Introducing: the Holden

Holden is now hitched. He's a good friend of mine, yesterday he got freaking married to the girl of his dreams, his teenage sweetheart.

We all met at camp, and I had the distinct pleasure of living with him, after living in residence at university. We had a wild time at the basement suite we called Bag End. If I could go back there now, I probably would, the nostalgia is that strong.

Holden is an articulate and thoughtful writer. I've seen him grow and soak up writing like a sponge. He is an artist, and a true writer. I just piddle around on the net sometimes, but Holden will probably go all the way.

His blog is here. Read it

Finals!

And the leaf turns and midterm season turns into finals. This is the disadvantage of having 4/5 of my courses in core sciences. My writing time has steadily degraded as my instructors rush to make up time and pile on the workload. I've ended up having to hyper-organize my life to account for every hour of my day between 7am to midnite in order to cope.

And I think I'm just going to make it. If I hold true to the course I've plotted, I just might be able to avoid my B average become a B- or worse, and possibly, just possibly turn it into A's. God Willing.

Come December 15th, my life will be restored. I will no longer become a hermit, eschewing friend and familial contact. I can play video games again, I can actually read fiction. I will be able to breathe.

But not yet.

Now's the time to grit my teeth and turn into the gale.

School

Midterms = lack of writing

Current status: Sleep deprived, caffeine jacked, wild-eyed determined
Current plan: all-nighter at the Uni.
Current goal: Not to die on the Organic Chem midterm.

Que sera sera

Soapbox: The Temples are Empty in Burma

This post is not pretty. It has links to pictures that are not pleasant. This post is not going to make your day. This post is supposed to make you angry.

While looking for podcasts on the CBC radio site, I stumbled across something very disturbing. I've been following the crisis in Burma, through the radio and through the net. I know of Burma from looking at the map when I was in grade school. I know that the the present junta (I had to wiki it), renamed it to Myanmar, and the capital city from Rangoon to Yangon. I know that the chief export of Burma is Buddhist monks and the corpses of students.

And now the corpses of Buddhist monks. Thousands of them.

Rwanda happened in my time, when I was in grade school, before I could really say or do anything about it. But this is happening now, as you read this. Remember the last time segment of a population was killed for their religion? We called it the Holocaust.

Elie Wiesel, a famous Holocaust survivor, said in an address in the White House in 1999,

"Indifference is not a beginning, it is an end. And, therefore, indifference is always the friend of the enemy, for it benefits the aggressor -- never his victim, whose pain is magnified when he or she feels forgotten. The political prisoner in his cell, the hungry children, the homeless refugees -- not to respond to their plight, not to relieve their solitude by offering them a spark of hope is to exile them from human memory. And in denying their humanity we betray our own.

Indifference, then, is not only a sin, it is a punishment. And this is one of the most important lessons of this outgoing century's wide-ranging experiments in good and evil."

It is our hands that can and must do something. If we don't, all the temples in Burma will be empty. Maybe it is already to late for that. God knows.

When I hear something about a kid I've worked with, when I've read something about the situation in Burma, the flickering hope I have in humanity gets a little smaller. The world is a little more hopeless today. People whose entire existence is devoted to peace, are killed for that devotion. They stood up to a government who has no soul, who finds human life worthless, and who would kill anyone who would stand up to them if they could. And they have.

Imagine a morning, where in Canada, or America for that matter, all the pastors and priests marched on Ottawa to protest human rights. Imagine then, if the RCMP and the military took them all, imprisoned them, shot them, and dumped the bodies in the Great Lakes.

Some days, I just feel that I am nothing more than a witness to our own depravity. My own included.

If God blesses the peacemakers, and calls them His Own, then the streets of heaven today are crowded in orange.

Here's what you can do:

email your MP

Email your PM

We Have Lost A Dragon

Every few weeks, I check to see what my favorite authors are up to. Terry Goodkind's novel is coming out on Nov. 13th, Neil Gaiman has made Beowulf, etc. And lastly, I almost always come to Robert Jordan. I've been following his blog. For those who don't know Robert Jordan has been writing one of the most epic fantasy fiction series in our time, The Wheel of Time. He has also been battling a blood disease since 2005. I learned today that he died on the 16th of this month.

I started to read Robert Jordan (aka, James "Jim" Rigney) when I was in grade 9. I would have been 15. I was so enraptured by his writing, it inspired me to write some of my own stuff. He has been a major muse to me; you can find on the right a link to a website where I started writing my own fan fiction with some of the people that have also come to know and love his work.

He was a Dragon in the truest sense, noble, larger than life and ferocious figure on the literary horizon. I wish my deepest condolences to his family. There is a space in my head and my heart that those books have filled, and now, it will never be complete.

Another blogger has written more eloquently how I feel about it:

"There was sadness, of course, and shock, because we had just received good news in the previous blog entry, but there was also … what? Disappointment? It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t heartsick at the thought that RJ wouldn’t be finishing the final volume in The Wheel of Time. Most of you I’m sure, felt it too. Just as he was honest with us until the end, so I will be honest here. I think we’re all sad, and at least a tiny bit frustrated, by not having A Memory of Light completed in the way we wanted and hoped for.

Before you think poorly of me, hear me out. Obviously, we can’t blame RJ for that. To do so is to show a lack of understanding of the way he worked and the way he fought this disease. Amyloidosis is a brutal disease and nobody could fight as hard as Jim Rigney. His blog is a testament to his fight and his dedication. He proved to us, right here, that he was Aiel to the core: “Till shade is gone, till water is gone, into the Shadow with teeth bared, screaming defiance with the last breath, to spit in Sightblinder’s eye on the Last Day.” I don’t think there could be a stronger statement that defined RJ’s fight with the disease. When I say I was frustrated, it lasted only a fraction a second. It is, in part, our ability to overcome our negative emotions that makes us human to begin with. I took that frustration and fed it to the flame, and let the void surround me."

Amen to that.

There is a Room Upstairs, where a man with a great bushy beard and wide brimmed hat, and a twinkle in his eye, tells a long, rip-roaring yarn. He tells it, pipe in hand, next to a crackling fire, to other bards, who nod and learn forward with the hearing of the tale. He tells it in the company of Lewis, and Tolkien, and Homer.

Faux Pho

perhaps the best midnight snack evAR. Fun to say to: fo-fo.

-One package of ramen, including beef stock and seasoning oils
-2 cap fulls of lemon juice
-1 cap full of soy sauce
-chili pepper flakes (3 dashes for me, adjust to personal preference accordingly)
-chili sauce (we're really going for the saté effect here)
-roast beef (I use sliced deli meats)
-veggies you prefer (I used bok choi that was in the fridge)
-hot water

Perfect for starving university students studying way past when they should go to bed. Organic Chem = the Evil. Anyone care for a 2-methyl-1,4-pentadiene? No? Neither do I. Learning me some nomenclature good though...

Look Out! I see a substantive post coming!!

Soapbox: The Child and the System

If there is one proof for me that the fundamental nature of humankind is broken, or at the very least bent in incredibly wrong directions, I only have to look as far as my workplace. I have the opportunity to work with our less fortunate children in our society, in our city of Calgary. I work at a grouphome with teens that is part of the child welfare system. The basic way I understand the child welfare system to work in Calgary is thus. The provincial government gives grants to a privatized not-for-profit groups to house children that need the care of the state. The way this is organized is that the health region (or an analogous equivalent), in the manifestation of the Rockyview Child and Family Services hands out contracts to these grouphomes based on demand (used in units of beds) for spaces for these kids. The grouphome system runs parallel to the foster care system, it's what houses kids when they are waiting for a family. Its where they go when that foster situation breaks down.

That's how the system's mechanics basically works. It's interesting though, I've worked in the system, more specifically with the company I'm employed by, for the past three years. In some ways the company feels much more like a family or, vaguely even of a church. Someone calls looking for relief, and you figure out whether your schedule can fit it in to help out the grouphome.

My beef isn't with the company directly, but more so with the government and primarily with the reason that these kids are in the system.

What's been incredibly frightening to learn over my limited years as a youth worker, and a young one at that, is the real depths of depravity that human nature sinks to. I have heard stories and witness things and read files of kids that would make Quentin Taratino sick to his stomach. The things that people are capable of is unimaginable. One might say, that the abuse of people say in slavery in the US before emancipation was a long time ago and a product of the culture of the time, of the attitude of colonialism, etc., and things like that don't happen today in our society. Or that CSI depicts things that happen down there in Las Vegas, and it's just tv. No. It's not. It's happening now. It's happening as we speak. Maybe not murder, but certainly neglect. Sexual abuse. Physical abuse. Sexual slavery. Starvation. These are things that don't just happen in Africa, but down the block! These are things that don't just happen in the bad part of town, but maybe around the corner! There are monsters in our world and they live down the street. Hell doesn't take dying to experience.

And you know what? It makes me bleeding angry. Boondock Saints angry. I am afraid of what I would be capable if I were put in the same room as the monsters that devastated the children I work with. A feeling of helpless overcomes many people who work in the field. Burnout is common. Over the last year and half of working relief shifts at the grouphome (and a summer's worth of overnights) I've worked with 4 supervisors. The turnover rate of staff doesn't help the kids of course. Of all the industries in the world, this is one of the few that works to negate itself.

So, as workers, we are left with the broken children that the world gives us. I think about the primetime dramas, and our cultures fascination with flawed characters, with fallen men and women, and I think, they have nothing on the kids I've worked with. My first shift at a grouphome, I was bitten. For keeping away a t.v. remote from a kid. I had to do a write up and witness statement for the police and everything. I've seen the breakdown of a family I worked with, seen a kid abuse his mother, had a couple of death threats leveled against me, had things thrown at me, been shoved around, and I've seen a cop forcibly take down a kid. I'm 22. And those are just a few of the stories I've got in my book.

When it doesn't make me angry it makes me sad, tired and lonely. I think of the kids I've worked with who have FAS, who've been made the way they are before they even had the semblance of a choice. I think of the kids who've collected multiple STDs. I think of teen mothers trying to be a teen and a mom at the same time. It's a grey tableau.

And yet there is hope. Not much, and it's hard to see sometimes. And it comes out in ways not always expected. A kid will say sorry to you for beaking off, getting angry and breaking something. Or you go out on a outing and for a brief moment you forget that these are kids with behavioral issues, with no parents worth speaking of, or have drug addictions, or neurological problems, but instead just kids having fun. And most precious of all, you'll hear back from kid who's grown up and out of the program and is trying to get into college, and trying to make life work, despite the shitty hand of cards life dealt them.

And sometimes there's just a little bit of the divine in it. Getting to tuck in a kid at night. You are their father in that place. Teaching a kid to throw a football. You are a older brother in that place. Giving them a hug when they hurt. You are a friend, a mentor in that place. You get to be Jesus with skin on.

THESE kids are what Jesus talks about . They are our "least of these."

Do something about it.

Summer Doldrums

A long while ago, I posted back in June. And now I'm posting in September. Yup. Long time. I'm not entirely sure if I want to make apologies, but maybe an explanation would suffice. I started off my summer with high expectations of writing regularly, but as I've been finding over the last year and a half, my muse has escaped me.

My summer job was overnights at a grouphome for teens in the child welfare system. It was right up my alley in terms of the work I've done there before (as a relief staff), and in general. I have a passion for working with youth, and it's something that hasn't changed since I resolved to be a camp counselor when I was 12.

However, working a overnight job has some attributes worth mentioning: one in particular: It sucks the soul out of you. You want to distract yourself as much as you can to A) stay awake B) do something with the large amount of disposable time you have to yourself. I barely lifted a finger to write during the whole summer. Earlier this year, I got back into World of Warcraft which solved both A and B for me tidily. I brought my laptop to work and WoW'd it up. Playing that game the way I did took a lot of creative energy out of me. Rather, instead of drawing from that pool, it just replaced it.

The summer was just something to get through to get to the here and now. It was a time to pass by, in eager expectation of the fall. I did my recovery work, showed up at the right places and the right times, but my heart was here, waiting for what I am doing now.

There's a cafe on the top floor of the MacEwan Student Centre at the UoC, it's called The Loft. It's packed cheek and jowl with chairs and tables, and correspondingly with students. It has sweet natural lighting. One can people watch. And of course, coffee... my ambrosia. I write this as I listen to Massive Attack on my headphones.

It's my third full year of university, my second year of science. My degree is complicated to explain, but suffice to say, I'm taking biology. Being second year means I face the great beast that is organic chemistry. In the position I am now, in terms of my grades and my goals, this year is my do or die year. I either finish this year with a GPA of 3.5 or greater, or I'm gonna have to do some serious reevaluating. Which means I need to do good on Organic Chem. Which means a A- or better. Which means that I gotta kick everyone else's ass in class and be in the top 5th percentile, because Organic Chem is that stupid Hard.

But I'm loving it. Most of it. I'm actually working on my life. I'm not placeholding, or playing to another person's tune. I'm not letting life pass me by. There's a thing in the pit of my stomach holding me together; a sense of agency.

A Weekend in Montreal

It was a bit hare-brained. I'd promised Jon, my friend, about five years ago that I'd come visit him sometime in Montreal. The years and summers passed, and I'd always find myself short of cash. Enter this year: a nice fat tax rebate check from the government as well as Jon's last year in the land of the Quebecois (sp?). My utter lack of French not cowing me, I decided it was do or die.

Thus, I blitzed through Montreal in a weekend. And to be honest, I wish we had at least two weeks. We walked. Walked. Walked some more. And ate all the Montreal specialties. That was the highlight of the trip, eating the 85% meat (montreal smoked, of course) sandwich, as seen below. Honest to goodness poutine, and of course, the bagel.

More meat than sandwich


The heartstopper poutine

The heart stopping.

The city truly reminded me of Berlin, in its grey 18th century architecture. The house are radically different than in the west, in which subdivisions mar the landscape. And everybody drives like they think they're in the indy 500. Coincedentally, the indy 500 was in town for the week.

Check out the outside staircases. Too cool.

The habitat built as part of the '67 World Fair

McGill Uni Buildings. I wish UoC actually had cool buildings like these.

That quote is by the toast guy. The one who poked around in brains and made people smell toast. That dude.

Better view of McGill buildings.

Wicked view of Montreal from Mont Royal.

St. Jo's Oratory

All in all, it was too damn quick for me to take it all in without a sense of hazy unreality. That and my quad's still hurt from the walking. Jon's moving to Calgary, so I can get him back from the torture he put me through. Haha.

Peace

Geek Meets Running

So, I found myself strangely excited when I walked into the Running Room. I'm a geek, and usually that means that any kind of exercise is usually exclaimed with a certain tone of incredulity and faint contempt. But. I've been trying to get into shape, so for a birthday gift to myself, I bought an iPod nano (black, 8gig). I delighted in the new ability to download podcasts, make my music mobile and so forth. But the main reason is that I stumbled across the Nike Experience website a while ago while at the online Apple store.

Now this is a bit of a shameless plug for both, but I was immediately entranced by the integration of two technologies: music + smart running shoes. I got the Nike + plugin, and suddenly I could track my runs, play muzak and actually train. I mean, the website has a wicked tracking system of how your run went, your pace, time, distance, caloric burn and so forth. On top of that, it has a googlemaps plugin that allows people to post their routes when they run. Wicked.

The goal for me is to get down to a 5min/km pace. I'm at 6'10"/km pace at the moment. That 5min/km is the minimum requirement (12 min to do 2.4km) to get into the reserves. Which means I have some work to do.

But, I started my season with a 6'33" pace. I'm down 20seconds already.

Aight. Later on in the week, when Telus finally decides to upload my pictures from my phone, I'll post pics and the downlow about my trip to Montreal.

laters.

Ahnold, move over!

If you look me up in the dictionary you would find:

Philip Bird -- [noun]: A real life terminator 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Public Service Announcement: It is now time for phil to go to bed... hasta la vista, baby.

Oh Yeah.

It's my birthday today. I have officially lived 22 years. Go team!

Wheel of Time Comendia

I have linked here a collection of some of the early fanfiction I did for the Robert Jordan Wheel of Time fantasy series. For those of you who are brave of heart and of the fantasy genre inclination might be able tolerate my bad writing (most of this particular writing was done during my high school days). For the rest, this is just a bit of a self-indulgence.

The group I subsequently wrote with on this website have created a storyline of some 153 pages long, Times New Roman 12pt. mostly single spaced. I'm quite proud of our accomplishment. At the moment, I'm working on a new post for this particular storyline, and finishing up two others for another storyline all together.

The Compendia

Mmm... writing geekery.

Primus Verbum: The First Word

Once upon a time, a boy named phil created a blog. It was a heady experience for him, he made with the help of a friend and some bootleg webspace. The year was 2002 (grade 11), and blogs were not quite as popular and widespread as they are now. Phil was flush with pride, "Introspection's Lair" was something that no other schoolmate had, a voice that spoke to the masses (which constituted of a few friends and maybe, just maybe a random visitor). The blog evolved, switching hosts, titles, layouts, and became "Introspection's Road." The Road was first done in cracked version of Dreamweaver, then realizing the errors of his ways (and the sheer amount of time it took to pure html-ize a webpage) Phil switched to drupal. After shotgun-learning enough MySQL to install the database on his own purchased webspace, Phil finally had his own customized plot of ground on the webbernet.

Enough of the third person.

I took a year's hiatus from writing. What happened is something I'll be sharing about over the next while, but primarily I ended up taking some personal criticism of my writing hard enough to quite blogging. It hit hard enough that it's been an uphill struggle to get to where I am now, beginning to find my lost muse, beginning again to love this craft. Who knows, this round might be my best yet.

I'll see ya on the flip side, reader.

Compendia

• Introduction
• Character Biography
• Journey and Arrival
• Trouble Not Expected
• A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed
• Lunch
• A Rescue and A Rebuke
• Sorrow of the Obligated
• A Slightly Angry and Fanatical Warderling's Escapade
• Forge

• Forge: Part I: Stoking of the Fire, Solace of the Blade
• Forge: Part II: Hammer and Anvil, and the Solace of the Brush.
• Forge: Part III: Baptism of Fire, Quenching of the Blade
• Live
• The Sand Through Our Fingers
• Turmoil
• A Warning
• The Message
• The Repast
• End Commentary

Introduction

Welcome to my collection of stories of my character, Xayven al'Cerinalle (zAy-ven al-saihr-rinell-eh). The name is rightfully incomprehensible and unpronounceable, as he is a character from a fantasy universe. This particular universe in which my character resides happens to be the one created by the acclaimed fantasy author, Robert Jordan. The Wheel of Time Universe is a universe in which there exists a Creator, a Dark One (the Creator's antithesis), and the Wheel of Time in which all people exist in and are spun out each Age of the many Ages to fulfill their role within them. This idea of reincarnation is in passing resemblance to elements of Hindi and Buddhist belief, however much within the universe is far from these religions. The 3rd Age happens to be the Age wherein my character exists during the turmoil of the Trolloc Wars. The Dark One, known also as Shai'tan (close to Satan), the Great Lord of the Dark (name given by his servants), Nightbringer, and many other names, eternally attempts to unravel the fabric of the Universe and the Wheel. The Creator appears to serve a neutral role, perhaps merely turning the Wheel to spin men and women out who will combat the Shadow. The Dark One's servants are many, and Trollocs are some of the most feared among them. Trollocs stand seven feet plus tall, are a mixture of beast and man, incredibly strong, yet slow and less maneuverable than their human counterparts. Myrdraal are the blasted issue of humans and Trollocs. Eyeless (which is one of their names), sinuous and deadly, Myrdraal are foes most feared with the blade. Darkfriends are human servants and sympathizers of the Dark Lord. Grey Men are men who have given their souls to the Dark One to become assassins. The Dark One also utilizes normal creatures (typically carrion-eaters) as his messengers and scouts. At the end of each Age, a man is chosen by the Wheel to combat the Dark One and bind him to his prison in a final Armageddon-like final battle. This man is known as the Dragon Reborn. Robert Jordan's books take place during this period in the 3rd Age at the end of the Age, while the Trolloc Wars occur much earlier in the Age.

The One Power is the magical source of this Universe, however women are the only people who may handle this power safely. Due to the reaction of the Dark One to the sealing away of his presence in the world through the actions of the last Dragon Reborn (in the 2nd Age), the male side of the One Power, saidin, was tainted, and all men who would use this power would eventually go mad. Aes Sedai are the order of the women (they were formerly both male and female) Power-users in this universe, (using saidar) their stronghold, the White Tower, lies in the City of Tar Valon. Warders are their male guardians and protectors. In return for their protection, the Aes Sedai bind their warders, allowing them greater constitution to bear wounds, a kind of empathy that allows the Warder to always be aware of the Aes Sedai, and greater strength and ferocity. They are trained in the art of the blade, and are among the most proficient swordsmen in this world. In reference to the Dark One and the One Power, Dreadlords are the One Power users, both male and female. These are the commanders of the Dark One's armies and of their stronghold, the mountain of Shayol Ghul in the Blighted Lands. In the Trolloc Wars, Trolloc armies have spread forth over the world like a plague and men in the Ten Nations struggle to repel them. First in defense against the Dark Lord's minions are the Borderlands, nations of resilient and determined people adamantly against the Evil One.

Notes: Once in a while, you will come across the html tags and , these symbolize the beginning and end use of italics within my posts. These are to emphasize certain words, indicate my character's thoughts and monologues, and flashbacks. Each post will be accompanied with a commentary that will help orient you with the storyline and my own thoughts upon it. One of the early people whom I role-played with was an individual by the character name Aldrect Karishan. You will encounter his character within. There are many characters that make up the wondrous and complex weaving of story and legend in this world. It has been my privilege to role-play with them. These posts are mainly completed in their entirety and have in some cases, been reproduced from the original manuscript upon which I have written. There are some cases of minor editing I've had to do. Thanks to the recent maintenance of the WOT:TW website, some posts I have thought long missing are now found, and my compendia is complete.

Character Biography

Commentary: All characters are required to have a biography, so to impress the people who handle the applicants of the WoT TW (Wheel of Time, Trolloc Wars), and to create a good rippin' yarn, I did it story style:

It was hot. And dark. The pungent smell of rotting meat filled the cramped space around him. A scream, bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, tried to force itself out of his mouth. A dirty rag had been forced there, his hands and feet tied behind his back. Xayven desperately looked around himself; his hands could feel something soft and firm beneath him. He dimly remembered what had transpired; his tattered consciousness scrambling to the fragments of ordered thought, threatened by the floodtide of panic. A sharp throbbing pain to his side and to his head nearly buried him back into unconsciousness. He was in a round object, and dim shapes moved around the mouth of the object. A startling realization chilled him to the marrow. He was in a Trolloc cookpot!

