the other cheek to practically any offence, he was a different man now. "Did you ever find her?" He meant punishment, retribution, revenge, but couldn't bring himself to say it. He shouldn't even have thoughts like that, but he found himself incensed.

Watching the transitions of Araya's face in the orange light of sundown, Trista decided she much preferred his smile. She drew pleasure from his expressiveness without discrimination, but his lighter moods were far more rhythmic.

She frowned inwardly. Rhythmic? The word was oddly specific, but suited the sensation. The feeling of listening to a favorite song, but without melody. A tickle at the edge of the void hinted at recognition, but was gone before she could grasp it.

His voice brought her focus back to his eyes; now possessed by an unusual gravity. She felt a fondness rise in her, the like brought on when an elder tried to explain something to a youth that could not quite understand. For all he was older, their respective dispositions placed her in the stereotype of jaded experience, and him in that of naive youth. Of course, looking at him now, one might not think so.

"I have never looked, and she never came back," her shoulder brushed his with a slight shrug. She was not afraid, or vengeful. There was no room for vengeance with the duties she carried. "A novice who had been abducted was responsible for my escape, and with her return and my arrival, I imagine Meire knew herself found out." The woman was either dead or long gone. That Trista could speak the wretched woman's name so freely was a measure of how far she had come. Or of how much she had suppressed. It was hard to tell, sometimes.

Recently, Trista had assisted in the arrest of another of Meire's like. A much more powerful one, in fact, who had brought Akari and the Amyrlin Seat a great deal of trouble. She did not mention the occasion to Araya, lest it be taken as a boast. Trista had gleaned some satisfaction from the woman's defeat, but it was not enough to validate the loss of Akari. The battle was won, but the casualties high. So it often seemed to be, with the Towers.

"What of your lot, Araya?" She asked, recalling the original subject. "Do Asha'man ever bond?"

Raffe · 02-05-2023, 10:48 PM

It wasn't quite the answer he would have hoped for, to know that the woman had never appeared to pay for her actions, and though there was no inflection in Trista's voice, he was inclined to feel the anger on her behalf. He felt foolish for that rise of emotion, a simmer rather than a boil, but intense all the same. Araya was prone to these sorts of moods if he let himself, though it was rare for him to allow others to bear witness (for all his usual openness). It was not a facet of himself that he liked; something that had festered and matured during his years at the Black Tower in reaction to the shattering of his naivety, a twisting of his passionate nature. The Asha'man sighed, turning out a whole lungful of air, and felt calmer for it. His jaw softened. Light. He probably shouldn't let himself get so worked up; only the Creator above knew why he felt this blasted desire to want to protect her, not least when she was quite clearly capable of handling herself. Perhaps it was simply that she had been a channeler once; the idea of losing the ability to touch the power... for all the complications saidin had introduced into his life, he was as afraid of losing the connection as any other. Sure, that was probably it.

"Of course." He couldn't quite get her story out of his head, but he recognised her swift change of topic, and gratefully took it up. He was far from an expert on the subject; at the Black Tower, bonding was not a bustling commerce as it was here. Asha'man had no need of protection - their very name meant 'guardian' in the old tongue - so if they ever bonded then it was usually for entirely personal reasons.

"Some choose to bond Aes Sedai." Trista would probably have some idea of that; Kentrillo Orander's infamy stretched into many quarters. It had been a long time since the White Tower had accepted male channelers into their gaidin ranks, of course, but some still chose to bond sisters of their own right even now. He was not so convinced that it was out of mutual respect as some Aes Sedai's continued distrust of his brothers; the bond was the perfect shield to pledge trust on the one side and control on the other - not in terms of compulsion, but as an assimilation of the Black Tower wholly in to the White on an unequal footing. Not that that was always the case. If Araya was so cynical about the White Tower, then he probably wouldn't be here.

"But if an Asha'man is to bond at all, that's not as common as a brother bonding his wife. The intimacy lends itself to lovers, I suppose." Which was why he could not get his head around the Warder bond; the bond itself was something stronger than ordinary love; it did not necessarily have to stem from romantic or sexual feelings, of course, but to set yourself up for eventually losing that connection through death? To know that the person you can feel as close as though it were you, would ultimately die for you? And they said the Asha'man were mad. He smirked. "Not quite a Warder bond."

