Dane was only a page into The Adventures of Jain Farstrider when a racket began above his head.  The cretin of a woodsman was banging on doors above to wake the dead.  Dane grimaced, the man gave those of the woods a bad name with his complete lack of manners.  Treating others with respect was neither a weakness nor a sin.  The man seemed to be completely self-centered, and yet it sounded like he intended to join the rest of them in searching for answers.  He was not at all sure if that was a good thing.  He did not want others to associate him with the beast.  Still, you never knew what gifts someone might bring to the party, so he'd take what he could get and wait to judge harshly until he had again caused more trouble than benefit.

Another clatter shattered the once peaceful morning as a door off of the common room burst open, revealing a red-faced Master Masteon still in his shirtsleeves. 

"What in the name of the Light is going on!?" he practically bellowed. His eyes quickly found the only other occupant in the common room: Dane, sitting by the semi-warm coals of the not yet kindled fire. He furrowed his brow, opened his mouth, then at another thunderous boom of knocking on the floor above, closed his mouth and scurried across the common room to the stairs leading up.

Curious of the racket in the hall outside, Alyrëa went to the door and cracked it open a few inches and peered out to inform the innkeeper that she would vacate the room shortly-only to discover that it was not the innkeeper after all. Lanur stood at near the end of the hallway, pounding on the final door. There was soft scuttling from one of the rooms, as the occupant rushed around, apparently shocked awake by the clamor that the woodsman caused. A little further down the hall, a door cracked open as a frazzle-haired woman stuck her head out with wide eyes. Seeing the hulking, wild behemoth of Lanur in the hall, she gave a small squeak and snapped the door shut.

What is that oaf attempting to do? Alyrëa thought in frustration as she glared at his retreating back. Her dislike of the rude, arrogant woodsman was swiftly increasing, but as Lanur had already announced he would be joining them on their quest, she would have to hold her tongue, lest her opinions of him should loosen it and cause a confrontation between her and Lanur that she did not desire to have. 

'I thank you for your extremely loud knocking, woodsman,' Alyrëa said to Lanur in mock gratitude when she saw him. 'If not for you, I may never have gotten ready in time to accompany you all to the jailhouse.' She knew she was already breaking her vow to not provoke the hotheaded man, but she could not help it. 

Gritting her teeth, her jaw set, Alyrëa closed the door again and began to change into her traveling attire.

The Innkeep arrived on the second floor just as Alyrëa shut her door and a third door opened allowing Boz to step out, his scarred bare chest bare and clutching a club. 

"You!" The Innkeep hissed. "That is it! You've overstayed your welcome, man. You will leave this building immediately! Harassing poor Mistress Velalin, disturbing my patrons! I will have no more of your... your... disruptive behavior! Boz!"

With a grunt, Boz stepped towards Lanur clutching his club tightly and cautiously eyeing the woodsman. "Now let's 'ave no trouble. Nice and easy." He directed in his gravely, low voice.

Flanked by a half-naked Boz and the heavy breathing, grumbling Master Masteon, Lanur was directed down the stairs into the still deserted common room. It was a strange trio that Dane observed march down the stairs, weave between the tables, and out the front door.

"And don't think of sticking your dirty head back in here again, or Boz will show you what for!" Master Masteon declared as the door slammed shut behind Lanur and Boz. Whirling around, Master Masteon started to storm back to his room but paused as his eyes found Dane. "You were with that man, were you not?" he asked from across the common room. "Yes... yes you were! You and that other lot of strangers. Well! You can tell your friends that you all are no longer welcome here at the -- "

"Caloul, dear." A soft voice cut in. Standing in the doorway of the Innkeeps room stood a matronly looking woman. Her gray-streaked hair was drawn up in a tight bun atop her head, and her kind face was wrinkled her around her Andoran brown eyes. She wore a stout, brown woolen dress, of a slightly out of style Andoran cut. With a slight sniff, she beckoned at the Innkeep and stepped back inside the room.

"I..." Glancing between Dane and the open door, Master Masteon threw his hands up in the air and mumbled under his breath as he stalked into the room, snapping the door shut behind him. The muffled sound of conversation wafted into the common room behind the solid looking door, rising slightly in volume before quickly dropping off into a soft murmur. 

With the grace bespoke of Domani women, Cho'Ra descended into the common room clad in fine but rather unremarkable traveling clothes. Spotting Dane sitting by the fire, she glided over and softly sat herself down beside him. It wasn't too long after that that Za'ahrat stepped into the common room. With a similar sway to that of Cho'Ra - yet somehow more regal and stately rather than enticing and provocative - she floated over to the small gathering and sat beside the pair, soon to be joined by the two others of the gathering.

Any small conversation that had begun soon fell short however as Master Masteon's door swung open and the Innkeep himself stepped out. The redness of his face had faded, and rather than an impatient scowl he wore an expression of sullen bemusement. He eyed the group and sighed, rubbing his face with a hand he strode up and addressed the group.

"What the oaf was screaming about... You truly mean help Millae?"

(OOC: Assuming an affirmative answer.)

"Well..." The Innkeep paused, taking a deep breath. "I've... You've... Bah! The wife has had words with me and... Well... Mistress Velalin and Millae are very dear to us, as I'm sure you know, and... Well... As long as I have your word that there will be no trouble, and that you will prove Millae's innocence and that that bear won't show his face around here again... Then... The lot of you have a room here at the Gleeman's Abode for as long as you need. Free of charge."

Master Masteon shook his head slightly, "Light. Breakfast will be ready in an hour or so if you're hungry. If you're in a hurry, there is bread and cheese available now." The Innkeep turned to walk away, presumably to the kitchen, where intoxicating smells were beginning to seep out, but paused. He turned to the group, his face hard. "But no trouble, mind you. None!"

Satisfied that he had gotten his point across, Master Masteon turned and left the common room. 

Now alone in the common room, the gathering turned to discussing the day's plans. It wasn't long before it was determined that they would move on to the jailhouse and continue from there. With that decided, and the knowledge that there was very little time to spare, the band of misfits gathered any things they wanted and made their way outside.

It wasn't long into the walk down the nearly empty street before it became apparent that nobody actually knew where the jailhouse was. The twisting and turning cobblestone road intersected outside the Gleeman's Abode, and the direction chosen was opposite that of the Baerlon gate. The direction that the Jain had carried Millae the night before. This lack of knowledge was quickly remedied as a question proposed to a local shopkeep setting up his display revealed the location of the jailhouse.

Leaving the curious and slightly suspicious shopkeep behind, the six individuals began their walk through town. Maeldon was a rather pretty little city to behold. Not nearly as glamorous as the Ogre built cities of Caemlyn's Upper City or Tar Valon, but still respectable, the gray stone hauled in from the Mountains of Mist made stout foundations upon which strong wooden beams sat, holding up steep sloping roofs of brown slated shingles two, three, and even occasionally four stories high. The brown wood of the structural beams stood out starkly against the whitewashed walls as the group passed by, idly noting the brightly painted signs denoting cobblers, tailors, and blacksmiths among the many other trades. 