The remembrance of the last few hours came back, echoed by his muffled screams. He was Xayven al'Cerinalle, an heir of a minor house. His father, Gavyn, was lord of House al'Cerinalle and his family had manor close to the Blightborder in Aramaelle.

Flashbacks came with frightening frequency. His life was flashing before his eyes...he remembered the early years of his life...playing swords with his brothers Reiben and Brendyn through the tall pines on the manor's land...sitting on his father's knee before the fire, a feeling of security as bright as the flames...his father, proud as he took Xayven to the training grounds and to Xayven's first time to really handle a sword...the blunt and grizzled Guntar Horvath, the trainer and sergeant to the men-at-arms of House al'Cerinalle making Xayven work the forms on the training yard day after day...The quiet worry on Gavyn's face when he talked to Xayven's mother Clarine about the increasing amount of Trolloc raids in nearby farms and manors...and finally, the day Gavyn let him ride out with the other men to search out and destroy the fist they suspected was making trouble for the nearby lands....

Xayven shuddered and his consciousness sunk into the flashback; it was as if he was experiencing that day for the very first time...

"My lord! Bloody hurry up or the women walking to the well will flaming beat you!" Guntar shouted angrily at Xayven as they passed through a small farming community. It was near dawn and the steel-gray light bleached all the color out of everything. It was quiet in that village, almost too peaceful. Except for the burned out buildings that was what was left, and pieces of blacked thatch laying on the dusty road that ran the breadth of the village.

The day before, a bloodied farmer collapsed outside the gatehouse of the manor, his wheezing coughs telling the warden of Trollocs pillaging in his village before dying. Gavyn ordered his men to the village, to stop the Trollocs, or more likely pick up what was left. He himself would go out with a few men to join the smaller manors to hunt down the fist in the area. Before they left, Xayven's father pulled him aside.

"This is your first real ride with the men. Take your orders from Guntar and don't do something foolish," Gavyn embraced his son and left Xayven standing with his horse.

Xayven was used to Guntar blunt tirades, and endured them with a stoic resolve. He picked up Flame's pace to the rest of the men.

Flame's ears flicked to the sides and Xayven could see the whites in her eyes. That was all the warning he had. Horned and unhorned, with snout or beak, the massive Trollocs stood as high as Xayven was on his horse. Wicked scythe-like swords and black armor wrought in Shayol Ghul darkened the streets. The line of horsemen scattered under the flood of Trollocs. But these were battle-hardened troops, used to fighting Trollocs. Guntar rallied the men and regrouped the horses. Xayven could see them from across the street as Trollocs poured from the ashes of the ruined houses. Guntar roared over the fearful howls of the Trollocs

"Run boy! Run! For the love of the Light-" Guntar's yell was cut of as the tide of Trollocs overwhelmed the horsemen. Xayven wheeled Flame around and a Trolloc jumped in front of Flame while Xayven tugged at the sword hilt behind his back. She reared and Xayven tumbled off, and regained his feet. He faced the Trolloc with his sword set in the guard position. The massive beast grunted and swung a powerful downward blow to Xayven's head. He blocked and the force of the blow was almost enough to shatter his sword. Xayven quickly whirled away and started forms he had practiced so much in training yards. His mind sought the calm of the duel as panic threatened to overcome his senses. Xayven lashed out against the belly of the Trolloc, his sword scored the armor, but not more. He quickly leapt back from a slash aimed at his midsection; the Trolloc had opened itself up and Xayven spun and took off its head. He turned around in time to see a Trolloc sword arcing down for his head. His helm partially protected the blow, and a slice of pain traced its way from forehead to cheekbone. Everything went black.

When he woke up tight ropes encircled his hands. He groggily raised his head and peered around. Trollocs slept on the ground, others ate hideous pink chunks out of large iron cook pots. In the center of the camp, near a frayed and blackened canvas pavilion stood a Myrdraal. The very presence of the Myrdraal petrified Xayven with fear. Any thoughts of escape from the camp now turned into gibbering thoughts of despair. The humans were rounded up into a makeshift pen built out of fallen tree limbs. There was little chance of escape as several Trolloc guards watched hungrily.

The next few weeks were full of fear and wide-eyed panic as the Trollocs pushed their captives and food towards the Blight, the Myrdraal urging them on. Every night filled with apprehension as Trollocs roughly grabbed a few prisoners to shove, alive, into the monstrous cook pots. Each night brought shame to Xayven. A pain within matched by the fiery slice carved across his face. A shame deepened by his lack of courage to stand against the Shadowspawn. With every last breathe fight the Blight, with the last breathe spit in the eye of the Dark One.

A sham.

Then one night as Xayven saw the dusty and blurred sunset settle into the ever-encroaching horizon of the Blight, a Trolloc guard leaped over the pen wall and forcibly wrenched Xayven over the wall and dragged him to the cook pot.

The Trolloc grunted in his repugnant language and bound his feet as the Myrdraal looked on. The sightless one's smile sent cascades of panic through Xayven's spine. He was roughly shoved into the pot. There he was waiting for the fires underneath to light, with flickering thoughts of why they hadn't started the fire yet, and memories of house and home coming to fast to comprehend.

Glimpses of movement and noise outside of the mouth of the pot jarred Xayven out of his fear-instilled stupor. Flashes of light and screams of Trollocs filled the twilight. Horses' hoof thundered past and sounds of swords clashing filtered past the pot. Grunts of men and Trollocs, here and there the groans of the wounded reached Xayven. He screamed past the pot as everything went mercifully black.

Xayven slowly woke up. It was soft and comfortable. The bleary thoughts of the newly woken realized he was in a bed. Outside of his sphere of perception came the sounds of a gentle voice calling.

"He's awake!" That voice sounded familiar to Xayven, He tried to turn his head but weakness robbed him of the strength to do even that.

"Mother?" He barely croaked. He saw the familiar look of the room. It was his room back in the manor. Swimming on the vision was the comfortable face of his mother. "What happened?" He struggled to get out but Clarine firmly and gently pushed him down. "The Aes Sedai said you needed rest after the Healing, you'll be hungry after you sleep once more." Questions about the Aes Sedai melted into unconsciousness as his mother's voice guided him into the depths of sleep....

When Xayven woke once more, he felt ravenous. He sat up this time and noticed a tray of food beside the bed. There was enough food for three men. He didn't remember when he started on it, but was surprised when there was nothing left but crumbs. Xayven felt significantly better. That was when memory tore his peacefulness to shreds. The memories of the nights of forced running by hungry Trollocs, and the Myrdraal.... He looked up and saw his mother, standing in the doorway, a sympathetic look on her face.

"Your father wants to see you, if you are feeling up to it," she told him," Your clothes are in the cabinet." She crossed the roomed and smiled at him as she picked up the tray. He grasped her arm as she went past his bed.

"Guntar?" She shook her head.

"Your father is in the study," she repeated and quickly left the room. Xayven could see a hint of tears on her cheeks. He sat heavily back against the headboard. Feelings of sadness nearly overwhelmed him. Guntar, despite his rough outside common to all sergeants, looked after Xayven. He overcame his grief and dressed himself. He belted on his sword, his face set grimly, and walked out of the hallway to his father's study. His legs still felt like butter even after resting and eating the food. Xayven came to the slightly opened oak door of the study. He knocked on it.

"Come in," Gavyn's deep and familiar voice boomed out. Xayven opened the door and slipped in. He paused and took in the den. Deep red chestnut paneling covered the walls. There was a large bookshelf on one wall covered with books on mostly war and other nations. A few of them were Xayven's childhood favorites, of when he sat on the knee of his father as he read to him, where still sitting on the shelf. The heavy oak desk and the plush overstuffed chair where Gavyn sat were well made but had no trace of gilt. There was a peculiar sword on a rack on the wall above the chair. The hilt was longer than most, more than four hands long and the sword would come to chest height with its tip resting on the ground. The sword matched the rest of the room, master workmanship without a hint of extravagance that Xayven always saw in other nobles' rooms, and possessions. It was slightly curved and the blade one edged. The hilt was polished and braided dark brown leather.

"Beautiful isn't it," Xayven didn't notice his father rise from his reports, and was startled at the sound of his voice.

"I earned that blade in service to the King. It was that service that earned us this land, and al' to our name. It is master craftsman work, an old and rare blade," Gavyn paused and took down the sword. His callused hands handled it familiarly. "The Ashan Ker'reriande, the long hilted blade. It has its own forms on top of the usual, and there is a distinct way of handling it," Gavyn sighed and placed the sword on the desk. The blade caught the lamplight, giving it an iridescent sheen. He bent down and removed a scabbard and baldric out of one of the drawers. He sheathed the blade in one smooth motion and handed it to Xayven. "Here, put it on for size." Xayven looped the baldric over his head. When he adjusted it to the right length, the hilt stuck over his shoulder beside the other. It felt like it belonged there. Gavyn ran an appraising eye up and down him. "The blade fits you. And so it should, for from this point on you are as a new babe, new to the sword. Your age no longer counts, only the time you have held it counts. It is yours now, your heritage and your destiny. Take care of the blade and it shall take care of you. Never let another take and keep it. Bring honor to our name and house.''

Xayven gaped. The sword belonged to him now, and it was up to him to keep it and hold it. He felt the weight of duty on his shoulders, coupled with a sense of potency and vivacity. Wonderment and more than a few questions raced through his mind as he struggled to comprehend the honor.

"What are you going to name it? All good blades have a name." Gavyn stood there looking proudly at his son.

"I think I shall call it LyonHeart. After the emblem of our house," Xayven was referring to the sign of their house, a roaring golden lion against emerald background, rampant on a field of black, symbolizing the triumph of their house over the Shadow. After a moment of thinking Xayven asked his father a question, "Why are you giving me the sword?" He was starting to look puzzled.

Gavyn suddenly looked tired and sat heavily into his chair. "After the rout of our men at the village, I had almost given up hope for your life. We were following the trail of the Trollocs when an Aes Sedai and her Warder showed up. They gave no names, but said they were sent to fight the Dark One's servants. That still confounds me, why they were out there, but Aes Sedai need not explain things even to kings. It was close after we joined with them that we found the camp and finally you. It was there we found the devious fist that avoided our efforts to destroy it. It would be unlikely that I would have been standing here if it weren't for the Aes Sedai and her Warder.'' His face took on a look of awe, a look that Xayven had never seen before on his father's face, ``She wielded balls of flame and called down lightning on our foes. I have never seen the One Power used like that before, and I never intend to either. And the Warder, the Trollocs were mere grain to be scythed before him. It was a shame that we didn't get all of them. The Halfman, and some of the Trollocs escaped the Aes Sedai, but at least the Warder had hurt the Light blasted Shadowspawn.'' He shook his head and regained his composure and looked Xayven right in the eye. ``We searched the camp for hours before finding you in that pot with a gruesome wound on your face, and the Aes Sedai healed you then and there, but couldn't get rid of all traces of it.'' Xayven felt his face, and felt a ridge from above his eyebrow to his cheekbone. ``She ordered us to take you home and put you to bed in order for you to recover. She then took me aside and said `You and your son are now bound to the Tower. Whether you like it or not, there is an obligation your family must repay.' It was after that she stalked away from us and disappeared into the Blight. She went hunting the Dark One for all I know.'' Gavyn paused and looked even more tired than usual.

Xayven felt a need to reassure him, ``Father, do not concern yourself with this obligation. I will go to the Tower and train there to be a Warder. I will bring honor to our house and blade.'' He reached over and touched the hilt of the Ashan Ker'reriande.

``I seen I have taught you honor well, my son.'' Gavyn's faced battled between concern, regret and pride for his son. ``There is a Waygate to the south, and I have contacted the Elders of a nearby stedding. They have agreed to send an Ogier guide for your journey through the Ways. It should take no more than a few weeks at most to reach Tar Valon. The guide will meet you in a few days.''

Gavyn straightened up and placed a hand on Xayven's shoulder. ``Son, make me proud.'' Xayven nodded solemnly and placed his own hand on his father's

``By your leave, I will make ready to go.'' Gavyn nodded and Xayven left his den, wrapped in a shroud of his own thoughts. He mused over his promise. Become a Warder? It would not be so bad. Protector of Aes Sedai, fighter against the Dark. It would not be so bad at all. Xayven walked back to his room, but as he crossed the threshold, alarm bells rung from the courtyard.

Faint yells at first, then clearer, the cry of ``Trollocs!'' went up into the air. It was a raid directly against the manor, not something unheard of in these dark days. Xayven turned and ran down the outer hall and waiting room, past livered servants running thence and whence, and into the courtyard where the sun was clouded and the stone walls of the manor was manned by the men-at-arms. Just as Xayven drew the Ashan Ker'reriande, the gate shivered with a tremendous BOOM! The Trollocs had brought a battering ram. The gate held a second time, but on the third it caved in with a terrific crash. Dust and masonry piled to the ground and a cloud of it rose up, as darks shapes waded through it.

One, darker than most, its cloak unnaturally still in the blast that followed the flattening of the gates, walked calmly through the sudden storm of powder. The Myrdraal's eyeless gaze skewered Xayven and he stood still as the howling Trollocs rushed past him, ignoring him as if the Myrdraal marked him as its own. Ripples of fear plunged through his head, and memories of the nights, the pain and the shame. No! I will not cower like a little child from the dark! Anger at his shame, anger at the helplessness of those days propelled the fear from him and rage coursed through his veins. He rushed the Myrdraal, the long two handed blade held high in readiness to attack. The Myrdraal's face looked slightly shocked at young man's overcoming of fear of its gaze. One pale hand was pressed against its side. Xayven could see white flesh and a long blackened wound beneath the hand. Its black Shayol Ghul blade flickered out like a snake to move in a block against Xayven's overhand blow. The Myrdraal moved sluggishly, favoring its side. It whirled and struck out to meet Xayven's middle guard. Xayven jumped back as the black blade slashed towards his side; he barely blocked it.

"I'll have you yet, youngling. The cookpots are waiting to be filled." The Myrdraal's hiss of pain belayed the chilling words. Xayven tried to ignore them, chilling as they were. His momentary lack of focus nearly cost him an arm as the Myrdraal lunged at Xayven's limb. Though it was wounded the, Myrdraal was still more than a dangerous opponent. Xayven's cloak gained a new hole as he only just avoided it. One touch of that blade, and I'm gone. The long Ashan Ker'reriande was harder to handle in such close quarters. Anger bubbled up and Xayven set his feet firmly in the ground. The Myrdraal paused and Xayven could hear hoarse, pained breathing from the Halfman.

Through the cloud of rage Xayven realized his blade had quite a reach. He backed up and gracefully brought the blade up then slashed down, forcing the Eyeless to block high and grimace with pain. Xayven's palm met the end of the hilt, and he lunged at where the Myrdraal's heart would be. Master-forged work easily slid through the black plate armor to match the wound on the other side. The Eyeless gasped as cold steel pierced a colder chest. Xayven backed away and separated the blade and body, and using his hand as a fulcrum, swung the blade and struck off the head of the Myrdraal. The body fell to the ground, limbs spasming. Xayven looked around the courtyard, and saw the last remnants of the Trollocs being slaughtered and their carcasses being carried out the broken gate. He bent down and wiped his blade on a nearby fallen Trolloc's cloak. When he straightened, he saw his father striding toward him. He looked battle-weary but otherwise fine.

"Not many men could have faced down a Myrdraal like that, even if it was wounded as it was. You already bring honor to our name." Gavyn proudly embraced his son. He gestured at the sword; "This truly is your blade now. Here, this is a letter the Aes Sedai left with me after we rescued you. It is a letter certifying your coming to the White Tower for training as a Warder, I have also heard some disturbing rumors about Ways, but your Ogier guide should be able to get you through any troubles." Gavyn handed him a letter with a Tower seal on it. "Come, we shall celebrate our victory and your leaving with a feast." The two al'Cerinalle men walked back to the manor, as the men-at-arms cleaned up the courtyard.

This is the end of the Bio, my first post will see my journey through the Ways, and my arrival at the Tower.

Journey and Arrival

Commentary: The incident at the end of this post, where my character comes across the floating men, was created by another character, a male channeller (magic-user). The Ways are a mystical means of transportation, shortening leagues into mere miles, looked after by the Ogier, a race of gentle, large and tree loving beings. They are the recognized scholars of the world, long-lived and studious in their pursuits of Gardening and masonry. Their sanctuaries, somehow free of the One Power are called stedding. Among the Ten Nations, is the nation of Aridhol, fanatic in their hatred of anything to do with the One Power (despite the Aes Sedai being mainly followers of the Light). They recently took over part of the Ways in order to control the flow of transportation.

Aes Sedai recruits novices to the White Tower, who are raised to the level of Accepted after an acceptable time, and then once more to full-fledged Aes Sedai. There are seven Ajah, which reflect the role of the Aes Sedai within their order. White: logical to the point of no compassion, they prefer cold reason in situations. Yellow: the Aes Sedai devoted to the healing arts. Green: the Battle Ajah, women who specialize in the combat aspect of the One Power, and often have more than one Warder. Blue: Aes Sedai who devote themselves to a cause. Brown: Aes Sedai devoted to the scholarly arts. Grey: Aes Sedai devoted to mediation and peace making. Red: Aes Sedai who hunt the mad-male channellers, and despise men in general, they do not take Warders. The secret servants of the Dark One in the Aes Sedai are known as the Black Ajah.

OOC(out of context): This happens to be my first post, I hope ya like it! My first post leads off my bio, so if you read it, then things will become much clearer.

Xayven paused in his room at the manor; his pack lay at his feet. Xayven al'Cerinalle was an even 6 feet, with green eyes and raven dark hair. A white forelock offset the dark color of his hair. A scar from his eyebrow to opposite cheek marred the otherwise fair looks. At the moment, his face was wistful. This was perhaps the last time he would see his manor, and perhaps his family. The life of a warder was hard and there would be no time for family affairs. Besides, my father has plenty of sons to inherit the manor. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and turned around to walk down the hallway. A long hilt stuck out over his shoulder; the blade that was passed down from his father. A short sword matched it on the other side. A dark green coat and cloak adorned him, over a white shirt. Dark brown leather breeches attired his legs. Well-made boots were worked in with brass buckles.

Xayven gathered his thoughts and turned to go. The feast last night was wonderful, full of friends and family. A warm leave-taking indeed, shadowed only by the loss of his friend Guntar. It was early morning and Xayven planned to leave before the household stirred. The Ogier he was to meet would be by the gates by now, and he would be off to travel. He walked outside the main anteroom of the manor and into the pre-dawn morning. The light existed on the cold horizon; pre-dawn colors illuminating the sky. Dark stains could be seen here and there, blood from the failed attack from the Trollocs. He turned to the stables and breathed in the earthy smell of horses, hay and manure. His horse, Flame, had made it back safely to the manor after the ambush. The mare whickered at the familiar sight of Xayven, and he soon had her saddled and was leading her out into the courtyard. The gatehouse door stood open, and Xayven tied up Flame just outside. He entered and saw the old warden Darvin talking to an Ogier whose size enveloped the chair across the table from Darvin. The Ogier's back was to Xayven and for a moment, Xayven recalled the Trolloc captivity; the Ogier was very similar in build.

Darvin looked up and saw Xayven standing there. His face became animated and he gestured to the Ogier. "This is Vilarth from the nearest stedding, he says he has come to guide you." The Ogier turned around and Xayven took in the large plain and friendly features. He had large eyebrows and tufted ears, a pocket in the dark blue coat bulged suspiciously with what looked like a book. Xayven couldn't recall anybody at all looking quite like an Ogier. He stood up smiled and in a very deep voice that surprised Xayven the Ogier boomed out, "Good morrow, my name is Vilarth, as Darvin has said, and I am here to be your guide on the Ways. He held out his hand and Xayven took it. The Ogier's hand engulfed his own. If you have no compunctions we shall leave immediately." Xayven nodded and grabbed his pack. The Ogier turned and took his long staff that was leaning against the wall. He grabbed his bags as well, all the while muttering about hastiness of humans that was infectious. Xayven left the gatehouse, and grasped the reins of Flame. The Ogier walked out, blinked at the now rising sun and turned to Xayven.

"I'll take no horse; my own two legs are good enough for me." Xayven nodded, he wanted to get to Tar Valon as fast as he could, and fitting another horse for Vilarth would be time-consuming. "If we must be hasty it will be a three day journey to the Waygate closest to us. There is an abandoned stedding that holds the gate." With that the Ogier started off, walking towards the east. They soon had settled into a comfortable silence that was only interspersed by necessary conversation throughout the day. They camped that night in a little hollow that was surrounded by oak trees. The two of them had quickly set a tranquil rhythm for the journey and Xayven found himself at the Waygate before he even knew it. They had came to a sheltered alcove in near the edge of a forest. A large moss covered boulder dominated the scene. Xayven looked closer at the boulder and noticed a lot of small irregularities. Worked into the boulder was a tall structure wreathed with tri-foil leaves and vines. He started when he realized that this was the Waygate. It was difficult for Xayven to determine whether the Waygate was built into the boulder or the boulder was built around the Gate.

Vilarth walked up to the Gate and removed a tri-foil leave that was nearly imperceptible against the worked leaves; he then placed it in another place. A white vertical slash appeared as the two large stone doors swung opened audible protest. A shimmering white field materialized before Xayven's eyes. Vilarth immediately strode through it. Xayven stood there for a little while, and then after marshalling his courage, he led Flame through the Gate. As he walked through, the doors slowly closed behind him as Vilarth manipulated the leaves. Ahead of him, surrounded by a milky whiteness, a light colored stone path disappeared into the distance. Before it did, Xayven could see a path of green from what seemed to be an island hanging in the air, and other paths sprouting out from it. He peered at the sides of the path and was surprised to see that there was no ground to either side. Vilarth noticed and commented.

"It would be to your health if you avoided the edges, you would not want to fall off." He paused and looked towards the island, Xayven followed his eyes, and "We will reach there before mid-day and be off towards Tar Valon." He looked grim and then continued, "Soldiers from the nation of Aridhol hold many of the Islands and their occupations often prohibits our crossing. The have no right to dictate who shall travel upon them!" Vilarth finished with a huff, and then looked slightly surprised with himself. The two then carried on with the now characteristic silence.

As Xayven approached the nearing Island, a soft wind blew past and a cold chill came over him, soft whisperings of something muttered in his ear. As quick as it came it was gone. He looked over to the Ogier who seemed not to notice. "Is there wind in the Ways?" Xayven asked him.