"Unless the sister is Green," Trista quipped with a smirk. Her answer was a prime example of the contrasting paradigms the respective Tower's instilled in respect to bonding. The Greens were the brunt of many a joke because of their rumored involvement with their Warders. Trista had come to understand that romantic involvement of any kind was frowned upon, and could not argue with their reasoning. She was in no position to question the Aes Sedai, but more than that, she merely understood. As best one could without having experienced it oneself, of course.

She watched the deepening sky above the last rays of sunlight as she spoke. "The general consensus of the White Tower is that love is a dangerous emotion. I cannot say I disagree," but neither did she agree; the apathy in her voice made clear that she had no personal opinion on the matter. "If you are a target for the dark, then you put those near you at risk. Or, the lover may be used to influence the channeler," the Aes Sedai answered to the Tower alone, and held nothing in life above it. Or so was the objective. As a Tower-trained Gaidar, a similar notion was drilled into Trista throughout her training. In private, Warders would admit their bondmates were their lives, regardless of the Tower as a whole. The Light was above all else, of course, but the Tower stood for the Light, and
was therefore considered interchangeable in such circumstances.

She glanced sideways at Araya. The Black Tower was portrayed as far stricter than the White, especially in the days of the Traitor's Tree. In this, however, they sounded quite the opposite. Did the Asha'man disregard such ideas? Or, perhaps, they felt the strict discipline required of initiates was enough to forever imbed their Tower's place in personal hierarchy. One did not question the ideals of the Towers; a deeply ingrained habit that silenced her curiosity.

"I was under the impression that the general consensus of the White Tower is that any emotion is dangerous." Araya laughed, massaging his throat.

Trista raised an interesting point. The Black Tower was still a fairly new structure, and the Light knew they were far from stable; many of the older men - the first to have been recruited - had had wives and families before they had earned the pins, so such traditions as the Aes Sedai practised had no hold; it was easier to work with rather than against. A boy tended to discover his channelling ability, or be discovered by another, later in life than most girls too; it left less room for conditioning, and many came with families already established. It did not mean the Black Tower was softer. If anything, the privilege of a family life meant the men had to work harder. The Asha'man were weapons, first and foremost, but they were also human; a man denied the company of his wife and children would not fight for the Light with the vehemence of one with the privilege. One had only to look at the Borderlands to see such in action.

The words she spoke sounded as though they'd been handed down to her via years of indoctrination. What she said was true, though; there were risks, but he hardly counted them as a reason to avoid any and all emotional intimacy. It was a personal opinion, though, and it wasn't his intention to prove either view right or wrong. Love could be a fatal distraction, but so could any other emotion; it was all about perspective and priority. He doubted that all Aes Sedai were as strict with that unwritten commandment as they let on, but for whatever reasons they erected a glamour of the untouchable, it appeared to work for their intentions.

As far as the Black Tower was concerned, the swift justice the Asha'man were known for maintained hierarchy in the same way denying emotional attachments worked for the Aes Sedai. Neither were infallible, but both served a purpose. Perhaps things would change in time, but it seemed to Araya that Asha'man were far more like normal men than Aes Sedai were like normal women.

"The Tower comes first, of course. Loyalty to the Dragon and fealty to the Light. Women who choose to marry Asha'man know that." He shrugged, since he didn't really have any experience of it himself. He'd had lovers in the past, and had been in love, but nothing so serious or mutual as to contemplate bonding. He'd never really thought about it in any depth before; there was no expectation for him to do so, and there was little in the way of peer-pressure from his brothers. For every bonded brother, there was half a
dozen who were not.

He turned to look at her. "The bond is a choice on both sides, same as a marriage. Neither party is ignorant of the consequences or blind to the risk. Would you stop climbing trees on account that you might fall?" He laughed. "Mind that I speak for myself, and not the Tower. I would not exactly present myself as the model Asha'man."

She opened her mouth to rebuff his words in one manner or another, but did not get far. She was not out to bore holes in his philosophy, but was surprised to find she had no wit to offer. She smiled at the return of his laughter, meanwhile her mind turned over the words. "I would stop climbing trees if the ascent clouded my head. So long as I am in control of myself, I will not fall," her voice was almost cocky, and she gave the Asha'man a wolfish smile.

