The flickering lamp light cast faint, dancing shadows across her sons face as Irythe Lanara opened the door to the spare room being used as an infirmary. It was a nice room with expensive paintings hanging on the walls, depicting scenes of hunters catching prey and generals leading armies in battles that may or may not have ever happened. Along the wall that the door entered into stood a fine, wooden washstand with a pale white glass bowl atop it. It was not Sea Folk porcelain, Irythe knew, but she took pride in being able to afford even that and it was kept meticulously clean by the serving women. Beside the washstand stood the tall oak dresser. Finely crafted and polished, the light from Iryth's lamp reflected back to her in its dark surface.  Against the far wall lay a large, canopied bed with red silk blankets and drooping gauze curtains tied to the bedposts to be kept out off the way. It was really big enough for three if they didn't mind banging elbows, but now only it only contained one. Her adult son, Rian.

His rooms were much finer, but with the fits he had been experiencing, Irythe had insisted he be moved out into this spare room so that his wife might be able to get some sleep. Oh, how these fits pained her. Watching her only son twist and thrash about, bearing his teeth and contorting his face in horrific visages of agony while foam formed on his lips. It was absolutely horrifying and made her want to faint straight away. He hadn't truly come into consciousness since the first bout and Irythe missed his charming smile and sharp wit. 

Dabbing her eyes slightly with a soft cotton handkerchief, Irythe strode across the thick Tairen carpets to the only other piece of furniture in the room: a delicate looking wooden chair with curving legs and arms and soft feather cushions. Pulling the chair closer to her prostrated son, Irythe practically collapsed into it.

With a strangled breath, she stared at her child. He was so pale now where once there had been a fine tan. His sunken eyes fluttered under his eyelids, but they did not open and his breath was so shallow. It came and went in short rasps and slight gurgling chokes. For a moment Irythe only stared, then, as if something broke inside her, she sobbed and threw herself onto her son's chest.

"Why, Rian!? Why must this have happened!" she whispered hoarsely in between sobs, clutching at his sweat-stained silk nightshirt.

She wasn't sure how long she lay like that, crying into his chest and clutching him to her, but eventually the tears stopped coming and she found herself breathing more evenly. With a small sniff, she pushed herself back onto the chair behind her, leaning forward to caress her sons pale, sweaty face.

"I will always remember you as you were, my son." She whispered, her voice barely making a noise. "Always."

She felt the tremors more than saw them begin. A small twitch in an otherwise lax face. It was only a small indication of what was to come, however, as that small twitch was followed by a larger, which was followed again by one even more dramatic until finally Rian was convulsing in his bed, his limbs jerking so hard and violently that Irythe had to release her hold on his face and scoot her chair back to avoid accidentally being struck. Foam began to form in her son's mouth, and he began to gurgle. A terrible, grotesque gurgle.

"Beras," Irythe called calmly, feeling her heart break inside her chest. "Quickly, find Nelelle Sedai! Ask her to come immediately! Tell her that it is Rian! Quickly now, go!"

Beras didn't stay to acknowledge the orders he had been given. He merely sprung from where he was standing beside the door and broke into a steady run, off to find Nelelle Sedai.

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With a soft sigh, Nelelle Mathera rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was beginning to get a headache. A pity one couldn't heal herself, but that thought had crossed her mind many times over the two centuries she had been Aes Sedai. It was all that Lanara boys fault. Well, not entirely his if she was to be fair. He certainly didn't choose to ill, and definitely didn't choose to be ill with something that somehow Nelelle couldn't heal.

It was infuriating, Nelelle was accounted a fair healer by her peers in the Yellow Ajah, but no matter what she did, the weaves seemed to have no effect. The Lanara boy simply got worse and worse, paler and weaker. He was now at a point where she wouldn't use any strong healing on him in fear that he wasn't strong enough to handle it. It was a problem she had been bashing her head against for 2 weeks now, but yesterday... Yes, yesterday something different had happened. She had adjusted her weave ever so slightly and... Well, it seemed to have worked. Not in any major sense, but when she delved him after, the fever and shakes seemed to be slightly unrooted from within him. 

"But why!?" the Yellow growled, looking down at the book that she was unsuccessfully trying to read: The Tales of Jain Farstrider.

It was then that there was a soft knock on the door. With another soft sigh, Nelelle closed the book and stood from her cushioned chair to replace it on the small bookshelf in the room. She had already read it many times anyway. Her room was comfortable, not as grand as some might expect an Aes Sedai to occupy, but she didn't really care for grandeur. Well, not all the time. There were times when grandeur was... useful. A bright fire in the brick fireplace lit the room at this late hour, bringing in a warmth that staved off the chill that had finally come after such an unnaturally long summer. Atop the mantle above it sat a couple of ivory carvings of odd animals that Nelelle didn't truly believe to be more than the imaginings of the carver. After all, how could a horse have a neck and legs that long without crumpling into a heap on the floor?  Tucked away in the corner was a single bed, large enough that Nelelle didn't feel cramped, but not so large to fit more than one. It was covered with a soft quilt with another sheet underneath and feathered pillows. It was all very comfortable, and the best that Mistress Dagagin had. She was a good woman, Mistress Dagagin. Her husband was a rather successful merchant, dealing in furs and jewels that came in from the Mountains of Mist and he had set up a decent homestead for his wife and two children. 

Gliding back to her seat, Nelelle Sedai sat down and arranged her night dress around her. Putting on her best Aes Sedai face, she commanded, "Come."

After the briefest of hesitations, the door opened and Millae Velalin stepped into the room, holding a small tray with a pitcher and teacup.

"Nelelle Sedai," She said breathily, dropping into a curtsy that was much better than the first one she had ever made to the Aes Sedai. "I... I thought you might still be awake, so I brought you some warm tea."

"That is very kind of you, child. Leave it on the corner table there then go home. It is much too late for you to be here, and I won't tolerate you oversleeping tomorrow. I have things that need to be doing and will need you with me to attend."

"Y-yes, Nelelle Sedai." Averting her gaze from the Aes Sedai's piercing looks, Millae scurried to table in the corner and laid the tray down, only delaying her exit to shakily pour a cup and bring it to the Aes Sedai. "May the L-light grace you, Nelelle Sedai." she murmured, dropping another curtsy before turning and practically running from the room.

"What has gotten into that girl," Nelelle wondered as the door clicked. She was normally a little fluff-headed, but not nearly this nervous. In fact, she had done an excellent job waiting on Nelelle Sedai for the past month she had been in Maeldon. Nelelle was very seriously considering taking the young girl with her when she left.

