Mists

[Adrian Kane]

Arikan

The Hand made a show of every movement.  An amateurish show.  His sole audience member made no effort to hide watching.  He wanted the Hand to know he was not ignorant of what the greasy whitecloak carted around.  Scissors to cut.  Clippers to snap.  Rods for plunging.  Blades for shredding.  Steel, iron, needle, hooks and rings and chains. Oh it would be unpleasant, Arikan wasn’t so naive to know it would be anything else. But he could endure anything for a short while, and all he needed was a single flutter of the eyelids. To sleep and enter this man’s dreams now that he was known to him.  The anticipation would see him through the worst of it because something far more terrible was waiting in the Hand’s nightmares.

The Hand's showmanship, his precision in folding the cloak, his patience in unpacking his supplies, together they spoke to his depravity; even the unranked of Hands were not without their usefulness. He had heard enough for himself during his stint as Jeremel Nessad, Under Lieutenant for the Children of the Light. Oh he had no interest in assisting the questioners, but on occasion he would walk by one of their tents. The pathetic pleading and cries of the one inside fell on deaf ears. Unfortunately, while the Dreadlord recognized the meaning that it was now his turn, the fear had little effect. Betraying the Great Lord of the Dark was not an issue of motivation.  It was one of physics; an impossibility of nature. There were some secrets he simply could not speak. Though he knew the Questioner would not believe that story even if he attempted to explain it. Therefore, endurance was the need. Just long enough to sleep and then oh how the tables would turn.

There was little to glimpse of the world beyond this hole, but he noted the shadows playing under torchlight, the wafting of stagnant air flushing skin, and the composition of the escape.  Stone, but crafted stone.  Dug and tunneled in intelligent design.  This was no random cavern.  It was a chamber.  Even the very room he was in was a mystery. It seemed of the size to be used for storage, but the walls and floor were weeping stone. A deep cellar?  A mine, perhaps? Certainly not a cell, not in the conventional sense of a truer dungeon. The knowledge would play an important factor when the opportunity for escape presented itself.  He would wait for it.  Patience was not the Hand's monopoly alone, and he could ask questions of his own.

The door swung shut, heavy latches held it secure. He knew their worth, having tested its strength many times; and he was left with the sound of fading footsteps until the weight of solitude settled upon the space. Lightless as a shadowman's first womb and just as cramped. They left him to wallow in the yawning abyss, but Arikan hardly feared the dark. That was his domain. His kingdom. He laid upon his pallet like a lord of the manor. Convincingly unashamed of his nakedness, even if the skin twitched. His face throbbed. Nose plugged up and he had to breathe through his mouth.

The isolation from the light brought with it freedom from distraction. To think, cool and systematically peer into the darkness. He thought of the Aes Sedai in the dream, quizzically methodical in her work and final defiance. A fascinating and interesting girl, poisonous as unfermented tripe he guessed, but upon long recovery, she might become something of infinite potential. Especially if she possessed the untapped skill he suspected waited within. Surprising, perhaps, but her fearless face was more unsettling an enigma than the delicate Hand and his toys. He had to discover her identity, and he would, but only after a chance for sleep. He needed the respite of strength for what was to come.

A soul yearning for unconscious release, dreams came soon after, sickeningly addicted he was to such an exhibitionistic pursuit of fog and shadows.  Outlines of men blackened by the foreground of a molten hot pyre appeared. Mourning fortified upon their cemented faces.  A man who learned to channel swiftly and rose to authority easily accepted the mighty gift now pinned to his throat with an accepting bow and heartfelt pride.  The forest of vacancy spread the shadow from that relatively recent scenic memory to another soon after.  A gathering of cloaked shapes, all attendants masked across the face with cloaked anonymity.  A summons in a great hall to commune with their master.  Merchants, warriors, commoners, and nobles from every nation flanked his sides.  Here and there the glimmer of a golden serpent ring.  A red masked man, tall and dark haired, accompanied by an honor guard of shadowman flanking before each of them in turn. The welling of the One Power told Arikan he spoke under the shelter of a ward, relaying orders. It was a small bubble of anticipation that welled up within.  Instructions came, and Arikan was the ever-pliant servant.  His jaw clenched in his sleep, sounds of grinding teeth chalking the air otherwise silent but for ever deepening breaths of the helpless troubled.  The dream faded to the next.