"And I know no others to compare you to," she said honestly; Kentrillo was the only other Asha'man she had shared company with, and he was no longer counted among their ranks. "I would choose you over the Aes Sedai, though," she smirked at him and shifted so that her shoulder nudged his. The sisters made for poor companionship, unless one found dancing words and sharp tongues intriguing. Trista knew that they were probably not so harsh amidst their own private coterie's, but she did not have much exposure to them in such an environment.

In the city below, lights were being lit in windows and along boulevards as dusk descended on Tar Valon. Hundreds of people, going about their habitual lives, completely unaware of the pair looking down from the giant tree top. Trista was interested in seeing the nightscape; she had never remained in the trees after dark. Not this high, at least.

The wind ruffled her hair, and she was distantly aware of the temperature dropping. Without thought Trista produced a thin flask from somewhere on her body, and held it out to the Asha'man. The liquor was strong, but it was meant only to take the cold sting from the air.

“I should think that by the time you realised your senses were clouded, it would be far too late," he said, faintly amused by the boast of control. There, clearly, was one who had never fallen.

It was not surprising to hear that she knew no other Asha’man; there were not many who chose to reside at the White Tower, for all the talk of unity that was touted from time to time. Araya himself had only come for the open hall meeting, in which the Tower’s most recent M’Hael had made his first public speech. He couldn’t even say himself why he'd stayed after that. There had been nothing preventing him from returning to Caemlyn, or from travelling to other parts of the world, after all. There still wasn't.

“Take it as warning then. I wouldn’t judge another Asha’man by my colours.” He could not help but smirk at the terrible nature of his own pun. Something of her suddenly playful nature restored him to his usual blithe countenance, and he spluttered into laughter at her ‘compliment’. “I’m more tolerable than an Aes Sedai? That is good to know." The laughter was in part a release of his earlier frustrations; there was nothing more gratifying for the soul, but he realised that she had probably meant it with a dash of sincerity. She was an odd little thing, for all that she had cause to be. There was something quite endearing about it. "And for what it's worth, the same applies." He nudged her back.

The drink he declined, though it was out of abstinence and not distrust. "Are you cold?"

His pun caught her off guard, and so any immediate response was postponed as her eyes traced up and down his garishly clad body. Then, she laughed. What started as the soft humming of her throat crescendoed in a cascade of stunning vocal mirth. The sound was astonishingly candid, to where she might have been mistaken for any other joy-filled human if heard in passing. Tacky as some might consider such a jest, as an Accepted of the Sword Trista's mentor was possessed of a wit consisting almost entirely of its like. She was fundamentally conditioned for them.

Trista let herself fall back, and lay looking up at the Asha'man as her lungs trailed to rest. Something of the laughter remained in her though, silently chasing back the shadows in her eyes. The temporarily forgotten flask came up to her lips and she took a short swig, squinting as the cold liquid seared down her throat. "Not unbearably," she answered finally, the small flask disappearing back from whence it had come. Within a few minutes she would be comfortable again. As chill as the air was, she had dealt with much worse; one thing she did not miss about the Borderlands.

The breeze that remained paled in comparison to the earlier gales, but still it played with them. The golden locks of Araya's hair caught her attention as they swayed, beckoning memories of a dream. A very vivid dream, that the former tinker had starred in. She had no Talent for dreaming and never questioned that their meeting was only coincidence, but the phenomenon only a few nights gone it was difficult not to remember aspects of it every time she looked at him.

She felt her body warm, and knew it to be the alcohol, but it only fueled the sudden want to tangle her fingers in those blond strands. That desire had nothing to do with the alcohol, lest she had abruptly lost even the natural human tolerance for such small quantities of it; not to mention she would have to disregard every other time she had felt it in his presence.

Trista put her arms behind her head in an attempt to suppress the sudden itch in her hands. Her eyes moved to the stars just peeking through the purple expanse of sky. "The sky over Tar Valon is very different from the sky over Altara. Not just the stars but the angle of the sun, the path of the moon," she spoke her thoughts aloud. She knew the sky here, mostly for navigational purposes, but not in the way she had known the sky over Altara. She never had the chance to just look at it, the way she had as a child.