With a faint smile, the Aes Sedai took a sip of the tea that had been brought her. Perhaps mint tea was not the tea to bring on such a chilly night, but still, the young woman's heart was in the right place. With another sip, Nelelle stood, meaning to retrieve the book and actually read it this time, but as she rose she suddenly felt very light headed. Her legs didn't seem to want to work as she tried to move back to the bed. What was going on? 

Shaking her head, Nelelle Sedai tried to clear her mind. What was she going to do? Something about a book. No, that wasn't it. Light, she was so tired. She couldn't sleep now, though, Jain Farstrider needed her to help him rescue a kidnapped child. But, that couldn't be right. That was just a story, right? That was just... just...

With a stumbling step towards the bed, Nelelle collapsed to the ground, dropping her cup to the ground where it shattered, splashing tea across the nice carpet. Laying there on the ground, Nelelle knew she should be alarmed, that she should call back Millae or someone. Instead, she blinked once, then closed her eyes.

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Lights Last Embrace, a Wheel of Time Game

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, and Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Dhoom. The wind was not the beginning, there are neither Beginnings nor endings to the turning of The Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Southward the wind blew, over the Blight sick mountains, carrying with it the sickly sweet stench of decay and darkness. Down is swooped, over the peaks, brushing the black speckled leaves of trees that weren't truly trees any longer. Down, and down it went, rushing past the Blight Border. The stench of the Blight was only a faint aroma by the time that the wind passed over one of the many watchtowers that ran along the Blight, unnoticed by the Saldean armsmen as they kept a vigilant watch, waiting for the Blight to wake from its unnatural sleep. Down, through the cold land it blew, passing over wary farmers and merchants as they went about their work. Down along the forests and plains of Saldea until it brushed up against the white-capped Mountains of Mist, the tips of which were lost in the clouds. Along the mountains the wind howled picking up speed and shaking the bare branches of the trees at the base of the mountain. Down it blew, buffered by the mountains, bashing itself against their impenetrable peaks until it lost its vigor and settled into a chilling breeze. Down this breeze blew, chilling farmers out in their fields, causing them to pull their cloaks closer and mutter soft prayers of thanks to the Light that the terrible summer now seemed to be over. Down it blew until passed over a town.

This town, Maeldon by name, was neither a large city nor a small village. Not quite big enough to warrant being jotted down on any major maps, it lay perhaps four or five days of hard riding north of Baerlon in Andor, nestled between the Mountains of Mist and the River Arinelle.

Whether by chance or by the strange weavings of the Pattern, six strangers of different paths found themselves in Maeldon this day, each in need of a place to sleep away the cold night that was sure to come. Each had wandered through the town, asking farmers who had come to sell their sickly and shriveled harvest or townsfolk out at the market for directions to an inn. Each was directed to the Gleeman's Abode. 

The Gleeman's Abode, located almost in the center of the town was neither impressive in its standing nor concerning in its condition. Well maintained, but a little worn, the three-story building was marked by a painted sign above the door swinging in the breeze and depicting a man in the colorfully patched cloak of a gleeman juggling brightly colored balls.

Again, whether by chance or by the weavings of the Pattern, these six individuals found themselves arriving at the door to the Inn at the same time. In the briefest of moments that it took to decide who should enter first, the quiet bustle of the street was shattered by a heart-wrenching cry.

"Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

The street came to a standstill as everyone paused to look at the source of this cry. Two towns guardsman, decked in shirts of mail and wearing shining steel conical helmets with narrow steel noseguards, each wearing a blue armband emblazed with the image of a white rose flanked a young woman. Each gripped her arm tightly as they marched from a small house carrying her along rather than guiding her, as she seemed to be unconscious, her head lolling back and forth with each step. Following the two guardsmen, pulling at one of their arms and clutching a dough roller in the other, was a woman with gray-streaked hair. Even from a distant, it was apparent that tears streamed down her face.

"Not my Millae, please no! She hasn't done anything! You know her, Jandran! She would never! Please! She is all I have, please!" the woman wailed, pulling with all her might but to no effect on the guardsman Jandran's arm. 

"Mistress Velalin," the other guard announced, not breaking stride but looking past his companion to the weeping and struggling woman. "By the order of Lord Lanara, we must take Millae into custody. Your struggling does her, nor yourself any favors. Now step back!"

"I won't let you take her!" Mistress Velalin screeched, releasing Jandran's arm and raising the dough roller above her head as though it were a club. "I WILL NO-"

That was as far as she got, however, as the unnamed guardsman dropped Millae's arm and stepped around his companion to backhand the old woman across the face, dropping her to the dirty street below. Just as quickly, Jandran laid Millae to the ground to seize his companions upraised hand. 

"Enough, Dain!" He growled, ignoring the glares Dain gave him. Turning to look and the woman sprawled in the street, sobbing harder then ever he knelt and said something soflty to her, trying to help her to her feet. He rose, however, when she batted his hands away and stated, "It pains us to do this, Mistress Velalin. Millae was a sweet girl."

Together, with Dain, they picked the limp form of Millae off of the ground and continued down the street.

With every step further away they got, Mistress Velalin's sobs got harder until finally her entire body shook as she sat in the street, tears mingling with blood dripping down her distraught face. Diverting their gazes, the townsfolk and farmers began to go about their business, leaving the pitiful woman to her grief.

Even one such as Lanur Dinas eventually feels the need to have someone else cook a meal, experience a mattress again, and not have to worry about the weather for at least one night. The journey to Maeldon is a pilgrimage to fulfill this need and long it has been since such luxuries have been experienced. As he approaches the inn (one Gleeman's Abode), the harder woodsman's stomach churns. Five others! Surely I am being played. 

Standing at six-foot even, Lanur strikes a rough appearance. His salt and pepper dark brown hair is long and loose, framing his hard features with curtains of wild strands that hang to the middle of his back. He's been a long time separated from a bath and the dirt has mixed with his sun-touched face giving him an even darker appearance. Deepset gray eyes are practically wolfish and lined all about with the results of squinting across wildernesses. The lower half of his face is blanketed in a thick, long, dark brown streaked with gray beard and mustaches. Lean, wearing mottled brown and green studded leather armor over simple cotton clothing, he carries his bow on his back with his quiver of arrows and his longsword at his side comfortably. He knows that he has been described before as a lean bear, athletic and ferocious when necessary.

I hope they have beds enough at this place, Lanur grumbles internally and draws back from the group, allowing whoever is to take the initiative to enter first.

"Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

Sharply jerking his head in the direction of the call, the woodsman narrows his silver-gray eyes and quickly picks out the disturbance. Looks to be official, he considers as the uniformed men drag the unconscious girl from the house. None of my business then. 

