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| Colette Moreau |
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Posted by: Colette Moreau - 02-19-2023, 02:06 AM - Forum: Biographies & Backstory
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Chapter 1
A Sunday morning in May, 2038. Colette was 17 years old, and volunteering at a shelter in the center of Queens. The borough was flooded in 2020, the year before she was born, following the worldwide disasters most attributed to climate change. First, the coastline was destroyed by hurricanes. Then the water supply failed and public health was crippled. Long beach was never even rebuilt and remained under water to this day. Millions of people were affected, and all these years later, even the efforts of the city’s most affluent barely felt like it made a dent.
Colette had been volunteering in the shelter for years. The wealthy daughter of the Moreaus was followed by a private security detail, who even when she was handing out plates for a hot meal, hovered close. It was sunset when she left, exhausted and clutching her purse. The man walked alongside. He didn’t talk to her much except to understand what she was doing or who she intended to meet, but he was nice enough. She didn’t really think about it. He was just another employee of her parents. Suddenly he touched her on the arm and had them cross to the other side of the street. Then she saw why. The car they’d driven to the shelter was completely destroyed. Glass sparkled the curb all around. The doors were beaten in. The tires slashed and she was sure that the interior was no better.
She swallowed. The guard was on the wallet, calling for a new car immediately, but his gaze was constantly watching.
“We’re going back,” he said. Colette nodded. He had been hired by her parents, but she still felt strangely vulnerable. There were eyes watching she’d never really noticed before.
They didn’t make it back to the shelter. A group of nine people confronted them. Hoods up, faces covered, some held knives and other handguns. The guard pushed her behind him. He had a gun of his own.
Colette couldn’t explain what happened. All she knew was there was a light one moment, then they were running the next.
Chapter 2
Eight years later, it was a Friday afternoon and Colette was minimizing the screens hovering above her desk. Her volunteerism was dramatically restructured after the incident in Queens, and her family sent her to help the community in other ways. Which was how she ended up working where she did now.
Her office was buzzing with similar sorts of last minute organizing. The Foundation’s offices always closed at 3:00 on Fridays, a policy that she advocated for last month in this position. She always said that their hard-working staff deserved a head start to their weekend, but in actuality, it was so that those who would be working the weekend social scene had a brief respite before plunging into it come sundown. Herself included.
The last screen dissipated just an incoming message dinged, but Colette waved it away. She could read it later. For now, she had a dinner meeting and wanted to have time to go home and change out of her usual workwear first. A moment later, her assistant peeked her head in.
“Colette, did you see it?”
Cole glanced up with a smile. Her assistant was Elle, a woman easily 10 years older than her. At 35 years, she was beautiful. None of the women associated with the Moreau companies went without access to beauty, and the pursuit of it seemed to be an unofficial job requirement. Stella believed that every woman no matter who they are deserved to feel beautiful, and a hundred years later, she would be proud to know they were. Sometimes Colette wondered about their priorities, but even she approved of handing out basic hygienic soaps and shampoos to the poor. So she walked the walk herself. She was a Moreau after all.
Elle entered the office then. Today her chocolate hair tumbled in soft waves across a Chanel dress. She was wearing high heels that made her legs look a mile long. A small set of diamond studs adorned her ears.
“No? See what?” Cole replied as she tucked a wallet into a pocket in her purse. Designer, of course. Such things were very important symbols. By then, she was standing as well.
Colette’s ignorance made Elle’s eyes sparkle, and she danced nearer.
“Look what you just received!” and she turned the screen of the device in her palm for her boss to inspect.
“Oh my gosh!” she lit up and immediately placed a call. Tickets bought and paid for filled the view.
A moment later, she made a call, and a face full of mirth and amusement appeared. It was a man a few years older than her. He shared the same heart-shaped face and dimples as Colette. His hair was brunette, but strung with threads of gold in the light.
“Aloïs! Cousin! I would tell you that you really shouldn’t have done this but I then I would be lying because you absolutely should have! You know I love him!” she was practically squealing.
“Colette, it was either I get you these meet and greet tickets or I was going to hear about it all weekend!”
“Oh but it's opening night. I know actors are always nervous on opening night.”
“Broadway would have been bankrupt by now if it weren’t for you. I am sure that any actor would be happy to thank you for their job,” his pointed look was telling. But Colette would have none of it.
“Stop that now. You know that’s not how we are. The Moreau’s don’t expect gratitude like that,” she crossed her arms, but the light in her eyes remained. She glanced at Elle, who hovered nearby off-screen. She was listening, and it was to her that Colette smiled, “But I don’t say no if Mael Durand wants to grovel.” She laughed. Her favorite stage actor was debuting in a show that very night. They’d been at the same events in the past. Fundraisers in particular and sometimes a gallery exhibit opening, but it took a heavy name like Colette Moreau to lean into the pockets of the city’s waning rich to save the theatrical institution. She’d never met him though, but she knew all his work. Now it seemed that her cousin had pulled the strings of their family’s connections to secure a private meeting after the show for his biggest fan.
Aloïs noticed her side-bar comment. “Who’s with you?” he asked and Colette turned the screen. Elle fanned the attention away, but just as the camera settled, she fixed her boss with a look and greeted the other Moreau. He worked for the company proper rather than their charitable foundation, but he was a well known site on this side of things.
“It’s Elle! Colette how could you not tell me.” Cole shuffled around to stand at her friend’s shoulder. Colette was shorter than Elle, even in her heels, but Elle seemed to want to shrink at the attention. She had an insane crush on Aloïs Moreau for years, though Colette had no idea how they ever met in the first place. Her cousin was an even larger socialite than even Colette, and he was handsome enough to be a New York heart throb well before he started working at Stella Moreau. His trust fund was substantially bigger than Colette’s, too as he had no siblings to share it. What Colette never quite figured out was if the crush was bidirectional. Aloïs was a natural flirt with everyone. She shook her head.
Elle smiled in greeting, “You two are going to have so much fun,” she said.
But Colette gasped. “Us three you mean!” Just as a third ticket populated the screen. “I can’t meet Mael Durand by myself. You have to come. I won’t take no for an answer.”
After the call ended with Aloïs, Colette approached Elle. “In all seriousness, only if you feel like coming, of course. There’s no pressure at all, but I hope you can.” Elle thanked her but said she was definitely up to the evening. They both rushed home to get ready. It was going to be a spectacular night.
Chapter 3
The three stepped into their private box at the Majestic Theatre. The heavy beads of her dress slumped around her ankles as Colette sat in the middle seat. At her right, her cousin offered her a glass of champagne. He teased her about it, but he was as much a fan of the theatre as she was. He wore a beautiful Valentino tuxedo, one that Colette hadn’t seen him in before. In fact, she had commented on it when she climbed into the limousine and viewed him there. On the other side was Elle. She wore an elegant black dress. Simple, with ruching across the waist, and it fit her beautifully.
At Intermission, the audience filtered into the lobby. Those from the upper boxes had their own room, though. Colette was handed a fresh glass of champagne, just as a hand grazed her arm. Elle split off to find the restroom, and Colette discreetly gave her directions. She joined Aloïs after that. He was sweeping fresh headlines on the Scroll, but it was the serious expression that made Colette ask a question.
