She couldn’t stand to watch. Like a child she shut her eyes as if doing so could make the Dreadlord go away. Removing sight narrowed her world down to darkness; she felt the slow, inexorable trail of the other woman’s fingers against her exposed throat all the more intensely, felt the now uncontrollable shivering, the prickling terror that washed through her. Her pulse was starting to speed, her breathing to quicken and she fought the overwhelming need to pull away. She shut her eyes tighter as those fingers slid lower over her bare shoulder. Maybe the Dreamwalker could feel fear through those fingertips, transmuted into something tangible by the rapid frantic beat of her heart, maybe hear that tiny inward voice begging no no no. Couldn’t hide, couldn’t escape, she felt bitterly exposed. Just as she imagined her nerve had to break the Dreadlord lifted her chin instead and whispered goodbye. Then everything slid into darkness.

She woke speechless and shaking in a darkened room. Fear gripped her so tight she couldn’t think. Somebody was here in the room with her; she knew it like she knew her own name, terror so intense she didn’t dare move, she hid like a mouse from the hawk. Finally the silence stretched long enough to lessen that bone-deep certainty and she dared to relax. Shudders racked her. She felt cold and exhausted, battered stupid, thoughts barely beginning to surface. Shame and restless dread coiled through her. The sight of her own bare skin repulsed her and she straightened the blankets with shaking fingers and pulled them up to her chin, hiding everything beneath heavy layers of cloth. There wasn’t even anyone in the room and just the thought that somebody who came in, past all her defensive wards, might be able to see anything petrified her. She lay unmoving and stared up at the ceiling until the trembling stopped.

Her fingers remembered cold smooth metal at her throat. She lifted a hand, frankly scared and needing to reassure herself, found … nothing. No collar. Nothing to show that the Dreadlord had even touched her much less leashed her. Nothing had happened. It had been the product of an overworked and overstressed imagination. Nobody truly understood Tel’aran’rhiod; maybe she had been wrong in what she learnt long ago, maybe research had moved on since then, maybe people could tell her she had dreamed the whole encounter. No need to fear a trick of the mind. She’d been a coward, if her Ajah ever found out they’d disown her, how could she even begin to explain it? Much better that it had never happened, like the messy business with Solin had never happened, just nightmares to put away and never think about again. But her fingertips stayed on her throat.

Eventually she left her safe solitary bed, pulled on a heavy robe over her shift and belted it shut, and went in search of the only person she could rely on. Nobody stirred in the corridors which gave her a few minutes’ opportunity to compose herself; a Captain General should not be seen to fear. Finally she let herself into Aramina sur Dulciena’s quarters. Her entry probably tripped half a dozen alarm wards but it remained a quieter method than banging on the door until the other woman woke up. Briefly she lit a couple of lanterns and filled the room with golden light, took a seat while she waited for Aramina to join her. For some stupid, stupid reason she wanted that intensely -- not just because they had work to do but because she needed company, needed reassurance, needed comfort and security. It was a fool’s thought. Aes Sedai didn’t need anything.

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

An old song had once held that rain washed away sins as well as tears, but she’d been an irreverent child with no love for folklore when she’d heard it, and now she knew better than to think anything cleansed guilt and grief. She’d had her fair share of both over the years. Images still stamped on her memory: fire and blood and chaos, a cold ring pressed into unfeeling fingers, the colossal form of Tear on the horizon on a stormy night, a woman kneeling to her, secrecy and despair; she’d become immune to it in a way, so hardened that each fresh loss had little outward effect on her, but that was a gift given to few.

The child Faile al’Rahien had never had the chance to prepare herself for this kind of blow. Was it the first time she had lost someone? Difficult to judge amid the hammering rain and the subtle tint of scarlet in the water pooling round them, but that kind of grief came only once or twice in a lifetime, as shocking as it was sudden. She watched them together, brown head bent over black, arms tight round a boy who would never feel them again, and found it hard not to remember another child dying inch by bloody inch beneath her hands … the cries and the stitches like black spiders and ribbons of red blood in the water. But that child had survived while Danian had not. Older times, older memories.

Nothing if not patient, she waited while the rain came down and the chill leached all the warmth from her, waited until the cold had set into her old bones and she began to reconsider the wisdom of being here at all. It seemed improper somehow to interrupt the child’s grief, but Aes Sedai need not be concerned with propriety if it suited them, and she broke in without compunctions. “Let’s get him out of the rain. The armoury.” Her nod toward the hulking building close by, merely a shadow glimpsed through the distorting rain, did not seem to have been noticed. She managed to keep her resignation and irritation on the inside. Time to get their hands dirty then.