Despite this conclusion, when the soldier strikes the older lady, Lanur Dinas turns into the angry bear. Brows furrowed, a snarl on his lips, he grips his longsword hilt and impulsively strides past the other five and towards the woman. 

"Where I come from, you don't strike an old woman, coward!" Realizing that threatening the act of drawing his sword might find him in peril of a trip to the dungeons, Lanur releases his grip and curls his gloved hands into fists.

How it was that a man might have found himself in a town such as Maeldon – aside from having been born there, of course – was a secret that Thren al’Rilin would never confess… at least not in the full truth of such a thing. The reasons for which a man might linger in a town such as Mealdon when good business might see him elsewhere, too, where as much a mystery as the man having found himself here to begin with… and another truth that Thren al’Rilin would refuse to share lest the secret were wrested from him in a duel of appropriate circumstance. No, the only truth to be had from the Ebou Dari’s presence in this remote northern town (or city, or village, or whatever such a place might be called by its denizens) was, regardless of reason or requirement, that a man was in Maeldon and a man was in need of a room in which he might rest his road-weary bones before moving on in the morning. It was only the turning of the Wheel and the twist of fate which, for the same reasons as a man might have for being in a town (or city, or village, or whatever such a place might be called by its denizens), that intertwined a man’s own fate with the fate of others as only the turning of a Wheel might hope to do. Indeed, following the conclusion of a man’s business in Maeldon, a man had found himself in need of a place to pass the coming night and, should any other have asked, that was the only reason for a man to tarry in a town such as this… at least, until a man was drawn, whether by chance or condition, to an inn that those others, too, were drawn.

Outside the doors of The Gleeman’s Abode, a man arrived with five others – all of differing sex and vocation, it seemed, at first – and, had a man known that The Gleeman’s Abode came with such high recommendation, he might have taken the time to seek out another. As it stood, though, whether by fate or fortune, a man found himself standing outside the door of this particular inn, on this particular night, with these particular strangers, bearing witness to this particular event…

"Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

…a man’s head turned from the doorway through which he had planned to step in search of a room for the night and regarded, instead, the scene of a pair of armored guardsmen bearing the weight of an unconscious girl between them and, in their wake, the hysterical form of a girl’s mother…

"Not my Millae, please no! She hasn't done anything! You know her, Jandran! She would never! Please! She is all I have, please!" the woman wailed, pulling with all her might but to no effect on the guardsman Jandran's arm. 

"Mistress Velalin," the other guard announced, not breaking stride but looking past his companion to the weeping and struggling woman. "By the order of Lord Lanara, we must take Millae into custody. Your struggling does her, nor yourself any favors. Now step back!"

"I won't let you take her!" Mistress Velalin screeched, releasing Jandran's arm and raising the dough roller above her head as though it were a club. "I WILL NO-"

That was as far as she got, however, as the unnamed guardsman dropped Millae's arm and stepped around his companion to backhand the old woman across the face, dropping her to the dirty street below. Just as quickly, Jandran laid Millae to the ground to seize his companion’s upraised hand. 

…In Ebou Dar, a man thought watching the scene unfold, those women could kill those men and a second thought would never be given to the matter. Stroking the oiled points of his moustaches with a sigh and, then, letting those same fingers stray to toy with the gold hoop adorning the lobe of an ear beneath the luxuriant curls of his hair, a man grimaced at the cultural differences between the north and south, then sighed even heavier as the realization came that, at this point in the Wheel’s turning, such things mattered little but to the few…

Even as the thought crossed a man’s mind, another in the knot of circumstantial patrons to the Gleeman’s Abode had decided to act upon the musings that ran through a man’s thoughts.

Brows furrowed and a snarl upon his grizzled features, one of the coincidental quintet peels from the back of the group lined up outside the inn and, a hand resting on the hilt of a well-used longsword, strides toward the woman.

"Where I come from, you don't strike an old woman, coward!" The weathered man challenges, thinking twice, it would seem, and letting hand fall from hilt only to ball into a fist.

…Neither of the women wore an obvious marriage knife, a man noticed, but, regardless of this, and regardless of the distance between this town (or city, or village, or whatever such a place might be called by its denizens), a man could not let another man defend the honor of two women alone. Thus, as the woodsman approached the guardsmen from the fore, the curly-haired Ebou Dari, tossed his cloak back from one shoulder and, head down but hand moving to rest upon the exquisitely worked basket hilt of the rapier hanging at his hip, slipped from the tiny crowd to circle around behind the back of those guards and their incapacitated captive.

“And where I come from,” a man said, fingers drumming absently on the leather twined hilt of his blade, as a wry smile curls the tips of his mustaches upward, “neither does a man drag an unconscious woman toward a destination she wishes not to go.”

Cho'Ra Fa'hiri knew she must be close. She had been on his tail since leaving Tarabon all those weeks ago. Granted, it was a very long tail, but she could just sense he must be near. The air here was nearly agitated with it--the stench of the vile. She strode the streets confidentley, determinedly, every bit the Domani woman her mother had taught her to be, despite her father's protests. Cho'Ra smiled at the thought of her parents, her father's clever wit never stood a chance against her mother's unbridled charm. The smile vanished, remembering her last interaction with them.

She clutched at the intricate handle of the knife, hidden beneath her cloak, sheathed at the back of her hip. The blade she had once flaunted from her neck on a collar, now lay in wait to serve its purpose. And she was close, she could feel it.

A harsh, cold breeze swept through Cho'Ra's now dark red hair, as she arrived at the door of the Gleeman's Abode, five others seeming to materialize at her side. While her lavish (to some's standards) dark blue Domani dress covered her from neck to ankle, the sheer fabric clung to her body and offered very little protection from the cold. This said, she was the first to step forward toward the door after all six of them had strangely stopped together right in front of it.

However, as she reaches for the handle, a woman cries out in anguish and Cho'Ra's heart goes out to her even before she sees her, "Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

Cho'Ra tries to move toward the commotion, tightening her cloak closer around her, but a tall, lean woodsman and another curly-haired man blocked her path and her line of sight.

"I won't let you take her!" the same desperate woman screams, as Cho'Ra finds a space between the two men to watch the scene unfold, "I WILL NO-"

And then one of the guards knocks the life out of the old woman and Cho'Ra finds herself following behind the woodsman as he makes his way toward the guards. They are picking up that unconscious girl again by the time they get there while the old woman sobs behind them.

The woodsman's hand goes to the hilt of his blade, "Where I come from, you don't strike an old woman, coward!" he shouts at them, in a rage, but he releases the sword's handle and Cho'Ra is grateful for it. She looks at the bleeding woman and the unconscious girl, the less I have to waste my strength out here, the better.