“What is it, cousin?” she peeked over his shoulder.
“Have you seen this?” he turned the view for her gaze. It was a headline from the CCD. Straight out of Moscow itself.
They were both transfixed by the story and accompanying video. When it was over, she realized that they were not the only ones hovering above screens and speaking in whispers. There was irrefutable proof of magic in front of them, and the figure that had come to dominate most of the world was a source of it. A tightness grew in her chest, though she wasn’t sure what it was she feared exactly. She hadn’t much involvement in such politics or debate as what currently occupied American media. Should the US join the CCD or not? Colette deferred to her family’s opinion on such things, and so far even they were undecided. At their height, the SMC was valued at 100 billion dollars (USA), but the dollar was not what it once was and the CCD was incubating competitors.
It was startling to say the least. Then she realized that Aloïs was pale. His face drawn, lips turned low. She blinked and laid her hand on his. “Are you okay?” Then the chimes rang their warning the show was about to restart. He licked his lips, tucked the wallet away and swallowed his whole glass of champagne in one gulp. He was disturbingly quiet the rest of the night. Colette did not press him. She understood why, and she had her own reasons to procrastinate upon such thoughts.
The end of the show brought the audience to their feet. Many dabs were taken to eyes, Colette’s included, in order to spare her makeup from tears. The show was a retelling of Romeo and Juliet but set during World War I. No wonder everyone was crying at the end. Colette dabbed the corners of her eyes again.
The cast returned to the stage for their accolades. The lead actor bowed with a flourishing of his costume before inviting his actress compatriot to join him up front. They clasped hands and bowed together to enthusiastic praise, but it was Mael Durand that stole the show. In that moment his heated gaze swept the audience, Colette thought that he had looked right at her and she clapped all the more vigorously for it.
The Moreau cousins and their friend were promptly allowed into a VIP suite. There was fresh champagne. Lights twinkled the ceiling and chatter filled the air. Colette thought perhaps there were whispers from the news out of Moscow, but it felt no more concerning than any other type of gossip. Strangely, Aloïs went straight to the bar. He wasn’t unaccustomed to a night on the town, but Colette did not often see him drink like this. He was disturbed by the news, but no matter how much she asked, he dismissed the concern. Theirs was a family that spoke of serious matters only behind the privacy of locked doors. So she did not press him, but she intended to do so the first moment possible.
She was immediately introduced to the director, head conductor and stage manager who all waited within. They swept aside and lavished praise, knowing she was their patron, but it was Colette that padded applause for their artistry. “Please, it is I who stand in your greatness,” she told them with a reassuring smile.
The director, a slender man of about 50, was caught by movement and gestured, “Miss Moreau, please allow me to introduce our star, Mael Durand,” Colette’s stomach fluttered then as she turned.
He was about Aloïs’ height, and maybe a few years older. Honestly, it was almost impossible to tell since he just seemed ageless. Regardless, he must have changed and washed up. There was no trace of stage makeup and his hair gleamed freshly styled like maybe he had taken a quick shower. He wore a black button-down shirt open at the collar, untucked over form-fitting slacks. Simple and appropriate, but with the lackadaisical looseness of an artist riding the highs of adoration. He was just so different from her world of prim and proper breeding. It stole her breath as it seemed to for others. Indeed, the group had to part to let him pass. There were claps on his shoulders, and praise followed him like puppies.
Colette dipped her head in greeting. She was accustomed to gratitude, but when he clasped her hand and kissed her knuckles, her brows rose with genuine surprise. It made her feel like a goddess. “Miss Moreau, we would not be here without you. You have my unending gratitude,” he said. His natural accent was foreign, which she hadn’t heard when he delivered his lines. The WWI version of Romeo was American.
The director laughed. “Our Romeo, ladies and gentleman!” and the group chuckled.
It was late into the night before Colette, Elle and Aloïs left.
Chapter 4
Outside a heavy sleet was falling. It was the holiday season, though, which made the wintery weather feel all the more seasonal. The limousine pulled up to the street, and arm in arm, the girls picked their way over the growing slickness on the sidewalk. Colette’s gaze lingered on a broken string of twinkle lights, but she didn’t think much of it. The fact there were decorative lights at all told them of the richness of this part of Manhattan. Year after year and there were fewer luxuries. Even the Rockefeller Center tree had ceased coming years ago. Elle climbed in beside her, and Aloïs slipped in from the other side. A few moments later, the car rolled into traffic.
“That was one of the most incredible performances I’ve ever seen,” Elle regaled. When she lay her head against the seat, she sighed dreamily.
Colette grasped her hand. They were both wearing winter gloves. “Are you still feeling okay?” Alois looked over, but he wasn’t aware of Elle’s secret. So Elle waved away the question. Her eyeliner smeared under one eye where she had wiped away tears. She’d sobbed at the end of the play.
“Yes, I’m fine. Sleepy though,” she replied. “It’s late.”
Colette signaled the driver. “Brief change of plans. Let’s drop off Elle at her house then we’ll go uptown.” Alois looked over. They’d all planned to attend an after-party. Elle’s home wasn’t far out of the way, but they would need to take a bridge. Luckily, traffic was strangely light this evening. It wouldn’t take them long.
Colette hushed her cousin before he protested. Elle put up a mild resistance, including the suggestion that they go to the party first and she can be taken home afterward. However, Colette was insistent. Alois was reading more Scroll articles and not paying attention. She pulled out her own wallet, and together they were reading the reviews of the show. Mael was being doted upon of course, and there were talks of awards and stardom in his future. The party scene was growing warm, and Colette put out messages to find out who would and would not be there. Elle had closed her eyes by then.
They were on the midtown bridge when suddenly the vehicle slid. Colette gasped, pushed into Elle’s shoulder, by the later movement who was herself pushed into Alois’. There wasn’t time to process. A force slammed back. They screamed. Terrifying weightlessness followed. Then noise like a bomb went off and everything was dark.
The next thing she knew, Colette was being pulled. Her head throbbed. Her arm and leg felt like they were on fire. She moaned, and dared to open her eyes. There was glass everywhere. The smell of gasoline wafted on the wind. The icy road was under her and sleet pelted her face. That was when she realized she wasn’t even in the car.
Elle? She looked over. A body was next to her. Still and twisted, but she was so weak she couldn’t hardly move toward it.
“Help..” said a weak voice nearby.
“Elle?” she called out. When Colette tried to move, the dark world spun. The lights of the bridge blurred to smears. Then the pleading for help fell quiet, and alarm spiked to near panic. “Elle? Elle!” she tried to move. Glass tore at her palms. Sleet had turned to ice and she found no traction.
That was when she saw a shape move nearer. “Alois?” she blinked as the figure stooped over where Elle lay. He was still for a time, then he hurried to her. Strong arms scooped her up like a doll, and in the closeness, she could see his face. Amid a deadly serious gaze flashed the sort of smile to offer comfort to one that direly needed it.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, then he sort of stared at her and cold flushed her bones like she was dipped in ice.