"No not at all, why do you ask?" Vilarth replied.

"Never mind about it." Xayven's statement appeared to satisfy him.

They soon reached the Island and Vilarth examined the guidepost there. He straightened and set off towards a path in another direction. For the rest of the day, they did this until Vilarth commented that they were coming closer to Tar Valon. By that time, Xayven felt exhausted and was sure that it was night on the outside. He and Vilarth set up camp on an Island, they chatted for a little while before retiring to their sleeping rolls. It was hard to sleep with the perpetual light, and when they got up to travel once more; Xayven felt the weariness inside. They mounted their horses and pressed on. At the next Island a few soldiers in Aridholian colors got up from where they had been lounging. An officer with epaulets on his shoulder, indicating rank, sauntered up and challenged them.

"What is your business, travelers?" He was fingering the hilt of the sword. Vilarth replied,

"We are traveling to Tar Valon," the soldiers started at that, and now gripped their hilts, "and the last I heard was that no one dictated who was to go and not to go on the Ways," Vilarth looked dour, and the soldiers noticed. They remember the old saying about the Ogier. The officer, tight-lipped, nodded his acquiescence and motioned them on. His obvious reluctance battled his urge to not have trouble with an Ogier. Vilarth peered once more at the Guidepost and set off on another path. He spoke loudly after they past the earshot of the soldiers, "After the next Island we'll be at Tar Valon. I think it will be evening, when we will get there," he sighed and looked cheerful, "It will be nice to visit the Grove there," his voice was quickly descending into the rumble of a bumblebee," And to think they tore down the Grove at Aridhol...." Xayven was silent throughout Vilarth's pondering, mindful of the hint of anger on his face.

The two went back to the pace they set, and journeyed on. By the time that Xayven guessed the sun was hitting the hills near the manor, they reached the last Island.

As his eyes traveled across the scene, and if Xayven didn't know any better, he would say it was a strange dream, or rather a nightmare. Three Aridholian soldiers were suspended in midair, upside down. There was a darkish blotch on each of their pants, and their eyes were wide and red-rimmed with fear. Their mouths were open but no sound came out; they had screamed themselves hoarse.

"Light, what happened here?" Vilarth's rumble sounded behind me. The soldiers' fear-filled stares watched us as we came closer.

"He...Help...the Darkfriend did this...to us...male chann.... eler." The soldier with sergeant rank knots on his shoulder gasped out in his barely audible voice.

"I'll get the Aes Sedai-"

"Y-yes.... Anybody...even...a bloody... Aes..." The sergeant's voice dwindled away. His wide eyes were still aware and focused on Xayven. Xayven nodded, and felt the Tower letter inside his coat. I guess I'll not need this anymore. He drew his long-hilted sword, Lyonheart, as he and Vilarth walked up to the Gate. Vilarth manipulated the leaves and the now familiar gray slash and then wall appeared before them. They walked through into a scene of madness.

A dazzling city appeared before his eyes, and that belied the fact of the butchery ahead of them. The trees surrounding the Waygate were shattered. They reminded Xayven of the exploding trees near the estate in winter. Sometimes it was so cold outside in the Borderlands, the very sap within the trees froze, and they exploded to the demise of any unlucky wanderer who happened to be near. The rest of the Grove seemed unaffected, but the path leading towards the city was filled with bodies. First impressions of the grandeur of the city were shattered as Xayven took in the gray pall over the city, the smoke of from the now extinguished fire from homes and taverns. Grey and black soot stained many of the white walls, and the people Xayven could see were either angry or bent down with the oppression of the atmosphere. Armed men in Tar Valon colors ran up and down the streets, and dotted through the crowds, Xayven could see the colors of many different Aes Sedais' shawls. He turned and looked once more around the immediate area. A white dressed initiate stood on the outskirts of the field, numb with shock, her mouth hanging stupidly open. A Yellow-shawled Aes Sedai appeared on the path and barely glanced at the scene. She strode up to girl and slapped her face.

"Caeran! You are not supposed to be here! All novices are to be under the charge of the Mistress of the Novices, now go and report yourself to her for penance." The loud, firm voice shook the girl out of the sway of inner demons, and she started back up the path. She stepped over the bodies without seeing them. The Aes Sedai finally seemed to take her surroundings, and Xayven thought he heard her mumble "Light save us!" before she noticed Xayven at last. "By the expression on your face, it was not you or your sword who caused all this... and you wouldn't be accompanied by an Ogier, of course." Vilarth nodded at the Aes Sedai. He suddenly hurried off, his booming mumble telling them something about finding other Ogier in the city and fixing the damage to the Grove. He paused to say to Xayven, that Xayven could find him were Ogier were. Xayven waved as his giant sized companion strode away. It was too quick a parting. Xayven marshaled his wits and took out the letter.

"I am in debt to the White Tower, I have come to fulfill my family's obligation. I am here to become a Warder. There are also three Aridholian soldiers tied upside down by the One Power at the closest Island. They said it was a male channeler who did it." He looked defiantly into the Aes Sedai's eyes, but some fear showed through, fear of the macabre scene before and behind him. He took in the Aes Sedai and noticed that though her hair was streaked with gray, her features appeared not to have aged. It was an unsettling effect. Despite her smaller stature, her presence was forceful and Xayven wondered if he should back down. After the longest moment, the Aes Sedai took the letter and at last spoke.

"Are you, boy? We then need you dearly. Though the Reds would not say that." Xayven was confused, What were the Reds? It evidently showed on his face, and the Aes Sedai spoke again. "You have much to learn, and ignorance can be deadly, even here in Tar Valon, especially here." The Aes Sedai's words were ominous. She paused and spoke up again, "Go into the city and find any Sister with the shawl on her back and bring her to this place. I have some Aridholian soldiers to free and interrogate. If there is a male channeler in the city..." Her voice trailed off portentously. Xayven nodded and wiped his sweaty brow. He started onto the path into the city, looking back he saw the gray square of the Waygate open as the Aes Sedai manipulated the leaves.

Xayven set his shoulders and took his first steps into a new world.

Trouble not Expected

Commentary: This post is more in an rp-ing style than a story style, my character gets, equipped etc. In this post we see the introduction of Bavar Deldain, a minor NPC (non-player character), who figures into the storyline in a small way. This was jumping off post into a small adventure I had with another character, Aldrect.

Xayven sighed, turned over and tried to make the lumpy mattress comfortable. He was in the barracks for the Warder-Aspirants. He was practically alone in the sleeping area. A few of the other warderlings were sleeping or out in the yard. It was early evening and Xayven was frustrated at the slow pace of the barracks. The warderlings that were lucky enough to be out with the Aes Sedai were actually doing something. Xayven had arrived in Tar Valon too late to be chosen for any mission. In fact he had hardly made acquaintances with any of the other typically young men. The gruff Training Master had seemed preoccupied with the siege and any regular training schedule was non-existant.

He sighed once more with the boredom of it all. He picked himself out of his assigned bunk, underneath his pack with his worldly belongings peeked out from the edge of the slightly frayed blankets. His swords, the Ashan Ker'reriande, its now familiar long hilt, and the plain longsword, no special features on its hilt or blade, were lying against the corner of the bunk. He had been given the longsword when he had started training with his father's men. This afternoon he practiced the hours away with the forms using both swords, one after another and together. He had grown accustomed the Ashan Ker'reriande's long reach, and though he had not sparred with anybody in the day he had been here, he felt he was proficient in the blade's handling. He glanced to the sides of the room, seeing only a few on the bunks, and he belted on his baldric and grabbed his purse he received from his leave-taking feast, out of the pack. He tucked that inside his coat, away from the prying hands of the pickpocket. He left the barracks and avoided the eyes of the guards around the compound. It was time to get into trouble.

The streets were quieter than in mid-day. You could here the rumble of the streets from the grounds of the barracks throughout the afternoon. The sun was setting in a spectacular blaze of glory, made more magnificent by the smoke of the charred buildings lying in ruins. The dust made by the enemies of the Aes Sedai lay heavy around the walls. As Xayven walked through the streets he kept his eyes open for any decent amouries and weapons-smiths. They made good money in the days of the siege, weapons were seen as a necessity when under-going a siege. If the chance came that Tar Valon's walls fell, one would want the comfort of sharp steel. Even if the walls did not fall, the murmurs of rioting and revolt charged the streets. He even heard wild-eyed men on street corners proclaiming that Aes Sedai were daughters of the Dark One. He bridled at that. The mood was tense over the city. He ducked into a tavern on the side of the street. He kept his eyes and ears open as he ordered some ale. A grey haired and goateed gleeman with his traditionally ragged and patched cloak sat nearby. He was resting from a recent performance. His harp stood on a pedastal in the corner of the room, where he sat he could keep his eye on it.

"Barkeep! Some wine for this honorable gentleman!" Xayven waved the bartender over. The gleeman grinned in appreciation and introduced himself.

"Bavar Deldain, troubadour extraordinaire, at your service," and after eyeing him up and down, "Borderman."

"Xayven al'Cerinalle, a wanderer." He didn't feel like revealing he was a Warder-Aspirant, especially after walking the streets. The gleeman glanced at his swords peeking over his back. "I recently arrived in the city by way of the Ways. I was lucky enough that the Aridholians let me in let alone safe." Xayven could see the gleeman's ears prick up at that. He mentally reserved not to reveal much about the journey at all. "So tell me about the city, the mood outside is sharp enough to cut steel."

"The Aes Sedai have imposed martial law more than once, with the siege and all, by the way why would you come with the siege on the city?" The gleeman looked curious.

"A family obligation." Xayven smiled at that. Aes Sedai were not the only ones who knew how to twist the truth. The gleeman nodded and continued, but lowered his voice.

"There are murmurs of revolution all over the city, I'm afraid you came at a bad time. There have been riots and bombardments by the armies outside. There are lines drawn in the sand between those loyal to the Tower and those who wish to bring it down. That day will come when I see Sea Folk settle in mountains. A man needs a little protection though. There are many bands of looters and hotheads wandering around. Though you look like you need little." He glanced once more at Xayven's swords.

"I would be in service if you could tell me where a good armourer or smith would be," Xayven asked.

"Lyman's is the best around these parts, but you will have to leave soon, he closes shop at sundown. I better go play something" The gleeman answered, and indicated the stirring crowd in the common room.

"You have my thanks then. Fare you well, Bavar." The gleeman nodded and stood to go play. Xayven paid the tab, and exited the tavern.

The sun was descending into the horizon quickly. He asked nearby city-dwellers for directions to Lyman's. He found the blacksmith's shop just as the sun touched the horizon. A large burly man with massive arms and shoulders dominated the smithy. Racks of weapons, and armour decorated the walls their prices were written on tags. Lyman, a shock of thick black hair for a beard and an easygoing smile walked up to the counter.

"What would you like, Borderman?" Xayven smiled back and introduced himself.

"I would like some leather armour my size, a long knife, and some throwing stars." The blacksmith's eyes widened at that. Throwing stars were rare and only seen up in the Borderlands, or in the hands of assassins. Xayven was an expert at the throwing stars since his father's sergeant, Guntar, was a master in it and taught him well. A throwing star well aimed could even stop a Trolloc. Xayven had no close combat weapons so he felt he should acquire the long knife, Guntar taught him in that too, but not so much as the blade and stars. The blacksmith nodded and went in the back to get what Xayven asked for.

"Here you are goodman. I will help you adjust the armour so it fits you like silk." Lyman lay the down the throwing stars and a well-made knife. Xayven picked up the knife, it was the length of his forearm and well balanced. There was no gilt or worked in silver. It was plain but very well made. The throwing stars were detailed with roaring lions circling around the centre. A belt came with the stars, small leather pegs on the outside for holding the stars within quick reach. A good omen, the lions, the al'Cerinalle crest was made of a lion dancing on a field of black. Lyman shuffled around the counter and adjusted the various straps for the armour. In the end it was comfortable indeed.

"Can I practice these somewhere?" Xayven picked up the stars and the thick leather belt. He attached the stars to it. The knife came with a sheath that he belted on as well. The blacksmith indicated to the back of the store. It opened up into a clearing wide enough for a man to do the forms. An archer's butt stood at the end against a wall. Xayven stood in the middle of the clearing, he tensed his muscles and relaxed, then whirled out, stars in hand. Two, three, then four stars and then the knife stood out in the red center of the butt. Lyman's eyebrows attempted to climb his forehead. "A dear friend taught me the stars, and a bit of the knife. Light rest his soul." They walked back to the counter. Xayven paid the smith, the price was high, but the weapons were master-forged. He had no idea that he would use them before the night was over. He thanked the smith, who was closing the shop behind him, and wandered into the twighlight. The moon was just coming out.

It took him but a couple seconds before he realized he had no idea how get back to the barracks. The few travelers still on the road were quickly hurrying home. There was nobody near. He traveled the darkening streets, looking for any sign of the barracks. He finally got his bearings and headed towards the White Tower, illuminated by moonlight. He took in his surroundings. Somehow he got himself all the way to the South Harbour. The Harbour itself was quiet; a few deserted boats unlucky enough not to escape the siege lay on the waves at the quay. A slight splashing sound spun him around, just as pale moonlight lighted a spot on the thick bronze chain across the Harbour. Faint shapes climbed along the chain and a low longboat barely seen lay beside. Aridholian sabotuers! Xayven nearly shouted out, but quieted himself at the last moment. It would not be well for him if brought attention to himself. It would be better to find the City Guards, or go back to the warderlings barracks to find help.

A scuffle behind him made him turn around once more, but this time throwing stars in hand. It was well that he had them in hand for a hooded saboteur in gray colors slashed downwards at him with a short sword. Xayven lept back and his hand whipped. The cloaked man went down with a gurgle, clutching his throat. Xayven felt light-headed, he had killed a man. He was trying to kill him, but a man was different than a Trolloc. He drew his long sword with his off hand and grabbed another throwing star. He backed into an alley. His first star sunk into the forehead of the closest saboteur. The second struck the thigh of another running up. The soldier clutched with a cry and doubled over. Xayven's breathing was harsh and blood pounded in his head. The rest of the saboteurs had climbed up from the chain and were now advancing towards him. Four, six, eight were now closing on the mouth of the alley. Xayven ran out recovered his star from the first man he killed and drew his newly acquired knife, and backed into the alley once more. For a evening of seeking trouble, things were dire indeed.

OOC: All right Aldrect, time for you to come in. You could probably say you followed me. I don't think my character can handle eight Aridholians all by his pretty little self. We should fight for a little and then retreat to tell somebody in charge

A friend in Need is a Friend Indeed

Commentary: There is an in between post made by Aldrect. It doesn't really figure in, as I recount the main events within. One thing that I grew slightly frustrated with over time is that a number of new characters to WOT TW, Aldrect being one of them, were writers of a fairly elementary level. To give an example: ``There were three men. I had two knives, I slashed the first man with the first knife than killed the second man with my other knife. I then ran as the third chased me with his sword.'' This is a little bit of exaggeration, but you get the picture.

Xayven gulped hard fast breaths. His mental state had lapsed into one of indifference. The numbing feeling of shock spread like spider webs over his mind. He had killed and he couldn't care less. His senses seemed to take everything so very slowly. The rush of adrenaline was felt in the arteries of his neck leading up to his head; the clear awareness of the situation mocked the lack of emotion. The moonlight fell across the face of the man approaching the alley. The grizzled face of a veteran stared him right in the eyes. His short sword was held loosely as he walked slowly and grimly toward him. Xayven's harsh inhalations were the only sound he heard. He peered past the man drawing near; the other men were closing in on the alley mouth. He looked over his shoulder; there was a wall at the end of the alley, it seemed impossible to escape.

Suddenly a dark shape furiously attacked the party of men heading towards him. The figure took out two of the men heading towards him. The surprise counted for the attacker for a minute or two, but after sweeping the legs out from one by diving at him, all he got was a slice at an arm and a blow to the back of the head. Just as the attacker went under, Xayven got a glimpse of his face. It was Aldrect Karishan. The other warderling was like the rest of them, he thought, ignoring him at the barracks and barely being civil. Tonight he proved that wrong. The distraction of Karishan was enough for Xayven. The veteran turned his attention to the attacker for a brief second and Xayven had the opening he needed. His long knife caught the veteran in the neck. He went down without a whimper. Xayven grabbed his long sword out of his sheath and burst out of the alley. Two men were standing over Aldrect; Xayven hamstrung one and caught the parry of the other. He jabbed at the face of that one, and was rewarded by a loud cry, and the man turning away. He turned around in time to block a blow that would have beheaded him. He struck out at the head of soldier that struck at him. As the soldier parried that, Xayven quickly buried his knife into the soldier's gut. He removed the knife and stepped back.

There was no one left standing. Two of the men were rushing towards the boat at the chain.

Amazed, he cleaned his blades and sheathed them and fished the flying stars out of the men that he was unable to get at earlier. A shout at the harbour showed the long boat hurriedly paddling away.

A groan whipped Xayven around. Aldrect was still alive and bleeding profusely from his arm. As stepped closer, Aldrect croaked, ``Saved you in time, lordling. That I did,'' the warderling grinned sarcastically at him.

``You saved me indeed, you have my thanks and gratitude-,''Xayven started, but realized Aldrect returned to unconsciousness. Xayven knelt and bound Aldrect's arm with a strip of cloth from his cloak. He picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. The taller warderling was a heavy load and it took a few seconds for Xayven to balance before he went off. He didn't look back at the carnage behind him. He didn't want to remember what he had to do. The numbness of battle was wearing off. The burden on his mind was equal to the burden on his shoulder.

He came to a lighted street. At the far end, a platoon of City Guards was marching away from him. He shouted at them and they turned around. Xayven shuffled as fast has he could towards them. The soldier who was leading them, the rank knots on his shoulder indicating a sergeant, called out, ``Quick, man, what happened?'' As Xayven gasped out his story, the sergeant ordered men to the harbour. He turned to Xayven, ``You did well lad, even for a warderling, you'd better get your friend here to the Tower infirmary, and get a Yellow to heal him for you. I'd better go investigate this. Aridholian soldiers, within the walls!'' The sergeant shook his head as he ran towards the harbour.

Xayven kept the White Tower in his vision as he ran as fast as he could towards it.

The nurse in the infirmary shook Xayven awake.

``Your friend, he has woken up,'' she told him gently. Xayven jumped up from the chair he had fallen asleep in as he watched the Yellow work on Aldrect, and crossed the room to the bed. Aldrect's face was flush and healthy. He grinned at Xayven.

``You had me going there for a while, you and all your lordly ways. But a friend in need is a friend indeed. I think we're both indebted to each other.'' Xayven nodded and grasped the forearm of Aldrect's. Things would be a trifle more interesting now he had a friend to get into trouble with. His grin got larger.

Lunch

Commentary: This is one of the only posts of which I not necessarily proud of. In the end, my character ends up going to a tavern and getting drunk. 1st this is distinctly out of character for Xayven, as Borderlanders do not typically drink to drunkenness, even in the face of losing a friend, etc. 2nd, I like to conveys some of my own morals into my writing. 3rd, later on, I present my character as one that is nearly obsessed with self-control, this would not happen in my later posts. The only instances where I would possibly show my character doing such things as this, would be in order to make more poignant a point in my stories, i.e. he would seek oblivion, thus drinking to avoid thinking about a horrible situation. The thing is, I would present it in a more eloquent way. In this post, it is done cheaply and seemingly on whim. The friends he's referring to in the end are those he lost in the Bio portion; his trainer/sergeant (Guntar Horvath) and his father's men.

Xayven wandered back to his bunk in the barracks. The warderlings were officially not allowed out of the compound, but the guard was lax. The tension of the siege more than held the attention of any watchers over the compound. There were more important things to do than guarding a bunch of boys. He snorted at the thought. With luck, Aldrect and his adventure had not even been heard of by any in charge. The Yellows were Healing anybody these days, and not keeping track, as far as he could see. He grabbed the Ashan Ker'reriande from its sheath and walked to the training yards. He felt he needed to let off some steam.

Last night was a little more than what he was prepared to deal with. He started his forms. I need to talk to some City Guards about this. He completed one form and gracefully flowed into the next. He was getting used to the Long-Hilted sword's feel. I'm glad Aldrect is alright. Other than Vilarth whom I have no idea where he is, Aldrect is the only person that's civil around here. Everybody's just concerned with the siege. He extended the sword, braced it with his right forearm and grabbed the end of the hilt with his left had, and spun around in a beheading blow. Whatever the consequences of last night may be, I'll have to accept them. I don't want to think about the people I killed. They were trying to kill me, but people aren't Trollocs. His forms became faster and more furious. Sweat beaded his brow and he took off his shirt. Do I really act ``lordly''? Maybe I should think about what I do, change a little. But maybe changing isn't the best idea. I can't help who or what I am. A slow burning started in his thighs and arms. It felt good to work out the pain of the mind with a good physical sensation. His forms became choppier as he attempted to go yet faster. I still have a lot to learn. To defeat all those soldiers, I can hardly believe it. Too many thoughts. I must focus on the moment not on all the what-ifs. I don't want to go down that road.

Xayven worked the forms until he was exhausted. It was about that time he remembered he was to have lunch with Aldrect. He quickly gathered his things, put on some fresh clothes and wandered to the gate. Aldrect suddenly burst out of the barracks with his saddlebags and sword in hand. He slowed down a little for Xayven.

``My friends were ambushed at the Blightborder in Aramaelle, one of them still lives. I must find him before he dies at the hands of the Trollocs!'' Aldrect gasped out as they headed to the stables.

``Hold on Aldrect...'' Xayven protested but Aldrect was consumed with rabidly doing up straps on his horse and preparing for his departure.

``I must leave, must get to Teriamal before he too is killed!'' Aldrect said forcefully. Xayven tried to reason with him but as soon as Aldrect was finished working on the horse, he leapt on its back and rode through the gates, eliciting a startled yell from the guard standing at the gates.

Standing with the dust churned by the hooves of Aldrect's horse, Xayven stared at the empty gate. How is he going to get past the Aridholians? He knows nothing of the Blight! He'll get himself killed that light-blasted fool! But if there is something Aldrect values most preciously, it's his loyalty to his friends. I can understand.

``Goodbye good friend.'' Xayven mouthed silently to the wind.

Sitting at a table in the Lazy Farmhand, Bavar Deldain playing on, Xavyen buried himself in his mug of ale. So many friends. All taken by the Blight. Light curse the Blight, and all of this damned war business!

