Filling the Days

[Jaxen Marveet]

Jole Addam Messosin
"Ashtaroth"

Tear

Chapter 1: The Tavern

Music, lively and spirited thrummed over the noise of the tavern. At its center was a gorgeous creature. He had dark, swirly hair, eyes that many a woman had fallen into the trap of his gaze, and whose energy was larger than life. Or maybe he was just that bloody drunk.

But he had a hell of a singing voice. His vocal timbre was rich and velvety as his coat, and he boasted an impressive range. His emotions carried sarcasm that drew clapping as often as riotous laughter. He was presently singing an arrangement to the jubilant flourish of a hard-strummed lute. But beyond his technical prowess, his performance was masterful in infusing what he wanted to convey. At present, it was the sour sound of sarcasm for all their dismal fates.

He began by tapping a boot on a box. Then a hand on the bowl of the lute. Others joined in.

“Shadows creep, danger's callin' loud,
But we've got our dragon, its a jolly crowd,”

Magical fingers flourished up and down the strings just as the performer’s eyes flashed around the room.

“In the grand design, we're all just pawns,
But who cares, let's dance till the mornin' dawns!”

“Oy!”

The melody tapped steady, ironically upbeat for the irreverence in the lyrics.

“Oh, the ever-spinning Wheel of time,
Got’s us dancin' to its rhythm and rhyme.”

His voice swung high. His tongue sweeping the words.

“Lift your tankards high, let's all agree,
For this twisted Pattern, we're as free as can be!”

“Hah!”

And he finished with a flourishing rap of a half-drank ale and knocked it back with a satisfying “Ahhh!” for the grand finale.

All around him, thirty similar tankards sloshed and were guzzled like little puppets on his marionettes. Hardly a hall of ten thousand, but he smirked just the same.

Soon after, while gathering up the coin left on his table, a pair of hands snaked around his arm. A whisper fluttered his ear lobe that made him happy to turn and swiftly find the attached lips pressed to his.

She tasted like bad ale and apples, but as she thrust her tongue into his mouth, he caught sight of a figure that made him decide he was fine with it. When he caught his breath a while later, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sank into a seat. “Now, now. At least let me get comfortable while your friend robs me.”

He pat his knee just as a woman she came with slipped out the door. “Come on.” He pat again and fixed her with an expectant look.

Surprise flashed her expression, and to Jole’s disappointment, she decided to take the con elsewhere. No hard feelings.

He laughed, and ate an apple on his way out.

Chapter 2: The Whore House

“You brought a lute. You going to play for us?”

“As much as I’m paying you girls, you should be the one playing for me.”

She plucked his hand from the bed, pressing deeply into a callous built up there. Jole couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t have callouses. He’d taken to the lute easily enough, but it was an instrument he had to learn. Prior to that, stringed instruments are far more sophisticated, but the gist was near enough the same. He mastered it quickly. When she sucked on his finger, a devilish smile split his face from the distraction of nostalgia.

With a nice slurping sound that said she was done teasing him, she tugged her companion from the bed and wrapped her arms around her friend’s waist.

“We’ll dance if you play for us.” And their hips began to sway.

Jole never said he couldn’t be persuaded.

Given that he was presently extremely comfortable, pillows made for a nice pile behind his back, and one leg was strewn across the lump of blankets, he decided to use the One Power to levy the lute.

They gasped with delight, and Jole smirked as the lute landed on his bare lap.

“You’re a channeler!” One girl exclaimed. “Are you one of those men from the Black Tower?” the other asked.

“Please. Don’t insult me.” He smiled to himself as nimble fingers plucked at the strings. Its strumming music was simple. Sensual.

And this time, he enjoyed his show.

Chapter 3: The Spear Summons

Pounding on the door was almost as bad as the pounding in his head. Except the door gave way and his head did not.

Light filtered in the room most annoyingly.

Jole shoved a pillow over his face. But what made him bury his head deeper was the pair of voices overhead.

“Dustier than the Waste in here.”
“Its a trolloc den. How can anyone sleep in this?”
“Is he alive under all that?”
“Oh Sleeper, Rise and Shine lest your dreams become as tangled as these sheets!”

This was bad.

Suddenly, his blanket was violent ripped away. And by blanket, he meant the pile of arms and legs criss-crossing his body disentangled themselves from his skin. It was out right chilly without all the snuggling.

With a grumble, he rolled over. The hangover fogged his gaze. If he was at all disturbed with his nakedness in front of two Maidens of the Spear, he did not show it.

They, on the other hand, had seen as much before.

“Come on, Jorin. The car’a’carn has summoned you.”

He flat out rolled over instead, throwing an arm across his eyes.

“Its too damn early.”

A spear pricked him in the ass. 

“Ow!” He glared, eyes flashing dark.

Knowing these two, they would beg him to resist just so they could tie him up and drag him out by his own ankles.

So he stumbled out of bed and into some clothes.

An hour later he was rubbing his head and glaring at someone else.

Chapter 4: Groggy questions

“What is it?” He asked, still groggy and still annoyed to be there at all.

He collapsed in a chair, throwing a leg over the side. Shirt unlaced and untucked, the scruff of days-unshaved face, and circles under his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t worried about keeping up appearances.

“What do you know about the dreadlords?”

He scratched the back of his neck, thinking.

“Nothing.”

“You must know something.”

He shrugged. Despite the headache, the One Power flowed its trickle until a little green flame hopped from fingertip to fingertip like a toy.

Silence stretched out long and ominous until the demand inherent in the sound of his name forced him to look up. “Ashtaroth.” It was still unsettling to see Lews hiding behind a face that didn’t belong to him.

He grumbled. He had an answer, but his voice droned to give it. Far from the jubilant performer of the night before. “Dreadlord is a rank under Chosen. It’s given to weaker men and women who pledged their souls to the Great Lord of the Dark.”

“But what about when the taint infected saidin? It should have driven the male dreadlords mad.”

He shrugged again. “Obviously.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Obviously.”

He could hear the irritation in Lews’ voice, and he suppressed a smirk. Feeling smug, he decided to give him something. “Before the cleansing, we were all protected. Myself included. The Great Lord’s protection!” He made a grand gesture, then tiredly dropped his hands back on the chair and tilted his head to gauge the reaction.

It wasn't as entertaining as he'd hoped. He shrugged and went on.

“I assume the same was offered to all of them as well. It’s a perk. Sell your soul. Save your sanity. All your Companions should have taken the deal back then. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble.” He chuckled.

Lews did not.

“Fine... Why are you asking about dreadlords?”

“Ever heard of one who goes by the name, Arikan?”

Jole’s face tilted the other way. Newly interested. “Yes. Yes I have.”