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Easy door out? That line showed how little the Dreadlord truly understood about the Green Ajah. Surrender was in no way the easy way out. It might put an end to her current difficulties, and Light only knew she wanted out before this little dream got any closer to her nightmares, but submitting to a Dreadlord took a high price and she knew better than most how hard it was to recover pride and self respect. It was always possible that her Ajah might forgive her if they knew about the leash and collar, Tel’aran’rhiod, and the Dreadlord with her constant stroking, but that would require her to explain to them which she certainly couldn’t do; no, her fellow Aes Sedai did not need to know, she could punish her own failings harshly enough. By her reckoning even a Dreamwalker could do very little to her that was worse than the shame of surrender.

Unfortunately the other woman noticed her unwise comments about the target of her showmanship. The implied threat chilled her; she imagined Tayline on a leash -- Tayline with her courage and her commitment, Tayline to whom she had confessed her horrors after the business with her son, Tayline who had comforted her when she should by rights have turned away -- and her heart turned over. Admittedly she had been a little rough with her friend herself, nobody deserved to be met by even a false Semirhage, but she had been convinced that the young lady was Black Ajah at the time and now she knew otherwise she intended to protect her from the consequences of her own mistakes. She wanted to flash back that nobody would hurt Tayline, they’d go through her first, but managed to bite her tongue figuring that any comment would only increase the likelihood of someone paying a little visit to her friends.

Then she remembered something that made her mouth curl in a slow, cold smile. Let the woman pay Tayline a midnight visit. She wouldn’t find a crippled old soldier, weak in the One Power and defenceless in Tel’aran’rhiod, oh no. She’d find a skilled Dreamwalker trained to the highest level by Aiel Wise Ones and fully strong enough in some interesting elements to cause her all sorts of damage. In fact … yes, some ideas were beginning to come together in her mind … let the Dreadlord come back as many times as she liked. Of course that required her to survive this little encounter intact, but after Amiarin Lucif had taken her apart, could a lesser Dreadlord match the blackest of her memories? She got her chance to find out.

One moment she was calculating what else this silver collar might stop her doing; the next fire hit her in a scorching tide. It crisped all her scheming in an instant. She burnt, speechless, too racked to think. Sensations piled up in a rapid-fire barrage: incandescent heat flashed to ice cold so intense it froze a gasp in her throat: shivering, she clawed at herself, couldn’t break through the illusion: back to heat again, searing and pitiless: then a hail of blows to make her jerk and shudder helplessly, got an arm up to protect herself and then only barely remembered it wouldn’t work: trying and failing to stitch thoughts together, every time she got hold of clarity something hit her again. Ten seconds’ worth of merciful stillness to scrape some wits together, then a feather-soft, prickly stroking over every inch of her skin, strange and intense, then a sudden onslaught of precise pinpoint pain like a thousand needles …

Afterward it took long moments for the message to filter through to her that it was over. Only when some time had passed without further pain did she relax even fractionally; tension drew tight as a wire, she hurt fiercely, battered and beaten and defeated. Her throat burned when she caught her breath. She had bitten her lip earlier trying to keep silent, tasted copper and bitter shame. She felt like a wrung-out rag. So much for Green Ajah strength. Teeth gritted she pushed herself off the ground and couldn’t even make it to her knees. She hated this weakness, Lanfir would never have been weak, she wasn’t worth half a Lanfir. If anyone found out they would laugh. The image of what Aramina sur Dulciena would say if she ever heard that her supposed leader had been so pitiful stung enough for her to make it to her knees at lest, though she shook like a leaf, even that small effort exhausted her.

Being stroked like a puppy on top of so much was damn near unbearable. Pain she could just about stand, but to be collared and stripped and beaten, to be humbled taxed the limits of her endurance, and for the other woman to touch her like that … casual, asserting her dominance, taking possession … made her skin crawl. She wanted to hide. Needed to hide. Couldn’t. “No.” Her voice scraped. She didn’t want this woman anywhere near her, didn’t want to be hurt any more, didn’t want to be touched any more. “No, don’t, I’ll promise.” Lanfir would be ashamed of her. How had she ever made it to the shawl?

“I swear,” she began with some difficulty, “that I will-“ never flinch, never waver: an old thought, an old time, an older memory. She was not going to be a coward. She refused, she absolutely refused, to be a coward. Rather any amount of pain than to be ashamed of herself. She braced herself: “I swear that I will make no binding promise to this woman. Because she’s a lying Dreadlord and I will not add stupidity to my failings.” Beaten and weary Sirayn smiled and her smile was a savage glint in the silence. “Looks like I can’t promise you anything even if I wanted to. Shame about that.”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

A little bird is whispering to me that the Dear Leader is fixing it right now. I await the result with great interest.