It was after all of the other patrons had left and the barkeep hurried him outside, that Xayven staggered back to the barracks.

A Rescue and a Rebuke

Commentary: Some background to the previous post, it basically furthers the adventures I had with Aldrect. Sometime between (or before) this post and the next, Aldrect receives a letter from a friend outside of Tar Valon, and decides to abandon his training to go help him on some mission. At this time Tar Valon was at siege by Shadow forces posing as Aridholian (a nation hostile to Tar Valon, the city-state and the Aes Sedai as a political power) troops, and Aldrect was captured. In this post, my character ends up rescuing Aldrect, but in order to do so, he steals a Warder's Cloak (a cloak that all Warders have that blends into the surroundings, thus hiding the Warder. An excellent tool for stealth.) One minor discrepancy: There is no way anybody could throw a sword from the walls to the inside of a compound situated in the middle of the city! Aldrect had posted that he had briefly broken free to send a message (the flying sword), to Xayven.

Xayven stirred from his cot in the barracks. He had settled into a routine that burned away all thought of anything other than training, eating and sleep. His contests with the other warderlings grew fiercer as he grew in proficiency. It was a week after Aldrect left and Xayven consumed himself with his training, working the forms, sparring with others. In some evenings, he found solace at the Lazy Farmhand, the tavern where Bavar Deldain played, and the ale was good.

It was late in the evening with the sun about to set. The wind was light and whisked through the open window of the barracks. It carried the all too common scent of soot and ash. A faint cry was heard close to the walls. It grew stronger and Xayven stood up and looked out the window.

Whirling in the air, a sword spun down to the ground of the compound. It stuck in, point first. The guards close to the city wall and on the compound rushed to the wall and looked over. Faint sound of struggle gradually drifted off. Xayven rushed out of the room and out into the courtyard. It was Aldrect's sword. Xayven recognized the Manetheranian styling, and could recall from memory the sword from the spars he had had with Aldrect. A group of warderlings gathered around it as a breathless guard rushed down the stairs of his tower to the training yard.

"There was a warderling outside the walls, close to the gate. He cried his name was Aldrect and that he was being pursued by the soldiers. As he flung the sword over the wall, some of the soldiers came and took him away; I think they knocked him out. He yelled for Xayven as he struggled." The guard's eyes were centered on Xayven. A cold ball of apprehension formed in the pit of his stomach. He realized that Aldrect was captured, but broke free in time to get word to Xayven. Before he knew it, Xayven was sitting on the ground. The other warderlings were whispering to each other, fright was in plain sight on their faces. Aldrect was one of them, even if he only kept to himself and Xayven.

Xayven picked himself off the ground, grasped the sword, and pulled it out of the hard packed earth. The others stared at him. "Well somebody better do something!" Xayven growled. He ran back to his bunk gathered his weapons and armour and ran out to the stable. As he entered he realized he did not need his horse. The guards would hardly let him out. Hanging on a peg was a Warder's shape shifting cloak. Xayven peeked outside and saw the adult warder sparring with one of the students. He quickly dressed in his armour, belted on his weapons and grabbed the cloak. Avoiding the guards and the other students was easy, and he quickly made it to the city gates by using back alleys and avoiding busy thoroughfares.

As he gazed up at the two large towers that made up the gate, he pondered the problem of getting over to the other side. Angry shouts turned him around. A group of city guardsmen were barely beating back an angry crowd. The shouts reached the gate and several on duty guards left towers to help their fellow compatriots. The couple that was left was no problem as Xayven slipped over the wall with his rope. He jumped off the side of the white granite wall and into the water. The rope he left for a quick getaway. In a few moments he was back on dry land under the landing of the bridge. Guess I get to use this quicker than I thought. He pulled out the Warder's cloak and put it on. He stepped out to the shore and headed to the enemy camp. The sun had set and twighlight made the shadows large and plentiful.

He passed the pickets and the outer ring of earthen defenses fairly quickly and soon entered the mass of tents. He grabbed his long knife and walked silently behind a nearby soldier, just leaving his tent. He grabbed the man's mouth and held the knife to his back. "Tell who the duty officer is and where his tent is. Now. And I'll knife you if you make a sound otherwise. Do we understand each other?" The guard hurriedly nodded. Xayven put his hand on the man's throat, ready to grab the guard if he more than spoke.

"Commander Omtor Sape is in the tent with the red markings...wha-" Xayven hit him over the head with the hilt of his knife before he could speak anymore. The guard slumped over onto the ground. Xayven started searching the tents. Before long he came across a large ostentatious tent striped in red. He could tell that it was dark inside. He slipped in and waited.

After what seemed like hours of sitting off to the side of the tent, concealed in the cloak, Xayven finally heard voices outside. A man with a lantern strode angrily inward, arguing with a soldier outside. "I don't care if you can't find him, I want that warderling dead! I want his head brought to me on a platter! Now go and find him!" The soldier outside ran off, his footsteps fading into nothingness. "Nobody has half a mind here in this camp, all muscle no head," the officer said to no one in particular.

Xayven drew his longsword, the metallic rasp made the officer look up. All he saw was a floating sword levelled at his throat and Xayven's face as he drew back the hood. The low lighting and the scar tracing from eyebrow to opposite cheekbone that Xayven obtained from a Trolloc raid back in the Borderlands made his face ominous and dangerous.

"Omtor Sape, I presume?" The officer gulped and nodded hurriedly. Xayven's lip curled back in a snarl, and he pushed his sword forward making an indent on the man's throat. Slowly a swollen drop of blood crawled down Sape's neck. "That warderling, the one you talked about with the soldier, where did you last see him?"

"You can't make me say anything, Warder, you lapdog to those witches!" The nervous bobbing of the throat belied Sape's strong words. Xayven pressed a little bit harder. The cold ball in his stomach that was fear for Aldrect had now turned into revulsion and a flaming anger. He realized that Sape thought that he was a Warder. He decided to use that to his advantage.

"My Bond-holder is close by, do you want to press the issue? I could summon her if necessary." The cold matter of fact voice was more frightening than words said in anger. Sape looked around as if an Aes Sedai would walk through the canvas wall right then and there. His eyes flicked to Xayven's and then to the sword.

"Alright, we lost him near the east gate. The officer who captured him put him out to let the men hunt him. It's something we do to stop the men from getting bored. However we lost some time after that." Sape's words stumbled over each other in the rush to get them out. The threat of the Aes Sedai seemed more real than the sword at his throat. Xayven smiled grimly and swung the sword out and hit Sape over the head with the flat of the blade. He took Sape's belt and tied his hands to the desk within the tent. He stuffed a piece of Sape's shirt in his mouth and exited the tent after sheathing the sword.

The darkening evening made for easy going with the cloak and Xayven avoided the sentries and pickets with ease. As he neared the gate he heard the sounds of a skirmish. The city gate was open slightly and the City Guards were fighting with some of the Aridholian soldiers. A familiar figure stood out as Xayven grew closer. He recognized Aldrect's cloak, as the figure stepped through the gate. The City Guard withdrew and shut the gate behind them. Xayven waited for the Aridholians to leave before crossing the river to his rope. He climbed up and was in Tar Valon before the guards nearby had time to return from the street. He soon spotted Aldrect and hurried after him, but just as he got within shouting distance, an angry mob spilled into the street. City Guards rushed in and soon a massive brawl erupted. The crowd was quickly subdued under the clubs of the Guard, but Xayven lost sight of Aldrect. He stepped into a nearby alley and rid himself of the cloak. Too many questions if somebody saw a floating face! He hurried out and followed the guards. He caught a glimpse of Aldrect as he turned the corner. He was being led in manacles into the barracks of the Guard. Blood and bloody ashes! Xayven swore to himself. He curled down in an alley mouth to watch the door of the guard's barracks. No thief would pocket my belongings this close to the barracks, he thought as the night's troubles caught up to him.

The morning light was what woke Xayven. He yawned and picked himself off the ground. His back cramped from the rough night. A few pedestrians wandered around in the empty thoroughfare. He walked into the barracks and asked the officer on duty about Aldrect. The Guard replied and pointed down the street in the direction Aldrect went. Xayven ran down the street trying to catch any sight of Aldrect. Just as he ran close to blacksmith's shop, Aldrect walked out into the street. Relief washed over Xayven in waves.

"Aldrect-!" Xayven was cut off as a large hand descended on his shoulder. As Aldrect turned around and spotted Xayven, Xayven was spun around to face a huge muscled man. Xayven recognized the borderland clothes and the twin swords. It was the Warder whom Xayven stole the cloak from.

"You, a Borderland youth, you of all people, should know respect the value of a man's belongings, much less a warder's cloak!" The blunt rock-carved face glared down at Xayven. "We are going for a trip to the Training Master, and then the kitchens. I think we will have the first warderling to be washing dishes in the history of the White Tower!" As Xayven tried to protest and signal to Aldrect, who was standing on the street with a hurt look on his face, the massive Warder propelled Xayven down the street. The hand on his arm was like a block of granite; even Xayven who was an accomplished swordsman knew it was useless to try to remove it.

Later, up to his arms in greasy water, a watchful Accepted glancing over his shoulder, he cursed his inability to contact Aldrect. He left Aldrect's sword with the warder as he walked down the spotless halls of the White Tower, off to scrub at the dishes of the populace of the Tower. The uselessness of it all was the most shaming part.

Sorrow of the Obligated

Commentary: Sorrow of the Obligated is a post about Xayven receiving a letter from some family friends, the Al'Kasars, (Due to a bug at the website I had lost a few posts, this among them, and promptly forgot their name; in a later post I decided to use Al'Kaen). This post figures among one of my more inspired posts. I practically wrote it on the fly, after Aldrect somehow posted that Xayven received a message from the Borderlands, and I'm not sure I had intended it that way. Throughout my early posting I realized that my character needed a great deal more depth, and a deeper reason to fight the Dark, beyond the Borderlander obligation of blood and bone. Thus I came up with this, a product of on the spot inspiration and the running on the unintentional legs my posting partner had given me. The events my character recall in his letter were actual events created by other people's posts.

Xayven paused on his bunk as he hunted for a word. The last half hour he had reviewed his letter to his father. The Tower kept a regular messenger service through the Ways despite the Aridholian presence; the messengers were not directly related to any military branch of the Tower.

Dear Father,

The eve I came to Tar Valon was one in many of the continuing siege by apparent Aridholian forces. Despite any words of trouble you have heard coming out from the city, I have kept myself in one piece. I have made friends here, though not many, but the kind of friends you can depend upon in the thick of battle. The city itself suffers from the bombardment of the attackers. There are sometimes fires that rage uncontrollably for days. The folk of the city are tired and demoralized. Things are coming to a head as the Aes Sedai work to keep the attackers from overcoming the Shining Walls and must neglect the general population. There have been many riots and number of people killed. A Dreadlord, stilled and hanging on the rope of his execution was freed by a indignant crowd. A fellow warder aspirant was attacked in a common room. I have not heard from home since I have been here, but that is explained by the siege. The messenger should be able to carry any replies through the Ways. Is Mother fine? How is the estate? How is the front, and how does the war on the shadow go? I also wonder about my brothers, how do their training progress? As for my own, I have become more proficient with the Ashan Ker'reriande and the longsword since we parted. The regimen of training here is hard and challenging, but in this way good. If you have had any recent communication with the royal family, please urge them to send reinforcements here. The situation is not yet dire but it will be soon.

"Xayven of House al'Cerinalle?" Xayven jerked his head up at the formal title. A man clothed in familiar livery was standing at the door of the barracks. He got up and put his letter down on the bed.

"Yes, what can I help you with?" He asked him. The man was nervous; his hands trembling as he hesitantly removed a letter from inside his coat. Xayven recognized the seal; it was of the House al'Kasar, whose manor was near the al'Cerinalles. Xayven's father fought with the head of House al'Kasar at Tarwin's Gap when they served together. Xayven remembered; the man's livery was of al'Kasar colors as well.

"Mine name is Patrim Kalinn, in liege to House al'Kasar. The House of al'Kasar regrets to inform you that while your father and your brothers were at the front, a surprise Trolloc raid hit the al'Cerinalle manor. Its defenders were overwhelmed and every living soul killed or captured. Your mother was in the manor. Your kin came back to late from the front too late to save the manor." The man gulped and idly Xayven realized the nature of his nervousness. In the Borderlands, it was not unknown for a bringer of bad tidings to be killed. After that thought, the world shattered in to shards of glass. He sat down on his bunk heavily, the letter beneath him crumpled. He took it and stared at it. Slowly, his fist crushed the manuscript into a tiny ball. The inkpot sloshed across his knee. Waves of grief raced towards a crescendo that threatened to black out conscious thought. He silently mouthed the words mother... no.... this is not happening... damn... damn the LIGHT BLASTED SHADOWSPAWN! The last came out as a shout as the grief crested and came crashing down on his heart. He felt like the letter he crushed. Standing and gritting his teeth, he drew his family's Ashan Ker'reriande from near his bed. Ignoring the pain for the pain within was much greater, he drew the sharp egde across the outside of his forearm. Blood welled and dripped onto the blade, running down the channel in the middle. He raised the blade, a thin trail of blood travelling down the hilt and onto his fingers, turned to the North and in the direction of Shayol Ghul, and swore:

"By my hope of salvation and rebirth, by my name and my house, by my blade and all that I am, by the hope of serving the Aes Sedai, by my hope of becoming a Warder, by my birthright and obligation to fight the Shadow, I Xayven al'Cerinalle of House al'Cerinalle swear that till the last breath I breathe, till all my blood is spilled, till the beat of my heart is stopped, I will fight the Dark One, fight his minions, fight his will and his power, in the name of the White Tower, in the name of my mother and all al'Cerinalle's before her that have died for the lust of the Shadow." He kissed the blade and touched his forehead to it. The rigidity of his posture suddenly collapsed and he put the sword point into the hardwood floor. He was suddenly very weary. Through watering eyes, he saw Aldrect standing in the doorway. His face was white with sympathy. He crossed the room and laid a hand on Xayven's shoulder.

"I know what you feel, my friends too were killed by the Shadow." Xayven nodded his thanks and sat tiredly back onto the bed. Staring out the window to the North, the dust and smoke and ash filling most of the sky, he saw the Mountains of Dhoom. I will have no peace till His reach is no more. May the Light Blast the Shadow. He felt nothing more than pain and a righteous obligation to help the Tower fight the Shadow. He wanted nothing more than to be at the front line. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

A Slightly Angry and Fanatical Warderling's Escapade (14A)

Commentary: Ahh yes, this one. This is grand post, chock full of good ol' hack and slash. In lea of the previous post, Xayven goes a little stir crazy and basically snaps. He goes into a one man battle frenzy, and takes out a bunch of the enemy. I later remarked (about the post) that it seemed a little unlikely a single warderling would take out a two catapult crews... but such is the nature of surprise. Due to the violence, I decided to put a 14A rating on it, though it's hardly more violent than what is normally depicted on television. (I suppose gouts of splattering blood would push it a little though.)

OOC: Refer to my bio about the dream in this post. This is at least a 14A post, above 14 due to violence etc. Takes place during the Circle's End Part 2. Hope I'm not stepping on toes!

It was dark outside. The slumbering denizens of Tar Valon slept away the night, dreamt troubled dreams, huddled together in the arms of their lovers. A collective, primal fear swept through the city as a cold wind from the north blew from the Mountains of Dhoom. They clutched each other tighter, and the odd wanderer in the street, huddled against doors and walls in chilling apprehension.

The window was open and a cold wind blew in. Xayven woke with a start. The troubled dreams had kept his sleep short. He couldn't keep track of the times he woke up this particular night. Dreams of Trollocs racing through the manor, of the day his father gave him the Ashan Ker'reriande. Though this dream was more horrible than the others. The raid more than overwhelmed the attackers, and as Xayven battled the wounded Halfman, more and more Trollocs poured over the walls. As the battle between him and the Eyeless increased in ferocity, a scream erupted from the upper chambers of the manor, Xayven risked a glance. His mother was held before the window, a black armoured Trolloc grasping her hair and clothes. As he watched, the Trolloc through her out the window. She was dashed to the ground and nearby Trollocs converged with lustful roars. Xayven screamed, and started to run towards the horrible sound of rending flesh and the grunts of feeding Trollocs. He gasped as cold steel penetrated his back, the sibilant, snake-like voice of the Halfman in his ears. "You are mine now Borderlander." It was at this he woke up. The wind was all that was cold on his back.

He sighed and tried to push back thoughts of the Borderlands and the manor. He pulled on a shirt and crossed to the window. The sighs and snores of the slumbering warderlings were all the sounds he heard besides the wind. He paused and looked over the city, forearms resting on the sill. This is my home now. The manor is gone. My mother... my mother is gone. I can do nothing about that. Anger threatened to well up. He smacked his fist on the sill. Bloody Ashes!! I should of...If I was there... no... my place is here. I can't, I won't think of the what-ifs. Sadness and grief constricted his throat. His jaw clenched and his shoulders convulsed. Frustration of his inability to do anything made him grasp the sill. If he could have, there would have been furrows in the wood. Struggling he opened his tightly closed eyes. They beheld a terrible sight:

Trails of fire light the night sky, trailing from the shores of the river to land in Tar Valon. Liquid fire raced from house to house as explosion after explosion rocked the city. Leaping like fire demons of the sky, buckets of flaming pitch were thrown from several catapults. The inferno on the streets lit up the White Tower. Slowly, Xayven could see lights come on in the windows of the White Tower. Too slowly. With raining fire like a summer storm, the streets were an unquenchable blaze. Bucket lines of water could not keep up to fires. Xayven turned around, and yelled into the barracks, ``Fire in the city!'' It was then he noticed the sounds. The sounds of screams blended with the crackling of fire, the snapping of wood and the explosion of buildings. It was an orchestra of the most horrible kind.

As he watched on in horror, the remaining slumbering warderlings were woken by their fellows, a few had organized groups of them into bucket brigades. Slowly, Xayven unclenched his jaw, and pulled his fingers from the sill. A cold sort of anger rose in him now. Quicksilver streamed into his veins, racing through his body. He had to do something! He whipped around and pulled on his leather armour. He put on the two baldrics for his long sword and his Ashan Ker'reriande. The long hilted blade. He paused and smiled in memory of the day his father gave it to him. It was the day he decided to go to Tar Valon. He belted his long knife to his waist and put on his flying stars, clipping them to their pegs. He raced out the door in the general confusion, and then joined the stream of Warders and Aes Sedai to the city. Some of the Aes Sedai where going to the walls to try to halt the attacks, some to the city to heal. But Xayven had a specific purpose in mind. He went to the harbour.

Racing through streets, past houses consumed in flame, he ignored the cries for help, help from the people in the houses, and help from the people in the bucket brigades. He ran through streets thick with screaming women and children. He ran past towering blazes given up upon by the bucket brigades. Past sweltering heat, as hot as a blacksmith's forge, past former marketplaces now lit with angry flames, past people on fire, madly running. He ran through hell. At last he made it to the harbour. Lines of people stood filling buckets, pots, whatever they could find that could hold water. He ran past them. He hunted for and found, an abandoned one-man skiff. He took the single paddle and made his way to the massive bronze chain, turned green in the water. He took the paddle and hooked it on the other side of the chain. With a tremendous effort he heaved himself and the skiff over to the other side. He paddled as quick as he could to the other side.

His skiff grounded on the sand of the opposite shore. He landed some distance from the lights of the catapults. Some quick thinking Aes Sedai threw back the pitch with the One Power, now some of the catapults were aflame. Balls of flame, made from the One Power now flew back to the shore. Perfect, there will be general chaos in the army. They won't expect a single man to attack them. He grimly smiled. What he was about to do was something no man would do in his right mind. How much damage could a single man do? We shall see. With a fey grin, he jogged towards the catapults. The nearest was not far away. Drawing his Ashan Ker'reriande, he quickened his pace until he was running. A team of eight men manned the catapult, he quickly saw. One man to aim and fire the catapult, three to load it and two to turn and pull back the arm of the catapult, and finally one to direct the entire operation. Leveling his sword at his shoulders as he ran and pulling it back so it was pointed in the direction to his side. He switched his hands to a reverse grip and flowed into River Undercuts the Bank. The long sword cut through tendon and bone as it beheaded the man who was about to fire the catapult. A long gout of blood splattered against his face. He whirled around, Parting the Silk, and eviscerated the Captain in charge of the catapult. A look of utter surprise was frozen on his face. Xayven sunk into the familiar rhythm of the forms. He was focused. He was the blade. All there was- was the blade, and the enemy. Dimly, on the edge of his thoughts, he heard his old trainer speaking to him from memory. ``Boy, in combat there is nothing more powerful than the element of surprise. That vital half-second when the enemy freezes in fear, he freezes to his death. An unexpected attack is far more damaging than one you can prepare for.'' He grabbed two of his shruiken, flying stars, and whipped them at the two men in the corners of the catapult; one was reaching for the sword at his waist, the other still trying to comprehend the attack. The first shruiken lodged itself in the throat of one man, the other pinned a hand to the catapult. Returning his hand to the sword he rushed the loaders. Lightning of Three Prongs slid into the first man and sliced the arm of another, the last man was running away. Xayven returned the catapult and coldly ran through the man whose hand was pinned to the catapult. His scream was cut off as steel pierced his chest. He spun around to guard stance and surveyed the scene. He was the only one left standing.

Thinking quickly, he saw the catapults were wheeled. He kicked out the four blocks and turned the angle slightly. This catapult was at the southern most edge of the firing line. It was now aimed at the other catapults. He cut the rope holding down the arm. The burning pitch flew threw the air and dashed onto several catapult teams. He could hear distant screaming. A shout gained his attention and he saw several men running towards the catapult. He grabbed the two shruiken and grimly wiped them off on the clothes of a man he killed. Then he rushed off to the next catapult crew.

This one had a party of soldiers guarding it. He thrust at one and then ran to the catapult. Master forged work cut into the rope and wood of the ratchet, disabling the machine. He dashed off to the next. By now, whole parties of soldiers were chasing him. Try to catch me now! He saw he was close to the east side of the city, nearing the gate.