The next moment, the dizziness fled. The cuts and bones stitched themselves together. The pain was gone.
She took a deep breath, and his gaze came into focus.
“Oh my god,” she uttered and snaked her arms around his neck in a tight hug.
“You’re going to be okay,” he spoke into her hair then helped her stand. She hobbled in her heels and had to lean on him. In that moment, the fullness of the scene came into horrific view. The vehicle must have slid on the icy roadway. They had crossed traffic and hit another vehicle head on. There were multiple bodies ejected. The vehicles crumpled. One was close to the edge of the bridge.
As soon as he was sure she was standing on her own, he rushed off to go to the aid of the people from the other car. Colette and Elle swarmed into each other’s arms. It was a miracle. Together, they just held each other while Aloïs went from person to person. Like a filtering angel of mercy, most of those he touched were standing soon after. Their driver was the only one unable to be saved. It had been too late for him.
Emergency lights were flashing in the distance, and the flood of adrenaline was leaving her weak as a kitten. Aloïs returned to them, confirming they were okay. Blood speckled his clothes, but it wasn’t his.
“How did you—?” she asked, white as a sheet. Suddenly, the image of that video out of Moscow flashed her memory. The clues pieced themselves together. His reaction to seeing it.
“You saved us? You saved all these people!” she couldn’t believe it. “Have you done this before?” Elle put a hand to her stomach just then, understanding just how many lives he had saved.
He just kind of shrugged. “I can’t really control it. It just kind of happens,” he admitted. The sirens were close enough to hear by then. Witnesses were amazed and terrified. But then he licked his lips, and a grimace flashed his face.
“Aloïs?” she asked, concerned. Then she gasped.
He fell to his knees, clutching his head.
She followed him down. Elle started waving at the ambulance to come toward them, but he was ignoring her.
Then he started screaming. The emergency technicians halted, daring to not come any closer despite Colette’s pleading that they do something. They knew what it was they witnessed.
The Sickness.
Aloïs was dead within a minute.
Chapter 5
The funeral was tragically sad, and for Colette especially, it was heartbreaking. She shared the truth of what happened to her cousin with her family. How he had used this magic that was sweeping the world to save them only to perish himself moments later. Nobody knew he had been going through the Sickness, but clues began to take shape. It was all kept quiet, of course, and the Moreau family made sure to take care of the victims in the wreck. Non-disclosure agreements maintained Aloïs’ legacy. Even the ambulance drivers had put down that he had died of injuries sustained in the wreckage rather than the triggering phrase that he died screaming. There was no connection between the New York royal family and the Sickness after that.
Except Colette. She knew the truth, and it wasn’t right. She declared as much to her grandfather, implored him to do something. But there was nothing that could be done to bring Aloïs back he explained. So Colette took matters into her own hands.
Channelers had become a household word the past few months. Of course, the majority of these stories came from the CCD, and the most famous of them all was Nikolai Brandon, whose exploits had disturbed Aloïs the night he died. But America was not without their own spokespersons. Evelyn Avalon quickly became a familiar face and advocate for channeler rights in their own nation. So Colette took a trip to DC. She arrived with a large donation for Evelyn’s campaign and a plan for how that money might be spent. What she found was something she never imagined.
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| Aiden Finnegan and a God? (The Ascendant News Network) |
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Posted by: Aiden Finnegan - 02-15-2023, 03:04 AM - Forum: The Scroll
- Replies (1)
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<Transcript of a video recently posted to The Ascendant News Network’s website.>
“Good evening, Moscow. This is Mila Babanin, culture correspondent for the Ascendant News Network, and we are joining you live tonight from outside the Kallisti, where a large crowd has formed. We were surprised to find that the rich and the famous have come out in a show of force to this modest nightclub for a night of dancing and drama.
Infamous rockstar turned author, Aiden Finnegan, was seen arm in arm with an unknown, dark-haired man. Recent sightings of the reclusive celebrity have mentioned this same man, stirring whispers of a suspected relationship between the two of them. Ascendant News Network has not been able to confirm the identity of this mystery man that Aiden Finnegan has seemingly entangled himself with.
Indeed, the rumors were all but confirmed when local playboy, Jaxen Marveet, met with Aiden outside of the club – calling the mystery man an ‘ex-lover’ of Aiden’s. Marveet made headlines in the past months with his own one-night cabaret. Aiden Finnegan was reportedly in attendance to that same show. Was that night the beginnings of an enticing love triangle?
Shortly thereafter, a surprising display of lights and vocal tricks served to remind us of that night. Jaxen Marveet and the crowd surrounding him were covered in a strange red glow as blue flames erupted above the playboy’s head. The Ascendant News Network has to ask was this the display of a God? Indeed, reports from Marveet’s one-night cabaret seem to corroborate this theory.
We would like to remind our viewers that this is not a confirmed fact about Jaxen Marveet.
Jaxen was then seen kissing Aiden on the red carpet, causing our mystery man to lash out and storm off from the entangled duo. Aiden returned the kiss before loudly telling Marveet that the two men would have to fight for his affections. The pair entered the venue separately amidst whispers and flashing cameras.
We were unfortunately turned away at the door, and so we will be waiting eagerly outside the venue for further developments on this steamy romance. Aiden Finnegan and a God? The Ascendant News Network will be the first to tell you.
I’m Mila Babanin for the ANN, thanking you for watching. Tune back in later tonight for a post-show update.
<End transcript.>
<Comment section below.>
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| A Winter Night's Dream |
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Posted by: Raffe - 02-05-2023, 09:57 PM - Forum: Past Lives
- Replies (4)
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![[Image: araya.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/araya.jpg)
Asha'man Araya
Somehow, even the coldest, greyest winter days seemed beautiful in the Ogier’s Grove. It was a place untouched by such trivial things as weather; ageless, perhaps, in the same way as the Aes Sedai, though certainly not as deceptive; the trees showed their age with every line and wrinkle, a proud testament to the years upon years they had been standing, growing both taller and deeper. It was peaceful, too, and less busy than the Tower grounds, which was why Araya was fond of visiting (less in the desire to avoid company, of which he was fond, and more for the beautiful tranquillity in which he could lose himself). It reminded him of his youth, in a strange sort of way; of the rustic and simple life he had lived with the Tuatha’an.
The pale Asha’man sat beneath the boughs of a particularly large oak, tucked into a hollow between its roots. He might have been hidden almost completely had he been dressed subtly, but the bright fabric about him was stark against the natural greens and browns of shadow and leaf, and the pristine white of the snow. It was not unusual to find him dressed in the eccentric clothes of the Tinkers (few, in fact, would have ever seen him donning the severe black of his title), and he had rather neglectfully forgotten the silver pins of his station too. He wore wide, loose pants of deep cobalt and a coat of scarlet, a scarf of sunburst orange about his neck and tucked down into his collar. The iciness of the season did not bother him much, for all that he was dressed warmly, and threads of fire had warmed his seat and melted the ice before he had made himself comfortable. In his hands, resting on one crooked knee, was a lute which he strummed softly, fingers nimble against the strings of the neck. He played to the trees rather than himself, though that was not a notion he would be apt to share. They were his audience, tall and silent and listening. He smiled, hummed somewhat tunelessly (for all his skill with the instrument) and changed key on a whim.
