Mists

[Adrian Kane]

Arikan

Indeed, Corele could no longer channel as his shields found no grappling. Not that he needed to shield her to halt the flows of her channeling, but he did enjoy the gasp of surprise when the lesser-dreamers believed they were barred from the Source. A disappointment for sure, but now that he knew she lived, he could find her again. He stood there a few moments longer after she awoke. Her own admission explained the news of her replacement as Keeper of the Chronicles, but the thought was his partial dismissal.  Her presence was a small threat, but not completely unworthy of attention.  More to the point, he owed her a debt and would be more than happy to encounter her again in the Dream to extract it. Thus twice she had taken him by surprise. It had been Corele Sedai that unraveled the pocket he used to transport shadowspawn safely through the dream. When he entered the White Tower grounds, there was no army at his back to conquer it. He faced a line of defenders alone because of her. However, she was as unreachable as Graham, now: awake. She wouldn’t surprise him a third time.

The quiet of Tel’aran’rhiod settled, and with the subsequent emptiness followed regret.  She, by virtue of her affiliation, was an enemy.  Without enemies, there was nothing to conquer; without conquest, there was no purpose.  The others were unreachable, Dreamshielded; allies years dead, basking in the Great Lord's grave.  Taskless, purposeless, stewing in the vacuity of this sickening wasteland, his plummeting mood veiled the very light of The Dream itself.  Anticipating what yet was to come. He could endure it, he reaffirmed, but the purpose eluded him.

That need, to serve, to find meaning, drove this next decision as harrowing the consequences would be.  One by one, as layers of privacy slipped involuntarily away, a menace approached.  It found an abdicated servant self-stripped of all masks, begging for forgiveness, straining for any task, accepting of any punishment - so long as it served their Great Father of the Dark and returned significance to this life. 

But a word seethed his brain. Failure.  The word filled his mind, but he couldn’t tell if the voice was that of his own doubts or the whispering taunt of one of the Chosen. He strained to hear more, if only to know he wasn’t abandoned. Suffering more in the absence of punishment than the torment might have inflicted. When it became clear that nothing further was coming, withdrawal from the dreamworld for a into fitful sleep followed.   

Arikan

Disciplined, but no less regretful, was that final step from the tranquility of authority within Tel'aran'rhiod into the turbulence of defenseless sleep.  He bristled with a constant hum of tension throughout those hours while lingering on that outer edge of consciousness - waiting to react to something external: the inevitable assault that'd spark an instant return to full faculty: the light creeping close or the door swinging open. But nothing happened.

The utter quiet was shattered by a sharp draw of breath between clenched teeth.  A wince for disturbing the recently dislocated shoulder, still tender, onto which he’d rolled accidentally.  He sat up suddenly, clutched the arm against his chest and realized he had indeed slept, then; and deeply enough to move unconsciously: a descent farer into oblivion than he intended but the body apparently required. 

The space was dark beyond the absence of light.  The darkness was heavy, impenetrable, stifling.  Control, he remembered, and closed his eyes to meditate on the discipline of vacancy; for without control, all was lost.  The darkness was external, he remembered, not the sanctity rapturing his mind from within; a physicality of the world, not the omniscient terror descending from the Great Lord’s attention.  When they reopened, they drank in the ardent darkness hovering around the direction of the door.  There was no source of light filtering around the edges, none to break the black.  An advantage, perhaps, as any approach of light served as sentry.  A clarification needed to remember where and who he was and accept the possibility of something emerging from darkness.  He remained faithful.

Composure allowed him to evaluate the shield again. A constant companion.  Afterward, he swept aside the warmth of the One Power burning beyond reach and stretched, careful during the climb to his feet in order to avoid aggravating one of the Hand's lingering gifts.  Of which there were an unusual abundance for such a tired old man.  He checked the damage on himself, but curled up a lip of disgust not for the injuries, but for the crust of grime dressing his skin.  His face was coated in grease and unkempt growth: a measure of how much time passed in captivity.  His hair pasted to his scalp under the weight of its own oil, the repulsive substance now clinging to his fingers curled into fists at his side.  He meditated on control, but the globe of vacancy cracked under the strain.  The darkness be damned.  Perhaps the renewal of having slept intensified the need to move.  Perhaps the recognition that this sacrifice purchased nothing of value buckled his resolve.  More likely it was the judgment of worthlessness pounding his memory from Tel’aran’rhiod’s encounter with the dark figure; bereft of alliance because he was not worth the effort of salvation, but his faith was not in one man – he did not bathe in Lake of Fire for Demandred, but for the Lord of the Evening himself.  A master whose ways men could not comprehend and for whom he would not leave this world until service was fulfilled, but the taunts whispered a harrowing chill down his spine.  If the time for accomplishment was over, was it time to die? 