At first Araya thought she was laughing at his question, and wondered if the Tower trained had a secret trick for ignoring the cold as the Aes Sedai did. But then, noticing the way her eyes travelled up and down his body, he realised that the pun had simply taken a few moments to settle. Her reaction was amusing; his comment really hadn’t been that funny, but it was good to hear her laugh properly, and he could not help but laugh too. There was a childlike quality about it, and it lit her face in such a rare and genuine way. Aes Sedai laughed, but not like that; they were inhibited, they allowed themselves to laugh, whereas this was altogether more free. And it was infectious. He wasn’t cold himself, at least not enough to warrant the effort and control it took to seize saidin. His neck was perhaps a little chilly now that it was naked, but otherwise he was dressed warmly enough to be mostly comfortable, so long as the weather held anyway. As she mentioned the stars, he looked up at the dusk sky. It had been such a long time since he had taken any notice of them, and there was something pleasantly nostalgic about it. Once, he had even known some of their names, but such knowledge had long since left his mind, else lay forgotten in some dusty corner he no longer knew how to access. He blew heat into his fingers, then lay back to get a better view, his hands once more resting on his stomach, buried in the cuffs of his jacket. "Makes you feel so small, doesn't it? All that stuff up there. Good for the ego of an Asha'man." He chuckled. "So tell me about Altara. What was it like to grow up there?" He was genuinely curious, having grown up always on the move.

Trista glanced sideways at the Asha'man. She shrugged then, her eyes returning to the sky. "The seasons are not so pronounced. It is much warmer, most of the year," she had grown up on near coast, so the weather changed even less for her than those who lived further inland. "Sometimes huge storms would come in off the ocean. I have never experienced their like since coming north."

She looked away from the stars again, taking in the characteristics of the Asha'man. Altarans enjoyed colorful clothing, if not that colorful, but physically he was a perfect example of attributes not found in Altarans. "Outside of the city," Ebou Dar was not the only city in Altara, but she did not think to name it, "there was no one who looked like you. My mother had blue eyes, but I only ever met traders with pale skin and blond hair." She paused, a smirk coming to her lips before she spoke again, "people were much more polite. If you did not learn your manners, someone taught you some."

He watched as the stars became more pronounced, and listened as Trista spoke. She didn't appear to show any affection for the country of her birth, although given her nature maybe it was simply buried beneath that cool, listless facade. He noticed how she wavered; how bursts of lucid emotion (he was tempted to call it normality, but it seemed a cruel word to use, even in the confines of his mind) seemed to be followed by stretches of complete detachment. It wasn't something that made him uncomfortable; even before he had known of the cause, he had never taken her odd and vapid nature personally. Seeing her smile or laugh, or even glimpsing the briefest spark of something in her eyes was like catching a rainbow in a downpour. Araya was the kind of idealist who could quite happily sit in the rain.

He couldn't imagine living by the sea; to hear it crash every night as he slept... the call of gulls and taste of salt in the air. It reminded him how long he had been in Tar Valon, enclosed by the same four walls of his guest room. For all the eccentricities of spending the night atop the giant Ogier tree, he decided that it was actually quite refreshing. Perhaps he would take the time to travel; the Black Tower was always looking for new blood, and it was a good excuse as any to be left alone to his own devices. He had escaped much interest by the White Tower's denizens, but the longer he stayed the more likely it became he would eventually be ensnared. He let the thought drift, to recapture and muse on further another time, and listened to the gaidar.

Araya knew enough of Altara to know the kind of teaching she meant, and chuckled dryly. It wasn't his place to comment on or judge a whole country's ethos, but he had always found the idea of a duel to settle disputes rather... odd. Finesse and talent did not always side with justice, after all, so what was the point? There were plenty of other, non-violent oddities that mystified him in other cultures, though; the wagons had never travelled close to cities, and kept contact even with towns and villages limited. Araya was fairly well read, but he had not travelled extensively since gaining the dragon pin, and there was no other substitute for really and truly understanding a culture and its ways.

"I'm pure Tinker stock," he said to the comment of his pale appearance, which was to say he was of every nationality and none. The Tuatha'an way of life was not for some; people came and went all the time, but Araya could trace his genes amongst the travellers to way back beyond memory; his blood was so muddled it was impossible to place him, and even his accent had a neutral quality to it. He didn't have a homeland or a nationality; just a people. And his brothers, now, of course.