Trista Gaidar
Since she was a child, Trista found hobby in climbing. The trees on the Altaran coast, where she had been born, were not large or thick enough to be stable, so the cliffs along the coast were her first experience. Not until she was brought north had she discovered the magnificence of trees. They were a whole different beast, the levels of variety offered by their rising limbs allowed for a whole new sort of play. Truthfully, scaling, swinging, ducking, diving along the limbs was the closest to "play" the ever vigilant Gaidar came.
The trees in the ogier grove were the most exemplary specimens. The first time she had stood at their trunks, staring up into the great bows, she found herself thinking with a nearly child-like wonder that surely, they must go on forever. She had nearly fallen once in her quest to reach the top of that canopy, but had eventually succeeded. She was careful - the Aes Sedai were not wont to appreciate her gallivanting through the canopy (although none would ever really choose a word as free as "gallivanting" to describe the hardened Gaidar).
Now, reaching the summit of the canopy was still difficult, but even with the branches coated in snow the Gaidar scaled them deftly. Her uniform was similar to the one she wore for her training on the beam in the fields, cut to allow movement. The fabric was colored in soft browns and dark blues, blending well with the wintry backdrop of wood and snow, and made of a flexible material. She did not wear her Warder cloak, which would only have been an encumberence within the maze of bows.
Today she had reached the top of her favorite Great Tree in record time. The view was astounding, although Trista would never see it with the delight another would. She was beginning to relearn emotion, slowly, but it was a long and unforgiving path. Without it, the vibrancy of color was lost, the beauty of melody forgotten. For this, she did not stay at the top as long as one might expect, instead disappearing swiftly back into the mass of branches. She flowed from one to the next, eventually taking her from tree to tree to tree, finally nearing what constituted the lower levels of a massive oak. Below her, music drifted up to her ears from a vibrant patch of color nestled within the trees outgrown roots. She listened to the notes for some time before now, having followed them to the place she had come. Slipping along the canopy was a practice in stealth as well as agility, and she was a master. She made less sound than the wind that pushed the trees to sway and creak, as she dropped down through the limbs.
The man she gazed down at was familiar. Despite the odd clothing he wore, one glance of his face and Trista recalled his identity. Another woman may have blushed from the coincidence of finding him after her dream only a short night before, but the Void served as a buffer between expression and emotion. What little capacity for emotion she possessed. Since that night her headaches had returned, a cacophony of pounding drum beats trapped in her skull. The Void helped, but did not ease it entirely. Now, however, she found something in the soft notes from his lute soothing, pushing back the thumping until only a single, solid beat remained. The rhythm was somehow familiar, perhaps a song she had heard in childhood and forgotten.
Trista crouched on the branch for a time and finally lowered herself onto her side. She looked like a panther stretched out in the tree, lidded eyes watching him as if she were unsure if he was prey or predator himself, but she already sated enough not to care either way. The Gaidar waited until his fingers came to a pause before speaking. "Your music is lovely, Asha'man. You play well," her voice was prosaic, as it always was. Sneaking up on a channeler was never healthy, but as silent as she may be, in such close proximity if he held saidin he likely knew of her presence. Had he not noticed her, he might lash out with the Power in surprise, but the Gaidar was not afraid. She regained some measure of her will to live over the years, but a reckless disregard remained. She was not bonded, so no one would suffer if she were to die. A purpose for death would be nice, but she was no borderlander, bent on an honorable return to the Mother. Besides, no matter nationality, the dead did not complain.
Asha'man Araya
If the Asha'man was startled by the sudden voice, then he did not deign to show it. In fact, Araya's only reaction was to rest his head back against the bark and tilt his eyes upwards, the picture of casual curiosity, and still idly plucking chords. Asha'man. That alone told him the stranger must know of him, for there was little other indication of his rank, and indeed when his gaze settled on the woman stretched languidly in the tree, her form dappled beneath the canopy, he recalled her. Not her name, at least not immediately, but her face certainly, and the eyes most of all. Deep and listless, and the most striking shade he had ever seen. A strange woman, he mused, but not at all unattractive.
"Flattery will get you everywhere." He chuckled at the jest, and did not fully expect any retort. Despite the lidded gaze she gave, that blank, vapid expression seemed to reject humour, and he did not know her well enough to expect otherwise. He suspected it hadn't even been flattery as much as a simple observation. "Do you play, gaidar?" He smirked and turned his azure gze back to his lute.
Trista Gaidar
For all his expectations, Trista smiled at his comment. A bare upturning at the edges of her lips, too ephemeral to make it into her eyes. The expression was eerie on her otherwise dispassionate features. "Exactly where I want to be," she responded. Few knew her well enough to know that she had a sense of humor, cynical as it may be. This was not cynicism. For anyone else it might have sounded flirtatious.
She snaked her upper torso backwards, sliding it off the branch until she hung from her knees. She faced away from the Asha'man, then her back arched until her shoulders pressed against the opposite side of the branch. Her arms reached out to each side on the limb, supporting her in the same motion that she released her knees. Her feet, covered in soft leather leather boots that laced up her calves, pressed their soles against the trunk of the oak and she loosed one arm, then the other. She slid gracefully down the trunk, despite the divots in the wood and the extra loss of friction from the snow. There was a watery element to the way she moved, a fluidity that tied each motion to both those preceding it and those that followed.
She came to rest on the top of one of those standing roots he nestled in; the breadth was only a hair thick than on of her feet, but she had walked smaller in the boughs above, and did not appear to notice. "Not the lute," she answered his earlier question, crouching down on her toes and resting her elbows on her knees. The position was relaxed, and dryer than simply sitting down. "The flute, the violin," she named the two instruments she'd received lessons in as a child, "formerly. That was a lifetime ago." This time she was close enough he might catch the flicker in the depths of her eyes that mirrored a smile. Those eyes drifted slowly from his own to the bright scarf at his throat, before wandering back up. There was no judgment, just the same painful neutrality. They all had scars.
"Is this all you play?" This was a rare occasion; conversation was not something the Gaidar normally even attempted. A poor attempt, but an apt example of just how unnatural it was.
Asha'man Araya
Araya had not expected her to come down from the tree; she did not seem the type to engage strangers in idle conversation, though he admitted the Tower attracted many who were not always who and what they first appeared to be. He did not complain of her company though; in fact he welcomed it, blank neutral stare or no. Araya was a social man; he did not overly enjoy extended periods of his own company, and the Tower could be a lonely place. Especially for an Asha'man. It made him question, sometimes, why he remained - to travel was in his blood, after all. But remain he did, at least until the next whim chanced to carry him off, like a leaf on the wind.
He watched her climb down the tree with open appreciation for the fluidity of her form. That was another thing one quickly came to learn about the former Tinker; he was frank with his emotions and thoughts, and it did not take an expert at the Great Game to read his expressions, which he did not often make attempt to hide. The woman's lithe movements could make a cat look clumsy, he mused, and the slow nature of her descent only served to highlight the strength and control of her muscles. She had the sort of grace one might expect in a dancer, though he presumed the only dancing the Gaidar would do was with a sword.