The curly-haired man now appears behind the guards, “And where I come from, neither does a man drag an unconscious woman toward a destination she wishes not to go.” An Ebou Dari, of course it would be. This man's hand remained on the hilt of his ornate sword and there is a moment where it seems like nothing is going to happen.

Cho'Ra takes this chance to move forward as well. She steps toward the guards, dangling the young woman between them, and releases her clutch on the front of her cloak, allowing it to flow out behind her as she dons one of the one hundred and sixty-two smiles her mother had taught her. Perhaps she was a little out of practice, but she hadn't come this far to right the worst wrong done to her by being the complacent little mouse she once was. Her frame is slight, standing at barely 5'3, but presence was worth so much more than appearance.

"Excuse me gentlemen," she says, walking as close to the guards as they will allow, and leans slightly to the side, "you as well, Sir Ebou Dari," she straightens, "There seems to have been enough blood spilled today, there need not be more, do you agree?" She continues before they can respond, "These women, they are harmless against your might, are they not? Surely this manner of extraction is more than necessary." She looks at the girl once more, then back up to the men, "What could this young woman have done to warrant such treatment?"

Alyrëa shivered as the merciless wind whipped her, sinking its icy claws into her skin and causing her to tighten her coarse worn travelling cloak closer around her in an attempt to shield herself from the harsh gale. She sniffed a little then, with fingers so cold they barely responded to the commands being relayed to her from her brain, she opened a medium sized pouch attached to her leather belt to check its precious contents were still intact. Her lips pulled into a slight smile of relief when she saw that they were. The Wilder had traversed many miles to the town in order to procure rare herbs that were not to be found anywhere else in the realm. This meant, of course, that she had to part with a lot of her coin but she deemed it worth the cost for all the good the plants did.
Alyrëa was of average height of 5'4'' and had a rather thin frame with hardly any prominent muscles due to the fact that she preferred to strengthen her mind more than her body so she could harness The One Power. Her wavy, fine hair was a rich mahogany brown, the locks reaching down to her elbows if left free to hang, but was tied up in a leather band to keep the unruly strands out of the way. Her sharp eyes, almost as deep brown as her hair, rarely missed anything as did her keen ears and it was these ears that caught a high pitched terrible pleading scream as she approached the Gleeman's Abode inn, hoping to seek respite from her weary travels. Her head snapped round to the source of the terrible sound.
'Nooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!' 'I won't let you take her!' The frail old lady wielded a rolling pin in the same fashion one would a club, raising it above her head. 'I WILL NO-,' the poor woman was cut short as one of the guards dragging an unconcious woman through the mud briefly let go of his prisoner only to hit the protesting lady hard around the head with the back of his hand, which caused her to tumble into the dirt. Alyrëa's lips pursed in disapproval as she beheld the scene and she noticed that the scene illicited a reaction from two others as well. A tall bear-like man with a strong but lean build approached the hostile guard with a purposeful stride and gripped the hilt of his sword firmly, ready to unsheath the blade if things turned sour.
'Where I come from,' the dark haired man growled, looking the guard straight in the eye, 'you don't strike an old woman, coward.' He seemed to realise the potential consequences of his actions, however, for he reluctantly released his sword and stood there balling his hands into fists.
The second man, who seemed to possess much wealth if the meticulously and beautifully crafted blade hanging from his leather belt and his neatly trimmed mustaches were anything to judge by, circled around behind the guards and added 'and where I come from, neither does a man drag an unconcious lady to where she does not wish to go.'
Alyrëa tensed, anticipating the scene turning violent, but at that moment, to her relief, a slightly built woman a similar height to her, intervened and smiled a strange smile Alyrëa could not deceipher. Was it hostility? Dominance? Anger? She could not tell. Yet despite the woman's rather small stature, she bore an impressive presence, one which, Alyrëa was certain (unless her imagination was playing tricks on her) intimidated the guards somewhat.
'Excuse me, gentlemen,' she said, 'you as well, Sir Ebou Dari, there seems to have been enough blood spilled today, wouldn't you agree?' The woman then enquired what the other women had done to envoke such rough treatment. As much as Alyrëa wished to rest her weary limbs from the excursions of both the cold and her travels, she resisted the enticing lure of the warm welcoming glow of Gleeman's Abode and, like the woman who asked the question, Alyrëa too waited for the guards' response.

(I am sorry if I controlled any of your characters in any way or did anything else wrong. If so, please tell me so I know not what to do next time. I hope my first post was sufficient enough!)

The journey from Salidar to Maeldon had been long, unpleasant, and filled with dust. Za’ahrat Asaheen hated dust. The particles floated through the air and clung to everything. With unparalleled tenacity the tiny invaders bore into to seams and hems, and whatever else would provide purchase. Banishing the hated nemesis would have been a frivolous use of the One Power, but after a long day of travel it was tempting to draw in every drop of Saidar she could to send the wretched dust back to the hell from whence it came.

Yet, dust was a part of travel and she would endure all the dust in the world if it meant fulfilling her quest. In her pursuit of the ring and the shawl she had endured far worse. Since being raised to the Blue Ajah, Za’ahrat Asaheen had been charged with sowing seeds of discord to topple the Reds. Intrigue would serve their rebellion more than the clashing of steel. The will of her Ajah was not the only force that drove her on; there were more clandestine threads at work. It had been dreams that led the young Aes Sedai to Maeldon, and it would be dreams that led her to her true purpose. Za’ahrat heeded true dreams when they came. She knew not the purpose yet, but she trusted the path would soon be revealed.

Za’ahrat had dreamed a hazy mirror of this moment. There had been the town, an inn, and a huddle of strangers around her. Now the grey mists of the dream had been painted over with full colors. The Gleeman’s Abode had been aptly named for this moment, if not for its own presence. There the fey Domani found herself standing amid a circle of five travel worn strangers. That they all stood taller than her came as no surprise. Her childhood in Arad Doman taught her that most she met would tower above her. That diminutive stature had taught Za’ahrat to command presence long before she ever set foot in the White Tower. With dark copper skin, a mane of shiny black curls, and almond eyes the rare shade of violet, Za’ahrat was notably beautiful among a people renowned for their beauty. She had spent as many years learning to wield that beauty as she had to bend Saidar to her will. Layers of gossamer dyed in hundreds of shades of indigo clung to her form and shifted color as she moved. All this was hidden and revealed by the cloak billowing around her. 