It was approximately a 15-minute walk from the Gleeman's Abode to the jailhouse which was a long flat building, easily identifiable when compared to the sharp sloping roofs of the buildings surrounding it. Connected to the right side of the jailhouse stood what appeared to be a barracks of sorts as determined by the small group of off duty guardsmen, some wearing the armor and blue armband with the White Rose sewn that you've come to associate with the city guard. 

Outside the jailhouse stood a guard standing rigidly beside the door, his hand placed on the pommel of his sword belted to his waist, angling the blade to slant behind him. As the group came within sight, you could almost feel the mans eyes upon you.

In fact, you could feel quite a few pairs of eyes on you, as the guards milling outside their barracks also seemed to take notice of the odd mismatched group.

Pausing out of earshot from the guards, Dane voiced a thought that had been in his mind the whole time.  "Za'ahrat, I was thinking that perhaps you might speak for us. You might be able to get more information than the rest of us."  

"I thank you for your extremely loud knocking, woodsman," Alyrëa says to Lanur in mock gratitude when she sees him. "If not for you, I may never have gotten ready in time to accompany you all to the jailhouse."

Lanur stares coldly at the woman, easily picking up on the bite of her words. His stare is but for a brief moment as he quickly puts her discomfort out of his mind and sets on about his wake-up call.

The Innkeep arrives just as Alyrëa shuts her door and a third door opens allowing Boz to step out, his scarred chest bare and him clutching a club. 

"You!" The Innkeep hisses. "That is it! You've overstayed your welcome, man. You will leave this building immediately! Harassing poor Mistress Velalin, disturbing my patrons! I will have no more of your... your... disruptive behavior! Boz!"

With a grunt, Boz stepped towards Lanur clutching his club tightly and cautiously eyeing the woodsman. "Now let's 'ave no trouble. Nice and easy." He directed in his gravely, low voice.

The woodsman raises his brows and hauls off a cocky half-grin. "Yer pettycoats be showing," he drawls at the innkeep, ignoring the hulking muscle. "Nothing to worry 'bout, though. I'm on my way as it is. One night in a stable is 'nuff for me."

Flanked by a half-naked Boz and the heavy breathing, grumbling Master Masteon, Lanur is directed down the stairs into the still deserted common room. It is a strange trio that Dane observes march down the stairs, weave between the tables, and out the front door. Lanur glances towards the man but for all intents and purposes, does not appear to recognize him.

"And don't think of sticking your dirty head back in here again, or Boz will show you what for!" Master Masteon declares as the door slams shut behind Lanur and Boz.

Stepping further from the Gleeman's Abode, Lanur stretches and breathes the cold air in deeply. Smiling broadly, he turns to Boz and points in the direction that the soldiers had gone the day before. "Jail?" 

Receiving a sullen shrug from the bouncer, the woodsman turns in that direction and strides off, whistling a light tune, eyes scanning the horizon. Spotting a woman splashing the morning's waste into the street, Lanur Dinar wrinkles his nose at the odor and repeats his question. "Jailhouse?" Receiving directions, he continues on his way.

As he walks, the grizzled man notices that as far as cities go, Maeldon is a decent enough place. Not nearly as glamorous as the Ogre built cities of Caemlyn's Upper City or Tar Valon, but still respectable, the gray stone has likely been hauled in from the Mountains of Mist and made stout foundations upon which strong wooden beams sit, holding up steep sloping roofs of brown slated shingles two, three, and even occasionally four stories high. The brown wood of the structural beams stands out starkly against the whitewashed walls and the brightly painted signs denoting cobblers, tailors, and blacksmiths among the many other trades. Dinur has little use for cities. He'll occasionally bring in furs for trade and purchase some of the better-made gear and clothing for his next long journey in the wilderness, but aside from that he finds people irritating, political, and less worth his time than leeches feasting on his leg after a jaunt in the swamp.

Approximately a quarter of an hour walking from the Gleeman's Abode and the wild man finds what can only be the jailhouse. A long flat building, easily identifiable when compared to the sharp sloping roofs of the buildings surrounding it with a barracks connected to the right side. There, he spies a small group of off-duty guardsmen, some wearing the armor and blue armband with the White Rose sewn that he recognizes from his encounter with the city guard yesterday. Continuing to stroll past, Lanur places the guard standing rigidly beside the door outside of the Jailhouse, hand resting on the pommel of his sword which is in turn, belted to his waist, angling the blade to slant behind him. Pretending not to notice, the fur draped scruffy man procedes past, still whistling. Once he's achieved a position on the street that affords him the opportunity to round a corner and place him out of site of the guards, Lanur does so, taking in the layout of the new street, searching for an alley or place from which he can set up surveillance. Watching does not always reveal valuable information, but the woodsman has found such actions to be beneficial in most cases.

After a time, Lanur Dinar notices the approach of the strange little wolfpack. He's now placed the jailhouse and those people are moving inside. The next step is to determine the position, and potentially the disposition, of the White Cloaks. Light take them! Sinking away from any proximity to the jailhouse, Lanur turns and seeks out a means by which he can gain directions to the White Cloak encampment.

Dane was pleased to see the woodsman get tossed out on his loud butt, but then immediately annoyed that the innkeeper seemed to associate him with the loud idiot.  The association was an accident at best.  

But then the goodwife intervened.  

Hearing the innkeepers question Dane answered his querry about aid for the poor lady.  "yes, it is our intent to do our best for Mistress Villalin."  At this point he paused as the man made a generous offer of free room in the inn.  It seemed the wife really had turned him around.  But still, Dane did not want to promise something he could not deliver.  "Master Masteon, you have my word that we will do everything we can to prove young Millae innocent.  But you must know we cannot promise success.  I can't speak for the others, but I will happily take your generous offer should we succeed and expect nothing should we fail.  But success is something I cannot promise.  What I can promise is the greatest effort possible.  That is a thing I can do.  And then we see where things go."  Pausing just long enough to glance at the door, but not long enough to give the innkeeper a chance to respond, he added, "As for the obnoxiously loud and ill-mannered cretan you and your-man Boz just showed to the door, I assure you I only met him last night.  And I believe I can say the same for my companions as well.  He is not 'with us' in any way.  If he truly intends to aid us in helping Mistress Villalin, I suppose we must let him come with us to the jail, but I don't know that any of us have any more influence on him than anyone else here.  Please, do not hold us responsible for his actions.  Still, I will do my best to stear him clear of your establishment."  Glancing at the door he added, "Or maybe we will all get lucky and he will wander off and none of us will ever see him again."  

Giving the man a chance to respond Dane concluded with, "Thank you for your generosity.  I believe most of us would love something quick in our stomachs so that we can go and see what might be learned at the jail.  Speed, I suspect, shall be critical."  

Dane looked around at the others and hoped that they did not mind that he had spoken for them.  He generally preferred not to lead, but when he thought something needed saying he had a very hard time not saying it.  And thus he frequently ended up leading a discussion only because he could not keep his mouth shut when something came up.  It wasn't so much by preference as by habit.  Hopefully these good folks would not mind.  And these others did seem like much better folks than the woodsman.  

Pausing out of earshot from the guards, Dane voiced a thought that had been in his mind the whole time.  "Za'ahrat, I was thinking that perhaps you might speak for us. You might be able to get more information than the rest of us."