Trista. The name came unbidden, remembrance sparked by the dull violet of her eyes now that they were bright in winter light instead of dark in shadow. It was funny how the mind could do that, but he supposed that though it had been years since that brief meeting in the Aes Sedai's Hall of Sitters, she was a memorable character. Those eyes... If he had been a man prone to such things, they might have made him uncomfortable, but there was little that could disturb Araya. Though he was a man of aesthetics, and it showed in the way he dressed and presented himself, he was also a man who saw beauty before ugliness, light before dark, and hope before doubt. He was not naive; the Creator knew he had seen enough years to know better than to see these things blindly, but he was also extremely laid back, tolerant, and accepting.
As such, Araya saw the spark in her eyes before the emptiness; the momentary flicker of a smile no sooner there than gone, and he smiled in response. He noticed, too, her gaze linger, if only fleetingly, upon the scarf about his throat. He wore the item for others' benefit as much as his own, for the scar was an ugly one and it always felt a waste of breath (on his part) to recant the story of how he had partially lost his voice. Sometimes the sheer raspiness of it was enough to insight curiosity, but he had found that most in the Tower were simply too polite to ask (he could imagine their faces should he joke that he had a cold).
"Formerly..." he repeated, and it half sounded as though he were disappointed she did not still play. His fingers slowed now, and the melody became soft, so that his whispered voice was clearer above it. "I suppose your 'instruments' are steel now. I find this is much more soothing for the soul." He smiled wryly, and shrugged in answer to her question. "Formerly. A lifetime ago, you could say." He had in fact only recently procured this lute in Tar Valon, and the talent of his youth had sprung as if like magic to his fingers, as if it had only been yesterday he had last played. He did not lie to say it was soothing, not least among the trees of the Ogier.
"You should try it. I would gladly teach you." It was difficult to say if that was a serious comment or not; certainly, he would teach her the instrument if she accepted, but equally he would not be phased should she shrug it off as jest. In part he was testing her; prodding and pushing to explore this enigma of a woman and her reactions. He was curious.
Trista Gaidar
As relaxed as his emotions were, the openness with which the Asha'man wore them on his face was strange to the Gaidar. Surrounded by serene Aes Sedai and the other hard faced Gaidin, Trista no longer expected emotions, from herself or others. The sheer absurdness fixed her gaze to his face raptly, while her own remained impassive. Feelings were as foreign to the Gaidar as they were natural to Araya, but she was not as completely devoid of life as she once was. She still, however, had the social skills of a mole rat, but perhaps that was why she actually considered the man's offer.
Those shallow red-violet pools eyed the lute with as much expression as ever. She never had much musical talent, and as deft as her fingers were at finding pressure points, throwing darts and twirling daggers, she doubted that had changed. She was too technical a person, and her imagination had hardly grown with the experiences that brought her to the Tower. The warder training regiment had stimulated that half of her brain, but also entirely reworked it; the Gaidar could think of a thousand creative ways to kill a man, and turn any mundane object into a weapon, but the notes of music floated over her head and into the wind without a hint of recognition.
All these thoughts skirted the edge of the Void and were fed into the flame within a flutter of her sooty eyelashes. Then, she nodded, "I will try." The small gesture was surprising, even to herself, which is why she was wont to vocalize it. She slid down off her root and into his divot, gauging the instrument with her eyes the same as she did an opponent before battle. She rested on her shins in front of the Asha'man, mindless of the moisture seeping into the fabric of her breeches. As relaxed as the position might be for another, her body remained visibly tense; a predator still but a cat none the less, with a need to sate her own curiosity.
Asha'man Araya
The last thing Araya had expected had been an acceptance, and he found himself pleasantly surprised, for all that her blank, unchanged expression showed not one ounce of willingness. Certainly there was more than met the eye, here, else she was simply humouring him and his eccentricities. Either way, the Asha'man was happy to take it at face value, both amused and curious. He smiled and let his fingers carress the strings in one final, idle chord as she slipped down deftly from the tree root and came to rest before him.
To the casual onlooker, she may appear relaxed, but for all his blase attitude towards anything remotely millitant, Araya had worked his way through the Black Tower and its stringent regimen. He could see the minute signs; not quite apprehension, but a readiness, certainly. For all the stiffness in her posture, he may as well have been holding a viper. His response was a chuckle, a low, throaty sound; a gurgle, almost, and an unfortunate sound for a laugh, but he had long since grown used to the effects of his scarring, and it no longer bothered him, else he had simply ceased to notice it.
"It will not bite, gaidar, and nor will I." The words were accompanied by a flicker of the lips, but the jibe was well intentioned. That errant cheekiness was a customary facet of his disposition, and he dished it out irrespective of rank or status or gender. With that violet stare and empty expression, for all he knew Trista might strike a dart through his neck there and then, but Araya did not tend to think on such things. He was himself before slave or king, gaidar or Aes Sedai. It earned him his fair share of reprimand, of course, but those were not usually the sorts of people Araya kept for company.
He passed the gaidar the instrument; a modest thing, with little ornamentation, but solid amd sturdy. A nice weight, too, which in turn gave it a nice timbre. He had bought it for sound rather than looks, which was unusual given his propensity for beautiful things, but he did love good music.
He shifted on to his knees, mirroring the woman opposite, if visibly more relaxed. "Rest the belly part on your thighs. Right. And then--" Unabashedly, he took hold of her hands to position them correctly, firm but gentle, resting her smallest finger on the soundboard, and stretching the fingers of the other hand on the neck. He had been playing so long it had become innate; he did not think, just played, but now he had to think, and it brought the smallest line of consternation to his brow, shading the brilliant blue of his eyes.
"Okay, now pluck this string here..."
Trista Gaidar
The awkward sound of Araya's chuckle drew Trista's eyes up from the lute's smooth surface, her brows lifting a hairsbreadth in question. She did not look at the scarf wrapping his neck this time, but was aware of it. Then he spoke, and despite the raspiness of his voice the man himself earned her full attention once more. A glimmer, lasting a little longer this time, deepened her otherwise vapid gaze. "I will." As dead as her voice usually was, the tiniest mirror of that glimmer sounded boldly where for anyone else it might have gone unnoticed. Her lips parted in a toothy smile that put the fear of the Light into her trainees. For Araya, there was no threat in the jest, just promise.
She took the lute from him as he shifted, facing her on his knees. She was acutely aware of how close he was. Trista was well accustomed to being near the men she called brothers; sparring in the heat of summer was often done while baring more skin than a Cairhienin at the Festival of Lights. Hand-to-hand spars meant being particularly intimate with your opponent's skin and sweat and warmth, regardless of gender, and that style of fighting was a specialty of the Gaidar's. She was not uncomfortable with men, but there was something about this one that made her... anxious.
That restlessness knotted in her back as he took hold of her hands. Forcibly feeding the tension to the Flame eased her muscles to an extent, but a wariness remained. A wariness that heightened her already exquisite attention to detail; the concentration sharpening his gaze into a pair of blue gems, the pressure from his fingers as he placed hers, the weight of the lute against her thighs- all were suddenly immensely important.