Though the dying day brought with it a bitter chill, Za’ahrat did not feel it. Neither color nor heat would touch her. Exposure could still exhaust or kill, but she would not feel the affects until it was far too late. There was a precocity to Aes Sedai serenity, but it was a cost gladly paid. Such was not the case for the five travelers around her, but all bore it well nonetheless. Her gaze first fell upon the men, though each had been travel hardened they raised no alarms. The same could not be said of the other women. She sensed the ability to channel in each, and if they had any training at all this close they could not help but sense the ability in her too. Perhaps they were merely Wilders who had managed to survive their first touch of the power, perhaps they were something more. Neither had the ageless look of a Sister, but it would be sometime before she bore the face of an Aes Sedai herself. They wore no rings, but rings were easy enough to hide. Za’ahrat was grateful that her own serpent ring was on the hand beneath her cloak. If they were Sisters then they were loyal to the usurper and could easily be Reds. The pair would have to be watched closely.

Sudden commotion interrupted her study and pulled the attention of each of them. A woman’s scream shattered any further contemplation there might have been.  

"Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

The townswoman’s protest filled the air as she followed two guardsmen dragging an unconscious young woman down the streets. Such injustice sparked a rage beneath the cloak of serenity. Guards and militia were the tools of those in power, and that rarely meant acting for the good of common folk. Her fury doubled when one of the brutes struck the old woman, silencing her cries as she fell to the dirt road. There was not to do but intercede and it seemed those around her had come to a similar conclusion, as each stepped forward to meet the guards. 

Za’ahrat glided to the front on the group to face the armored pair, “Yes,” she began in a silvery alto, “What is the meaning of such barbarism? Surely there are better methods than dragging unconscious girls through the town and striking down old women in the streets. Explain yourselves and we will find a solution.”

Like the others, Za’ahrat awaited their response. For now the Aes Sedai kept the hand bearing her great serpent ring hidden. That was a weapon she could reveal later if need be.

 

It had been a long day like many other long days and Dane Merriweather looked forward to an evening at an inn.  A decent meal, a bit of relaxation and a bed - hopefully good, at least decent, and at worst not a pile of hay to tuck into.  Long days in the woods and on the move made a man look forward to such things.  He wasn’t exactly sure where he would go next, but that was likely to work itself out anyway.

As he approached the inn, a modest place called the Gleeman’s Abode, he was surprised to find himself coming together with 5 others at the front door.  Maeldon had hardly seemed a likely place for a traffic jam, but here one was, and on the doorstep of Dane’s respite as well.  He generally liked the moderately sized inns.  They weren’t run down, but they also didn’t have fancy pants filling the common room and didn’t cost a week’s wages to get a bed.  Plus, they usually had good, solid regular folk running them.  The Gleeman had looked like just such an inn which was why the hunter had turned his weary feet in that direction, but then just as he was arriving at the front door the city seemed to fling forth a crowd right at it’s door.  It was all rather inconvenient in the opinion of the small hunter. 

"Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

Dane whirled at the sound of a woman crying and yelling with one hand instinctively reaching for an arrow to slip into his bow.   In front of her was a dilemma.  A young woman was being dragged off by guards.  Clearly she wasn’t able to say much herself, but the older woman following her was crying out in protest.  That couldn’t be good.  Yet these were guards.  And sometimes city guards actually did decent work.  Sometimes people actually needed to be taken in.  Plus, it was rarely a good practice to get oneself in trouble with the local law.  And it rarely led to a relaxed evening in an inn and a comfortable bed at the end of the night. 

Yet something about the scene in front of him did not feel right.  What could the young woman have done?  As he tried to decide what to do, two of those with whom he was sharing the inn’s doorway moved to the woman’s aid.

"Where I come from, you don't strike an old woman, coward!"

“And where I come from,” a man said, fingers drumming absently on the leather twined hilt of his blade, as a wry smile curls the tips of his mustaches upward, “neither does a man drag an unconscious woman toward a destination she wishes not to go.”

Dane wasn’t sure what he thought about the situation.  He did not like seeing a woman mishandled in this way.  Something was up.  The problem was that he didn’t know exactly what that something was.  Luckily the actions of the two strangers offered him a chance to learn more about the situation.  Surely the guards would need to respond to these two and Dane would be able to learn more about the situation while remaining for the moment neutral.   He didn’t yet nock an arrow, but he readied his bow and put a hand to his quiver so he could draw in a heartbeat if needed.  He had no intention of shooting.  City guards just took orders and didn’t deserve to die while doing their job.  But just the threat of a shot or a well-placed warning could change a situation.  He moved to the corner of the building so that he could easily see the situation develop and hear how the guards responded. 

He wasn’t in the middle of this yet, but he might be soon.  The thought did not comfort him.  His father would have spouted something about the wheel weaving as the wheel wanted and just the thought was enough to make the small woodsman shake his head as he moved.  The wheel wouldn’t decide if he got caught in this tangled thread; he would. 

He just had to decide what to do. 

"Where I come from, you don't strike an old woman, coward!"

The two guardsmen came to an abrupt halt as a wild man strode towards them. Their eyebrows disappeared behind their shining helmets as they soaked in his appearance. The dirty, untamed, and just plain uncivilized look of the man seemed to take them aback initially. Indeed, Dain's unencumbered hand gripped the hilt of his sword, the leather of his gauntlet creaking slightly against that of his boarhide handle wrapping. 

Their expressions grew decidedly grim as another man stepped beside the first. A much cleaner and less ferocious-looking man with distinct Ebou Dari mustaches and a gold hoop piercing his ear. He seemed confident. A man who was afraid of very little and believed in his abilities to handle that which the Wheel pitted against him.

Alyrëa took note of the differences of the two guards demenours: Dain appeared to be the more confrontatious of the two, prone to violent outbursts which he directed at anyone foolish-or brave-enough to test his anger and patience. The other, Jormander she believed his name was, seemed to be the opposite: a more understanding and gentle personality was evident in him with the desire of not wishing to fight unless needs must. For that, Alyrëa felt a kinship to the man as he reminded her of herself, his kind demenour reminiscent to her own.
The Wilder once again cast a weary eye to the inviting respite of the inn's welcoming glow, but after a moment, she shook her head slightly; she could not in good conscience pleasure herself while she was aware that a possibly innocent woman was facing capital punishment for a crime she may not have commited. Alyrëa would never forgive herself if she let such a tragedy come to pass so she resisted the enticing lure of the comforts of Gleeman's Abode and turned towards the harsher elements of the bitterly cold village. She knew not of her companions of whom she had only been in the presence of for only an hour, if that, but judging by their actions they, too, wished to assist the prisoner in whichever way they could. Swallowing in an attempt to calm her nerves for she was a rather introverted woman that did not do too well at addressing a group as large as the one she had found herself with now, she also cleared her throat and spoke in a voice as confident as she could muster:

'My fellow travellers,' she began a little awkwardly, but then began to find confidence buried inside her, spurred on by the conviction of her feelings towards the woman she wished to save if possible. 'Will you join me in investigating this terrible matter and, if discovered that she is indeed innocent, assist me in allowing the woman to be pardoned and set free? Please, my friends, I implore you to help me with this task.'
Alyrëa closed her mouth. Now her words had been said, she felt her all-too-familiar sense of nervousness and shyness prevail over the confidence she had just moments before. She timidly awaited her companions' response, casting quick glances at each of their travel weary faces.