And control shattered. He lashed out.  Flipped the sleeping cot first then hurled a waste bucket at the door.  Scent saturated the air, but he missed no step crossing the mess underfoot.  The bucket clattered and rolled away, and he moved on. Grip finding purchase on anything in the room. The Hand, the miserable, Light-cursed Questioner will have no table on which to display his pretty toys now.  Sacrificing the shoulder’s recovery, Arikan thrashed it upon the impenetrable floor with a defiant roar.  Over and over again. He beat the floor with whatever he could grab. Until the joists splintered with the pounding and dead wood snapped their spindly legs like bones. 

The door was not thick enough to buffer such an assault, if anyone stood guard at all; if he was worthy of being guarded. They didn’t seem to worry about him now that he was denied the One Power. He roared again and slammed the broken pieces against the floor, the wall, anything. Once the anger was spent, he was panting when his back slid down whatever grime coated these unnatural walls. The remnants of damaged furniture jabbed his flesh where he sat like a nest of wooden spikes, and the scent of spilt waste flared his nostrils as he leaned his head on the wall. It coated the soles of his feet. He could feel the mush of his own shit smeared on his legs. There was nothing left to do but cursed waiting. More dark-blasted waiting. Or shove aside the shards burrowing into his thighs where he sat.  The table broke under little effort, he thought, tossing aside a palm sized piece.  The wood was old then, or poorly made, disintegrating beyond a valuable antique.  Feeling around, mostly to swipe away what was beneath him, his hands found purchase upon a sharper stake, ran one finger along its wood shaved edge. It pricked the skin to blood, and he set it thoughtfully aside. He started to paw around for larger pieces.

His knees paid the price, crawling through the wreck scattered about the floor. More shit smeared but eventually his hands found a prize.  One of the table legs was intact, three nails still embedded in the end like some spiked mace. He smiled to himself in the dark.

It was only a matter of time, then, and Arikan waited near the door with repurposed patience. Tuned attentively toward the noise of approach and prepared to greet whomever arrived with one good swing at eye level.  The corridor, glimpsed when his guest departed, was too confined for a sword – the only blade of size to shatter the shaft of the improvised weapon in his hands – not that he would allow for the time to raise such a cumbersome defense.  The Aes Sedai would be a fool to return so soon, interrupting any progress her pet Questioner might have made.  He doubted the girl would make an appearance, but that was assuming a great deal of intelligence on her part.  In case he overestimated her wisdom, her calling was always preceded by the annoying prickle of a woman’s channeling, he would sense either of their approaches. No, for once, he hoped it was the Hand that returned. Arikan would gladly receive the guest into this little domicile.

The weapon was lightweight; two or three blows were likely all it would bear before splitting under the strain.  Aes Sedai or her dug up Questioner, flush as he was in shadow, he doubted the mace would make contact with either.  Spikes buried in their faces were an appealing image, but surprise was the point.  The state he was in mandated a fast confrontation.  Between the arm and the girl’s poison clogging his veins, he would be useful for only a few moments, but he could not allow them a chance to defend. Besides, Questioners were notoriously incompetent in an actual fight.  Let him come.

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

Neither Byron nor Inquisitor Jeorune were fool enough to walk into a prisoner's room with his arms full. The view of the room was all too amusing. The boy had already succumbed to a temper tantrum it seemed; frustration and impatience was eating at the boy far faster than Byron could have hoped. It was possible that it was some foolish act, of course...but that seemed unlikely. No, this was an honest loss of temper. The boy was pampered, spoiled rotten. Far too used to being in control, and rotting away in a dark, dank cell was getting to the boy.