For a hollow instrument, it really was quite heavy.
Her head no longer ached, but the offending throb continued softly. Her heart beat soundly in her ears, steady but decidedly faster than the rhythm it usually held. She took a long, silent breath, pacing it to the slower, foreign cadence in her head. The sound was soothing in its own fashion, and a thought flashed across the Void that it was related to the Asha'man somehow. The idea was discarded as unfounded.
Trista plucked the dictated string, and each after it. The sound was correct but mechanical, and did not flow at all in the way it had for the Asha'man. Instant mastery was an unrealistic expectation, but a child may well have produced a more pleasing sound from the contraption. Araya was a patient instructor, and the Gaidar was not prone to frustration, but it became quickly apparent that the struggle may well be futile.
"Music is not a strength of mine," she spared Araya the task of ending the lesson. She did not give up easily, but at the rate she was improving they would remain in the Ogier Grove until the sun fell and rose again before she showed any semblance of prowess. Slender fingers, usually so adept and graceful, stumbled out the notes of a short melody he taught her. She held the lute towards him them, a smile dangerously close to genuine tugging at the edges of her mouth. "I think the trees prefer the sound it makes for you."
[[This is old, but just to give context to Araya and Trista's relationship. Timeline wise it's while he was still living at the White Tower, before he has retrieved Korene from the borderlands or has his house in Tar Valon with Hana]]
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| Spiriting Away |
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Posted by: Natalie Grey - 01-29-2023, 08:30 PM - Forum: Past Lives
- Replies (4)
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![[Image: Nythadri-blue-dress-sq-av.png]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/Nythadri-blue-dress-sq-av.png)
Nythadri
After Daryen’s departure, Nythadri did not delay her own leavetaking, though there was a cruel sharpness in her chest for what must be left behind. The prevarication had been her own fault, however valid her reasons. Yet it felt like the loss of something vital.
The White Tower, Tar Valon
Shadows touched the city, the sun finally slipping beneath the horizon to welcome the night’s bright canvas. Nythadri almost held her breath in anticipation, but the Tower seemed blanketed in its normal evening routines, albeit everything felt a shade quiet. After the sultry evening heat of Bandar Eban, coolness rippled her skin; enough that she shivered. Daryen’s words strung her through with tension, but nothing untoward resonated from her warder. Her sense of Eleanore strengthened with proximity; she could almost pinpoint her exact location with a little focus, and it guided her stride as she entered the halls of her Ajah. Light send the woman had discovered enough to unravel a little of this knot, and pacify Nythadri’s fears in the process.
“Nythadri?”
At the sharp question of her name, Nythadri turned but did not pause her steady pace. Dark skirts swirled about her ankles. If the dress felt like a shroud in Arad Doman, here it felt like armour. She glanced at the Aes Sedai and with careful indifference read the woman’s pursed lip reaction to the discovery of her return. Maylis’s dark hair was swept back and braided, her lithe body wrapped in thickly embroidered green fabric and gold-worked leather. A curved knife tucked in the sash tight around her waist. It gleamed as bright as the streak of silver in her hair. Light but she looked dressed for war. Kabryn stepped tight by her shoulder, his usual affability folded away, the cloak moving queasily about him. He nodded but did not smile. Nythadri noted the formality with a little unease; it was not his usual manner.
![[Image: maylis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/maylis.jpg) ![[Image: kabryn.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/kabryn.jpg)
Maylis Sedai & Kabryn Gaidin
They fell into step. She felt the Green’s measuring stare, but only weathered the scrutiny with placid aloofness. Of all her new sisters, this one probably had the most cause to query Nythadri’s short and unannounced absence, and perhaps create a nuisance she really did not have time to address. But it seemed the anomaly was blessedly far from Maylis’s concerns this night.
“Lianora is arranging for the aspirants to visit in the city,” she said. “Just for the night. I might recommend you join them, sister, since it appears you are alone?” Her gaze swept the shadows in obvious question, one disapproving brow arched. The errancy of missing their regular appointment ought to at least have been excused with the procurement of a bondmate. Apparently. The assumptions made of Nythadri’s disappearance soothed a little at least, though it curled tight defence in her stomach too. Maylis had declared it a foolish intention. Did she imagine Jai had said no?
Would he, if she asked?
She liked Maylis well enough, but light she wished the woman would mind her business.
Nythadri did not fill in the blanks, and Maylis gave no indication of pursuit on the topic. Meanwhile Nythadri’s pale stare flickered away in irritated dismissal, puzzling instead over what information was shared. It tipped her tension into the broad strokes of concern; set her thoughts racing. If the Ajah thought to sequester its Accepted, it was because they feared blood might be spilt, and there were few enough reasons to fear that in the heart of the White Tower. She’d purposefully passed the Hall on her journey, but its doors had been closed; only the monolith statues standing eternal guard without. It meant little but that the Wheel turned resolutely out of sight. Kaydrienne’s support could not just have faltered then, it was gone, or as good as. Light. Did Lythia support it? The Sitters? Nythadri’s heart sped with the implications, veins ablaze. They must if the Greens were taking precautionary measures.
How had Talin known any of this was coming?
“Is Lythia here?” she asked. For once the steady hand of someone she trusted would not go amiss. But Maylis only shook her head, and Nythadri refortified herself in silence. She was alone in this anyway; she had to be.
The corridor widened into one of the hall's many inlets, replete with lounging furniture and great windows peering out over the darkened city. Stringed music drifted in the indolent manner of burgeoning composition. A smokey male voice hummed alongside, deep and intoxicating as honey. Song was not so foreign to these halls, but it seemed markedly strange tonight given all she was beginning to suspect transpired beneath the Tower’s calm surface. Nythadri did not recognise the man reclined into the cushions. He was tall, skin gleaming copper against the crisp white of an unlaced shirt. Inky hair curled about his ears. He looked up, a warm gaze appraising their arrival with a smile for the unexpected audience. With his sharp sloping cheeks and bright eyes, it had a manner of rakishness about it.
“Aes Sedai,” he said. Skilful fingers plucked a few more strings on the gittern, and then he stood in one smooth motion. The fold of his bow was theatrical and sweeping. His gaze lingered a little too long, the tip of his quieter smile an invitation of curiosity. Nythadri practically felt the intimate roam of his attention.
“Gleeman,” Maylis said as he slowly straightened. Indeed, the cloak nestled like jewel-toned treasure amidst the cushions, folded neatly next to where he had been sitting. By the tolerant amusement in her tone, she clearly found him charming, yet the manner of her stride as they drew closer brooked no compromise for it. She did not slow. “You might have our dear Lythia’s favour, but let us not seek a reason to rescind your invitation here, no? It seems like a fine evening for entertaining in the city. You might return to us refreshed.”
“I wouldn’t dare outstay a welcome,” he promised. The smile remained, if his eyes caught a little cold on the gaidin. But then being the object of one’s protective scrutiny – and Kabryn was clearly scrutinising – could be no pleasant thing. The gleeman rubbed his chin; it looked absent, but his fingers caught on the blush of a faint red mark against his lip. She was not sure if he grimaced or scowled in response to the pain.