(I apologise if this response was short)

"It would be a shame to harm such fine girls," the neanderthal replied. Plastering a greasy smile on his face, he sneered down at Cho'ra and the other Domani who had materialized by her side, "Perhaps we can work out something else. If you delightful girls would care to accompany me, I'm sure we can work out . . . something to settle your crimes."

Cho'ra leaned in, happy for the chance to reign justice on yet another horrible man, when the other guard interjected, "That is quite enough, Dain!" he spat, laying the girl on the ground and striding forward to stand next to the oaf. "Captain Kerwin will hear of this!" Turning toward Cho'ra and the others who had stepped up to protect the girl and old woman, he crossed his arms and sighed.

"Outsiders, you do not know the full situation, and as such, I cannot fault you for this . . . confrontation. As all of Maeldon must know by now, an Aes Sedai by the name of Nelelle Mathera was murdered. She was discovered last night, her body still warm on her room floor. Millae is believed to be the culprit."

"What eviden-" before she could continue, the mother cried out once more.

"No!" scrambling to her feet she stumbled toward their group, gasping between her sobs, "Millae would never! She adored Nelelle Sedai!"

The kinder guard tried consoling the woman once again and Cho'Ra kept the brute in her peripheral vision in case he wanted to try anything. Beginning to channel would likely be seen as an act of aggression in this situation, but her hand slid silently to another dagger and rested lightly around the hilt beneath her robes. This one had no such significance as the other, but it would do the job.

The woman shouted out again, "No! I won't leave Millae to the gallows!"

"Get lost, you stupid old bit!" The pigswine stepped forward once again like the bully he was and Cho'Ra's grip tighted around her dagger, while her arm reached out as she prepared to attempt to speak with him once more. The good guard then punched the ogre hard in his side, and Cho'Ra hid another smile.

"You are out! Of! Line!" Good Guard practically shouted, pushing Ogre back another step with a finger in his chest. "Return to the guardhouse and remain there!"

Weezing like an idiot, the ogre replied, "You'll pay for that, Jandran."

"Get out of my sight, Dain." And the ogre was off to terrify others, Cho'Ra could only assume. Jandran then picks up the unconscious girl again and sighs, "It's a tragic business," he says, softer now, "And I must say I find it hard to believe. I've known Millae since she was a child. Since we were both children. She was always so gentle." He straightens again, so full of self-right he may as well be kin to the Ebou Dari behind her, "But I have a duty, and all evidence points to her. If you truly want to help the girl, come to speak with her in the jailhouse when she wakes up. I'll see that you can get to her. Perhaps you might be able to prove her innocence."

"Sir, before you go, who would accuse such a gentle young woman?"

((OOC: any response))

"Thank you, sir, we shall see you shortly."

Shaking his head sadly, Jandran turned away carrying an unconscious daughter and turning his back to a defeated mother and six onlookers as he strode down the solemn street.

Cho'Ra moved toward the hysterical woman, still bleeding and sobbing at the fear of losing her daughter, "Ma'am, Mistress," what was it? Oh, "Velalin, may I heal you? I am no Aes Sedai, but I have been a healer in my, home, for as long as I can remember. May I?"

As she waits for the woman to reply, Cho'Ra hears a new, smaller female voice behind her, and glances back to find the other woman who had been standing with their group at the front of the Gleeman's Abode. She had stayed safely away from the fray, which was probably the smarter choice, "My fellow travellers," she began shakily, and continued as though she were running out of breath, 'Will you join me in investigating this terrible matter and, if discovered that she is indeed innocent, assist me in allowing the woman to be pardoned and set free? Please, my friends, I implore you to help me with this task."

"Of course," Cho'Ra said, turning her attention back to the woman, and wondering why the little Ebou Dari girl would consider them friends. She would help the young woman find justice if she were indeed innocent, and anyone who wanted to assist her reach that goal was welcomed. Though it would put a damper on her lead.

(OOC comment: When Alyrëa said 'please, my friends', it was a figure of speech. She was just being polite)

"Sir, before you go, who would accuse such a gentle young woman?" One of the women asks with great respect.

((OOC: any response))

"Thank you, sir, we shall see you shortly."

"It's a tragic business," the soldier says gently. "And I must say I find it hard to believe. I've known Millae since she was a child. Since we were both children. She was always so gentle." He firmed up slightly, straightening his shoulders. "But I have a duty, and all evidence points to her. If you truly want to help the girl, come to speak with her in the jailhouse when she wakes up. I'll see that you can get to her. Perhaps you might be able to prove her innocence."

Shaking his head sadly, Jandran turns away carrying an unconscious daughter and turning his back to a defeated mother and six onlookers as he strides down the solemn street.

The soft-spoken woman moves toward the hysterical older woman, still bleeding and sobbing at the fear of losing her daughter, "Ma'am, Mistress," what was it? Oh, "Velalin, may I heal you? I am no Aes Sedai, but I have been a healer in my, home, for as long as I can remember. May I?"

"My fellow travelers," one of the women says a little awkwardly, but then finds confidence and spurred on by the conviction of her feelings towards the woman she wishes to save, she continues. "Will you join me in investigating this terrible matter and, if discovered that she is indeed innocent, assist me in allowing the woman to be pardoned and set free? Please, my friends, I implore you to help me with this task."

"Of course," Cho'Ra says, turning her attention back to the woman, and wondering why the little Ebou Dari girl would consider them friends. She would help the young woman find justice if she were indeed innocent, and anyone who wanted to assist her in reaching that goal is welcome. Though it will put a damper on her lead.

"Blood and ashes," Lanur growls while still watching the retreating soldier. Swallowing the urge to leap after the soldier, the woodsman waves him off with the women. "You heard him. This is a matter that does not concern us. I have traveled a good distance and am due a meal and a roof over my head. If you lot wish to pursue this, it be at your own risk."

Turning from the scene he almost runs into the Ebou Dari man. Meeting his gaze, Lanur Dinas dips his head in acknowledgment of the support he'd shown. Stepping past the clean and well-presented swordsman, the ranger strides towards the inn while mumbling beneath his breath, "I'm not getting mixed up with no noble class intrigue and certainly not with Aes Sedai. The Wheel take the lot of them."