Nodding, the young Aes Sedai turned her violet gaze upon the jailhouse and the horde of men standing guard. Men she could deal with. Za'ahrat glided toward the closest guard letting the natural sensuality return to her step. Approaching the closest guard, she let a coy smile paint itself across her lips. Such things made men far more nervous than any blatant act. Desire was the first weapon Za'ahrat had learned to weild and it came to her as natural as breath.  

"Good morning my man," she spoke with a silken alto letting her eyes drift upward to meet the mans gaze. "Is it not a beautiful morning?"

((OOC: In the interest of moving forward, can we list out the questions we have here? Assuming the guard reacts positively, Za'ahrat will ask about Millae and who she was spending time with. Has she ever been violent before? What was her relationship to the Aes Sedai? How has she been behaving since the imprisonment? Eventually she will ask to see the girl. What do you all want to add?))

((OOC: where is Millae? Can we speak with her (I think you suggested this one)? When is her trial? Who is speaking for her? Are they able to speak on the evidence brought against her? Who might we speak to in her defense (i.e. if we want to help mount a defense for her)? Witnesses?))

The rigid guard could have easily been mistaken for a statue as Za'ahrat approached. His shining mail gleamed underneath his stout brown tunic and his heavy forest green cloak did not stir in the light, chilling breeze. The blue armband designating him as a member of the guard stood out starkly against his other, more muted clothing and an open-faced helm sat upon his head, obscuring his long, brown hair which peaked out just underneath the back. He wasn't an ugly man, from what Za'ahrat could see underneath his armor but he wasn't exactly handsome, either. His hooked nose, deep-set eyes, and black beard obscuring the bottom half of his face combined with broad shoulders and tall stature made him look more imposing than anything else.

His black eyes follow Za'ahrat as she approached with her companions trailing slightly behind her. His brow furrowed as she stopped in front of him, and, impossibly, he seemed to become more rigid. As the coy smile spread across Za'ahrat's face, however, his face relaxed slightly, and an almost imperceptible, appreciative smirk perked his lips.

"Good morning my man," she spoke with a silken alto letting her eyes drift upward to meet the guard's gaze and catching his eyes dart away from her chest. "Is it not a beautiful morning?"

"So it is, m'Lady," he grunted, still maintaining his guarded stance outside the door while inspecting the group gathered just behind Za'ahrat. "You the lot that Jandran was talking about?"

"I imagine we are." For a moment the young Aes Sedai waited, but when it became apparent that the guardsman wasn't going to say more she pressed forward. "We've come on behalf of young Millae, perhaps I might ask you some questions?"

"I suppose you could, m'Lady."

"Excellent, good man, excellent," Za'ahrat praised with another enticing smile, Za'ahrat leaned slightly forward. "I understand that Millae was under the employ of Nelelle Sedai. Aside from the Aes Sedai, did she have any other surprising acquaintances?"

"I don't rightly know, m'Lady. Never was too well acquainted with the Velalins."

"Ah, but surely you must know something. Rumors perhaps?"

Slightly adjusting his stance, the guard's eyes moved back to Za'ahrat. "Well, m'Lady," he replied. "Lot's of people have been saying that she's bedding some Whitecloak." 

"Yes, I've heard," Za'ahrat replied, perhaps a little impatiently, "Anyone else?"

"Well, I've seen her dance with some stableboy around the Spring Pole at Bel Tine. Don't know his name though, and that was before the Whitecloaks arrived."

"Mmm," Za'ahrat hummed, absorbing this. "Was Millae a violent girl? Perhaps an angry child?"

"Like I said m'Lady, don't rightly know. Never so much as talked to Millae before."

"That is... disappointing. What about her employment with Nelelle Sedai? What exactly was the nature of that employment?"

"Nature of employment? Well, when the Tar Valon witch decided to stay she determined that she was incapable of existing without someone at her beck and call I expect. Somehow Millae was chosen."

Frowning at the guardsman coldy, Za'ahrat continued. "That was it? Millae was the maidservant?" 

"As far as I know, m'Lady."

"I see. How has Millae been behaving since being imprisoned?"

"I don't know, m'Lady. I took the watch this morning and have been out here since."

Striding up to stand beside the regal form of Za'ahrat, Dane spoke up. "Where is Millae, then?"

"Inside, locked up."

"When is she going to be judged?" Dane continued.

"I suspect later in the day."

"But who is going to stand for her?"

"Stand for her?" The guards eyes moved to Dane, narrowing slightly. "She will stand for herself and be judged accordingly." 

Meeting the guards gaze, Dane asked, "And what evidence do they have against her?"

"I don't know. I wasn't a part of the arrest or investigation. I just guard the jailhouse."

Shaking his head, Dane pressed on. "If we wanted to, say, speak on her behalf, who would we need to talk to?" 

His eyebrows now raised, the guard looked at Dane in surprise. "She'd normally be judged by Master Nadran Telineos. Lord Lanara appointed him as Magistrate. However, I've heard rumors that Lord Lanara wishes to judge Millae himself, what with the girl murdering one of them Witches and all. That's just rumors, though, so I'd talk or Master Telineos."

"And I don't imagine you know if there are any witnesses?" Dane asked, skeptically.

"I've no idea."

"Thought so," Dane murmured. Then, more loudly, "Can we see her?"

"Yes," Za'ahrat added, nodding stately. "I think we would like to see her now."

"Yes. Jandran said you were to be allowed." Moving more than his lips and eyes for the first time since the conversation began, the guard nodded his head, giving permission for the group to enter.

With that, the mismatched group of travelers opened the door to the jailhouse and strode inside. The lobby of the jailhouse was lit by the two windows looking out onto the street outside where the town could be seen slowly waking up. A soft scratching came from the corner where a scribe sat at a desk, writing quickly with a quill and not even bothering to look up from his work as the five individuals entered. A couple of strides away from the entrance sat a sturdy desk, an unlit lamp and ink blotted papers littering its surface, and behind it sat another very bored looking guardsman who was perusing the documents in front of him.

With a sniff, the guard looked up from his papers and took in the visitors. 

Stepping forward, Thren smiled, his mustache fluttering. "My good Master Jailor," He began, "We're --"

"Yes, yes. I know who you are." The guard interrupted, standing up and using one hand to keep his belted sword from between his legs, the other to rub his bare chin. "Dane's been yellin' 'bout a bunch of strangers defyin' the law and Jandran did say that there'd be visitors for Millae. Tol' me I was 'pose to let you see Millae, so let's get to it now, yeah?"

Removing a ring of brass keys from his belt, the Jailor turned and unlocked the only other door in the room. It was a thick door, with a barred window about eye level. "Bunch of strangers, comin' in. Involvin' themselves in our business." He snorted, swinging the door open and beckoning everyone inside. "But Jandran said. Bloody Jandran. Don't know wha' he thinks you can all do. Prolly get your own head on the choppin' block beside the little bit. But that's no matter of mine. Just keep her jailed, Norral, they say. Don't let anyone see her. But then Jandran, ol' Captain Jandran comes around tellin' me a bunch of strangers are goin' to come in and talk to 'er. Light."

Continuing his grumbling, Norral lead everyone down a narrow corridor filled with thick wooden doors, all with the same barred windows. One, scraggly unshaven face peered out of one of these windows. With sullen eyes, he watched as Norral strode the length of the corridor, selected another key, and unlocked and opened another door; this one revealing a set of descending stairs. Removing a lit lamp from the wall, he led the way down. 