Maylis nodded. Her dark gaze cut momentarily to Nythadri, thoughtful. One hand briefly rested on the hilt of her knife. “Perhaps you might make yourself useful and escort my sister into the city on your way. Kabryn says you held your own well enough on the field, all things considered.”
She turned from him to nod her farewell, then. “Take my advice, sister,” she urged. Her expression was fierce and protective, but a small, sultry smile flashed as she retreated, as good as a nudge and wink. The gleeman clearly noticed by the amused smirk at the corner of his lips, still half covered by his hand. Kabryn was tight on his Aes Sedai’s heels, though he paused long enough to address the man in question. He tapped his own mouth.
“No hard feelings,” he said. Then he nodded to Nythadri, and followed. She could hear the urgent murmuring of their conversion as they departed, but not what was said.
The gleeman moved closer the moment the two slipped from sight. He laughed a little, low and pleasant. The gittern cradled in his grip, one thumb softly striking one of the strings. It was not an instrument Nythadri knew how to play, but its tenor was deep and enjoyable, and the craftsmanship itself was markedly beautiful. He noticed her interest enough to hold it out to her in invitation. “I thought I had met everyone in residence, but you are a new face,” he said. “I’m Zahir.”
He had Lythia’s favour? Nythadri had not thought her the type enamoured of a gleeman’s swagger, but the loss of a bondmate did strange things to a woman, and this one was as handsome and warm as the ripple of desert sands. She’d met his type often enough, a lifetime ago, when she had frequented Caemlyn’s taverns under the moniker of Sacha. Before Farune it was a charm that would have won the provocative flash of smile in return, a meaningless dalliance to soothe a restless soul and steal away again before sunrise. The only question was who stole away first.
Her pale gaze rose from the play of his skilful hands to his darkly devouring gaze. “Nythadri,” she said. “But my sister may have misled. I’m in no need of an escort.” A smirk flickered her lips, but if she was a natural temptress it was a cold one. Little else pierced the stillness of her expression. Light steps drew her backwards, still holding his attention. She did not say goodbye, but she turned after a moment, pulled in the direction of her gaidar.
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| Pancakes |
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Posted by: Jay Carpenter - 01-19-2023, 07:31 PM - Forum: Greater Moscow
- Replies (20)
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[[Continued from Don't Belong Here, at Almaz]]
His head was pounding. A groan, and Jay snatched a pillow to smother his own face. The room couldn’t be dark enough, he thought, wincing at the curtains. There was some button somewhere that shadowed the glass behind them, but fuck if he knew where to find it. So he buried his face in the pillow and drifted. The next time he opened his eyes, the wish had come true. It was coffin-dark. A good solid coffin like the kind his brothers and sisters were shipped home in. Sealed up. Peaceful.
He waved his arm over the side-table. The clink of bottles sang their song in return. Eventually, he found one that sounded duller than the rest and put it to his lips. A tangy liquid passed his tongue. The fuck? he pulled it back to study the label. The hell did this come from? He hadn’t tasted Pimm’s since he was a teenager. Got wasted on it at 16 at a barn party. It looked like blood when it came back up, he remembered. Freaked a lot of them out at first.
So at some point in the last, uhh, however long it had been, he found a bottle of Pimm’s? After some flopping to the edge of the mattress, he stared, realizing all the empty bottles were from the same fruity-based gin. Now that, uhh, one way to party, he supposed, and pinched his eyes shut, trying to remember.
He remembered lots of spinning. After leaving Almaz, every time he closed his eyes, it felt like riding a tilt-a-whirl while tripping on PCP. Which meant he kept his eyes open and fixed dead ahead. On whatever. Seven tried to make him go to a doctor. But that was definitely passed over in exchange for finding a real strip-club. Then the awkward conversation about which gender of dancers he preferred. Meaning, there were plenty of guys who pulled off some looks better than others. Including Seven. He vaguely remembered them talking about shirts? Not quite what exactly. But it had been fascinating and hilarious at the time. But he opted for the regular old fashioned traditional type of strip club. Pretty sure. And rolling to the side, he realized why. There it was, a bit of black lace left on a pillow. Caught? Bought? Definitely something. Had the girl that wore it been there? Or did he just come away with a trophy? Creepy.
He looked down at himself then. Yep. Buck ass naked. Seemed about right. Not so much as a sheet in sight. Kicked off or tore off, he wasn’t sure. But the only thing that was sore was his head. So most likely had been the girl. He grumbled and sat up, rubbing his scalp. Not like it was the first time there were holes punched through bad memories. Unlikely to be the last. Probably didn’t do anything weird. Just normal stuff. Right?
The door was shut. The window dark. Not from the button but because it was fucking night. Probably not the same night, he assumed, and padded away to find the bathroom. The second he flipped on the light, he regretted it. But the mirror powered up enough to display the date and reflect a piss-poor image of a man back at him.
He stared at the display. Two days. It’d been two days since stirring out of the coma of the last binger. He’d gone downstairs for food. Met a Viking dude. Pounded his fist on Nox’s face at Almaz. At least his hand didn’t hurt anymore. Naked girls. Actually, he rather wished he remembered more of the naked girls. Then… nothing. Except apparently Pimm’s. Where the hell did the Pimm’s come from?
He powered up the shower and gave up trying to remember.
The wallet was on the floor, kicked almost under the furniture. He regretted bending down to get it. The spinning wanted to return, and he opted to fall into a chair to hold him while scanning it for evidence of his life the past few days.
There were pictures. Ones that probably felt steamy hot at the time but now made him cringe. Seven was in some of them. Two girls he didn’t recognize. Deleted those immediately. The messages weren’t much better.
Then he found one near the bottom of the queue.
”Pancakes” it read. The time stamp from the morning before. A pin on a map.
Goddammit. He opened the thread. Almost not able to look.
A fucking string of incoherent responses. From video loops of funny breakfast moments. To a picture of his bloody hand. To a mention of making Cayli chocolate chip pancakes. That hurt. They scrolled a long time.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The hangover flopping his stomach sick.
I am so sorry. I was fucking drunk out of my mind, he sent the first coherent message in return. I would kill for pancakes right now. Please come. After hitting send, he regretted the particular phrase. Since she’d seen him actually kill people. Probably bad choice of words there.
He almost hated to see what the rest of the suite looked like. Some time later, towel wrapped around his hips, he hoped some snacks had been left behind with the bottles. And that Natalie would answer fast.
The suite was the same one in Adrian Kane’s hotel. It was shockingly clean. Didn’t look anything like the bedroom. A plate of fruit and pastries waited on a table. Along with a bottle of tylenol and salt tabs. Had housekeeping been in while he was passed out? Also kind of creepy, but whatever. He shrugged and opted to swallow a handful of pills before anything else.
“Feeling better?” a voice asked.
The bottle flew out of his hand like an erupting white volcano. He jumped and turned.