"Excuse me gentlemen," a lovely woman with dark red hair and a blue dress said, imposing herself in the situation, "you as well, Sir Ebou Dari…"

Thren’s honey-eyed gaze danced over the woman for an instant, lingering only long enough to acknowledge her with a roguish smile and a faint tip of his head, before turning back on the guardsmen.

…The woman straightened; "There seems to have been enough blood spilled today, there need not be more, do you agree?" She continued before a response could be given, "These women, they are harmless against your might, are they not? Surely this manner of extraction is more than necessary." She looked at the girl once more, then back up to the men, "What could this young woman have done to warrant such treatment?"

“Yes,” another exotically beautiful woman interjected in a silvery alto, “What is the meaning of such barbarism? Surely there are better methods than dragging unconscious girls through the town and striking down old women in the streets. Explain yourselves, and we will find a solution.”

"You dare call me a coward!?  You dare stand in the way of the law!? You will pay for your impudence!" the more boorish guardsman declared angrily, again dropping the poor unconscious woman and leaving his counterpart to support her by himself. Standing in front of the four individuals he half drew his sword, bearing the steel…

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Thren clucked his tongue, slowly shaking his head, as the guard’s steel slid half-free of its scabbard. “A man could lose a hand or worse,” the Ebou Dari scolded softly, almost in a whisper, his fingers no longer drumming on his rapier’s hilt but, instead, resting lightly and purposefully upon it, “should a man enter a fight on a half measure, yes?”

…The big lout seemed to hesitate, then, regarding the Ebou Dari and the Wildman with an assessing eye. His eye didn’t linger overlong, though, and he seemed to resign his blade to its proper place before he turned his leering gaze to the women. "It would be a shame to harm such fine girls," he muttered. Replacing the grimace on his face with a greasy smile and ignoring the men, he said, "Perhaps we can work out something else. If you delightful girls would care to accompany me, I'm sure we can work out... something to settle your crimes." 

Before Thren was able to voice a challenge to the guard’s lecherous manner, the man was rebuked by his own partner. "That is quite enough, Dain!" the more civil soldier spat as he eased the unconscious girl to the ground and then strode forward to stand beside the oaf, "Captain Kerwin will hear of this!"

With a sigh on his lips, the guardsman turned, folded his arms across his chest, and regarded the group that, by twist of fate or turning of the Wheel, had gathered to confront them in their duties. "Outsiders," he murmured, sounding a little exasperated. "You do not know the full situation, and as such, I cannot fault you for this... confrontation. As all of Maeldon must know by now, an Aes Sedai by the name of Nelelle Mathera was murdered. She was discovered last night, her body still warm on her room floor. Millae is believed to be the culprit."

The Ebou Dari smirked, arching a skeptical brow as his eyes flitted from the man with manners to the still form of the girl where she lay in the street. This slip of a girl, so easily subdued by a pair of simple guards, has murdered an Aes Sedai? he mused, seeing to it that he did not voice the words aloud, Were a man to believe such a thing, that man would surely be branded a fool.

“No! Millae would never,” the older woman wailed as a man pondered the absurdity of the accusations against the younger, “She adored Nelelle Sedai!”

The civil-tongued guard turned sympathetic eyes on the distraught woman and pleaded with her to see a healer, even offering to pay for the service, but the woman’s protests continued. "No! I won't leave Millae to the gallows!"

"Get lost, you stupid old bit," the brutish Dain roared only to be cut short and silenced by a blow to his ribs from his better-mannered cohort.

“You are out! Of! Line!” the goodly guard emphasized as he walked the wheezing Dain back another step or two. “Return to the guardhouse and remain there!”

“You’ll pay for that, Jandran,” Dain promised, at last providing a man with a name to match to a face.

“Get out of my sight, Dain,” Jandran returned, obviously nonplussed by the threat.

Dain’s cruel gaze stabbed at Jandran, panned over the others, and drew a sardonic smile from the Ebou Dari, before he, at last, stormed off, nearly bowling over an oblivious farmer as he went. Thren, smiling all the while, watched the angry retreat with no small amount of amusement. When the loutish man had disappeared from sight, Thren’s fingers drifted from the hilt of his rapier and lifted to stroke the ends of his mustaches. “In Ebou Dar,” he chuckled softly to no one in particular, “a man would not live two breaths from his last with such manners.”

“You four! Jandran’s voice called Thren’s attentions back, “Understand that Lord Lanara has ordered that Nelelle Sedai receives justice. If you insist on interfering, then you will also face the law.”

It is not a man’s intention to interfere, Thren smiled as the thought played through his mind, especially if such a thing should involve facing the law, yes? He tugged his cloak back over his shoulder, once more shrouding his blade with a draping of wool, and bowed shortly to the guard. Intercede, mayhap, should the chance arise, but never interfere, he chuckled inwardly.

Jandran turned, then, and scooped Millae gently off the street, sighing ruefully when his gaze met Mistress Velalin’s. "It's a tragic business," he said gently. "And I must say I find it hard to believe. I've known Millae since she was a child. Since we were both children. She was always so gentle." He firmed up slightly, straightening his shoulders. "But I have a duty, and all evidence points to her. If you truly want to help the girl, come to speak with her in the jailhouse when she wakes up. I'll see that you can get to her. Perhaps you might be able to prove her innocence."

“Sir, before you go,” the lovely, red-haired Domani asked, “who would accuse such a gentle young woman?”

((OOC: any response))

"Thank you, sir, we shall see you shortly."

Shaking his head sadly, Jandran turned away carrying an unconscious daughter and turning his back to a defeated mother and six onlookers as he strode down the solemn street.

As the soft-spoken woman moved toward the still hysterical Velalin and offered her skills as a healer, Thren turned back toward the door of The Gleeman’s Abode, set to put the scene behind him, a mug of wine before him and, a bit later, a soft bed under him. He had made it only a step in that direction, though, when a timid voice stalled his next…

"My fellow travelers," the mousey woman started a little uneasily, "Will you join me in investigating this terrible matter and, if discovered that she is indeed innocent, assist me in allowing the woman to be pardoned and set free? Please, my friends, I implore you to help me with this task."

"Of course," the Domani healer answered.

“Blood and ashes,” rumbled the woodsman who still eyed the retreating soldier. For an instant, the Wildman looked as if he may yet set off after the soldier, but, in the end, opted for the inn, instead. "You heard him,” the rangy man continued, waving off the entirety of the situation, “This is a matter that does not concern us. I have traveled a good distance and am due a meal and a roof over my head. If you lot wish to pursue this, it be at your own risk." He turned, then, and, in his eagerness to put the scene behind him, nearly bumped into Thren.

