Filling the Days

[Jaxen Marveet]

Chapter 10: A promise is a promise

Jole was the master of illusions in all its forms, and vows of promises unfulfilled were the easiest to fake, but Devika was a hot shot Aes Sedai of the 3rd Age. She cut her lifespan in half and swore a binding to forever speak the truth. One would think that vowing to restore his freedom fell under the ter’angreal’s enforcement, but he trusted Devika about as far as he could toss her, and without the One Power, that wasn’t very far. She was a little chubby, in a good way though, now he thought about it.

“Andor te carneira ti'anshar moridin?" He smiled wickedly, Old Tongue natural and eloquent, before rubbing his chin and turning in a circle. After surveying the seating options, he took over the seat Devika previously enthroned, tossed a leg over the side and let his foot swing with his thoughts. Following the seismic shift from the previous soulful pleading, Devika would feel a playfulness stirring within, almost as if the previous introspection was a fog melted under the morning sun.

“This Dreadlord, an inventive name for the rank, is it not? I’m sure Eshy came up with it.” Nobody would dare call him that to his face, but Jole freely flung the irreverent nickname every chance he could. “According to the Dragon’s note, he killed the leader of that Tower of male channelers of his, last night; the M’Hael. Another strange obsession with using normal words as titles. Imagine the ruler of the Stone of Tear calling himself Boss. The leader. M’Hael.” Jole was genuinely amused. “Makes you wonder what words you use now will exist in reverence come the next Age. Perhaps some king will call himself an exotic title like ‘bar stool.’”

A side eye took in Devika’s reaction to his wandering thoughts. Jole did have a propensity to talk at length when given the opportunity. He could sing, too, and both were quite enjoyable for the audience. He did have a pleasant voice, after all.

“This Dreadlord is named Arikan, but we,” he paused on the pronoun for dramatic emphasis. It was clear who he referenced, “know him as Asristin Kyrineas Somneus.” His brows lifted as though expecting a reaction. When little came, he shrugged. “Good to know no books of his 'legendary deeds' survived the Age. Asristin’s head is so large, the mere idea that legends were passed about him would square his giant head to the size of the moon itself on his shoulders.” He rolled his eyes as disdain carried through the bond.

“It was very important to us that Asristin die; but he had to die in a very specific way per the orders of the great Eshamir. It’s quite a tale. Are you ready for this?” He flashed a convincing smile, “best I tell it over wine.” If nobody was going to heal him of his headache, there was only one other option.

He then relayed the tale that began with Merihem's acquisition of an Object of the Power even the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends believed to be a myth. When Jole killed Elon Izban, an Aes Sedai turned Shadowsworn, he assumed his identity and captured Asristin - something the idiot Elon was previously unable to accomplish. He explained the powers of a Dreamweaver, walkers of the world of dreams who had the skill to reshape the Pattern of tel'aran'rhiod itself. Maybe even of other planes. He then described the bone-chilling experience of witnessing the turning of a Soul, such was why, upon confirmation in the next life, it was known that Arikan was truly born a darkfriend. "If Eshamir wants him, then I guarantee, the Dragon should get to him first." 

"The great secret is this. Most of the Chosen are completely ignorant of Eshamir's plan." The wicked smile returned. Jole was obviously not among that number.



Old Tongue: Ready to dance with chaos?