The room that the staircase led to was horrible by any account. The only light in the room, which came from the lamp that Norral held, displayed a large, cold, windowless cobblestone dungeon. The entire place stank of decay and rot, and all along the walls were cells, occupied only by dirty straw and old, foul-smelling buckets. All but one. In the cell furthest from the door, sat a huddled, pale form. 

"Well, there she is," Norral stated, starring at the figure that stirred slightly at the voice. Handing the lamp to Thren, he turned. "I'll be upstairs. Knock when you want to be let out." Spitting at the ground, he turned and climbed the stairs.

As the group approached, Millae stirred. Her face was dirty, and tear streaks were clearly visible. Her brown hair was all in disarray and her plain, but well-made dress was wrinkled and covered in the dirty hay that covered her cell floor. She squinted in the flickering light of the lamp, holding a hand to shield it from her eyes. With a sniff, she tried to peer past the light and look at her visitors.

"W-who are you?" She asked, her voice raw and trembling.

When the guard had told them all he could Dane made sure to thank the man.  Too many people here seemed to have come to the conclusion that they were a problem and that wasn’t likely to prove helpful.  So as they passed the guard and went into the guard house he thanked the man.  “Thank you, sir.  We appreciate your words.  Perhaps someday you will have a chance to meet the young lady.”

              With that he went in with the rest and encountered another guardsman who proceeded to offer up a little speech about Jandran and the meddling strangers.  He was sorely tempted to ask him about Master Telineos, the man the guard had mentioned, but decided that now was not the time.  But it was a name to remember.  Likewise he wanted to know if it was typical to isolate a suspect from any contact of if Millae was getting “special treatment.”  But perhaps that would be best asked on the way out?  Instead he just followed the man quietly down to the cells and listened carefully to his diatribe, hoping he would let some important bit of information slip.  It felt uncomfortable being locked into the cells after the man had already spoken about putting their heads on the block, but since they hadn’t done much yet and had even been allowed to keep their own weapons, he set the concern aside.  He did offer a quick, “thank you” to the guards receding back, but the man did not seem to react.

              Inside the cells the situation was unpleasant.  Dane had never been in a dungeon before, but this was certainly how he had envisioned them.  Dark, smelly, damp, barred, uncomfortable, and filled with fear, tears and a lack of hope.  And in the middle of it all was the young woman they had come to talk to, huddled in on herself in one of the cells. 

"W-who are you?" She asked, her voice raw and trembling.

It was hard not to feel sympathy for the poor young woman.  She certainly didn’t look like a murderer.  Perhaps someone’s stooge.  She did look like someone who might have been manipulated, perhaps by a nicely dressed young man.  But then, in these conditions who wouldn’t look tired, afraid and vulnerable?  And who wouldn’t feel sympathy?  That emotion seemed to have captured all of them in the street the previous night and now rang out again.

“Millae?”  He wasn’t really in need of an answer, but it seemed right to ask.  She nodded her head slightly.  (If she is sitting on the floor he goes down to her level)

“I’m Dane.  I’m new here and so are these others.  We are hoping to learn a bit about your situation and maybe help out.  Last night we encountered Mistress Villalin and a certain tavern keeper both of whom seemed quite distressed at your situation.  Neither seemed to believe that you could have done what you are accused of.”  He paused a moment.  He didn’t want to go too quickly.  If he had been in her shoes, he would have had a hard time focusing.  “We don’t know much about what happened, but I do know that a lot of people really seem to care about you.  Care and believe that you are a good person.  That, at least, is something to smile about.”  He smiled at her in what he hoped was an encouraging way.

“In my experience, people don’t suddenly do things completely out of character.  Your family and friends didn’t just say you didn’t do it, but that you wouldn’t and couldn’t have done it.  Their words and tears were enough to get those of us you see in front of you to offer to try and help.”  At this point he thought she looked at him with hope in her eyes.  Everyone else seemed to think you could read emotions in a person’s eyes. He had never seen it that way.  Until now.  That was certainly hope.  She probably hadn’t had any before. 

“We would like to help Millae, but all of us are new here.  We don’t know you, the Aes Sedai, the minister or many of the details about what happened.  I suspect you have been wrung out by the guards by now  - asking you all sorts of questions and demanding answers even when you didn’t have them.”  He thought she nodded at that. 

At this point he looked around at the others that had come with him and spoke to everyone, “Instead of starting with specific questions, perhaps we should just let Millae tell us her story first.  Then we might have a better idea of what to ask?”  (Assuming assent from the others)  “Ok, Millae.  Take your time.  This can’t have been easy.  But if you would like some help, we need to know what happened.  Could you tell us about what happened?  Start with the last two days, I suppose.  Then maybe go back and think about anything from earlier that seems noteworthy.”

He tried to give her his best encouraging smile.  He pulled out his water bottle.  “Here.  Do you need something to drink?”  He passed the bottle through the bars. “Go ahead and begin whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” the bowman replied to the innkeeper, “I believe most of us would love something quick in our stomachs so that we can go and see what might be learned at the jail. Speed, I suspect, shall be critical.”

Cho’Ra ate the humble meal in silence, pondering what mischief that oaf was getting himself into. He was very eager to try to help the poor girl himself, if all of that early door-knocking was any indication, so perhaps he wasn’t made entirely of barbs. His methods were just perhaps a bit different than these. She looked around at the cast of characters gathered with her and hoped diplomacy would be their ally. Or perhaps the brashness of that woodsman would prove the correct path? Not long ago she would have scoffed at that notion, brutishness verses civil, structured deliberation. The world had changed very quickly since then though.

Their party was given directions to the jailhouse and made their way as soon as their bellies were satisfied. Despite their early morning, many of  the people of Maeldon were already out and about their chores. Cho’Ra smiled kindly at anyone who looked the way of their strange band and thought that for the moment this town felt almost peaceful. They were, of course, on their way to attempt to help a young woman who was possibly falsely accused of the murder of an Aes Sedai, but that was hardly apparent on the faces of those they passed.

Dane stops the party as they approach the jailhouse and turns to the Domani woman, “Za’ahrat, I was thinking that perhaps you might speak for us. You might be able to get more information than the rest of us.”

Cho’Ra assumes she confers but is distracted for that moment, looking around the jailhouse and those nearby for any signs of the woodsman. Had he been here already? Did the guards look harassed? He had had quite a lead on them this morning, but perhaps he had simply fled back to the woods? Curious indeed.

When she came back to herself she found her party had moved on to the guard and she hurried to catch up.

The questioning went on for some time, and working together, the Domani and the bowman were able to squeeze as much information as it seemed possible out of the guard. Unfortunately there was still much to be desired, but access to Millae was graciously granted, and they moved inside to meet the young woman.

While Cho’Ra’s time with Millae was very brief, it was clear that the level of security on the girl was a bit outrageous: a surly guard, several locked doors, dark corridors, and an eerie stairwell leading down into a pitch black pit of cells. The dirtied, frightened form of Millae huddled in her cell as they approached.

“W-who are you?” she asks, and Dane steps forward to explain their intent.