“Your pardon, good sir,” the Ebou Dari man smiled, returning Lanur’s curt nod as he stepped out of the woodsman’s path, gesturing toward the doorway of the Gleeman’s Abode as he did so. Lanur strode past, then, muttering under his breath as he went, and Thren al’Rilin’s gaze turned, again, to the women – first to the Domani healer who was tending Velalin, then to the onyx-haired and violet-eyed beauty who still floated nearby, and, at last, back to the timorous little Ebou Dari girl.

“Sweet girl,” he smiled softly, “Thren al’Rilin has not survived so many turnings of the Wheel by being fool enough to present himself, willingly or otherwise, in any jailhouse. A man stays out of the law’s way and the law stays out of the way of a man, yes? For a man to put himself directly in the face of the law is quite the risk.” The charming smile faded a bit, then, and his honey-hued eyes swept over the women, once again, before finding Jandran’s back some distance away, now. He sighed, then, and, stroking thoughtfully at his whiskers continued; “In this instance, however, a man believes that the law in Maeldon may not be working just so…” The smile returned to his lips as his gaze returned to Alyrëa. “…And where there is risk, so, too, is there often reward, hm?

Of course there is,” he laughed even as he bowed with a flourish, “Thren al’Rilin will happily cede to a girl’s request. But first,” he suggested as he rose from the bow and gestured toward the Gleeman’s Abode, “perhaps a meal and a drink, at least?”

((OOC: Whew! That got long... sorry about that. Thren is heading inside, now, looking to secure that drink and, possibly a room.))

Dane moved to the edge of the confrontation with one hand on his quiver and the other holding his bow ready to get involved if needed, but really just hoping for information.  And he got it.  At least some.  For one, he learned that one of the guards (unfortuantely named Dain also!) was a complete blow-hard.  He clearly thought a lot of himself and just as clearly had little to think highly of.  But the other guard, the one named Jandran, was the kind of man you wanted working for the law.  If more agents of law and order had his attitude the wheel might spin a little easier.  Or at least not crush as many of those beneath the metaphorical wheel. As expected, he was just a guard doing his duty.  But a guard who understood the difficulties of the situation.  Dane didn't like the situation.  It seemed unlikely that a serving girl had murdered an aes Sedai, at least not without some powerful outside influence.  Especially when those who seemed to know the girl thought her entirely gentle.  That was not the description one usually got of a darkfriend.  

And yet, someone had been murdered and there was evidence of a sort.  And an aes Sedai!  Dane had absoltuely no interest in getting mixed up with one of them.  Aes Sedai were only slightly better then White Cloaks and that was a damning statement.  And if one had been murdered it was almost certain that others would soon be on the scene.  No, Dane wanted nothing to do with this.  Nothing at all. 

He started to step back towards the inn when one of the women asked for aid in figuring out what had happened.  One of the two men up front, the ranger-looking type, stomped off to the inn refusing to participate. Dane's feet itched to follow him.  But, it just seemed doubtful that the servant was involved.  And what were the odds that a lord and aes Sedai would provide justice for a poor common girl?  Just the thought of it was enough for Dane to feel his anger rising.  But getting involved was crazy.  

And one of these women could channel.  She had offered to heal the old lady.  Dane looked at her closely and fought the urge to run.  Damn aes Sadai!  They were everywhere.  He'd have to guard himself carefully.  But still, the pull to do the right thing was strong.  He just wasn't quite sure yet what the right thing was.  Again, he needed information.  

He heard all of the comments:  the threats, the offer to heal, the request to help, the refusal and the suggestion of food.  He had been silent so far and wasn't even sure if the others were fully aware of his presence.  He moved a bit forward onto the steps of the inn and spoke up.  "Yes, aid may be needed.  But we don't know much.  The gentleman made a good suggestion when he proposed a meal in the Gleeman's Abode - it seems we were all heading there anyway.  Perhaps Mistress Velalin you would accompany us into the inn?  I don't think chasing down the good guardsman will do anyone any good right now, least of all the young lady.  But at the very least your exploits on her behalf this evening have attracted our atention.  Perhaps over a meal you could tell us more so that we might better understand the situation and formulate a plan to help the young lady.  Even going to the guardhouse won't do any good just yet."  Dane looked at the rest of the group.  "Anyone else tired, hungry and looking for more information before jumping feet first into a hornets nest?"  Without waitng for a response he looks at the injured woman in the street.  "And you Mistress Velalin?   Some food and a chance to convince us of your servants plight?"

[I will have to post this response in several posts because twice now when I have gone to post the whole thing at once, it failed to send and the site crashed]

Alrëa's thin lips curled into a slight smile with the relief that her fellow travellers had all pledged their assistance to her in rescuing the Aes Sedai-all except one, it seemed.

Blood and ashes,' the bear-like woodsman growled, 'you heard him. This is a matter which does not concern us. I have travelled a good distance and am due a meal and a roof over my head. If you lot wish to pursue this, it be at your own risk,' Lanur appeared to be in such a hurry to escape the situation that he almost collided with Thren.

Alyrëa swallowed, taken aback and saddened that anyone could be so selfish. Taking a deep breath of the crisp, chill air that bit into her cheeks, the Wanderer's mind drifted back many years prior to the current day...

[Flashback]
The beaming rays of the midmorning Sun bathed the tranquil village of Ardon in its soft, warming rays, nursing the crops thriving in the hardworking farmers' fields and enticing the citizens out of their sturdy homes to enjoy a day of leisure in the perfect weather. The birds, too, were trilling blissfully in the tall, sturdy oaks which were just beginning to cloak themselves with their Autumn colours. The songs of the birds were joined by the merry laughter of the children chasing each other through the earthy streets, or else wrestling in the dirt (the latter an act for which their mothers were sure to scald them for when their children returned home filthy). Alyrëa herself, at the tender age of seven, was sat on the grassy front yard of her house, telling to her best friend Rayna tales of her most recent adventures in the nearby forest when she had accompanied her father to gather timber to construct a shed and to hunt in order to fully stock their meat storage for the rapidly approaching Winter. She told of large black bears, of unusual birds, of horned stags racing through the thick foliage of the forest floor, of carp with irridescent scales that glistened as the rays of the Sun kissed their bodies that her father had caught in the river- and of how she had landed face first in the undergrowth due to her lack of attention on where exactly she was placing her feet. A half rotted log strewn with fungi that had laid over her path had been the cause of her downfall. Rayna had burst into a loud fit of laughter upon hearing this, causing Alyrëa to frown.