He was draped in white and tarnished with enough blood to shame the Hand's sprayed on decoration.  A serpent ring pulled from a limp hand.  He was Dimas again, the curly-haired High Lord who frequented the inner Stone of Tear, said to sit and stare at the object of his country's shameful prophecy waiting for the man who would conquer it. It could be him. Should be him that wielded callandor. More opaque images cloaked in the blizzard of a thin thread connecting two ages in the Pattern followed.  Feelings stronger than images twisted his sleep.  Mayhem, destruction, collapse, panic.  A man unhinged by the invention of war turning now to advance it, honing the skills of murder and torture with the Power's new divine wrath.

The affliction of dreams was the cost to pay for the gathering of enough strength to stir from powerless endurance of the mind's outlets to regain control.  Soon after, he drank in the glory of Tel'aran'rhiod's diffuse light and stretched comfortable amid the sea of stars billowing endlessly around him for his captors.  They were not asleep, but there were others he might visit instead.

Every city was flooded with spies.  Tar Valon was not special in this regard.  A capital of women thinking they write the policy to dictate the world through the invention of their original machinations, putting forth their faces of purity and servitude with their white flagstones and glimmering glass spires.  Standing in one such untarnished square, a man might easily pass a dozen in the trade of information.  A piece of trash wedged into a grate might be trash, or it might be a sign.  A man's corner stance might be the act of turning it into a privy or it could be a cover.  At least, in duller cities such behavior was common: trash in gutters and pissing in corners.  In such a city as this, the traders were cleverer, the signs subtler. 

One such spy, pulled in the night against his will, found himself shaking. They were in an empty penthouse lined with windows that gave perspective to their height and sarcastic view of the White Tower beyond.  Empty but for a masked man seated cross-legged in the shadows of a deeply set chair.  In this summons, Arikan was slick-haired as he was fond of styling and clean shaven.  Heavily clothed in silk and red embroidery, lace plummeted from his wrists, fine sheepskin shoes wrapped feet, and together he was every inch a nobleman.  He tapped a cane against the top-crossed knee in boredom and spoke down to the kneeling, whimpering Domani courier practically salivating with fear. Arikan's disguised figure sipped upon a goblet he only tasted because he willed himself to, but the truer entertainment was prodding Graham’s soul with the shredding manipulation of the Dream. Here, Arikan could pull a man apart and he not die. Here he could induce panic with a thought. Toying with the darkfriend was indeed entertaining, but practicality ruled him in the end. He finalized his orders.

"Find the girl.  Aes Sedai or not.  I want to know everything about the one called Elsae.  When I come for you next and you disappoint me, Graham you will not wake." The quiet words flooded in Graham's ears with the shrill of the mind-twisting nature of a Dreammaster's manipulation and left the boy to quiver in his bed when upon finally released to the real world.  The darkfriend would not find sleep again the remainder of the night, nor for several nights thereafter. His fear was justified.

Tel'aran'rhiod. The place in the pattern where every possibility of the Wheel converged upon one layer or another.  A place connected by all souls but only a few may enter at will.  A place where thoughts made reality.  Occasionally, a powerful channeler, further connected to the Pattern by the depth of their well into the Source, may enter and stay for some length.  His own well of the Source likely enhanced this ability, finely cultivating his dominion over the dichotomy between real and unreal.  The dream is unreal.  The self is real.  He stretched forth his reality, the self, seeking the gaidin dreamwalker of recent compulsion but instead discovered a sudden new presence vortexing the unreality of the Dream.  He found it; found her.  Hidden and spying. 

Unmoved from the chair, legs crossed and relaxed, the goblet dissipated from his grasp. He toiled with her meager force with a will that might have shattered the lesser minded. She sought to escape, but he held her dream, transfixed, a soul torn between the reality their weaving of the Pattern called the waking world and the unreality of the Dreamworld's glorious assemblage. A slow pleasure pulled his lips soon after, and he stood victoriously. She came into view then simply because he willed her to. Turning to face her young, lovely face, she flushed pink with shock and the satisfying twinge of fear. She looked different, but Arikan recognized her as sure as he recognized himself.  He stretched forth a welcoming greeting, "Hello, Corele,” and shifted to approach.

Farmer Byron

He reached the docks shortly before the crowds began to arrive to view the burning ship. A city so reliant on trade, especially by sea, was quick to respond to a vessel burning in the middle of the harbour; should she sink, it would be expensive to have the wreck removed. Letting it sit on the bottom simply wasn't a viable option; such things could make for future problems, such as heavily laden vessels breaking their hulls on the wreck. So long boats were launched with plenty of oresmen, ready to latch onto the ship and haul her past the break waters or to run her onto the ground.