Despite the chill he was strangely relaxed, cushioned by a strong, warm sense of nostalgia as they spoke of the past. Like rainbows amidst downpours or the smallest hint of smile in an otherwise expressionless face, Araya chose fond memories over the bad. When he thought about the wagons and all that he had lost, he couldn't help but smile - even if only internally. He couldn't think of a more perfect upbringing. Even if one did not agree with the Tuatha'an's teachings and beliefs, they could surely appreciate the freedom and joy with which the travellers lived. He could have bored Trista for hours reminiscing stories of his youth if he'd been inclined. Instead he chuckled. "The Light take pity on any fool enough to cross you. I bet you've reminded more than a few of their manners yourself."

Pure Tinker stock? Trista hadn't the faintest idea what that meant, but in a way that was exactly how he'd meant it. He did not have a nationality. She knew of the Tinker philosophy, and the literal translation of their Old Tongue title. Tuatha'an. Travelling People. The ideals that drove their society were not ones Trista could imagine taking as her own, but true to the shallow depths of her wine-dark orbs, she was not a person prone to inner musings. Many people held to many different beliefs. Who was she to question them? And even if she were motivated to, to what end would it go? Better to focus on her own values. She could change herself. The world was out of her hands.

She smirked at his remark. The black sister's abuse had stolen the fire that spurred so many Altaran's to duel, providing a buffer of detachment that kept her out of trouble in her early training years. Her first challenge since her captivity came in her late Accepted of the Sword years, to a lordling on the Blightborder. The people of the far north were a gruff but gentle bunch, and normally the most well-mannered she had met. This one though- far too big for his armor-plated britches. The other northern lords thought it quite the humorous show, but her presiding Aes Sedai did not agree. Thankfully Lianora Sedai was a compassionate woman, and Trista's punishment was little more than a mild scolding and a lecture on how dueling was not proper outside of Altara. The lordling did not get off so easily.

Now, it was rare for the Gaidar to formally challenge a duel. She would if pushed to it, but stirring her to such a place was not a simple ordeal. Her trainees were another matter, but each instructor had their way of dealing with disobedience. Dueling was hers, and she found it to be exceptionally effective.

"I do my part to cure the delinquents of society," she said matter-of-factly, but her smirk remained to lighten the words. "What is it like to be raised among the Tuatha'an?"

"Beautifully free," he answered somewhat absently, falling so easily back into fond memory. To his mind, the Tuatha'an were the very definition of family. Blood did not come in to it; one man looked out for his neighbour because kin was kin and surpassed such trivialities. It had been disappointing, upon leaving the wagons, to discover how very rare that kind of bond was in the rest of the world, but he had also realised how innocent and fragile the Tuatha'an's way of life was. They were a small cross-section of people; idealistic, naive, and many ultimately untested by the grim underbelly of life. With the Light's blessing, they would stay that way.

"Imagine the best day of your childhood. Now imagine that that was every day." He chuckled. "Of course, maybe I'm a little bit biased." He lifted his hand and indicated with his thumb and forefinger, smirking. "But only a little."

He'd always thought himself lucky in that respect, for not many could claim such an idyllic upbringing. The Towers seemed to accumulate tragedy, but for all the twists in his part of the pattern, Araya considered himself fairly untouched. He'd faced hardship, sure, but he was hardly alone in that respect.

"Dragons and saidin were just fancy stories when I was growing up. Still are among some of the wagons, for all I know. I suppose you might call it ignorant, but at least it's a life free of the Great Game. I lived in Andor for a time, and Light were the children there precocious. I freely admit that I just don't get it."

The travellers were not entirely free of conflict, of course. There were disputes from time to time; arguments, disagreements and frustration. The Tinkers were nothing short of human, and their natures were not without blemish, but the practice of politics among the wagons was fruitless; one had nothing to gain by scheming or manipulation, and those who wished for things like power and wealth always left in the end. Tinkers walked the path of the leaf by choice, and even those born into the life ultimately decided whether to stay or find their fortunes elsewhere.

The Tinker's ignorance or the Game of Houses? He knew which he preferred, though perhaps that was because he'd never been seduced by daes dae'mar, nor been any good at it. The Tower, for all that it was the very centre, was different; at least it was closer to the heart of the world's problems, if you looked hard passed the fluff of politics and mindless (and often pointless) games the sisters played amongst themselves. It was not all about succession and power. Still, he would have chosen to remain on the Blight border amongst the straight-forwardness of the Borderlands if he'd had a stomach for war.