He scanned the room briefly, and drew no site of the boy. Unsurprising; the room was not well built to serve as a cell, and with the mess on the floor, the boy might well have been huddling in one of the cleaner corners. Punishments for the mess coursed through Inquisitor Jeorune's mind as he moved to step through the door way. What came next almost managed to take Byron by surprise.

When adopting a new identity, there was weeks of preparation needed. Mannerisms, reflexive movements, beliefs, philosophy and speech and more. History, friends and families and things known. There was much work to go into a proper disguise. But Byron had not been allowed the time to prepare properly. He was working with incomplete pieces, leaning on similar personalities gained in past tasks. The real Inquisitor Jeorune had fancied himself as a bit of a swordsman. The man had been good, but a far cry from a blade master. When attacked, the Inquisitor would resort to his sword.

When Byron was attacked, he resorted to anything and everything to win. Stepping into the door way to find a table leg swinging for his face, Byron brought his arm up to catch the approaching club, the thick wooden shaft meeting forearm and shoulder near evenly to distribute the blow, although the nails bit and gouged at his forearm painfully where two found their way through the thick links of chainmail and padding. One blow was all Byron was going to allow.

Inquisitor Jeorune would surely had been struck far more resoundingly and would have staggered away from the door and the attacker, hoping to find more space to work in the hallway. Byron pressed the attack right back against the boy, stepping in even as the club was readied for another strike. His right hand flashed forwards, two tensed knuckles digging into the boy's sore shoulder. He hoped to move quickly enough to toss the boy off balance, to grapple a leg and send the boy sprawling to the filthy floor, but the boy was no stranger to a fight.

The two grappled, and the boy managed to force Byron out to the corridor, probably the boy's first steps outside his cell since he had been captured. Byron had an unfair advantage both in experience in bar room brawls and in over all strength, more a matter of living conditions then any lacking capabilities of the boy. Being trapped in a cell and poor diet made it hard to keep one's strength up.

The two struggled briefly, Byron forced into the wall opposite the doorway. Again, Inquisitor Jeorune would surely have succumbed to the struggle. Byron ducked another strike, aided by the heavy chainmail and cushy padding below. The boy was nothing to scoff at in a scuffle, a steady rain of blows, but the boy had surely been hoping to bring the Inquisitor down quickly, without a prolonged struggle. Fatigue came on sooner then it might have when the boy had been in better health, and the tide quickly changed.

One of the boy's blows were too slow, and Byron was quick to capitalize, dropping his defence and pressing the attack again. His wounded left arm snapped out in a chopping blow against the boy's sore shoulder, pushing the boy back a step to catch his breath. Byron followed him, right hand snapping forwards in a strike, the flat of his palm meeting the boy's chin, twisting the boy's head aside and up. Another left, low against the ribs to bunch up the boy's middle, then another knuckle-led jab to the sternum. Another right handed palm strike to the skull, sending the boy back another couple of steps. The boy was tough; able to keep his feet and even able to manage some degree of defence. It was an admirable display, all things considered.

He faked a blow for the boy's head, and the boy managed to bring his arms up in defence. Byron stepped in, driving one foot down onto the boy's own foot, then rammed him with his shoulder to send him to the ground back through the doorway of the cell. With the boy's foot pinned beneath Byron's weight, the boy's knee and ankle would be twisted painfully. Then a swift kick at the fallen boy's tail bone; Byron was not so uncouth as to go for the crotch, but a good blow to the tail bone with the Inquisitor's reinforced boots could be just as painful, and would hopefully take the last of the fight out of the boy.

Inquisitor Jeorune would not be pleased; Byron of course could fully understand the motivation behind it; this would be the boy's last best chance to escape on his own. With an Inquisitor to work his trade, the boy would not be in any shape to try again once things got into full swing. It had been a gamble, but a wise one at least.

With the boy on the ground, Inquisitor Jeorune stopped the attack and stepped back, casually pulling up his wounded forearm to get an eye for how bad it was. Nothing terrible; some nasty cuts, and bleeding. Of course, he wouldn't be able to ask Lythia to Heal it. But, it was nothing he wouldn't be able to tend to. "A gamble, boy. You seem intent on losing.” His tone was vaguely disappointed; as a father might be in a son who had done poorly at his chores, and it was a struggle to keep himself from panting. Each breath was slow and deliberate.