He slipped through the crowd without drawing attention, and soon was onto the streets and alleys making his way towards the finer parts of the city. It had been quite some time since he'd been so far south, but certain details never really changed. Such as which family's owned which manors. With a name and some simple confirmation from the dearly departed ship captain, Byron's path was set. A few simple stops along the way saw a few clothes lines missing, their burdens laying in the streets and alleys. Lengths of line were neatly tied together, and a metal bracket, serving as a lantern mount, was quickly pried free, his trusty nail bent to the point of uselessness and casually discarded in the process.

The bracket attached to the line, he was all set to finish his errands for the evening. He had his shopping list in mind as a small manor came into view. Lights shone through many of the windows even at so late an hour, the muffled sounds of music hinting that there was quite the little soiree within. Yet another unpleasant detail. Again, he was being rushed to do things in a way that was far too dangerous. It was sloppy, rushed, and was leaving far too many loose ends...but, if things went well, he wouldn't have to worry too much about trying to flee the city and shake search parties and bounty hunters between Illian and Tar Valon. All he had to do was reach the meeting place.

Hidden in the shadows for a few minutes to allow a patrol of the city guard to pass, then he was up and over. The make shift grappling hook served him well, and soon enough he was dropping within the manor grounds, coiling the rope neatly. Two House guards waltzed past, and Byron ducked into the shadows of a gaudy statue, surveying the grounds within with a practiced eye. Mind racing, picking up on the little details; movement in windows, already piecing together the layout of the house, or at least the outer rooms of the building on the one side he could see. Banners and railings and balconies.

Once the coast was clear, it didn't take him long to work his way across the grounds to the building, and mere minutes later he was on a second floor balcony, far higher in such a ridiculous building...they had a tendency of being taller so far south, to catch the cool winds off the sea. Slipping inside he made his way to the nearest privy and waited in a chamber across from it. Again he was delayed, ducking behind various expensive stands and statues along the hall to avoid guests and servants. But, luckily for him, no signs of guards within the building. What few that were inside, most likely, were standing in parade armours in the main guest areas looking good.

Patience was a virtue Byron had in abundance, and it paid off. A man, a fair match to his own dimensions, appeared in the corridor and bound for the privy, his clothes in a bit of disarray, likely from unmentionable activities in some hidden away place. Somewhere without its own washroom, since he'd opted to use the one Byron had under watch. Byron had barely managed to subdue the fellow and tuck him into the small storage room before others entered the corridor.

More minutes past, and then Byron strolled out of the chamber calmly adjusting his collar and cuffs. The choice of dress was about as restrictive as he would have expected, and it was just a hint large in the belly, but that was easily remedied with a bit of wire from one of his pockets to help hem and tie off some of the excess fabric. A careful eye would see the poor quality of tailoring, but so late in the evening that wouldn't be much of a problem. The man was neatly stuffed into a near-empty barrel of powdered soap, of which Byron now had a pouch full to clean his uniform later. A convenient scrub brush was tucked away as well. He had even been so kind as to leave the fellow alive, as he didn't plan on spending long in the manor.

Nobleman Byron

No longer looking the part of a Ghealdanean farmer, Byron could more easily roam the corridors, even stopping occasionally to speak with other guests when needed to lessen suspicions. This was the most time consuming part, and almost tense in his mind. He was running out of time, having spent so much of the night chasing leads and gleaning information. Soon though, he found his way to the corridor outside a private sitting room, where one guard in uncomfortable looking parade dress and armour stood watch over a closed door. The man seemed less than pleased with his task, but did an admirable job of hiding it.

From behind the door, heard as Byron did a somewhat staggering walk past, seeming to be more than a bit jovially tipsy, Byron over-heard the sounds of Noble-youth enjoying themselves far more raucously then such a soiree would find appropriate. If what he was looking for was anywhere in that manor, it would be with them. So, he continued past, leaving the guard standing in the hallway none the wiser of what Byron had in mind. Out of sight and into another chamber.

From the ledge of the window, he scaled up to the next balcony, and a risky leap across to a balcony above the room he was after. The line he had used to scale the wall, minus the make shift grappling hook, was produced from within his shirt, where it had been helping him seem a proper fit for the clothes he had acquired. Tied to the balcony and glad the windows behind him were both dark and curtained, he lowered himself down just enough to peer into the room below.

Once certain it was the chamber he was searching for, and a moment’s consideration for the time and how long he had until it was time to leave, he went to work preparing his distraction. Again, on such short notice he hadn’t much to work with, but after deftly forcing the lock on the balcony doors, crossing through a lavish guest bedroom, and into the hall, he had already decided on what it would be.