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| The Point of No Return |
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Posted by: Kemala - 01-16-2023, 11:52 PM - Forum: Past Lives
- Replies (21)
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The Third Age
Sitter of the Red Ajah
In the far north of the ocean was called the Dead Sea. It was far from the lifelessness of a corpse, but so named for the casualties it incurred. The Atha’an Miere had maps that chartered as far as their ships could sail. Enormous ice caps ended voyages north. She once poured over those maps, inquiring after the tales of the destination. She never beheld the ice walls herself, but she had sailed far enough north to see the ice floats for herself. When enormous chunks of ice broke away and floated on the currents, they made for the most dangerous of headings, hiding bulbous undermounts and jags sharp enough to rip a ship apart. The first time she saw the spire of ice bobbing up and down, piercing the surface of the sea like a knife, she did not think it was so bad. Then the Windfinders upturned its shape so to sweep it out of their heading and the wide underbelly was revealed, like a toothy cragfish intent to swallow them whole, she was terrified. The lesson was learned, too. Not to trust only what was seen on the surface.
That was how she felt when she was forced to deal with the men who channeled. She never trusted what they hid below the skin. She could not sense nor see saidin, not for all the ter’angreal in the White Tower. How she wished she could create such an object. Her life would be decidedly easier as if she could see beneath the surface of the waves and avoid an icy death.
Lacking one useful object of the power did not mean she lacked in others. The Red Ajah signaled secrets like doves, and it was a white stone dove that she picked up to examine just then. The eyes were black beads, but the wings moved on hinges. She did not push them back, not yet, and instead re-read the page an open ledger on her desk.
It was an accounting of the Tower’s holdings of the Objects of Power; what were officially on record, anyway. The Reds managed their security, an extremely important task, but Kekura felt their Ajah was wasted on bookkeeping better suited to Browns. She wanted to protect the world of errant channelers, and tie them to the White Tower as they should. Being Atha’an Miere, she might once have protested to such a claim on independence, but ties to the Tower did not mean deference. There were three groups in the world she was going to prioritize when she was Amyrlin. The Seanchan topped that list. The army of the Dark One, dreadlords, came next. Then they had to investigate these tales of the people beyond the Aiel Waste. With the rediscovery of Traveling, an army of mad channelers could flood the land over night. If that happened, the White Tower would be utterly unprepared. They knew next to nothing about the people of the far east. Even her own people kept to their ships when taking port in Shara. The Mistress of the Ships would see reason when she found an Amyrlin Seat came from her own people. So many priorities. For now, the ledger contained a very important line that was going to play an important role in this night’s unfolding situation. The Oath Rod had disappeared from right under Kaydrienne’s grasp. That or the Blue had it smuggled out. Either way was just as bad.
The moment she felt the glimmer of the One Power, Kekura swept from her study and came into the main suite of her quarters. She glanced at the two women speaking quietly over tea as she entered. Her gaze was haughty, she was aware, but it was deserved. She had promised this would happen, and now her providence proved right, she stood to meet it head on.
The Asha’man filled the round of the gateway, casting it swirling light upon his face. In the background, she glimpsed Lythia, but only barely. The Sitters at her side would not have been able to see the Green. Kekura bid that he enter. When he did, he would find the White Tower as it always stood. Her particular quarters had a few silks draping its edges, but the furniture was sparse as it was for all Sisters.
The gateway rolled away after he passed through. The two Sitters in her company were nonplussed by what Kekura invited into her quarters, though they had not been prepped on who exactly would be coming. There was the risk that none would at all, but Kekura believed the Wheel wove as it willed, and that this was the will of the pattern. Kekura did conceal a sigh of relief, though. Much depended on this man.
She nodded her head upon his introduction, but it was only a small measure of respect. At her side, the Sitters were still as the namesake of the Sea. His was not a famous name among the Black Tower so much as Kekura knew, nor was he a player of power that courts recognized and rulers greeted - save one.
He was remarkably formal, Kekura thought with great approval. When last she saw him it was at the graves of Moiridrosin, where the families of Tar Valon often buried their departed in the earth. She knew enough that he was of that line of people. Hailing from the city itself. It was why he would have such great faith in the White Tower and seek answers here, or so she had hoped when she laid the letter on the hillside.
“I am Kekura Sedai. This is Esenya Sedai and Reloane Sedai,” she gestured to the two women nearby.
“I am aware you are put in a difficult position, Asha’man Kojima,” she said. She invited him in, though he did not seem like the sort to want to sit and speak. It felt strangely tense to stay on their feet. Kekura was the first to sit, and with it, the two Sitters deferred and followed. Of the three, she was the strongest in the One Power, although the Hall had traditions that may overrule such considerations. Neither Sitter came close to it, though. They would follow her lead in custom, but it was her goal that they follow her designs by vote.
Reloane spoke first. Perhaps it was a sign of the Gray’s eagerness to determine which side of the law she was going to take.
“You are assigned to the palace at Bandar Eban, are you not?”
There were other questions that followed. Simply wanting to hear for themselves that the Asha’man was who he claimed to be.
How long have you been there? Did you attend the signing of the treaty today? Who else was attended? Were there sul’dam and damane?
Kekura let them speak. She only participated when she felt the need to guide the conversation to the matter at hand or redirect the Asha’man should his impulses tear him away. At the graves, she saw the madness in him, but tonight, he was as calm as the Sitters. Perhaps she had misjudged.
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| Invitation!!! |
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Posted by: Nox - 01-16-2023, 09:22 PM - Forum: General Discussion
- Replies (21)
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So Nox sent out a bunch of texts and I don't want to make alot of tags in the thread so I'm gonna do it in one big thread and invite everyone with a free PC if you want to meet the other PCs. He sent it out to all his friends.
It would be a couple days after Nox and Jay fought (for those with timelines that matter)
Nox is putting on a show (his second). I'll start a thread in a few days and post it in here. But anyone is welcome to join in. Mix and mingle!
*edited* Post -> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1433.html
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| Going Through the Motions |
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Posted by: Nox - 01-15-2023, 10:17 PM - Forum: Underground city
- Replies (7)
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[[ continued from url ]]
The tears ended. No one came near him or interrupted him. He left the club without saying anything to anyone.
The train station where he kept Lily wasn’t far away and grabbed his small back and the Lotus and slipped into the tunnels to find a dark place to curl up and die.
He didn’t go far, he needed signal. His face was on fire. His body numb from everything else. If he thought about it too hard the horde rose up and filled the pain with the need for more. He wanted to feel numb.
Nox needed to hear Raffe’s voice even if he wasn’t speaking to him. But he didn’t dare call. Nox walked into the emptiness of the tunnels. Water dripping in the distance. No scratching to be heard.
He found a cranny in the wall and wove a ball of light and let it shine down on Lily. She’d need a good walk for real light, but it would do for now. He unrolled his bedroll and curled up in it and started typing a string of texts to Raffe (@"Raffe")
I know I said space and time.
Full disclosure.
I ran into Jay at the Almaz.
We fought — literally. It ended badly.
I’ll tell you about it all if we get through this.
Nox sighed and sent a final text.
Lily misses you.
He set the wallet down and tried to sleep. His nightmares awaited.
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