Running to the next catapult, he attempted to do the same. His sword blade lodged into the wood and stuck there. He lost precious seconds as he yanked it out, unable to get to a guard stance quickly, one of the soldiers slashed him across his shoulder. A line of fire traced its way from shoulder to side. He gasped and brought his hand to his chest, it came away sticky with blood. The leather armour had bore the brunt of the attack and saved him from being killed. He whirled and made for the gate of the city. Several buckets of burning pitch had lit up the gates, and the drawbridge was lowered. Several City Guards crowded the edge of the bridge, as teams of men worked to douse the flame. A skirmish was being fought at the end of the bridge, and the line was holding. Xayven glanced back, favoring his chest. He was loosing a lot of blood. He needed healing, fast. The soldiers were still following him. Zip! Zip! Arrows skittered on the ground beside him. He grinned, nighttime made for difficult shooting. He neared the skirmish ahead and tore into the enemy. He shouted as he struck at the backs of the unsuspecting.

``Let me through, I'm a warderling!'' A group of City Guards saw him and pressed the line in a flurry of fighting. He made it through the other side, stumbling and gasping. The gates ahead were still burning, but the teams of workers had conquered the blaze. He got through them and into the city. He stumbled off towards the Tower. Unlike his run through the city to the harbour, this journey seemed forever. He made it to the Tower, barely able to walk. An Accepted running with an armful of bandages saw him and gave a slight scream. Her bandages fell to the ground as she put her hands to her mouth. I must look a sight, blood from my wounds and the men I fought. He summoned the strength to grin, and fell to the ground senseless.

He woke in a busy infirmary. He felt his chest and saw that it was healed. A Yellow, whose tired eyes looked like an owl's, her hands gloves of dried blood, smiled tiredly at him, and went back to work on another patient. He sank back into the blessed arms of sleep.

Forge

• Forge: Part I: Stoking of the Fire, Solace of the Blade
• Forge: Part II: Hammer and Anvil, and the Solace of the Brush.
• Forge: Part III: Baptism of Fire, Quenching of the Blade

The next three Posts were in reference to an extraordinary plot line that was created by the senior members of this site called Timeless. Timeless was a plot line that involved many of the major characters, and revolved around the siege of Tar Valon. I was inspired by this 15-piece work (In fact it is available in downloadable format on the wheeloftime.org website, as a word document. It is a massive epic, constituting some 430+ pgs of Timeless and Related Stories), and decided to write my own three-piece mini-series detailing the role of my character and the role of the warderlings in the siege. There is a bit of a story to these posts: I had written down the first two pieces on paper, but the third I did on computer. The only wrench in the works here was the fact that I did these posts, which I consider some of my finest, in Germany. These posts were among the last that were lost due to the scripting backup error on the website, and the third was irretrievable (it was the best post too!). I emailed my exchange partner to see if he could send me the files through email (I had backed them up on the school's computers in Germany), but they had already deleted my user off their network. But this little story ends well though, I emailed some of my RP'ing buddies at the WOT site, and sure enough they had saved my little mini-series! You now see it in its posted and slightly edited form, where I have removed some of the more glaring grammar errors. A better edit might have been done, but I intend to show you my ideas in originality. One thing that needs expanding on is the subject of Sword Forms, which have been mentioned before. These forms are stylized movements that a swordsmaster uses in action; there are many sword forms, which combine flowing movements with ruthless utility. Admirers of masters of the blade often compare a duel including sword forms as a dance. An example used below of a sword form is (you can tell by the capitalization): Lion on The Hill.

Forge: Part I: Stoking of the Fire, Solace of the Blade

Out of Context Regards: Circle's End, Warder-Aspirants(chiefly) and the Tower's Siege. Includes references to other posts of my character, Sorrow of the Obligated, A Slightly Angry...etc. The post(s) are divided into three parts, the first deals only with my character so don't bother responding to that. These will include violence, they deal with the siege. 14A

Xayven stood in a line of several warderlings facing an opposing line. They were going through an exercise in pairs. Xayven breathed deep and easy, loosely holding a basic guard stance. There was a large amount of open space between each pair, reflecting the range of the wooden practice swords. Xayven held the worn leather grip in the traditional style, the blade was a long one, like Xayven's own. The blade itself was a bundle of tightly bound lathes; yet loose enough to bruise with a sting against careless flesh.

His opponent, a younger man who Xayven couldn't recall the name of, was shorter than him, but a good ten stones heavier. He looked as if he was a blacksmith's apprentice before he became a warder-aspirant; he was built like a bull, with massive shoulders and meaty arms. He was fast though, much faster than Xayven expected. He had the welts to attest to that. His opponent's blade was like the wielder himself, a large broadsword, weighted more and wider than Xayven's, but with a distinctly smaller range.

"Alright, this time I want to see The Falling Leaf against Lion on the Hill, and this time Tower side attacks, not the Barracks side!!" The Training Master roared. A young warderling further down the line grinned weakly, sporting a split lip. He had attacked at the same time as his opponent, misunderstanding the orders.

"Attack!" barked the Training Master, and the clack of wooden swords filled the air. Xayven moved into The Falling Leaf easily, catching his opponent off guard. The Falling Leaf was a fairly difficult form to execute, but familiar to Xayven, having learned it from training on his father's manor. The lathes clacked against his opponents side noisily and produced a small wince and a embarrassed grin.

"That's enough! I can't make you all Warders in a year, but I'll make you as bloody good as I can! We will spar now." Excited murmurs spread through the ranks of the warderlings. The Training Master gestured and the young men collectively performed Folding the Fan. The majority sat down hastily against the barrack wall. Xayven took his time and sat down in Borderlander fashion. Right leg out, hand on the hilt of the blade sheathed on the left side. The left knee on the ground, ready to unleash Unfolding the Fan. Xayven sat down the rest of the way, his hands now resting on his thighs. With his normal weapon, Lyonheart, a very long hilted sword, his hand would touch the hilt over his right shoulder and the legs would be in opposite order, ready to power an overhead blow rather than a slash from the waist. The Training Master caught his eye and gave him a slight smile, recognising the movement.

The Training Master handed out small red flags to the two Warders in attendance. They would officiate and judge whether a blow was worthy, and who won the match. The sparring ring was nothing more than a white circle on the ground; points could be awarded to the sparrer that forced his opponent out of the ring. Two small white lines marked the starting positions of the pairs. The Training Master picked out the first pair, each was young and eager. The sparring commenced, and from time to time the Master would stop the match, criticising and demonstrated proper forms and technique. Xayven's attention wandered, his thoughts dwelled on the day he received the message informing him of the destruction of his family's ancestral manor and the death of his mother. He later spent the week consumed in anger and grief; his excursion among enemy lines a release from that. It was not that he had got over the loss of his mother, the pain still burned like a hole in his chest, but consuming himself in his training made the pain go away for a while. Finding solace in the blade is what he longed for. In hindsight he acted rashly, he mused. He could not afford to act in haste. That's what gets you killed.

"Xayven!" He started, lost in his thoughts he didn't realise it was his turn to spar. Oddly enough his opponent was the warderling he paired with during the form exercises. He was waiting in the sparring ring. Xayven rose and walked calmly to the sparring ring. The two aspirants bowed to each other and waited for the Training Master to signal the beginning of the match.

"Begin!" Xayven's opponent unleashed Unfolding the Fan with a slash, meeting Xayven's own. Xayven was taken aback by this first aggressive blow and barely blocked an overhead swipe. He quickly backed up, adrenaline now racing, and executed Bundling Straw. The jabs aimed at his opponent's chest were blocked with difficulty. The wider, heavier weapon of his opponent was generally harder to manoeuvre. A quick snap of the wrist opened up his opponent to Parting Silk, a spinning slash. This was blocked with force and the shorter, stockier aspirant once again was on the offensive. Several heavy slashes and overhead blows attempted to batter down Xayven's guard, but Xayven's backed off and used his blade's superior range to his advantage. The two men now circled each other, looking for weaknesses in each other's guard. Each feinted and attempted to lure the other into an off balanced position. Xayven realised this match cleared away the thoughts of his mother. This is what I seek, solace of the blade. With this thought another came unbidden. More than a thought really, more of a reminiscence...Xayven feinted once more, seeking to catch his opponent off guard... A voice from the past, his old training master, Guntar Horvath. Winning comes not from skill of the blade and body, no, it comes from the mind. Inside yourself. When all your thoughts are directed to one objective, when there are no more thoughts, there is only the objective, that is when you achieve victory. Some call this the Flame and the Void, others simply clearing your mind, with each method; the end result is the same. Strip away all extraneous thought until there is nothing but the blade, and the enemy. When you achieved that, you find solace in the blade.

Xayven began a breathing exercise to calm his mind. Deep breaths into the diaphragm, nerves at peace. Relaxing his clenched muscles he easily parried a lunge directed at his chest. Slowly he let go of his thoughts, focusing only on his opponent and his own blade. Thought became objective, and the objective was to defeat his opponent. Muscle memory from hours and hours of training melded into a flowing attack, cutting aside the guard, the whirling blade found the neck of his opponent. A directive from the recesses of his mind stopped his swing at the last moment.

"Stop! Good job Xayven, there is little I can improve on here. Next!" The Training Master gestured and as Xayven and his opponent bowed, the next pair walked up. Later that day, sitting on his bunk, Xayven mused on his achievement. Achieving that state, even for a very short time, meant he had advanced far in his training. If only he could apply that in a real battle. That chance would come quicker than he thought. He settled back and smiled. Today, even for a short time, he had found solace.

Commentary: This next post incorporates what I believe is some of the values of a warrior. I tried to pattern most of the beginning after what I would believe a samurai would do in preparing for battle, from composing a battle-haiku (they would write haikus when they committed seppuku, their ritual suicide do it was not much of a leap to write a battle haiku), to meditating in a garden. The dialogue sequence you see later on is one of my better ones; I'm constantly finding that I usually need to improve in the area of dialogue and this was one my successes.

Forge: Part II: Hammer and Anvil, and the Solace of the Brush.

A wreath of smoke curled up into the night sky, a censer filled with scented incense burned a orange red glow, lighting the immediate area. Breathing smoothly and deeply, Xayven inhaled the sweet aroma of Borderlander pine. He sat, bare-chested, on a white cloth, purloined from the Tower's laundry for this purpose. He was in the remains of the Ogier Grove, and shattered though it was, it was a respite from the scarred city. The day before, as he trained, the catapults were ominously silent. As a student of strategy Xayven knew that amounted to only one thing, preparation for a full frontal assault on the walls. He decided to spend the evening and night fasting and meditating in preparation. It wasn't good to do battle in a full stomach anyway.

The night was beginning to give way to dawn, tendrils of green illuminating the horizon to Xayven's right. He was kneeling, palms on his thighs, breathing deep and slow. He was facing the North, his home for most of his life. North was the Blight; North was Shayol Ghul, the object of his hate. His green eyes snapped open, breathing emerald fire, a break in the monotonous calm. A cool wind ruffled his raven black hair, white forelock dancing to and fro, outlining a scar received from a Trolloc blade that extended from eyebrow to opposing cheekbone.

He bent and picked up the fox-hair brush. Before him, horizontally on the white cloth, lay Lyonheart, the Ashan Ker'reriande, the long hilted blade, the blade of his family, master forged, its Borderlander baptism in the hearts of Trollocs. Beneath that, closer to Xayven, laid his longsword, below that, a knife as long as his forearm. To the side of his blades, detailed in small roaring lions, lay the shruiken, his flying stars. To his left, a small porcelain cup filled with water, the case for his brush, a specially prepared charcoal stick, and beside that a small black, flat stone, a slight concavity marking the middle. In smooth concise motions he took the cup in his other hand, poured a few drops into the concavity, and methodically proceeded to slowly grind the stick into the water, turning as black as the sky above. He dipped the brush in the mixture and turned to his right.

Before him, on a small stand, a sheet of rice paper lay, now lit by the predawn light. He penned these words:
The Blade, it cuts fine
Of all there is, just the cut
Solace of the Blade

Breathing deep once more, he set down the brush and turned to the North once more. Bowing, at the lowest apex, he intoned: "For the Mother, For the Tower, and for my mother, I am their blade." Rising to a sitting position, he took the cup and doused the incense, causing a fragrant rush of smoke. Clothing himself, he took the rice paper and placed it, folded, into a small pouch on a leather thong and put it under his shirt, close to his heart. He tied up his shirt, put on his hardened leather armour, and fastened on his baldrics. Still kneeling, he gracefully performed Folding the Fan twice, once for Lyonheart and once for his long sword. He then sheathed his knife and attached his shruiken to the pegs on his belt, specially designed for this purpose. He stood and bowed once more to the North.

A great explosion ripped apart the pre morn calm, faint tremors could be felt under Xayven's feet. He looked up startled, only the One Power could cause something like that. Bestial yells faintly coursed their way up to the Ogier Grove. Xayven could recognise those anywhere. Somehow, some way, the enemy had called up a legion of Trollocs. Green fire from his eyes ignited once more. He drew Lyonheart, kissed it and whispered, "May you sing today!" Thinking grimly, fleetingly, while racing back to the Warderling barracks, It has begun.

He arrived at a scene of chaos, as half dressed warderlings spilled out of the barracks. Grim, fully dressed Warders, and often their Aes Sedai, criss-crossed the training yards. One sentences was on the lips of all though, They have broken through. A tingle was in the air that clearly meant, even to Xayven, the One Power was in use, and in great amounts. He could see in the distance to the wall, balls of fire hurtling back and forth. Shouting and screaming reached a higher pitch as once more flames raced through the city. Standing in the middle of the chaos, Xayven, now clear in the morning's light, could clearly see the amassed army of Trollocs and men. Floating rafts and bridges covered the river, marking the way to the gaping hole in the city walls. Defenders on the walls itself were running a fighting retreat as the Darkfriends poured into the city, but like the pressure of a major severed artery, the flood could not be stopped. Rampaging Trollocs ripped into houses, bringing out their screaming inhabitants and proceeded to savage them apart.

Mentally reining in his reeling mind, Xayven looked around the training yards. Groups of warderlings, some still in their nightclothes, were standing mute in shock. Xayven yelled at them.

"Don't just stand there, prepare for the fight!" His words galvanised them into action. Most rushed back into the barracks searching for clothes and weapons.

In the centre of the chaos, in a small knot of calm, the Training Master was in hot discussion with a group of Warders, Aes Sedai, and senior officers of the City Guard. Xayven walked closer so he could hear them speak, the Training Master looked incensed.

"The Outer Walls are falling, the gap has caused a large group of Guards to fight an enemy on both sides. They are being overrun! They need help now! With relief, we can reform and hold some of the major boulevards, and if needed the Tower Gate itself. But we need help for them now, or the enemy will press unobstructed right to the Tower gates! A group of Aes Sedai could probably save the situation..." A senior City Guard officer was speaking. A green-shawled Aes Sedai responded.

"Most of us are already at the gap and defending the walls, do you realise the enemy has Darkfriend channelers!-" She was interrupted by the officer.

"More reason for help! Our men can't fight against the One Power!" He looked slightly mortified but indignant. The Aes Sedai coolly stared at him and continued. "However, we could scrape together a party of Aes Sedai, but many of their, our, Warders are already at the walls. We would not have sufficient escort, despite the One Power. As I was saying earlier to the Training Master, a large group of warderlings could-" She was interrupted once more, this time by the Training Master. Some of the icy Aes Sedai calm was slipping, anger tightened around her eyes.

"Absolutely not! I will not let my students into that hell!-" The Aes Sedai was angry now. Xayven feared for his teacher. The Green spoke quietly through clenched teeth in a manner that made the Training Master blanch.

"Are you Gaidin, or are you not?" She asked him, using the honorific. "Perhaps you should recall you are bound to the Tower, you will do as she pleases..." The indignant Training Master stood silent for a moment, affronted by the implied question. The City Guard officer broke in as he opened his mouth to respond.

"Perhaps a group of your best students, not the whole, but a hand-picked bunch. A compromise." The Training Master, on the verge of speaking, stopped, and mulled on this. Moments passed before he slowly nodded.

"Alright...maybe a select group." The Training Master rubbed his forehead; he was not satisfied. Spotting Xayven nearby he called to him, "Xayven assemble the students, I will speak to them." Xayven ran off to the barracks and was unable to catch the rest. Things sounded dire indeed.

He started shouting in the yards and then into the barracks as he ran into them, "Warder-Aspirants assembly at the yard!" The aspirants milling around took notice. They looked relieved at some sign of organisation. They assembled quickly into a straight line outside the Barracks, hands behind back, looking straight ahead, each wearing arms, as was common for assemblies. Xayven stepped forward looked at the Training master and announced: "We are assembled, Training Master," with that he stepped back. The Training Master nodded and paced back and forth. The Aes Sedai and the officer were nearby, watching intently, behind them the chaos of the yards still spewed with noise and action. The Training Master stopped and gazed at them, his posture rigid, arms clenched behind the back; a mirror of his students. A mixture of emotion crossed his face as he gazed at the assembled students. Sadness, pride, nostalgia, and worry all battled on his blunt and grizzled face. He spoke:

"There are men on the walls who need your help. They are fighting a retreat, buying us time so we can regroup and hold off the enemy," The lustful howls of Trollocs rose behind him in the city as if emphasising his point. "A group of Aes Sedai will aid them in the retreat. Unfortunately a large amount of their Warders are already in the fighting, and they need an adequate escort. I will select this escort. But first I want to know who are willing to go. Would all who are willing please step forward?"

The warderlings stepped forward as one.

Surprise flitted across the face of the Aes Sedai, quickly replaced by gratification. The officer of the City Guard looked pleased. The Training Master looked at all of them with a fatherly pride. His sparkling eyes belied the grim countenance. Could it be that those are... Xayven started to ask himself but was interrupted by the Training Master's thick voice.

"All right, would all named please step forward once more: Xayven al'Cerinalle, Torban Dulaath, Jurgen Soto...." A flush of pride spread throughout Xayven at the first being named. The Training Master finished and paused before speaking again, "I want you to look at your neighbours. You will not see many again before the day ends. Remember their faces well. I will now give you to the Aes Sedai's capable hands." The Master finished and stepped back. Apprehensive murmurs and faces trying to be brave greeted the Aes Sedai.

"Come with me," was all she said. She gestured and the group followed. After a few minutes, several shawled Aes Sedai joined the group, some with Warders, some without. Without further ado, the group headed of into the city, the Warders and aspirants fanning out into a protective circle. This close to the Tower, they met little resistance and saw groups of City Guard reserves rushing to the front lines. The passed through several burned streets, as they grew closer to the walls. They could now easily hear the sounds of battle. Several Warders unsheathed their blades at this point. The aspirants followed their example, and Xayven unlimbered Lyonheart. A scarred, veteran Warder grimaced and spat as he spoke.

"I can feel the taint this close, Shadowspawn are near." Not even as he finished speaking, a large group of trollocs rounded the corner of the ruined street, and upon seeing the humans, they charged, howling gleefully. An immense barrage of fire and lightning dissolved the ranks and the trollocs were decimated as a whole. Xayven and the aspirants hardly had a chance to move, the Aes Sedai had dealt death so swiftly. Nerves were showing in the whole group. Remember the solace of the blade Xayven attempted to gather his concentration, but it fled him, spilling like a jar of marbles on a floor, each marble a charged emotion. He began his breathing exercises as they turned the street corner and faced the wall.

A black morass of men and trollocs crowded inside the wall, on top, Xayven could see the City Guards in desperate battle. The stairs leading from the ground to the wall top were clogged with the bodies of men and trollocs. Wooden ladders, brought from the other side, were being raised. To his right Xayven could see among the roaring masses of the enemy a space of calm. An ominously black-clothed man, two Myrdraal standing beside him as bodyguards, raised his hands. Before Xayven's very eyes, he saw the man conjure balls of flame that burst among the Guards in the wall. Maniacal laughter could be heard from across the street. An infamous Dreadlord. A red shawled Aes Sedai gathered with her compatriots linking hands with an unspoken command.

"We know best how to deal with this kind." The Red leader growled. The red-shawled Aes Sedai gathered together, linked the One Power. Xayven had now seen, among other things this day, legend come to life. Suddenly the Dreadlord clapped his hands to his head and screamed; the Aes Sedai had shielded him from the One Power. He turned thrashing in pain, the Myrdraal with him, to catch sight of the group. They had escaped notice from the teeming masses until now. The trollocs paused as one from their attack on the wall and rushed the much smaller group. The actions of the trollocs prompted Xayven to shout to a nearby Warder.

"The Trollocs are under the thrall of the two Myrdraal, kill them and-" he broke off as the Warder nodded sharply.

"Yes, I know Borderlander. We will do something about it." He turned and briefly conferred with his Aes Sedai and fellow Warders. Now with the battlelines formed, the barrage of the Aes Sedai began. The masses of trollocs now collided with roiling balls of flame, forks of lightning, the One Power. The One Power split the trolloc ranks like a hot knife through butter, the light of the destruction creating an unearthly sheen on the line of bared steel. In the wake of the destruction rode the Warders, moving with a panther like grace. The Dreadlord, still occupied by the Reds, lay kneeling on the ground, hands pressed to head. His two Myrdraal bodyguards were nervously fingering their Thakandar blades. And then the Warders were upon them. To Xayven, at the battlelines, it was like watching a pair of serpents fighting a pack of leopards. The blades themselves were animated fluidity.

But Xayven had no more time to watch the Warders fight. The Aes Sedai's efforts merely to keep a line of open space between them and the Warders were beginning to tell as the sheer numbers of trollocs pressured the line. Several aspirants and remaining Warders were now in combat with the brutes. The line of destruction opened up in front of Xayven as the majority of weaves were being used in the opening, towards the Myrdraal. A gargantuan trolloc leapt at Xayven, the sickle blade meeting Lyonheart in a shower of sparks. A quick snap of the wrist and a jab to the throat dispatched the trolloc, leaving it clutching its bleeding neck. A roar spun Xayven around, to see a trolloc about to decapitate a fellow aspirant who was off balance, sword lost in the mess of the battlefield. A slash from Xayven hamstrung the trolloc and another beheaded it. Xayven tossed the weaponless aspirant his longsword from the sheath on his back. A grateful nod was all Xayven could receive before spinning back to meet a new adversary. Suddenly the ground before Xayven's feet opened up. An explosion blinded him and he felt himself fly through the air to land painfully on his back. A badly time use of the One Power. He got up slowly, dizzily, white spots obscuring his vision. His chest hurt very much, but other than that he seemed to be in one piece. He could see blearily, the inevitable end of the Warder's duel with the Myrdraal. Outnumbered by the Warders, the Myrdraal were left convulsing on the cobblestones, headless.