He moved through a few different rooms with an empty chamber pot, draining the oil from the lamps and lanterns in the empty guest rooms. A candlestick sans candle, wrapped in some torn curtain, was used to spread oil along inner wooden walls and more was pooled on beds or furniture through the three rooms. Small amounts, just enough to get the fire started and it would spread on its own.

Truthfully, he was never a fan of big showy displays. The sort of work he got up to, showy displays were entirely against the point. But, sometimes, there really was no way around it. So, he returned to the balcony, fixed the line and gave it a few tugs. A lean over the railing to judge the distance, a moment's thought over the layout of the room below. He delayed briefly, slicing a strip out of the expensive curtains to wrap around his face and setting his dress coat aside for the moment; he didn't actually care if they saw what he looked like, but if he was going to play the role of some showy unprofessional, he might as well look the part right?

The room below was host to eight young noble-borns, some of Illian's social elite's 'other children.' Not the eldest of any family, the ones that were most likely to be married off for power and wealth and the like, with no real responsibilities. They wiled their evenings away with games and excess. Such groups existed everywhere and in every social class, but the rich always had the most exotic of entertainment.

Expensive wines and treats spiked with various herbs and fungi, dulling the mind or bringing hallucinations. One final peak into the room and then he was ready, leaping off the balcony above and hanging tight to his make-shift rope. He swung down and in through the window of the room he sought, glass shattering across the few closest unfortunates. He hit the ground in a roll and came to his feet charging the door even as the guests let out surprised screams or yelps of pain.

The guard outside was a quick one, surprisingly, but only managed to get the door open a few inches before Byron’s full weight slammed into it, smashing the heavy wood into the face of the guard on the other side and sending the armoured man sprawling into the hall hard. The door slammed shut loudly, and Byron dropped a dagger to the floor, two quick kicks jamming it under the door to wedge it shut. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would buy him an extra minute or two.

And then he circled on the crowd, letting out a disgusted grunt as one of the flippant whelps came at him in a drunken rage. Hands were slapped away and the tip of Byron’s thumb jabbed into the lad’s right eye, careful not to destroy the organ. The boy yelled in pain, and Byron’s fist planted into the lad’s crotch, then a leg swept behind the boy’s as he pitched forwards. A quick hip check against the doubled over boy’s shoulder sent the noble-born to the floor with a wheezed gasp where he remained curled into a ball and sobbing pitifully.

Surprisingly enough, two more came at him in quick succession. One was met with a platter off the nearest table, pastries and sweets and a heavy silver tray throwing the boy off balance long enough for Byron to deal with the other. A swift side step and he grabbed the boy’s collar and sleeve, legs spread wide and angled for good purchase as he spun at the hips, tossing the boy into a high backed chair and expensive looking table. Then Byron stepped to the other, who had just recovered from the offending platter to find the palm of Byron’s hand boxing his ear, then both hands fisted together to hammer into the lad’s shoulder, spinning him to the ground.

By then, the remaining youths were screaming in terror and calling for parents or guards, and all were silenced when Byron barked a threat and produced a knife against the throat of what he was hoping was the group’s host, judging by the thread of gold and silver crest stitched on the lad’s coat. His demands were quick and simple, and he only had to cut the boy once to get what he wanted. Pointed to a armoire in the corner, the doors open to reveal bottles of expensive liquors and jars of powders and liquids.

Jackpot.

By the time the guards managed to force the door open, Byron was already on the third floor setting the rooms ablaze, with a satchel full of all sorts of interesting things tucked under arm. Panic spread and the guards on the grounds rushed into the house to evacuate guests and family that had no idea what was going on above. As they rushed in, Byron made his way out in the confusion, once more finely dressed in his acquired costume and he vanished into the night amongst outraged social elite.

Near sunrise, when the Gateway was opened to bring him back to wherever that cave was secreted away, the view of Illian sported two columns of thick black smoke. One from the harbor, where efforts to extract the burning ship were still ongoing; out of desperation the wreck had been crashed onto the rock of the breakwater. It was easier to tear the remains apart there then to try and scour it off the bottom of the bay. And closer, in a rather influential neighbourhood, a manor was aflame.

Dressed in the outfit of an Illian influential, he tucked the satchel under his arm and waltzed through, offering Lythia an apologetic nod as he moved from the outskirts of Illian to some dank, dark cave. One night, nine dead by his own knife, and who knew how many others from two fires. And a satchel full of expensive ‘medicines’ and of course the soap and scrub brush. He still had some laundry to do. And of course a few hours sleep.