Though it had only been less than twenty-four hours, Cho'Ra couldn't help but think as she listened to Dane recount their story, that with the heaviness of their resolve to help the girl and the interesting interactions they had already had together, it felt like much more time had passed since they first came together to stand up for Millae.

At this point Dane looked around at the rest of the group, “Instead of starting with specific questions, perhaps we should just let Millae tell us her story first. Then we might have a better idea of what to ask?”

Cho’Ra nods and steps forward, kneeling close to the barred door, “Hi Millae, my name is Cho’Ra. I apologize that I am not able to relieve you of the fright you must be feeling right now, but I may be able to help relieve some of your aches and pains, and make you a little more comfortable as you recount your story, at the very least. Will you allow me to use my abilities to offer you some healing?”

((OOC: If she agrees, Cho’Ra will begin to weave a level 1 heal; if she denies Cho’Ra will nod her understanding and respect her wishes))

“Ok, Millae,” Dane said above the both of them, “Take your time. This can’t have been easy.  But if you would like some help, we need to know what happened. Could you tell us about what happened? Start with the last two days, I suppose.Then maybe go back and think about anything from earlier that seems noteworthy.”

He smiled sweetly and offered her his water,  “Go ahead and begin whenever you are ready.”

Having received the direction of the White Cloak camp from some of the locals, Lanur makes his way back into the countryside. At first, he's casual in his travel, leaving the populated area at a stroll on what could be considered one of the main roads out. Once out of sight, he breaks from the trail and jogs into the wilds, veering from the direction he had been traversing, he makes his way into the bush. Allowing the sun to move another half the span of his hand on this new course, Lanur adjusts to his original course and presses on at a slow jog. Eyes narrowed against the sun, his hair clinging to his beard and sweat already grabbing the hair draping his neck, the woodsman scans his surroundings in the constant search for danger. He uses scents and odors, audio clues, as well as visual awareness to keep on top of his surroundings. Registering even the slightest sign of animals and human passage, he continues on his way until he starts seeing signs of the encampment.

With the White Cloaks in sight, Lanur changes tactics. Now he moves low to the ground, breaking away plants and undergrowth, sticking it through his pack straps, belt, hair to camouflage himself better. Lying on his belly, Lanur sets up surveillance.

The city of Maeldon was slowly coming to life and Lanur was quick to notice this as he walked the streets. Slowly the streets were becoming filled with townsfolk making their way to work, or goodwives getting an early start on their chores or shopping, and even an occasional farmer who must've left his farm before the first light of dawn broke the horizon to get to town this early. It was from one of these farmers that Lanur was able to get a general location of the Whitecloak camp. 

"Don't know why you'd want to go there." The leathery farmer answered when Lanur accosted him. "Hey now, lad! Be careful, break one of them casks and I'll take the price from your good fer nothin' hide." Turning away from his cart where a sheepish looking farmhand was gingerly picking up a wooden cast from the cobblestones, the farmer took in Lanurs appearance, rubbing a much better-kept beard. "Suppose you lookin' to join up or somethin'. You don' look quite crazy enough to try nothin' else." He sniffed. "Well, maybe ya do. All the same, they're set up a good three or four miles to the east o' hear. On the bank o' the Arinelle. Had to pass right by 'em on my way here. Stopped me, they did. Lookin' fer darkfriends they said as they tore through all my belongings. As if a darkfriend would be travellin' to market with a cart full o' brandy."

With the general location in his possession, Lanur left the farmer to unload his cart and headed for the east gate. The town truly came to life in the thirty minutes it took Lanur to weave through the winding streets to the city outskirts. Lanur was forcibly reminded of his dislike of cities as he made his way through the hawkers, townsfolk, and travelers. More than once he had to move aside to allow a cart to be driven through and more than once he was bumped into by a townsperson; who he invariably sent scurrying away with apologies once they got a look at him.

It was a relief when Lanur stepped through the gate. It wasn't the peace of the wilderness, not at all, as the surrounding forest had been cleared away around the city. Indeed, the nearest tree was almost three impressive bowshots away from the grey city walls. The east road was hardly an impressive road, indeed the main entrance to Maeldon was through the South Gate in from which the Baerlon Road ran. This was a road that was used chiefly by farmers or trappers coming to sell goods, and it showed. Almost twenty yards out, the road devolved from the cobblestone ever prevalent in Maeldon to a wide dirt path.

A few farmers could be seen, and even one trapper who looked almost as wild as Lanur himself, trudging along on the road, loaded down with goods to sell. Adopting a casual stroll, Lanur began to walk down this road making his way further east. After a bit, Lanur found himself once again surrounded by trees on this packed dirt road, and he began to feel a little more at home. A careful observer could hear native birds twittering in the trees, a little distance off. 

Every now and then the wild woodsman would pass another farmer, heading the opposite direction. As he walked, however, these encounters became more and more scarce. He began to pass offshoots in the road, undoubtedly leading off to the farms owned by these farmers the Lanur had been meeting on the road. When it got to the point that Lanur hadn't seen another being on the road for more than fifteen minutes, he decided that it was time to venture off the path. 

Now Lanur felt truly at home. Breaking into a steady jog, and keeping his wits about him Lanur made his way through the underbrush. He easily picked out a deer path, and followed that a distance before it began to veer too far off the course he wanted to maintain, at which point he began making his own path again. Over fallen logs, and through ever-thickening underbrush he pushed. Stopping to check his position against the sun, he adjusted and set off again. 

The forest around him appears deserted, but Lanur is no fool. While he knows he's not being quiet enough to sneak up on any of the woodland creatures one might encounter as they ventured deeper into the woods, he was taking care to not make a whole lot of noise. If any man other than himself was in these woods he was sure that he'd hear them before they heard him.

Despite all his precautions, however, it was by pure luck that Lanur was not discovered. Perhaps it was a particularly violent burst of wind rustling through the trees, or perhaps it was the incessant chirping of nearby birds cautiously eyeing his passage through their territory, but Lanur did not detect the Whitecloak until he nearly stepped on him.

As Lanur came around the edge of a large boulder, he heard a sneeze and immediately dropped into a crouch. Perhaps twenty feet in front of him was a Whitecloak. Acting more by instinct, Lanur dropped prone and pressed himself into the ground, quietly digging himself into the underbrush. 

Looking up from the handkerchief that he had just sneezed into, the Whitecloak's hand shot to his sword. "Is someone there?" He called, cautiously stepping forward. He was a tall, and slender man wearing no helm, but donned in bright, ostentatiously shining armor partially obscured by a pure white cloak. His face was bony and hard, and his narrow eyes cast about in front of him, searching the forest in front of him. Step after step he moved closer, his hand still clutching his sword hilt. Step, step, step.

"By the order of the Children of the Light, if there is anyone out there reveal yourself!" He called loudly, causing birds to uproot themselves from their nests and take flight. But he moved not closer, which Lanur was thankful for, as he was close enough for Lanur to reach out and tie his bootlaces together.

Apparently deciding he had seen a large deer or another such animal, he turned and began to walk a path perpendicular to the one of Lanurs approach. He walked in a stiff manner, keeping his head straight ahead of him and taking precise militaristic steps. As he walked away, Lanur couldn't believe that he hadn't heard him sooner with the racket he made, stamping on twigs and clanking his armor. But now that he was down, Lanur could hear many other noises that were not belonging to the forest. Some study of the forest revealed that not too far off the trees cleared and five straight rows of ten white tents were posted equal distance apart. Lanur could hear horses too, whinnying in distance. Yes, this was most definitely the Whitecloak camp. 