As he gathered himself, the collective howling of the trollocs reverberated against the walls. The death of the Myrdraal incited them to savage each other and anything in the immediate area. Now the Aes Sedai had an easy time clearing a path to the stairs to the walls. As the ragged group of City Guards made their way down, several horn blasts were sounded from the direction of the Tower. The officer of the City Guard cadre yelled over the sounds of mauling to the Aes Sedai, "That is the signal to withdrawal to the city. We can make our stand, holding the major streets to the Tower, for a time." The reply of the Aes Sedai was lost in over the noise, but the group collectively moved away from the walls, leaving behind a chaotic mass of Shadowspawn.

Commentary: This next post is the climax of the mini-series, and almost a solid action sequence. You see Xayven here, transforming as he fights, an interesting metamorphosis. I tried to use different language for each of those sequences to heighten this effect. This is some of my more poetic action writing as well. There are some other facts that surround this battle that are written in the Timeless saga I referred to before. The exploding Tower Gate (not the gate in the earlier post, that was actually part of the city's walls) was part of an epic battle between a Dreadlord and a pair Aes Sedai. I only mention it in passing. One other note, I wrote these posts on a computer in Germany. The language provided by the Word program I used had British English as well as German. As a consequence, many of the words in my post that are verbs and involve z's in American English are written as s's, i.e. galvanised versus galvanized. Anyways, as I say below, Enjoy!

Forge: Part III: Baptism of Fire, Quenching of the Blade

The heat of battle was oppressive. The palisade, temporarily set up, flung together by the One Power, rocked under each new onslaught. Standing by the chest high wall of wagons, tables, chairs, and charred timbers, Xayven could taste the metallic tang of his own blood on his tongue. He couldn't remember how he got the cut on his forehead that was the cause of it, but beside that and being bone weary, he was astonishingly all right. A house to his left burned from a fireball gone astray. Flecks of ash flew into Xayven's eyes, the wind that blew them there also carrying the sickly sweet odour of seared flesh. He tried to grip Lyonheart harder, but the hilt was slick with blood, his fingers cramped around the leather. The midday sun beat down on his brow, the glare like a burden on his shoulders. The yellow ball was a dull, beating club, the sky orange from dust and smoke. Sweat rolled down his face, making trails through the ash, dust and dried blood. Mind over matter became Xayven's mantra, snarling it at the sun.

The line was not holding well. The group he took part with at the wall action was the largest single group to make it back. Smaller groups, most of them dirtied from battle, some last ditch reserves, and some pursued by Darkfriends and trollocs, joined them and now held the line that was all between the enemy and the Gates of the Tower itself. The One Power was in use on both sides, elemental forces unleashed, terrorising the opposing lines. The last rush of the enemy had thinned the defenders significantly. Exhaustion made up the fog that was Xayven's mind, laced with threads of fear. This was it.

On the other side of the palisade, now littered with dead men and Trollocs, the forces once again gathered for a charge. As many sorties the combined forces of City Guards, Warders and Aes Sedai, and the warderlings could repel, the trollocs and Darkfriends still came. Numbers was what they had, and numbers they used. Numbers could take even the Tower, given time. Bellows of uninhibited bloodlust rocked the surrounding houses, and in their midst Xayven dared to mount the palisade and peer at the enemy. Their sheer amount staggered him and almost rent him to the core. This was the largest rush they would experience.

Solace. Like a delivering angel, the unbidden thought saved him from the pit that was bitter helplessness. He firmly planted his feet on a steady part of the barricade... Trollocs, black armoured, wielding sickles and scythes, were like a descending cloud of pestilence...Gathering his thoughts, Xayven focused his mental efforts, stilling himself to a state of calm...The howls were at a crescendo pitch, the collective thirst for blood was a force unto itself...Cresting the barrier like an avalanche, the hordes gleefully engaged the grim defenders...And there was only Xayven, the blade, and the enemy, and one objective, cut down the enemy mercilessly...Thought, objective, and action fused into one.

Time slowed.

Xayven's cloak kicked up in the wind, but Xayven was faster than the wind, twisting his cloak into a fluid ribbon as Lyonheart leapt for the face of one Trolloc. Dim surprise inched its way across the beast's face as the blade slid into the gaping hole that was its mouth and exiting out the back of its head, sticky with what was primordial brain matter.

Cut.

A snarling Trolloc was leaping down on an injured aspirant who was clutching his leg. The sickle sword began its slow downward arc from above the Trolloc's head. Using his hand as a fulcrum, Xayven powered his blade and cut through the muscle, bone and tendon that was the Trolloc's leg. The beast landed only to find half his weight on nothingness; he began to topple over, not yet realising the loss. The sickle sword descended to the ground from the open hand of the off balance Trolloc; Lyonheart slid through its armour to find and still the beast's beating heart.

Cut.

Two Darkfriend soldiers were advancing upon an Aes Sedai, her back turned to them. River Undercuts the Bank, sliced through one, gutting the soldier. Swallow takes Flight, slashed through the other's side as he turned to react to the threat. The Aes Sedai whipped around, a ball of flame dancing on her fingertips, and saw Xayven. She smiled slightly, Xayven and the Aes Sedai sharing a moment of battlefield camaraderie. A rending sound issued from behind Xayven, a chill swept from his spine as he froze.

The sphere of calm evaporated in an instant as Xayven spun around, beholding a gruesome sight. It was what had been a fellow warderling. A trolloc stood over the body, pausing from ravaging the body, its muzzle greasy with blood and body fluids. A cry of horror escaped Xayven's lips, only to be eclipsed by a primal ascension of rage. A dismembered arm in both hands, the trolloc had no chance as Xayven descended upon it, a crimson film coursing through his vision. Rage overtook him, and he began slashing at the trolloc's body, slashing until he tired, slashing until he could lift his sword no more.

"Fall back!!" The cry pierced Xayven's mind, he looked at himself, and blood covered his forearms like grisly gloves. His sword fell to the ground from his nerveless hands. A black cloud filled his mind, as numbness took over his senses. All around him, men of Tar Valon raced back to the Gates, Trollocs in chase. A fellow aspirant saw him standing there, he ran to Xayven tugged at his arm, shouting words into his ears that he did not care to understand. Frustrated, the aspirant slapped him, and reality came back with a vengeance.

"Come on! We must hold the gate!" the aspirant tugged more fiercely on Xayven's arm. Xayven bent down and picked up his sword, and let himself be led, stumbling, back to the gates. The Training Master with the rest of the students stood before the gate, the rest of the warderlings with him, the entirety of the Tower's future Warders. The sight gave strength to Xayven. He pulled away from the grasp of his fellow aspirant and regained his bearings. Still a penumbra of grief blotted his consciousness, he noticed from the group at the walls, only one in three aspirants had made it back. Those that had made it back were joined with the rest of the aspirants, the last of the last. Aes Sedai dotted the Tower Walls, never meant to be more than a wall to keep the populace from Tower grounds.

The accumulated Trolloc masses now face a foe with its back against a wall. A foe ready to battle for its very existence. A pause. It was one of the strange things that happen in battle, both sides drawing a collective breath before the charge. A wind swept in, billowing cloaks, and driving the dust and smoke away. The wind carried not the foul scent of the carrion of battle, but rather a fresh wind, carrying upon its wings of all things... Hope? As quick as it blew in it left, the Shadowspawn took no more rest and descended upon dour defenders.

The respite of the wind, like a banner unfurling, spread within Xayven a feeling of inexplicable hope. Like a hymn of salvation, it rose, unfolded, and released a feeling fierce joy. Abandoning thoughts of the day, Xayven cast away his worries, cast away his grief and entered into battle with a fey grin on his face. It did not matter that he would die today. It did not matter if he could not revenge his mother and fellow aspirants, for if he did not live this moment to its fullest, how could he? An unfathomable strength filled his limbs, freed his mind and like an eagle on the heights, he stooped in the face of the wind. The snarling Trollocs became a blur that he cut through, an explosion rocked behind him, shattering the gates, but it did not matter. He lived, and that mattered. Like a phoenix reborn, he entered into combat a new man. He beheld within himself a new perfection. A line of fire traced its way across his chest from a slash he could not block. He gave it no reference to become pain. Liberation. Lyonheart, his blade, truly sang. Its metallic tones, a chorus of the most deadly kind. The shruiken sang too, as they left his hands to find the enemy. His body became a symphony, vibrating on the notes of the dance. He became a wraith, singing death to his enemies.

A horn blast joined his song, and then another too. A counterpoint to his melody. He lifted his eyes, and beheld the banners of the Ten Nations. Around him, the Shadowspawn howled. This time not in bloodlust, but in fear. The nations poured through the gap in the walls sweeping aside the Trollocs in a wave of steel. He peered around him and comprehended the outcome of the battle. The Gate lay in rubble, a corpse in a bowl of destruction. A weathered Warder gathered the warderlings around him and began to herd the remaining Darkfriends toward the Tower. Through the dust Xayven could see here and there, Aes Sedai healing others, taking others to the infirmary and the training yards for field medicine. A Manetheranian soldier on a horse galloped across the closest Aes Sedai. Xayven could not hear their voices, but the smile on the Aes Sedai spoke volumes. He took account of himself; the gash on his chest was bad. The energy that motivated him in the last now ebbed away. His legs became jelly, and he stumbled around. Black flecks started to flit across his eyes and he attempted to reach a nearby Aes Sedai. His legs failed him though, and darkness took over.

A fuzzy sort of reality made him open his eyes, and look up at the sky. It's blue today he idly wondered, it was usually overcast by smoke and ash. A face obscured the sky, and Xayven heard words spoken to him. He could hardly understand them, and only caught his name as he felt himself being moved. He felt very, very tired and the arms of sleep slipped around him once more.

He woke up in the infirmary. He didn't feel like moving. Hunger filtered through his drowsiness, he was stiff, and his muscles felt as if he went through a smithy to come out the other side. A smiling Training Master was at his side, and this time Xayven could comprehend the words.

"We were afraid we nearly lost you there for a while, Borderlander. It was tough and go as the Aes Sedai healed you. I saw you in the end there. Now that the siege has ended, any Aes Sedai would be glad to snatch you up." A leathery hand gripped his forearm and Xayven returned the gesture. He survived the forge, to become something new, stronger, and better.

Live

Commentary: For ``Live,'' I made up what I call a filler post, a post that between ideas of inspiration, is intended to fill up time and generally state that you are still an active character on the website. We see basically a tying up of loose ends here, the return of Xayven's longsword. To date I have not done anything with the character of Jerval Tropby. Another note: Xayven reaction to the leaving Accepted is similar in attitude to a good friend of mine's attitude towards women (can't understand them!). He hopefully will be pleased to see that some elements of my character has been based of him (You know who you are, E J)

It was the dream again. A common nightmare once more. The past days and nights in the infirmary sleeping off the effects of Healing were interspersed with bouts of bad dreams. Caught. Like a moth moving ever closer to the candle flame. A fly caught in the lace of a web of horror...

The raid more than overwhelmed the defenders, and as Xayven battled the wounded Halfman, more and more Trollocs poured over the walls. As the battle between him and the Eyeless increased in ferocity, a scream erupted from the upper chambers of the manor, Xayven risked a glance. His mother was held before the window, a black armoured Trolloc grasping her hair and clothes. As he watched, the Trolloc threw her out the window. She was dashed to the ground and nearby Trollocs converged with lustful roars. Xayven screamed, and started to run towards the horrible sound of rending flesh and the grunts of feeding Trollocs. He gasped as cold steel penetrated his back, the sibilant, snake-like voice of the Halfman in his ears.

"You are mine now, Borderlander." Xayven turned in his bed, not yet awake, but unsettled.

The raid more than overwhelmed the defenders, and as Xayven battled the wounded Halfman, more and more Trollocs poured over the walls. As the battle between him and the Eyeless increased in ferocity, a scream erupted from the upper chambers of the manor, Xayven risked a glance. His mother was held before the window, a black armoured Trolloc grasping her hair and clothes. As he watched, the Trolloc threw her out the window. She was dashed to the ground and nearby Trollocs began to make there way to her. Xayven screamed, and started to run towards them. A cry of frustration sounded from behind him as the Myrdraal was deprived of his prey. Xayven made it to Carina before the Trollocs did, his blade flickering death to any who dared to come closer. More and more Trollocs came charging over the walls. A whisper turned Xayven's attention to his mother. His heart broke as she spoke to him.

``You must leave... my son... go and... live!'' With that, as Xayven's hand cradled her face, she slumped to the ground...

Brief flashes of lucidity did nothing to calm Xayven and after finally shaking off the chains of unconsciousness, Xayven lifted his sheets and placed his feet on the cold marble floor. He was in one of the many rooms that took up the infirmary wing of the Tower.

An Accepted doing her rounds opened the door to the spartan room and stared open mouthed at Xayven... and then giggled. Confused Xayven looked down, and realised his lack of apparel. His face became warm.

``Seeing as you're up and about, your clothes are on the chair. You're obviously healthy, so you're welcome to leave at any time.'' The Accepted ended this with an appraising glance and slipped out the door, Xayven could hear her laughing down the hallway. Shaking his head to clear thoughts of the oddities of women, he clothed himself and belted on his sword. He gave his longsword to a fellow warderling during the last day of the siege. Hopefully he would get it back.

Stretching out the kinks in his back, he became aware of the hole that was his stomach. I could eat a horse and a half! He thought as he left the room and made his way to the kitchens. He was about to wave down a cook to explain and satiate the wolf that was gnawing on his belly. A tap on his shoulder stopped him though and turning, he encountered a pleasant surprise. It was Aldrect, of course, with a grin stretching from ear to ear.

``Still puttering with the pots I suppose?'' Xayven joked. Aldrect affected a hurt look and then smiled again.

``At least it's better than getting sliced up like a cut of meat as you always seem to be! No, I had someone keep an eye on you and tell me when you were up,'' Aldrect replied. The two exchanged hearty slaps and proceeded to walk to the tables. A novice took their order, with a look of surprise for the amount that Xayven requested.

``There's a hole in my stomach the size of a pair of oxen!'' Xayven remarked as the novice walked away, and the two friends idly chatted until the food appeared. Xayven dove into it like a rabid dog, and before long called for another portion. Aldrect looked on with amusement.

Halfway through his third plate Xayven asked Aldrect what had happened in the Tower and the city while he lay in the infirmary.

"Well, not a lot. The clean up operation has hardly started, but with the aid of the Ten Nations, the city should be restored fairly quickly. There is even an Aridholian emissary here at the Tower. As far as I know, they're still counting the dead among the warderlings, Warders and Aes Sedai." Aldrect finished with a grim set to his mouth.

Xayven finished his plate and sat back to think on what Aldrect told. The events surprised him, and he dwelled on them for a while. Rising he told Aldrect, ``Let's get my stuff back to the barracks. I also lent my sword to another aspirant. Let's see if he's still around. They crossed to a hallway and then to the Hall of Petitions. From this they went outside to the training yards.

The yards weren't empty, but the lack of warderlings spoke volumes. They entered the sleeping area and propped Xayven's stuff by his bunk. A blonde-haired warderling, as tall as Xayven, dressed in subdued colors, walked up to the two.

"Jerval Tropby, you lent me your sword. Thanks for the save. The blade served me well." He handed Xayven's longsword over and Xayven sheathed it in his empty baldric.

"Xayven al'Cerinalle, at yours, and your House's service." Xayven introduced himself formally.

"Aldrect Karishan," Aldrect introduced himself and shook the other's hand.

"Want to see if we can find a tavern that is still open out there?" Jerval's eyes lit up. Now the two had somebody else to get into trouble with.

The Sand Through our Fingers

Commentary: On ``The Sand Through our Fingers,'' I had the privilege of posting with one of the most experienced role-players on the WOT website. The character of Oren Myles, the Training Master, is one of the many characters written by a single person, Dylan Kennet. In this post, I refer to a post written earlier by him about the Training Master collecting the various swords of his dead aspirants and hanging them on his office wall. The post was quite good, and I determined to write one myself from a warderling point of view. This post is also a post that takes my character through quite a mental journey. Criticisms: I seemed to write Xayven a little too abashed at expressing his mind. (Too many exclamation marks.)

OOC: regards to Swords, and some of my own posts.

Restless, Xayven fought with his cloying blankets. The night was thick and hot in the sleeping room of the barracks. Surrounded by snoring and slumbering warderlings he turned, uncomfortable. It wasn't only his sheets he fought though, but also his general feeling of unrest and internal turmoil. A gray pall of sadness settled on his mind that bespoke of the atmosphere that permeated the training yards these days. Even earlier this day, in the hall of the barracks that served for a common eating area for the warderlings, a young aspirant, barely fuzz on his face, broke down into tears. An embarrassed silence filled the hall then, making more poignant the grief of the young man. It wasn't clear what caused his stress, but the feeling was mutual to all there. A friend attempted to counsel the distraught warderling but he leapt up from the benches and fled the hall. The silence carried though the meal until most of the students left the hall. The aspirant's grief echoed uneasily in the minds of all, each had lost friends and comrades in the field. And tommorow, there would be the funeral ceremony for those fallen in the siege. Everybody's mind was on that.

Warderling training formed a strange fellowship among the students, a fellowship bound by the sweat and blood that was mingled in the training yards, and now throughout the city. Xayven, a Borderlander by descent, was used to schooled emotions in the face of grief in public. The raw display of an emotion that lay heavily in the minds of all unsettled him. It was reflected in his training that day. His focus was broken and efforts half-hearted. Xayven preferred to keep his emotions on a tight leash and locked up on the inside. Still, he was quite introspective; he, at times, reviewed his emotions with arbitrary neutrality. Life in the Borderlands was often filled with death, something dealt with privately and with control. Xayven himself dealt with close deaths before, his mother and former trainer, sergeant of his father's men-at-arms, had fallen to the Trolloc blade.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips Life is but sand through our fingers, flowing, flowing to the ground, spent. He often prided himself with his intellectual distance from his emotions. It was a schooled practice to view such things from a distance inside his mind. He picked apart each emotion, introspectively taking apart, rooting to find the cause and solution. It lent sometimes a cold aspect to his personality. Others saw it as acting `lordly,' like Aldrect, when they first met, but it really was a cold separation between thought and what he felt.

Yet among his cynical wanderings, there was a true kernel of sorrow. It was that what drove him to his adventure among enemy lines. And although Xayven usually kept his feelings close to heel, there were times his mental guard was let down. His feelings for friends and family were one of those things. And though intellectual distance allowed him to focus and gain self-control, he, himself, still hurt, like a raw burn. The loss of his mother and his comrades weighed down a heavy yoke on his heart. It would be easier if I let myself grieve, then let this introspection grind me down. He had seen it often enough among his father's men, those who lost comrades sometimes became quiet, pensive, until their internal dam burst. There were some who then went to the Blight, seeking release in the killing of Shadowspawn. Whispers would follow them, taken by the Blight, they said. The frightening thing with Xayven was, he could identify with them. And sometimes, when you distanced yourself enough, numbness would follow. But you then crave feeling, even, pain, to penetrate the blanket of no-feeling. The desire to feel would be like a starving fox gnawing at your ribs. You become listless, like a dandelion seed, floating, floating, and ever searching fruitlessly for sensation.

Enough of these mind games! Xayven thought angrily, and somewhere in the back of his head came: Ah, anger, at least you feel something... He banished the thought.

He turned to his side, hunting for a comfortable position. A light, suffusing gently into the room he was sleeping in disturbed him. He sat up and realized it was from behind the door. Agghh! I can't sleep, so I might as well investigate. He quick pulled on his pants and shirt, and padded to the door. He slipped quietly into the hallway, and noticed the light was coming from the half opened door of the Training Master's office. He paused before it and then resolutely entered. He slipped in quietly, and took in the office. The hardwood floor was covered here and there by rugs, and there was a bookcase on one wall, the opposite facing a now curtained window. The bookcase had a curious lack of glasses and drinks, which were often in such quarters; its shelves were full of books on military history and tactics. The desk was well worn and polished, its chair a hard-backed, hard-seated thing. A steaming pot of tea of plain china sat on a tray on the desk, a cup and saucer beside it. Xayven noted this, he's a disciplined man, but I knew that already. The wall facing the door was covered in sword racks. Oren Myles stood facing this, a hand lovingly touching a hilt. His back was straight and tense; Xayven could see his jaw was clenched from his vantage point. He hadn't heard Xayven enter yet.

"Mind if I join you?" He asked. The Training Master's hand came ever so slightly off the hilt. He turned slowly, and smiled tiredly when he saw it was Xayven. He looked haggard; those familiar features were etched deeper than usual. A tension filled his face, that spoke of forced relaxation.

"Couldn't sleep either? It's no matter," the Training Master paused and sat down. He picked up the cup and took a sip. "It's good tea, I'd offer you some, but I only brought one cup." Xayven shook his head anyway. The silence was heavy. He took a breath and hazarded a statement, something he been dwelling on before, something he thought he recognized in the Training Master. Something that frightened him to see in such a authority figure.

"They all slip through our fingers like sand, don't they?" Oren's eyes looked up to meet his, they were blood shot and filled with frightening intensity. He held the gaze a moment longer and then stood up again, turning once more to the racks, cup and saucer in hand.

"You would know better than most, Borderlander." Again the silence was thick. A minute passed before the Training Master spoke, "So many of you, so many lost..." his voice trailed off, he lightly touched a sword again. Xayven recognized it. It was Altam Thine's, a fellow warderling, killed in the siege. He realized most of the wall was now covered with warderling swords. Dead warderlings. A grey pall seemed to hang in the air, as Xayven caught the Training Master's mood.

Not this again, I will not bow to this melancholy trap! It's not right that he has to feel guilty for all of this! He can't stay trapped in this pit! It was impossible to save them all. They chose to fight! Aloud he said, "It's not your fault. In a way they were like the Warders, they died fighting for the Tower; they died because they were bound to the Tower. They died because they wanted to defend the Tower, chose to defend the Tower. Warders are bound to the Tower by the One Power. These warderlings did something more. They died bound to the Tower by their blood freely given."

The Training Master slowly turned around and quirked an eyebrow. Xayven felt abashed at his outburst. He decided to try to make amends, straightening his back till it was as straight as a measuring stick. He spoke slowly and calmly; this was his Training Master after all.

"I chose to fight, it was my right to chose...'' He ended trailing off weakly, and Oren sat back down at the desk. The position of his shoulders spoke of weariness, but he was watching Xayven's face intently. Xayven could hardly read his face, but he forged ahead. "We shall honour their memory, their blood spilled, we mustn't resurrect their ghosts by agonizing over their sacrifice. We can't change the past. Their responsibility for their lives became their own when they took up their swords to defend the Tower." Xayven ended, a part of his mind quivering in fear, he had just strongly spoke his mind to the Training Master! He could be thrown out of the Tower, no longer an aspirant for this very conversation! The Training Master's next words snapped him out of his reverie.