The Seanchan had come to Altara by the time Trista was born. Having grown up so near Ebou Dar, in such a turbulent time, Trista had grown up hearing about the Dragon Reborn. She had known him to be real, but there were other creatures that she believed mere nightmares. Darkhounds. Trollocs. Worms. Even the flora of the Blight appeared to have grown from some Forsaken's fantasy. If only the Forsaken themselves were so hideous. So obvious.

"The best day of my childhood was the day I defeated my brother in a rapier duel," the soft hum of laughter followed her words. She was well aware of how often an event like that took place among the Tinker wagons. "In front of the entire court and his fiance, too. I won my freedom from the awful party and the right to heckle him endlessly." If Andoran children were precocious, Alataran chits were fierce. In a society where adolescence brought the privilege of challenge, it was best to make certain your children knew the sharp end of a dagger. Or a rapier, in the noble's case. The fact that Trista was a daughter made no difference- women fought women as much as men fought men. That particular challenge was unusual in that it was between genders, but because they were siblings it was acceptable.

That whole day had been entertaining. Altara was a nation of festivals, and Trista had snuck away from Tila's house before dawn to enjoy them. The Alquin family always stayed with Lady Tila when they came into the city. She was a charming woman, and it was a shame her own daughter had not inherited her personality. Forrest had made a good choice, refusing to take her as wife.

Forrest, the bugger, had been the one to find her and drag her back to Tila's manor. The maidservants cleaned her and stuffed her in a dress just in time for the party. Light, but she had been relieved to win that challenge. She'd never beaten him in a spar before, but getting out of the court's dull dinner parties was apparently the incentive she needed.

Despite the differences in their childhoods, she understood what Araya had meant. Trista was not prone to nostalgia; thoughts of the past threatened her stability, but she had come far enough now that recollections were not so dangerous. She did not enjoy her life now, exactly, but she preferred it to death. A big step, and one she had only recently come to realize.

“Oh, okay,” he conceded with a chuckle, and wondered if she’d used that example to catch him out on purpose. It seemed to fit with her sly sense of humour, but given what he had come to understand of her, like as not it was the plain truth. He couldn’t imagine finding joy in duelling, even in the context of a simple contest of skill without the intent for any real harm. The fact that it was a childhood memory made it all the more incomprehensible. “I agree with you on the dullness of court parties, though.” Such attendances occasionally fell into the realms of duty, though since Araya had never shouldered much responsibility in currying favour among the nobles, those instances were rare. He could play the part of courtly gentleman as well as he could brandish a blade, but most nobles were far too inhibited to be good company.

Night had descended, and the Asha’man let his eyes rest, though he did not sleep straight away. Grasping saidin, he heated the air to something more comfortable. “Do gaidar sleep? You have my oath I won’t chuck you off if you snore.” He chuckled, but didn’t open his eyes. He had no pressing duties tomorrow, but she no doubt had recruits to teach.

An amused hum vibrated in her throat, her own eyes lidded but still focused on the little points of light above. They danced enthusiastically, as if to taunt the creatures trapped on the small planet below. "Gaidar rest," she answered simply. 'Sleep' was a strong word. The state was more of a trance, where the body could repair itself but the mind remained easily disturbed. 'Paranoia' was an even better term for it.

She felt herself begin to drift off, and the stars descended from their universal watch. Pulsing energy, unique and separated although somehow shapeless. The nearest beat softly, steadily. She knew each was unique, but it was more a knowing than an observation. This one was near enough she could feel it- could recognize it. The familiarity was warm, and her ephemeral self reveled in it.

The awareness her training lent her woke her at her own unconscious movement. She was normally very still in sleep; a requirement in an occupation such as hers. So the primal part of her mind stirred, assessing danger without coming to full consciousness. She was safe, and so was her charge. In truth, Araya was not her responsibility in any way, but her dozing mind did not care. Nor did it care that she had rolled onto her side, or that her head now rested on his shoulder.

'Rest', she said, and he had to chuckle at that. Without need or desire for Warder protectors, Asha'man were capable of something similar when necessity dictated need, but Araya rarely found cause to employ the technique - even now, in the company of what was essentially a stranger. That blind trust would probably kill him one day, he mused, drifting on the edges of sleep. Something warm rested against his shoulder, and he was coherent enough to recognise it for the gaidar. A smile softened the edges of his lips, as a fuzzy haze descended in and his thoughts meandered off into pleasant dreams.

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