An evening at the Gleeman’s Abode

It was not often that a man found himself second-guessing his own thoughts and actions. In fact, with every turning of the Wheel, such a thing had become all the more rare and, perhaps, a point of pride for Thren al’Rilin to be matched only by his discretion and skill. In joining the motley assemblage from the streets at a table in the Gleeman’s Abode, however, a man found himself wondering at the wisdom of casting in his lot with such an assembly. While the attention paid to Mistress Velalin was courteous and respectful, the questioning of the woman lacked any sort of tact with which the Ebou Dari might have approached… The gruff bluntness of the woodsman had not taken a man by surprise, of course, (even if the lack of manners might have taken him aback), but, in spite of the respect shown the woman, the seemingly rapid-fire barrage of queries from the rest who had come to the aid of Velalin and her daughter struck him as somewhat less than circumspect. This perceived lack of manners served well to keep a man’s tongue stilled and, yet, his ears open… without being too obvious about it, for certain.

Honeyed eyes absorbed the cozy and well-lived interior of the place and keen ears did not fail to catch the boisterous welcome from the barman nor the familiar strains of Bouncing on the Stormy Seas as they lilted from the fiddle player in the corner. Indeed, a man may have even found himself humming along to the tune as he took a seat at the far end of the table at which the extemporized party convened. Aside from proximity, in fact, a man’s association with the group may well have gone unnoticed by any of the establishment’s other patrons, as he sat with his back to the group and, when he wasn’t singing along with the fiddler or placing his order with the servers, his eyes roamed an easy circuit about the place, and he feigned no interest in the conversations that were taking place around him. In the time that passed, a man sipped at whatever wine might have been offered and, also, ordered a bowl of stew and a crust or two of bread… It would do should they have some squid or octopus, he thought sorrowfully, a man shouldn’t hope for such things this far north… the only times he might have been seen taking even a passing interest in the goings on around the table were those instances in which the ranger lost his temper and the time when the innkeeper showed up, concerned that the party might be harassing poor Velalin. Even then, a man’s interest was little more than an over the shoulder glance that lingered a split-second longer than it should have or, mayhap, the twitch of an ear when a particularly intriguing bit of information might have piqued his interest. Otherwise, the unobtrusive Ebou Dari was just that; offering little to the conversation but harvesting any remotely important nugget of information from the goings on.

At the end of the evening, a man excused himself to those who might have outlasted him, and adjourned to his room knowing little more than what little nuggets he’d gleaned from the conversations around him and that there was a man in a black coat who seemed to have his finger on the pulse of Mealdon. Beyond this, a man could gauge very little and, as this particular lack of information intrigued him, a man decided to linger in the town and see what profit might come of it…

Morning and Millae

Sleep had found a man easily but, as was the way of the Wheel, that easy sleep hadn’t been precisely peaceful. Curious thoughts chased his dreams and picked more questions than part on a tinker’s cart from them. What strange turnings had found Thren al’Rilin in Maeldon and in the company of such a lot? What weaves were at play that brought a man into the dealings of Aes Sedai when, in most instances, a man would go a long distance out of his way to avoid one… especially when this particular Aes Sedai proposed that a man of Thren’s ilk should willfully make an appearance in the jailhouse of an unfamiliar town in order to render aide to yet another girl with, at least, tenuous ties to that same order? Light stab my eyes, the Ebou Dari muttered in his sleep, a man is taken from his elements and thrust into anoth…

Whump! Whump! Whump!

“The day escapes us!”

Chased rudely from sleep, Thren’s eyes snapped open and his hand found the long, curved knife at the bedside. He blinked into the dawn-streaked air of his room and rubbed at his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath as recognition of the bellowing voice found it’s way into his mind… The uncouth woodsman… Lanur, was it?...

From farther down the hall – Whump! Whump! Whump!

“If you wish to spare the youngling the headsman’s ax, we best be about it!”

…Should a man have to spend much time with that one, Thren mused, stretching and yawing as he got his feet under him, some lessons in etiquette may be in order, yes?...

Whump! Whump! Whump! – More shouting, accompanied by the opening and closing of doors and, on at least one occasion, words of rebuke that went only half heard given that their volume wasn’t half of the woodsman’s pounding.

…Or, perhaps, a girl will tend to the teaching, Thren chuckled to himself as he dressed, belted his rapier on, and gathered his things before putting his room behind him in favor of the inn’s common room.

Descending the stairs, the Ebou Dari found most of the others already gathered. “Light and a good morning to you all,” he greeted them from behind a roguish grin, “a man trusts you are all well rested and were awakened as gently as I, yes?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

((OOC: More to come, of course… figured as I promised a post by lunchtime (and it’s now after) I’d go ahead and tack up what I had finished. Not my best but it is helping get me back into Thren’s head, anyway… Scenes from the jail coming a bit later.))

As foot met floorboard, Thren’s gaze swept over the diverse congregation and noted the absence of a certain surly woodsman... Curious, he thought, pinching one point of his mustache between finger and thumb as he found a seat for himself, a man would have expected that one to yet be skulking about. Mayhap we lot didn’t wake quickly enough for his liking… As he swung a leg over a chair, though, and allowed his ears to filter through the words that floated through the common room’s air, a man came to understand that he may have missed a thing or three in dallying long enough to be the last of them down the steps.

"Yes,” the bowman whose name a man had learned was Dane, said, apparently in reply to a query posed by the innkeep, “it is our intent to do our best for Mistress Vellalin."

"Well..." The Innkeep paused, taking a deep breath. "I've... You've... Bah! The wife has had words with me and... Well... Mistress Velalin and Millae are very dear to us, as I'm sure you know, and... Well... As long as I have your word that there will be no trouble, and that you will prove Millae's innocence and that that bear won't show his face around here again... Then... The lot of you have a room here at the Gleeman's Abode for as long as you need. Free of charge."

“Free of charge,” Thren murmured to no one in particular, his brow raised in appreciation at the offer and fingers moving to absently toy with the gold hoop piercing his ear, “a man’s favorite price.”

"Master Masteon,” the bowman returned, “you have my word that we will do everything we can to prove young Millae innocent.  But you must know we cannot promise success.  I can't speak for the others, but I will happily take your generous offer should we succeed and expect nothing should we fail.  But success is something I cannot promise.  What I can promise is the greatest effort possible.  That is a thing I can do.  And then we see where things go."  Pausing just long enough to glance at the door, but not long enough to give the innkeeper a chance to respond, he added, "As for the obnoxiously loud and ill-mannered cretin you and your-man Boz just showed to the door, I assure you I only met him last night.  And I believe I can say the same for my companions as well.  He is not 'with us' in any way.  If he truly intends to aid us in helping Mistress Vellalin, I suppose we must let him come with us to the jail, but I don't know that any of us have any more influence on him than anyone else here.  Please, do not hold us responsible for his actions.  Still, I will do my best to steer him clear of your establishment."  Glancing at the door he added, "Or maybe we will all get lucky and he will wander off and none of us will ever see him again."