"You're right, you know, you're right. He said it with a note of resignation that chilled Xayven. The Training Master closed his eyes, as if pondering some mental burden, and then opened them to cast his piercing gaze on Xayven. He smiled slightly, "It's not often I get lectured by my students, it is usually the other way around. You show an amount of maturity that is unusual in a student." He sat back in his chair and stared at Xayven, hand on chin as if reviewing him, corners of his mouth perked up. Xayven stood stock still, arms behind back, as if it was a review on the training yard. He felt a flush of pride at the compliment the Training Master paid him. The smile held a hint of amusement at the chagrin Xayven had told him with. Xayven grinned back. But inside he felt old beyond his years. To see his Training Master so weary, even to a person such as Xayven, to see someone he saw as a surrogate father, to discover he was human weighed on his mind and heart like a millstone. He felt as old as the Training Master.

Oren finished his mental review had stood up. He pushed the chair in, paced back and forth as if he was in the yards and barked, "Now get back to your bunk aspirant! We have a funeral to attend tommorow and I want you well rested!" Yep, that was the Training Master alright!. Xayven quickly exited his office and returned to his bed. This time, his sheets weren't putting up such a fight and he fell into a dreamless sleep immediately.

Back inside the office of the Training Master, Oren once more was looking at the racks on his wall. If an outsider had been in the room he would have seen the Training Master smile as he touched one of the hilts. It would be a strange thing to the outsider if he had understood the swords' meaning and missed the conversation.

Turmoil

Commentary: For ``Turmoil,'' I had a most enjoyable time creating the good ol' fashioned butt-kicking of bullies post. Raoul, and Javid are characters that I had created for only the use of this post, although we do see a mention of Raoul in a later post. I was proud of this post; my ceremony for the warderlings and the pendant of the survivors were used in many other people's posts that regard Tar Valon. However, in this post, I have some of the most unimaginably blocky dialogue that I have written, and numerous repetitions, like the use of ``However,'' etc.

Not a mite of the turmoil that was brewing inside Xayven showed on his face. He ate his meal slowly in the hall that served for the eating area in the warderling barracks. Behinds the noise and bustle that was the midday meal raged on. He spotted Aldrect in the crowd, but didn't wave to him. Aldrect would come over if he spotted Xayven.

Sighing, he put his fork down on the table. A walk in the gardens would be right just now. Unnoticed he slipped out of the hall and training yards and made his way to the Ogier Garden. Along with the stonemasons that came to repair the walls, Ogier Gardeners came to restore the garden. It was once more filled with life and vitality. Vilarth, an Ogier guide that escorted Xayven from his home through the Ways to Tar Valon, was one of the tenders of this fragile beauty that existed inside the Shining Walls. Xayven visited him on occasion. It seemed ages since he left his home in Aramelle, but in reality it was less than a year, not quite even ten months. A stone bench in a secluded part of the garden looked appealing. He sat down, looking more than a little out of place. He'd been practicing before coming to the mess and didn't change before eating. A scar-faced warderling in training complement sitting in a bench in the middle of a garden. It would've looked odd to anybody. He combed his fingers through his raven black hair and mused.

So much of the warderlings he trained with now he didn't know. There was a rift in warderling ranks. After the siege the depleted ranks of warderlings were filled up with eager young recruits from the armies of the Ten Nations that treated the survivors with no little condescension. To themselves, they were the rescuers; it was on their effort alone that the Shining Walls stood. They knew nothing. The bloodiest fighting was seen by those who stood inside, those who stood proud, those who waited the long months for the siege to abate from relief by the Ten Nations that came almost too late. Xayven hated their gloating attitude.

He was a lone wolf kind of guy. He didn't have many friends outside of Aldrect Karishan, but the siege had built a strong bond between the survivors that was hard to break. The funeral of the warderlings killed in the siege was one of the many events that built this bond. Placing his elbows on his knees, he threaded his fingers, put them to his mouth and leaned forward, recalling that particular day.

It was a windy day, a hard and cold wind from the north. The warder-aspirants, Xayven proudly among them, stood in a measuring stick straight line, facing a row of coffins. Each aspirant stood in parade ground stance, backs straight. It was held in the Ogier Gardens, the beauty of the grounds seen fit for this service. There were a few Aes Sedai that attended, chief among them, Darya Sedai and Mistress of Novices. Some officers of the City Guard were there, several Warders as well, the families of the aspirants who were born in Tar Valon attended also. Oren Myles the Training Master presided over the ceremony. Noticeably absent were several of the new recruits. It was evidence of the rivening split between the two groups.

The wind blew through the trees, kicking up leaves and cloaks.

There were flags laid on the coffins, bearing the colors and signs of the White Tower, and beneath them the home colors of the nations they came from. The flags, fastened tight to the coffins pillowed with the wind. A long silence carried over the crowd there. Not a few of the warderlings had tears in their eyes; Xayven was struggling with that too. We lost so much!

Oren, in a clear, strident voice that was heard across the meadow in the Gardens, a familiar voice to all standing there, called out "Warder-Aspirants draw arms!" A line of steel flashed into being. The air sang with the sound of the blade drawn from the scabbard. Each aspirant held his sword straight up, the pommel of each blade centered at the waist. All eyes were locked ahead.

"Honour to the Tower!" As one, the aspirants turned to their

left, where the Tower lay, and brought their weapons up in a salute to the White Tower. The sun glinted on the blades.

"Honour to the fallen!" The aspirants turned to the line of coffins facing them and saluted the coffins. This time, they saluted eight and twenty times, for the eight and twenty that fell. The blades rose and fell simultaneously.

The salute ended and Oren cried out, "Flag-bearers!" A pair of aspirants walked to each coffin, took the flags and tightly folded them. One from each stepped back from the coffins leaving behind an aspirant bearing the flag. To the side of coffins stood a line of horsemen, recruited from the City Guard for this purpose. They would bear the flag to the nearest of kin for each of the dead, leaving through the nearby Waygate. The closest aspirant stepped up to the first City Guard horseman, intoning, "We charge you with this burden, until it has reached safe-keeping. Let nothing stop you save the last embrace of the Mother." The horseman nodded, mounted and rode away. Some had a short distance to travel, just inside the city. Finally, the flag ceremony was finished. A group of Aes Sedai stepped up, one to each coffin. With weaves of Air, they gently lowered the coffins into the ground. An aspirant for each coffin stepped up once more, took a handful of the dirt that was beside each grave, and symbolically sprinkled the graves. They stepped back, honour paid with full respect.... Later that day, there was a ceremony for the survivors. A pendant was given to each that served in the siege. A silver pendant, the White Tower with a broken Trolloc sickle blade underneath emblazoned upon it. It was a mark of honour for their defence given.

Xayven fingered the pendant as he recalled the scene. He let out a big breath, bent down and picked up a handful of sand, letting it drift to the ground through his fingers. Close to his nineteenth naming day, he was an older trainee; his age and maturity separated him from the rest of the pack. Those who knew him respected him, but never more than that. He often looked down on the childish jockeying, the pecking order that rose out of any kind of adolescent group. He thought about that for a moment and corrected himself. In almost any group there was a pecking order. This time, however, the rivalry spilled out into the training yard, causing several fights.

This last week it went too far. There was one event where a prank had gone bad. Javid, a "survivor," as was the term these days, had been sleeping in his bunk. Javid had proudly cultivated his first beard; he felt it was a mark of his coming of age. Some of the new recruits had sought to deprive Javid of his beard. In most cases such a thing would have caused an inordinate amount of comedy, except for the fact that the knife that was shaving his face slipped and Javid had his face cut open. His cry woke up almost the entire barracks. Xayven had hurried to the scene and had to separate Javid and one Raoul Veltane, the de facto leader of the new recruits. Javid took this personally; he thought it was an attack, rather than a prank. Childish.

A small group passed by, an Aes Sedai and a pair of Accepted. The Aes Sedai was teaching the two something of the One Power. Xayven looked up from sitting on the bench and caught a delicately arched eyebrow from the Aes Sedai, who continued to walk on, teaching the two. He smiled to himself, Definitely an odd sight in the Gardens.

He scrubbed his fingers through his hair again. It was nearly shoulder length. Raoul, on the training field and in the barracks never failed to comment on it. He called it a mane, and reffered Xayven to other horse like traits. Xayven simply didn't respond. This infuriated Raoul, who enjoyed getting a reaction out of his victims. The thing was, Raoul backed up his viciousness in the training yards, he had been a lieutenant from one of the Ten Nations armies, quite a honor for one so young. He had won his appointment with skill of the blade. So far Xayven had avoided Raoul on the field, not wishing to descend to his level, but Raoul seized upon this with a fervor, sending implying rumors of cowardice. He does have one thing right; I need to cut my hair. He got up from the bench. He knew a place that would cut his hair and had escaped unscathed in the siege.

***

The press of the crowd milled around him. Reconstruction efforts proceeded with vigour. On this street alone, Xayven could see at least a score of buildings been repaired or built before the street curved around a bend. A group of Ogier travelled through the crowd, easy to pick out, as they were a good three or four hands taller than anybody else. Xayven neared the group as the crowd gave way to the masons. Catching an eye of one of them, Xayven bowed slightly, "Honour to the Builders." The huge face creased into a smile as the crowd swept them their respective ways. Xayven soon found the shop he was looking for and entered.

An hour later, he was feeling the new shortness of his hair. The white forelock set of the rest of the black hair off. He decided to like the new shortness. It was not much of a walk to return to the barracks, the compound was close to the shop. The moment he walked past the large gates, he felt the turmoil brewing in the yards. A group of aspirants were gathered in the centre, angry yells reached Xayven from the gates. He rushed up to find the source of the commotion. Javid, his face flushed red, a white line showed where the Yellows healed him, was pressing against two of his fellow warderlings restraining him. Facing him, with a group of the new recruits surrounding him like so many syphocants, stood Raoul. The tall red haired aspirant's face was set in a snarl of contempt. His hands were crossed idly over his training sword.

"What is going on here?" Xayven asked Raoul, stepping between the two parties. Raoul scowled at first at the interruption and then grinned wickedly as he saw the new haircut.

"Looks like you took my advice, Scar-face, and cut off that mane of yours," he gestured at Javid, "This, it's no matter to you." His tone immediately set Xayven off. However, he would not let Raoul provoke him. He smiled a tight-lipped smile.

"What if I make it matter to me?" he responded. Raoul glared before answering him.

"It would not be wise to do that, but I see that you survivors need to cling to each other to survive. None of you can stand alone." Raoul looked at Javid. "Let him stand alone Scar-face." He was beginning to irk Xayven's ire.

"I earned this scar defending my House and honour from the minions of the Dark One. It was earned in battle, which is more than you can say." Raoul's face flushed, and Xayven started to walk away.

"I spit on your House and your honour!" Raoul spat on the ground, Xayven froze in midstride. Encouraged Raoul called out again, "Your House is worthless, if you are the spawn of it and are any model! Your mother was unlucky to bear you!"

Wrong thing to say.

He could tolerate Raoul's insult on his House and honour, Raoul knew nothing of each, but his mother died when Trollocs attacked their manor in Aramelle. Xayven's father and brothers were at the front when it happened. Xayven was in Tar Valon. It was a cause of unending agony for him, that he wasn't there on the manor to protect her. He turned slowly and spoke with a deadly quiet. It took all of his self-control to do so.

"If that is the case, I challenge you to defend this insult to my honour. Live steel, not these wooden things." He gestured angrily at the wooden training sword Raoul held. "We fight to first blood." He turned back to the barracks to get Lyonheart, his sword. Eager warderlings raced ahead of them to spread word of the duel. A fight between the two would bring out the full complement of warderlings to the field. Xayven retrieved his sword from near his bunk. He paused, as his hand touched his leather armour, and then turned away. It would only slow me down. He headed outside to a field full of warderlings. Attracted by the gathering, Aes Sedai, Accepted and Novices were seen on the crowd's edges. The crowd bent to give them a clear view. Raoul was waiting in the center of the yard, bare-chested and bare bladed. Xayven handed his sword and sheath to Javid, who stood beside him with the group of warderlings that flocked around him. Javid spoke as Xayven stripped off his cloak and shirt and handed them to him.

"You don't have to do this-"

"Yes I do." Xayven smiled his tight-lipped smile. He took the outreached sword, and drew it from the scabbard. He smiled again at the clear sound it made as it left the sheath. He walked to the center of the field amid the murmurs of the crowd. Raoul waited, he was a large warderling, only a little younger than Xayven. He was taller too; a powerful body built on his frame. He held a massive broadsword that reflected his physique. In comparison, Xayven was wiry and lithe, not so much reflecting power as contained and controlled speed. He stopped a couple of paces from Raoul. Raoul breathed violently out his nose, looking not unlike a bull.

"To first blood. Agreed?" Xayven asked him in a clipped tone.

"Agreed."

Xayven bowed slightly from his waist. It was not a bow of reverence, but rather a custom before a fight. He noticed Raoul did not bow. The two backed up a few paces and assumed guard stance. Xayven used this to gather his calm around him, and still his mind. Cut. I want to cut him down mercilessly. Focus and cut. He repeated this until he was still.

Raoul's attack came unexpectantly. He was fast, and Xayven barely held his own. Raoul battered at him, and Xayven backed up several paces before regaining his own. The two circled each other, probing each other for weaknesses. Xayven feinted then pressed his attack. It was Raoul's turn to back up. Xayven unleashed a powerful overhead strike, at the moment Raoul was off balance from back- pedaling. It drove Raoul to his knees, but at the last moment, his powerful legs gathered together and pushed till Xayven was forced to disengage. He whirled away. The two crossed swords and launched into dancing whirlwind of steel. Xayven was quicker and had the range with his long-hilted sword while Raoul's power with the broadsword made it dangerous to face it directly. Xayven fought with a finality of purpose and a singular drive. He let the memory of Raoul's words pierce his calm. Anger heated around the edges of his mind and threatened to dispel his calm. He decided to use it. He let the anger bleed into his body; let it fill the empty recesses. A new power filled his tiring limbs. He rushed Raoul, slashing quickly at him; the forms filled the air with delicate traceries. A spark of fear appeared in Raoul's, as Xayven pressed his attack harder and harder. The massive broadsword became a bane to Raoul, as Xayven's long slender blade bit the air like charged lightning. Raoul stumbled as he blocked a particularly viscous blow. A quick snap to the wrist and The Grapevine Twines, Raoul's sword tumbled away. Raoul fell to the ground as he avoided Xayven's advancing sword point. Raoul's back was on the ground, his neck stretched out as Lyonheart's tip graced his throat. Xayven's anger called for him to dispatch Raoul, but he held back. It was hard to hold back.

"Yield." He spoke quietly, between clenched teeth, yet all in the yard heard him. Raoul, his face contorted in a rictus of hate, spat out,

"No! To first blood, remember?" Xayven pressed Lyonheart harder. A drop of blood appeared on Raoul's throat. Out of Xayven's sight, Raoul's fist slowly clenched a fistful of dirt.

"First blood. I have won." Raoul's growl turned into a roar, he threw the dirt at Xayven's eyes and rolled away to his sword. Xayven half expected something like this and turned away at the last moment. But Raoul was free and armed. In an inarticulate bellow of rage, Raoul ran at Xayven. Xayven smiled coldly I have him in the palm of my hand now his anger will make mistakes. Xayven waited until Raoul got closer, closer, until the last moment, he lept away from the overhead blow that would of split him from head to crotch. Planting one foot on the ground and pivoting on it, Xayven spun and with a controlled slash, scored the open back of Raoul. He issued a hissing gasp and arched his back in pack. His sword tumbled away and he hit the ground on all fours.

"Stop!" Both combatants looked up from the match at the sound of the shout. The Training Master approached from the crowd, his paces clipped and face red. "You will report in my office this moment, aspirants!" The crowd broke into a buzz as the Training Master led the way to the barracks.

***

"There is a reason why warderlings are not allowed to spar with live steel unless under the direct supervision of myself or a Warder." The Training Master paused and looked at both with a piercing gaze. "Both of you could be seriously injured, or worse. I want to know why this happened." Xayven opened his mouth as Raoul glared at him.

"This aspirant," he spat, "insulted my name and honour, and what is more, my family. I issued challenge to first blood, and won it. I retain my honour. This aspirant has proven how little his honour is." Raoul's teeth ground audibly. He was angry, but in no position to say anything against Xayven. The Training Master turned to him,

"Raoul, do you have anything to say?" The aspirant shook his head angrily.

"Having observed the whole match, I do have a few things to say. Raoul, you let your anger gain a foothold, that was your downfall. Xayven, your pride in your skill of the blade will be yours. Remember, there will always be someone better than you. So to teach you, Raoul, to curb your anger I assign you to the kitchens to wash dishes for one week. You will report there after normal training hours and remain there for two hours each night. You, Xayven having being there already from previous... episodes, will not wash dishes." Xayven mentally sighed in relief. "To teach you humility, I assign you to the Gardens. You will report to the Ogier Gardener in charge after normal training hours and for one week labour there for two hours each night. That is all. Raoul, you may go. I have more to say to Xayven." Raoul left the office with one last withering glance at Xayven. Silence covered the room. The Training Master turned around and gazed out the window overlooking the training yards. It was a while before he spoke.

"Of all the aspirants at the White Tower, it was you whom I thought would not get caught up in this "survivor" business." He paused for a bit. "I would have thought that you would be above the petty bullying." He spoke in a calm, even tone that left an implied question. Xayven burned inside at the question; I am above this petty bullying! Aloud he said,

"He insulted my name and honour, and he was provoking Javid. I had to put a stop to it." He left off feeling frustrated and that his answer was inadequate. The Training Master spoke up from where he was.

"You will find that name and House really amount to nothing in the end, save a means of getting yourself killed quicker. Some of the best Warders that I've trained came not from a noble House or privileged lifestyle, but from simple farm and craftsman stock. The Borderlands are somewhat of an exception; leaders are birthed in battle and teach their sons that craft, like yourself for example. Honour depends on each to his own, as it goes. It's a code of integrity that is individual to every man. It takes a lifetime to perfect your own code of honour." Xayven didn't like hearing this, but he nodded his grudging understanding.

"I understand why you took offence and challenged him, however, every time you allow him to nettle you it's a small victory for him. Best thing to do is ignore him. That is all... dismissed, aspirant!" Xayven stood at attention, pivoted on his heel and exited the office. As he walked to his bunk, he reflected that he got out of the encounter very well. He enjoyed his time in the Gardens, and he would be able to visit Vilarth. It would be a pleasure to work there. Unwittingly the Training Master did the least punitive thing he could to Xayven. A Borderlander was raised to have a respect for life above all else, and the Gardens were full of life. It was a tranquil sanctuary for Xayven after a long day in the yards. A rest from all the turmoil.

A Warning

Commentary: I suppose you could say that this is another filler post. However there are many elements that are included here that you should be mindful of, many parts regard to and hint of my long-term plans of my character. Father, you say? Haven't seen much of him since my biography. Hmmmm... has potential. This post is also a basic jumping off point for my future posts; it begins to set up the plot.

An apocalyptic sky met the senses of the dreamer. There were no remnants of blue left, yet it at the feel of midday. The sky was overcast with striating red clouds, mottled with splotches of black. The clouds spun round till it made the dreamer dizzy and he shifted his attention elsewhere.

Growing like a maddening hum of a beehive, sounds suddenly exploded into awareness, to meet the chaos that imprinted itself on the sight before the dreamer. Screams and battle cries filtered through the silk that was the fabric of the dream. Oh, the dreamer knew that it was a dream, all right, but one he had no control of to stop or otherwise. With a curious source of detachment, the dreamer took in the sight and analyzed it.

In the distance, like some obscene monstrosity, lay a mountain of legend. A mountain whose name was whispered in fear by some, in awe by others, but in all cases whispered. Its name had that much power: Shayol Ghul. The red clouds gathered around the peak like chicks clutching the mother hen's safety of her wings. They were slowly revolving, a massive slow, lurching storm, set off here and there by spikes of lightning.

Between the battle and the mountain lay a valley of scorched earth. One could hardly compare it to any kind of earth at all, more like a desolate waste of rock, boulder and brimstone. Buildings could be seen, tall, thin pillars of smoke arising from them. The infamous forges of Thakandar. A mountain range was on the side of the dreamer's view; a range that was somewhat comfortingly familiar, until one realized what side one was looking at it from. The Mountains of Dhoom. The dreamer could see scattered across the slopes stunted trees and bushes, and multiple paths that crossed over to the other side.

At last the dreamer felt his attention turn to the scene that was below him. The middle of the valley was filled with an army, but no normal, human army this one was. Like a host of black-armoured locusts, multitudes of Trollocs were amassed throughout the width and breadth of the valley. Each fist was led by a Myrdraal, each Myrdraal mounted on a black horse. They were no more than stick figures from the distance, but easily recognizable. Each fist was in ordered columns; the Trollocs collective will had been slaved to that of their Myrdraal. Ordinarily those beasts would have left a chaotic mess. The columns were in traveling formation, and were moving slowly. Behind, their wails contributing to the clamour were hundreds of human slaves. They were being whipped on by groups of Trollocs. Food supply, thought the dreamer grimly. The battle before him had attracted the notice of a couple of fists; they were racing up the slope to join it. A good five hundred men in Aramaellian colours were fighting a retreat action. Each of these men was mounted on good mountain bred horses, and each man was equipped with heavy armour. Realization came from out of somewhere inside the dreamer's mind. These men are deep reconnaissance. Usually a smaller group would have been used, but to have penetrated so far, at least half a thousand must be used. Most likely the group started out with more than half a thousand. The commander of the abbreviated banner had noticed the coming hordes and called out for a hastier retreat to the pass behind them. It wouldn't take long for the retreat to turn into a rout. Trollocs with long looped poles dragged riders down, and then set upon them. Their blackened sickle blades rose and fell among the retreating men. The slaughter seemed horrible.

As the dreamer's view approached closer, the leader seemed familiar. Some of the men's colours were familiar too. Dark green, gold, and black, and now, closer, the badges of the men were clearly seen. A golden lion rampant on a field of back set off by a green background. Most Aramellian Houses had their own men at arms besides the normal supplement of the army. The leader, with a group of chosen men, turned his mount around to face the Trollocs and create a rear guard for the retreating men. His face was clear to the dreamer. Father! With that exclamation, the dream burst into a thousand tiny strands and consciousness came rushing back with a vengeance.