Not with us? The smuggler’s brow spiked again, this time in something less than appreciation, and his own gaze flitted for the door. Was it not the same loud and ill-mannered cretin that first intervened on a girl’s behalf or does a man misremember events… “Hmmm,” Thren sighed softly as he reclined a bit in his seat and considered the possible ramifications of the apparent loss of the brusque Lanur and the ease with which Dane disassociated him from the remainder of the gathering. Aside from that vocalization, however, a man let his thoughts on the matter go unspoken for the time being. The simplicity of the matter was that, as a group, this party was responsible for rescuing Millae from an obviously undeserved fate and, in the end, that was all that mattered. As such, a man kept his thoughts to himself and left it to the turning of the Wheel to see that justice was done. Just so, breakfast had or not, the party issued forth from the Gleeman’s Abode and, after more than one wrong turn and a few missteps, found it’s way to the jailhouse in which the girl whom they’d encountered the past night awaited her fate.

As the party approached and the bowman, Dane, turned his attentions to the Aes Sedai in their company…

 "Za'ahrat,” the man said, as the rag tag group drew nearer the jail, “I was thinking that perhaps you might speak for us. You might be able to get more information than the rest of us."

...He was likely correct, Thren couldn’t help but admit, but, in that same instant, the Ebou Dari took some minor offense in knowing that the bowman put the diplomatic skills of a weaver above those of a skilled and silver tongued trader such as himself. He bothered not to comment on such matters, though, as the very thought of presenting himself in any sort of facility such as this without having been led there in shackles was disquieting enough and, as Za’ahrat capitalized on her presence and power, simply allowed himself to be carried into the situation on it’s own merit. A man quietly attended the conversations that took place, of course, and, as they were permitted entrance, followed along as the Wheel provided he should, watching and listening carefully to the chatter that took place and the disposition of the guards as they were shown in.

The mismatched group of travelers opened the door to the jailhouse and strode inside. The lobby of the jailhouse was lit by the two windows looking out onto the street outside where the town could be seen slowly waking up. A soft scratching came from the corner where a scribe sat at a desk, writing quickly with a quill and not even bothering to look up from his work as the five individuals entered. A couple of strides away from the entrance sat a sturdy desk, an unlit lamp and ink blotted papers littering its surface, and behind it sat another very bored looking guardsman who was perusing the documents in front of him.

With a sniff, the guard looked up from his papers and took in the visitors. 

Stepping forward, Thren smiled, his mustache fluttering. "My good Master Jailor," He began, "We're --"

"Yes, yes. I know who you are." The guard interrupted, standing up and using one hand to keep his belted sword from between his legs, the other to rub his bare chin….

Oh, a man hardly believes that you do, the Ebou Dari managed not to speak aloud whilst, at the same time, keeping the chuckle that threatened to burst forth from his lungs in check, but tell yourself what you will.

"Dane's been yellin' 'bout a bunch of strangers defyin' the law and Jandran did say that there'd be visitors for Millae,” the jailor continued in an irreverent fashion that called into question his conviction and made a man miss the manners of old Ebou Dar all the more, “Tol' me I was 'pose to let you see Millae, so let's get to it now, yeah?"

The troupe was led deeper into the jail and, at the end of Norral’s persistent disrespect, were deposited before a cell behind the bars of which, a scene unfolded that twisted a phantom blade in Thren’s dark heart…

As the group approached, Millae stirred. Her face was dirty, and tear streaks were clearly visible. Her brown hair was all in disarray and her plain, but well-made dress was wrinkled and covered in the dirty hay that covered her cell floor. She squinted in the flickering light of the lamp, holding a hand to shield it from her eyes. With a sniff, she tried to peer past the light and look at her visitors.

"W-who are you?" She asked, her voice raw and trembling.

“I’m Dane,” the bowman offered, softly, attempting to assuage the girl’s uncertainty, “I’m new here and so are these others.  We are hoping to learn a bit about your situation and maybe help out.  Last night we encountered Mistress Vellalin and a certain tavern keeper both of whom seemed quite distressed at your situation.  Neither seemed to believe that you could have done what you are accused of.”  He paused a moment.  “We don’t know much about what happened, but I do know that a lot of people really seem to care about you.  Care and believe that you are a good person.  That, at least, is something to smile about.

In my experience, people don’t suddenly do things completely out of character.  Your family and friends didn’t just say you didn’t do it, but that you wouldn’t and couldn’t have done it.  Their words and tears were enough to get those of us you see in front of you to offer to try and help.”

A man watched as the interaction between the bowman and the imprisoned girl continued and, try as he might to restrain himself, a man found himself, more and more, wanting to jimmy the lock of the poor girl’s cell and set her free. He managed to do so, however, as Dane’s courtesy and honor continued to shine through, even allowing a bright smile as the young bowman passed a bottle of water through the bars, allowing the girl a much needed sip and, perchance, a splash of water to clean her soiled face. When the girl only slaked her thirst from the proffered flask, though, Thren could no longer play the disinterested observer and, as Millae made to pass the vessel back through the bars, a man brushed a spill of dark locks behind his ear, stepped forward, and took the bottle into his own hands. He spilled a small bit of the bowman’s water onto a corner of his cloak and, as Dane coaxed her to relate her tale to the troupe who had come to pat her a visit, reached his own hands through the bars to pat and wipe the tear-streaked grime from a girl’s face.

“Only when a girl is ready,” Thren assured her, softly, wiping a smudge from her cheek, “We are friends, sweet, and are only here to see that the Wheel turns as it should. Speak what you know and what you think and a man and his friends will listen and hear, yes?”

Despite all his precautions, however, it is by pure luck that Lanur is not discovered. Perhaps it is a particularly violent burst of wind rustling through the trees, or perhaps it is the incessant chirping of nearby birds cautiously eyeing his passage through their territory, but Lanur does not detect the Whitecloak until he nearly steps on him.

As the woodsman traverses the edge of a large boulder, he is blasted by the trumpeting of a sneeze and immediately drops into a crouch. Perhaps twenty feet in front of him is a Whitecloak. Acting more by instinct, Lanur sinks into a prone position and presses himself into the ground, quietly digging himself into the underbrush. 

Looking up from the handkerchief that he had just sneezed into, the Whitecloak's hand shoots to his sword. "Is someone there?" He calls, cautiously stepping forward. He is a tall and slender man wearing no helm, but outfitted in bright, ostentatiously shining armor partially obscured by a pure white cloak. His face is bony and hard, and his narrow eyes cast about in front of him, searching the forest for the figure he thought he saw. Step after step he moves closer, his hand still clutching his sword hilt. Step, step, step.

"By the order of the Children of the Light, if there is anyone out there reveal yourself!" He calls loudly, causing birds to uproot themselves from their nests and take flight. But he moves no closer, which Lanur is thankful for, as he is close enough for the wild man to reach out and tie his bootlaces together if he had so chosen.

Apparently deciding he had seen a large deer or another such animal, he turned and began to walk a path perpendicular to the one of Lanur's approach. He walks in a stiff manner, keeping his head straight ahead of him and taking precise militaristic steps. As he walks away, Lanur can't believe that he hadn't heard the buffoon sooner with the racket he makes, stamping on twigs and clanking his armor. But now that he is down, Lanur can hear many other noises that are not native to the forest. Some study of the woods reveals that not too far off the trees clear and five straight rows of ten white tents are posted equal distance apart. Lanur can hear horses too, whinnying in distance. Yes, this is most definitely the Whitecloak camp.