***

Xayven bolted upright in his bed. This dream was no ordinary dream. Its genuineness was akin to the dream he had of the Trolloc attack on the manor before he left for Tar Valon. In that dream, his mother died. In reality, during the attack, the Trollocs were beaten back, and the manor saved. But later on the day of the dream, a messenger came, to tell Xayven that his mother was killed in a separate attack on the manor. What impact would this dream hold?

He levered himself out of bed, while peeling off the clammy sheets. He crossed to the window of the barracks. The predawn sky was coloured in threatening red. It was no use getting back in bed, so Xayven grabbed his trousers and put them on. He grabbed his sword and threaded his way through the softly snoring rows of bunks. He crossed over the threshold that divided the sleeping area of the aspirant warders from the rest of Warder's Hall, and walked on through the doors that lead outside. The air was chill, biting, he noticed as he walked outside. It was cold on his bare chest. He would soon rectify that. He began his forms, heating up his body and stilling his mind. Faster and faster he sped. Muscles moved fluidly as he changed from stance to stance, his feet a dance of elaborate steps. Lyonheart whistled swiftly through the air, a song of pristine clarity. Miniscule beads of sweat dotted his forehead, as he slowed down, entered his last stance, sheathed his sword and bowed. He relaxed, and peered around the yard. He was still alone. It was good to find some solitude. He'd rather be back at his manor than in the city, with the press and confusion. The more privacy he had the better, and that wasn't much. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the refreshing cold air. The smell was clean, free of the soot that had so permeated the city. Sighing happily, he slung his baldric over his shoulder and headed to the barracks.

Clothed and refreshed by the washbasin, Xayven decided to head over to the White Tower's mess hall. The food was better than in the Warder's Hall, and there would always be someone cooking. He walked through the wide doors leading into the Audience Hall, and took a side hallway that led to the mess. The smell of good cooking embraced him as he strode into the wide area. A blonde haired Accepted in her multi-fringed tunic caught his eye from tending one of the cooking pits and walked over to him. It's always good to know somebody else is serving penance as well. She took his order with a coldly imperial face that nearly made Xayven chuckle. He held back somehow, while walking over to one of the many empty tables, and attacked the meal that was placed before him without much further ado. After finishing, he had some time before the daily training started and started to make his way over to the compound walls and watch the sun rise over the city.

He had a little time to try and sort out the dream. It was hard to focus on such dismal thing when in the midst of the rising beauty of the sun.

The Message

Commentary on ``The Message'': You see below in the Out Of Context message a number of people important to the site and to my posting. Corey, who plays Corey al'Thoren, the Manetheranian King is also the site administrator. Oren as I mentioned before is one character of many written by a veteran of the site, and Darya who is Darya Sedai, Mistress of Novices (teacher of the new female apprentices to the One Power), also plays a large number of important characters. Once again I was pleased and gratified to be able to post with them. You see general mentions of the ways things are going in the Borderlands, and my character's eagerness to follow an authority figure (kinda makes him boring almost, most un-E like [yup I'm referring to you again EJ!]). Background Information: The Rank of Banner-general: blue surcoat with the Kingfisher, white cape with the blue Sword of Wind on it surrounded by two vertical stripes, one on each side of the sword, plus two gold knots on the collar. Leads a banner. Banners are the smallest strategic unit in Aramaellain military; Gavyn leads a heavy banner comprised of 1500 heavy cavalry or lancers.

OOC: This post touches on a host of things in TW. I believe I have followed the storyline when I wrote this. I previously sent an email to the people involved: Corey, Oren, and Darya, but if any editing is needed, please inform me and I will make the corrections.

The small hand shovel turned over the fine loam. Callused hands grasped the worn, wooden handle of the spade shaped blade. The fingernails were finely rounded but dirt encrusted from working in the soil. The hand shovel paused and Xayven sat up, stretched his back and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He rested for a moment and looked around.

It was the latter hours of the day, a warm evening breeze moved through trees, stirring up leaves and causing the dappled shadows on the ground to dance back and forth. Massive trees cast long lines of shadow, creating an atmosphere of light and dark. An Aes Sedai, equipped with embroidery, yet maintaining an air of dignity, sat on a stone bench nearby. She was on duty for the Waygate. Her Warder lurked about, looking at everything and nothing at once, standing in a stance of charged calm. Drinking in the beauty, Xayven let his mind wander. Everything from his haunting dreams to the confrontation with Raoul flashed in his head. By the height of the sun, now close to the horizon, Xayven realized his penance was served for the day.

He got up off his knees and turned to pick up his tools. The sound of stone scraping on stone emanated from behind him. Xayven saw that the Waygate nearby had opened. The Aes Sedai on stone bench calmly folded her needlework, slipped it into her bag, and stood up, radiating solemnity about her. The Warder's hand was on the hilt of his sword. A gray-splotched, white horse slipped through. Xayven observed the horse was well lathered; its neck was stooped and the flanks heaving in effort. The rider appeared equally weary, his garments spoke of Aramaelle, and his uniform indicated he was a captain of the Messenger Corps. The Warder's stance had relaxed... slightly. The messenger appeared relieved from the long journey, and spoke earnestly, "I request an audience with the Amyrlin, and I have most urgent news from the front." He dismounted and awaited a response.

"Of course, I will escort you to the Audience Hall. This aspirant here will certainly see to your horse to the stables at the Warder's Hall." Xayven bowed to the Aes Sedai, and took the reins of the horse from the messenger, who bowed to him as well. The Warder gave him an unfathomable glance as he trailed behind his Aes Sedai and the messenger. Xayven led the horse to the stables, his thoughts awhirl. His father was on the front. Earlier that week, Xayven had an extraordinary dream of his father on a dangerous reconnaissance mission. Of late his dreams grew more and more vivid. Even earlier in the year, he had dreamt of his mother's death, and later that week, he received word of a Trolloc attack on the family manor that killed his mother. Caught up in his internal deliberations, he hardly realized he had stabled the messenger's horse and put away his gardening tools. He stood in the middle of the stables, empty-handed and suddenly a thought occurred to him. A thought that was driven by a deep-seated need to reach his father, reach his family before they all would perish. A small hope blossomed in his mind. The messenger might know the whereabouts of his father! He rushed to his bunk to grab a tunic and then raced to the White Tower to find the messenger.

By the time he had made it to the Audience Chamber, his ardour had cooled somewhat. The impression of awe that had humbled so many supplicants, rich and poor, king and beggar fell upon Xayven now. Even though the White Tower was a constant part of his life, the centuries of antiquity and deeply rooted power lay open to his mind in this place. He looked about, a little wildly and noticed with some alarm that he could not find the party that had come from the Ogier Gardens. He caught the eye of a nearby, bemused Accepted, and hastened over to speak to her.

``Where has the Aramaellian messenger gone? Is he to see the Amrylin? Where can I find him?'' His urgent tone and body stance conveyed themselves to the Accepted.

``Yes, to the first two, but if you expect to see the Amrylin yourself, you may be sorely disappointed. The messenger will surely stop by the kitchens for something to eat after he has carried his message. You may find him there.'' She finished with a poor effort at cold dignity. You'll have to work on that, Xayven thought, though aloud he said his thanks and quickly made his way to the kitchens.

The smells of good cooking swirled around Xayven as he hurried into the kitchens. The broad expanse of tables, benches and cooking pits, surrounded him. He quickly spotted the messenger in a corner of the room hurriedly eating a plate of steaming stew. Xayven quickly walked over to the messenger, bowed in Aramaellian fashion and sat down across the table from him. With a visual effort, the messenger disengaged himself from his meal and peered at Xayven.

``Can I help you, aspirant?'' The messenger's eyes showed his recognition of Xayven from the garden.

``I'm Xayven," he bowed his head to the messenger, who bowed back. "I was wondering about the news from the front." Xayven tried to sound as inconspicuous as possible. The man gazed at him as if trying to remember if he had seen Xayven before. It was a while before he spoke, and it was obvious he was wary of revealing such information to a lowly aspirant.

``The name's Shinji Amano. The front is holding, but not much else. Aramaellian and Manetheran soldiers are evacuating civilians to areas held more strongly and closer to the capital. I fear the news is bleak.'' He paused, as if reluctant to disclose too much, ``There has been word of a new Trolloc offensive. Reconnaissance shows... a new Trolloc army in position to strike at critical points in both Aramaelle and Jaramide.'' He stopped at this point, eyeing the warderling. Xayven took a breath and asked the question that had been the purpose of seeking out the messenger.

``Do you know who led the reconnaissance that revealed this information?'' Amano picked at his food before answering.

``I don't suppose it would hurt to tell you. The man who led the mission was Banner-General Gavyn al'Cerinalle of House al'Cerinalle. He led a banner, for it was folly to take less. He dispatched some men to the command headquarters after discovering the army. He was detected a short while after and had to fight a retreat into the Blight.'' He paused and peered at Xayven, ``Why?''

``My full name is Xayven al'Cerinalle, I am Gayvn's eldest son.'' He replied, with an air of gravity. Asking expectantly, he said, ``Have you heard from him since?'' The messenger, surprised, set down his fork and answered gravely.

``He sent a second dispatch of men with word that he was heading to the Jaramidian border. That has been the last we have heard of him.'' Xayven bowed his head at this, at once both relieved and worried for his father. He was possibly still alive!

``Thank you. Tell me, what will the Amyrlin do?''

``I guess you can keep quiet about this, but the Amyrlin has sent me a message for King Corey al'Thoren al'Simara that an group of Aes Sedai are on their way to aid the armies of Manetheran and Aramaelle. I do not know who or how large this group will be however, but that there will be support from the White Tower.'' Amano ended and looked at Xayven with sympathy. Xayven, stood up, bowed and thanked the man profusely. He walked away, in a daze of mixed emotions. My father may be alive I must help him! But how will I leave the Tower and get to Jaramide? He left the kitchens and wandered through the White Tower's halls, not knowing or caring where he was going. By the time he realized he was lost, he rounded a corner and ran into another man and was knocked back a few paces. Surprise jolted him out of his reverie, and jolted him once more when he saw whom it was he ran into.

``Training Master! My apologies, I was not looking.'' Xayven bowed deeply, and then looked at the man. Oren Myles had a distant look on his face, inscrutable. Lines of worry on his face seemed more etched, but at the same time his bearing communicated something...vibrant. The Training Master looked at him hard, and asked.

``Why are you here? This is not normally where aspirants wander.'' Xayven, still somewhat startled and in a state of confusion, responded vaguely.

``I don't know.'' He looked at the Training Master just then, and asked on impulse, ``Why are you here?'' Surprised, Oren examined Xayven closely before answering.

``I am leaving for Jaramide with Darya Sedai.'' His voice had a note of satisfaction at the end. At once, something clicked in Xayven's head. He could ask to accompany the Training Master on his journey. He could ask their help in finding his father, even though Darya was an Aes Sedai that Xayven had hardly known. He knew she was the Mistress of Novices, and wondered why she wanted to leave the White Tower. She also was at the funeral ceremony for the fallen Warders and aspirants. That counted more than most anything.

``I want to come with you.'' His statement seemed lost in Oren's gruff face.

``Why?'' The Training Master's simple question raised a host of emotions and thoughts. Because I want to find my father. Because I want to save him from the danger I feel he is in. Because I want to help Darya Sedai. Because I want to learn how to be a Warder, and one of the best at that. Because I would follow you anywhere if you but asked. Instead of voicing his thoughts, Xayven related to the Training Master what he had learned from the messenger, and his intention to find his father.

``Could I come? I can provide escort at the very least.'' Xayven's heart leapt to his mouth as he waited for the answer. Oren's eyes drilled into Xayven, judging and evaluating.

``Alright, you may come. But this is no excuse to neglect your training. If you come, you will be learning your forms harder than ever before.'' Xayven nodded several times gladdened at the aspect. He would receive personal attention from the Training Master himself, and he would have a chance to find his father.

``May I make ready to leave?'' Oren nodded his approval and Xayven bowed. He began to walk to the Warder's Hall, trying to find the right hallway in the Labyrinth that was the White Tower.

The Repast

Commentary: This is my latest post, which I have written Nov. 2002. In this post we see events move forward, an explanation of why Darya Sedai and Oren Myles hasten to leave their posts in the White Tower, and Xayven's involvement in that. From the above post you pick up that Xayven's father is in Jaramide in hot retreat, thus another factor in Xayven's involvement. This is definitely one of my better pieces, especially in terms of dialogue. I tried to instil as much as I can, an impression of Borderlander honour that my character holds and cherishes. I also enjoyed the chance to describe my character's clothes, which, oddly enough seems to be missing in my exposition. Note: Daes Damar, is Jordan-speak for the Great Game, the oft-vicious game of politik. Enjoy!

``Would you come for dinner? Darya Mooran Sedai has extended her invitation to you. It will be served in her quarters.'' Xayven stood still, a little shocked and pleased. He was in the Training Master's quarters, and it was he whom had asked Xayven.

``Of course, Training Master.'' Xayven, replied, bowing. At first he thought that Oren Myles had requested him for some question about the preparations for the journey, but now instead there was an unexpected pleasure. It was a great honour to be invited by an Aes Sedai, much less the Mistress of Novices. An unexpected honour.

``That is all, dinner is an hour soon after our last training session today.'' Xayven bowed again, dismissed and exited out the door. It was close to midday, and Xayven had some time before the last training session. He decided to go to the tailor.

***

In the city of Tar Valon there were a great many tailors, who served the needs of the Aes Sedai, the various nobles who made pilgrimages to the city and the general public. One could find practically all kinds of clothes from tailors of Guildmaster workmanship to that of the poor apprentice. Xayven found by recommendation, a tailor of Borderland origins and of good quality. His small shop was situated on a corner not to far from the White Tower. A bell tinkled softly inside the store as Xayven crossed the threshold. A small bald man looked up from a counter cluttered with cloth, pins and thread. A keen eye scanned Xayven as he entered.

``I need some clothes for formal wear tonight,'' Xayven spoke up.

``Ah, yes... hmm, a Borderlander by the looks of it, a young warrior, perhaps a warder aspirant, yes?'' The man put down the cloth he was working on, and folded his hands.

``You have it right, my good man. I'm Xayven al'Cerinalle, an aspirant.''

``Hmm, well and good, since you have come to the shop of Orvaine Hirimoto. I am sure I can fix something up before this pressing appointment calls upon you. Al'Cerinalle, you say, a smaller house of nobility perhaps. It does sound familiar, I think, perchance, out of Aramaelle. What are your colours?''

``Again you have it right. Our house's colours are emerald green, gold and sable. I had not the time to pack more than a few pairs of clothing when I left for Tar Valon.''

``Such is often the case when one leaves hurriedly. I am thinking that black pants with green piping would work well with a deep green coat with gold lining. A beige tunic underneath would serve admirably as well milord.

``That sounds fine, good sir, but please do not call me milord, I am merely an aspirant here in Tar Valon.''

``Yes, milord, let's get you measured.'' Hirimoto smiled slightly as he grasped his tape and guided Xayven to a set of full-length mirrors.

Nearly an hour later, Xayven exited the store with Hirimoto's promise about the completion of the attire.

***

Xayven stood by his bunk, now fully dressed. He had paid Orvain Hirimoto well, but he had to watch himself. The gold he had begun with from his journey to Tar Valon from his home was dwindling, and he another journey to look forward to. He pinned a brooch to an open flap of his coat. A small shield with a gold lion dancing on a black field set below an emerald background. The brooch was one of the only things he had that connected him to his home in Aramaelle a home no more; it lies in ashes and my mother dead to the depravations of the Dark One. His hands tightened on his lapels, as he straightened his shirt. Orvaine had done well with such short notice. The garments were well made but with little ostentation. Xayven preferred it that way. He left his bunk and headed outside the compound.

Inside the White Tower he quickly found a novice that directed him to the Mistress of Novice's quarters. A few stairs and hallways later, and Xayven found himself remarkably quickly at Darya Sedai's door. A few knocks and the door was opened by Oren Myles. A rare smile creased his face.

``Come on in, we were waiting for you.'' Xayven found himself in quarters that were spare in nature, its few furnishings were well made, however, and of obvious Borderlander make. The preparations for a journey were obvious. An open door led to a smaller suite. Darya Sedai was seated at the table within. A slight woman, imbued with the agelessness common to all Aes Sedai, she radiated a serene power that easily filled the room. Blue eyes looked up as Xayven took two steps forward and bowed deeply, his right hand pressed to his heart.

``Honour met, Aes Sedai. I was most pleased at your invitation.'' An arched eyebrow from Darya Sedai softened into a soft smile that spread across the round face.

``The pleasure is mine, I typically entertain headstrong novices and Accepted, not polite young men.''

``Thank you Aes Sedai.'' Xayven blushed.

``Please, be seated.'' She gestured at the small table where three places were set. Xayven sat down facing Oren.

``Tell me, young man, how is your training progressing?'' The Aes Sedai asked.

``As far as I can tell, I've been doing well, but if you want a honest opinion, you should ask the Training Master.'' Xayven replied.

``Hmph, our aspirant here has had an interesting time, duelling with new recruits and tending the gardens.'' Oren snorted slightly.

``I see,'' Darya Sedai's tone implied a question.

``There was some rivalry between the new recruits and those that defended during the siege. Xayven somehow got into the middle of it, and ending up fighting to first blood and with live steel with one of the recruits. He now tends the Gardens in the evenings.'' Xayven blushed again, outlining a scar that ran from his cheekbone to forehead, a remnant from his days at the manor.

``And did you win, aspirant?'' Darya's eyes flickered with amusement.

``I did, it was a tough fight though.''

``I believe we can thank Oren for that. Jessica, would you serve the chilled juice for us please.'' Darya Sedai asked a girl in a novice dress, who was standing off to the side. Xayven hadn't noticed her at first. Their eyes met and her eyes flicked away, as she picked up a pitcher. She had been staring at him, he realized. As she finished pouring the berry juice, Darya dismissed her and turned back to Xayven.

``Oren tells me that the reason you wish to join us is because your father is in Jaramide. Tell me about your family.''

``I am of the House al'Cerinalle. We are one of the minor houses in Aramaelle. Our roots go back to a marriage between Manetherani Lady and a soldier in the Aramaellian army at that time. My mother was from a family with whom we have strong ties, the al'Caens. My mother was killed when Trollocs attacked and burned our manor to the ground. This was sometime during the early part of the siege, when I was in Tar Valon. My father and two younger brothers were fighting in the front at the time. My father has fought previously in the regular forces and gained recognition from the King. He leads a banner that was in deep reconnaissance in the Mountains of Dhoom. The banner found a new Trolloc army massing and was pursued by their forces. They now believe he is fighting a retreat in the Blight somewhere north close to the Jaramidian and Aramaellian border.'' Xayven recited this in a matter-of-fact voice. He had paled somewhat. It hurt to recount his mother's death. He took a sip of the juice in his cup.

``I see. And are you prepared for this journey? There will be dangers from more than Trollocs.'' Despite the warning her voice held a note of compassion.

``Trollocs, I can deal with. I've seen and fought more Trollocs than a southerner has nightmares of them. Our manor was in the far north; we were no strangers to Trolloc raids. I've fought them in Aramaelle and in Tar Valon. I believe I stand a good chance against most men. I'm as prepared as I can be.'' Xayven replied, looking her straight in the eyes. Oren looked on at the exchange between the two silently; a slight crease appeared on his brow at Xayven's last words.

``There are dangers beyond just men and Trollocs. There are some things you must know before we travel to Jaramide. This is partly why I invited you to dine with us. As I am sure you know, Jaramide is lacking a true ruler. What you may not know is that I am Darya Mooran Haldenzar, aunt of the late King Jamelis.'' Xayven sat back in his chair, shocked, his eyes widening. The Mistress of Novices, royalty? And not only that, but in direct contention for the throne! The Aes Sedai noticed his reaction and gave him a sad smile. ``I have no wish to rule Jaramide. I only wish for a strong one. I intend on raising my cousin, Tiressa Haldenzar to the crown, once I find her.'' She paused and gave Xayven a pointed stare before continuing.

``When we come to Jaramide, we will not only face the hazards of Shadowspawn, but also of normal man. Aridhol has had its grip on Jaramide too long to willingly let it go, and it has shown that it is no stranger to assassination and darker things. They are certainly not friends of the White Tower.'' Darya Sedai's words chilled him. Daes Damar was not heard of in the Borderlands, but now it seemed it infested Jaramide like a tumor. It was a low thing for Aridhol to stoop so far.

``I would still come, hazard or not; Jaramide has long been friend to Aramaelle. I would come regardless of my father. It will be a pleasure serving you Aes Sedai.'' Xayven bowed his head.

``I thank you aspirant. It is comforting to hear such words from one as young as yourself.'' Xayven's ears flamed. A knock at the door sounded.

``I do believe our meal is served. It's not more than a light repast I fear, but Cook always works wonders.'' Darya remarked as the young novice, Jessica wheeled in a small trolley. She quickly set out the food, and then left the room. The meal was light but enjoyable. Little was said as the three ate, but Xayven picked up that the easy familiarity of the other two passed most words. Something fell into place in Xayven's head at that moment. Something that had bugged him since he asked the Training Master's permission to come.

``Pardon my asking, Aes Sedai, but have you taken the Training Master as your Warder?'' The two looked at Xayven, somewhat startled, and Darya broke into laughter.

``Why in fact we are, Oren has tendered his resignation as Training Master to the Amyrlin, as I have resigned the post of Mistress of Novices. The news won't be long in spreading, I'm sure.''

``It took you long enough, warderling.'' Oren said with a chuckle.

Somehow that seemed to make the rest of the night more enjoyable. On the eve of his departure from his home, his true home now, with his family's manor resting in ashes, Xayven sensed that things were right. It was a joy to see the two together, and he felt more than privileged to be part of their journey. So when he rose and bowed, and intoned the words, ``I stand ready for what comes. By your leave, I depart,'' and exited the quarters it was with a glad heart.

End Commentary

And that's that! I'm sure to have more posts forthcoming as soon as my posting partners get around to it. Some generalizations I've noticed. My writing style has developed, and seems largely determined by the literature I have read, or the amount of writing, besides WOT TW I have done. I seem to focus more on exposition and less on dialogue, yet my exposition has much to be improved on. I need to be able to give the reader a much clearer vision of what is happening to my character and the environment around him. This corresponds with my mental vision of what is happening. The more general and ephemeral, or the less detail I have in my mind of my character and the world around him, the more general my writing is, and the more it sounds like explanation and less like fiction. Anyways, I hope you all have enjoyed it thus far, and certainly look for more Xayven!