Glancing in the direction that the White Cloak had gone, the woodsman makes certain that he is in the clear before performing a slow, methodical belly crawl through the bush to the edge of the clearing. There, doing his best to camouflage himself, he takes up a position of surveillance. That's a lot of tents, he wonders without the education to put actual numbers to them. A full herd... this is no small posting. Marking the sun's position in the sky, he begins taking note of their movements. Patrol assignments, exercises and drills, officer appearances and which tents they frequent (of those he is able to see from his vantage), and in doing so he also begins to form a mental layout of the camp much in the same way as the mental maps he makes of his traps and the dens of the creatures in the woods where he spends most of his time.

His is not a position of diplomatic confrontation. He's never been good at playing at barbed and loaded verbal sparring, manipulating pompous nobles with words and negotiating deals. But woodcraft, scouting, understanding the nature of creatures and beasts... this is his domain. This is where he is comfortable. 

Once he is confident that has gathered all of the useful information from his current position, he backs as quietly as he can into the woods and makes a wide berth to the other full point on the compass. There, he sneaks about until he makes out a good observation point with sufficient cover to hide within and once in position, repeats his objectives from the first position. And again at the next point of the compass, and the next, until he has a full vision of the encampment planted deep within his brain. Satisfied with his scouting, Lanur removes himself from the camp's vicinity and makes his return to the village.

His goal now is to find this Lord Lanara's residence and to perform a similar duty there. Only when he has the information he wants will he bring his wild self back to the town.

"W-who are you?"

“I’m Dane,” the bowman offered, softly, attempting to assuage the girl’s uncertainty, “I’m new here and so are these others.  We are hoping to learn a bit about your situation and maybe help out. Last night we encountered Mistress Vellalin and a certain tavern keeper both of whom seemed quite distressed at your situation.  Neither seemed to believe that you could have done what you are accused of.” He paused a moment. “We don’t know much about what happened, but I do know that a lot of people really seem to care about you.  Care and believe that you are a good person. That, at least, is something to smile about.

In my experience, people don’t suddenly do things completely out of character.  Your family and friends didn’t just say you didn’t do it, but that you wouldn’t and couldn’t have done it.  Their words and tears were enough to get those of us you see in front of you to offer to try and help.”

At this point, he looked around at the others that had come with him and spoke to everyone, “Instead of starting with specific questions, perhaps we should just let Millae tell us her story first.  Then we might have a better idea of what to ask?”

Cho’Ra nodded and stepped forward, kneeling close to the barred door, “Hi Millae, my name is Cho’Ra. I apologize that I am not able to relieve you of the fright you must be feeling right now, but I may be able to help relieve some of your aches and pains, and make you a little more comfortable as you recount your story, at the very least. Will you allow me to use my abilities to offer you some healing?”

At Cho’Ra’s offer, Millae let out a little squeak and drew back. “You’re Aes Sedai?” She nearly wailed, covering her mouth. “I swear, I didn’t mean- I didn’t- It, it was an accident. I’m sorry Cho’Ra Sedai, I never meant to! I’m sorry, please! Please! I was just trying to help!”

(OOC: I’m going to assume that everyone attempts to calm Millae and explains that Cho’Ra isn’t Aes Sedai.)

“You’re not… Aes Sedai…” Millae asked, her eyes wide as she peered at Cho’Ra. “And the Aes Sedai let you Channel as you please? With no Three Oaths?” Her pale face seemed to grow slightly paler as she looked at the channeler, but Dane drew her attention back to the situation at hand.

“Ok, Millae.  Take your time.  This can’t have been easy.  But if you would like some help, we need to know what happened.  Could you tell us about what happened? Start with the last two days, I suppose.  Then maybe go back and think about anything from earlier that seems noteworthy.”

With an encouraging smile, he pulled out his wineskin.  “Here. Do you need something to drink?” He said, proffering the bulging container. 

Millae looked at the wineskin for a long moment, before casting a quick eye at Cho’Ra, then each of the others, her face displaying an expression of slight dismay. Diverting her eyes to the dirty ground, she clutched her hands to her chest before reaching out a trembling hand and accepting the offered drink. 

“Th-thank you…” she whispered. Uncapping the wineskin, she took a long draw before offering it back in an outstretched hand, keeping her eyes downcast. 

“Go ahead and begin whenever you are ready.” Dane prompted, not unkindly as Thren accepted the wineskin and dampened a handkerchief.

There was a heavy silence as Thren wiped the dirt and grime from Millae's face, who kept her eyes down, her expression falling even further. She sniffed heavily. 

“Only when a girl is ready,” Thren assured her, softly, wiping a smudge from her cheek, “We are friends, sweet, and are only here to see that the Wheel turns as it should. Speak what you know and what you think and a man and his friends will listen and hear, yes?”

Millae glanced up into Thren’s kindly expression before her eyes again found Cho’Ra and Dane. Squinting her eyes shut against a well of tears, Millae pulled away from the Ebou Dari man and huddled up against the far wall. A tear streaked down her face, and Millae let out a soft sob before finally addressing the group in a quiet harrowed voice. “I did it.”

Looking at her visitors, tears now falling freely she cried out, a shrill, despairing shriek. “I did it! I killed Nelelle Sedai! But please, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to… I just… I just wanted to help her… She was working tirelessly for Lord Rian. I knew she was exhausted and not sleeping well, despite the fact that she tried to hide it. I just wanted to help her sleep, not kill her. Never kill her… But I did… and now… now I’m going to hang.” Her voice broke with the last words, and the young girl pulled herself into a tight, shaking ball as tears streamed down her face.

“I did it.”

The words seemed to just hang in the stale air of the dungeon.  Guilty.  The girl everyone was so confident was innocent was, by her own words, guilty.

But the story wasn’t that simple after all.  It was an accident.  A sleep potion gone wrong.  And attempt to do good that turned into a nightmare.  Perhaps.  Maybe.  Innocence was a complicated word.

Dane, crouching right in front of the poor girl, passed the waterskin (wine?) through the bars again.  “Calm down.  Things look bleak, but try to get a hold of yourself.  Take a drink.”  Here he paused and looked at the Ebou Dari who had washed her face a bit and nodded to indicate her tears.  A kind heart was needed here again.  “Catch your breath and tell us what happened.  You did it.  Ok.  How?  What did you use?  What made you decide to help out?  Where did you get the sleeping herbs?”  The questions came out slowly.  He was careful not to go too fast.  He didn’t want to push her over the edge, but he needed her to see the kinds of things that might prove helpful.  “Nothing is certain about any outcome just yet.” 

He almost groaned to himself at this point as he could almost hear every elder in his village saying something like “The wheel weaves as the wheel wills” or some such expression of fate.  It was crap.  Dane didn’t believe in fate.  And he hoped this young lady didn’t either.

“For example, do you usually keep sleeping herbs around?  Where’d they come from?”  He smiled again.  “None of us seem to be going anywhere soon, so take your time.  Tell us what happened.”