It's basically a character that doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the Division. If you stop playing the character, you don't get to kill it - the Division can reassign the character to another player. Not an unreasonable concept where it applies to the Forsaken I believe. :P

M'bela shook her head, "and here one always hear of Aes Sedai ploting and cleverness, yet this one cant even put togheter two and two. Yes i want something, i was sent to teach you a lesson of geting in above yourself." she looked at the woman, "Now can your pretty litle head spin itself around whatever it migth be that you could have actualy done to call such attention onto yourself. Really all your stories is intriguing but i doubt half of them would even be seen as worth listening to so it shouldnt be to hard for your precious litle self to wrap your mind around what grave mistace you did to deserve this." She sat back and imagined the womans clothes gone, then studied her, they where to darn proud for their own good, beeing in the shadow had thougth her when to recognise someone superior and the need to temorarily bend her head and bite her tounge if needed. Her experince was though that Aes Sedai seldom had this capability.

During her long and bloody career she had faced methods of coercion ranging from the subtle to the macabre. Few produced the horror the Dreadlord got from her then. Panic kicked in; she pulled away, covered herself in a futile effort at protection, then cursed herself for her instinctive treachery.

She was shaking. Terror ran through her like wire. Didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be collared, didn’t want to be exposed and defenceless. Layers of sturdy cloth armoured her from prying eyes and mockery and the worst of her fears; naked, she felt like a snail out of its shell. It took her a good long moment before she could even pretend to be unmoved, longer still before she could force herself, though every instinct she had begged her not to, to unclasp her arms. Nobody was ever going to touch her again. Nobody!

Eventually, when her tone was blessedly steady, she managed: “No need to be hasty, Kitten.” She had rarely been so scared in her life. Her imagination wanted to panic agan; she had feared this so bitterly for so long. “Take it slow. A first date, dinner, flowers -- then,” a rough scrape in her voice, betraying more fear, “then you start undressing.”

"Pretty scars...a shame one cant heal oneself yes? I imagine with your skills then you would be flawfree...that is if your skills where true and not a lie, as obvious is since by measures you are no where near the strength you claim to be." She let a couple moments pass, "So toy, how about that display show, its so easy, even with your real strength you should be able to do something, just start with leting saidar into it." She looked amused, "I do asume you still remember how to channel, or do i need to teach you?"

Her lips started to twitch again and she fought down the half hysterical laughter that bubbled up in her throat. Leashed by a Dreadlord, stripped to the skin and all the woman wanted to do was criticise her looks? She was Battle Ajah, of course she was scarred, she felt no shame about that. Unlike, say, being exposed and terrified under the cold eyes of a Dreamwalking Dreadlord. The way the woman looked at her made her prickle all over; she wanted to cover herself again, didn’t quite dare in case she drew attention to herself. A better Aes Sedai wouldn’t be so petrified. Aes Sedai did not know fear.

She had crossed this hurdle with Aran before; she needed to be calm, to be controlled, and to remember Tower principles. “Firstly, my name is Sirayn Sedai. The honorific is not optional. And secondly … the only person who gives me orders is the Amyrlin Seat. Make your own light show.”

M'bela peted the womans head and smiled, "I think you are forgeting yourself, by your own lips you answer to the great lord." she took a sligth pause, "and on the dark side the ranks work slightly difrent, and when someone higher give an order even if its served you in turn by someone less you do obey as if the less was higher then yourself." Her finger trailed down the womans cheek, "so lets try again, less you are making way with your mistace you migth as well amuse me, if you do migth be i give you another clue. Eventualy even you must get enough to understand this.”

Having her head patted was, if possible, even more demeaning than being collared and leashed. She had to work hard not to bite the other woman’s fingers. Fear thrummed through her; she hated having the Dreadlord so close, doubly hated the casual stroking, something ice cold and terrified coiled in her every time Kitten touched her. Only words distracted her from her panic. By her own lips she answered to the Great Lord? She was pretty damn certain she’d never said that, the First Oath bound her against lies, though at times it might have been useful to pass as a Darkfriend-

Light dawned. Semirhage. Blood and ashes. Such a stupid risk to take! Her and her bloody showmanship, she could have convinced the girl to talk another way, but she’d been so furious still -- as if she could prove she hadn’t been scared by Dreamwalkers walking all over her private nightmares when it was only the truth. She should have known Semirhage’s minions would come for her; she’d brought this on herself. Forcing herself calm, she kept her voice even, though her mind raced as she tried to work out a way round this. “I answer to the Amyrlin Seat, not to you or anyone else. Not everyone likes to lick toes so they can get up the ranks.” She was in deep, deep trouble now.

M'bela tilted her head, "Intersting, so you never had to bend your head as a novice? somehow from what i learned of the white tower i find that hard to belive. Puting that aside thoug do i see something dawn in your eyes?" she smiled, "Making way with that mistace?"

No more touching. Maybe a stolen moment’s respite, but respite all the same, time to recover her wits and try to accustom herself to this strange and threatening situation. Damn it: she was a soldier of the Battle Ajah, supposedly nothing was beyond an Aes Sedai’s will, she should be able to think her way out of this! She flexed her fingers and considered the merits of punching the other woman again. “Bugger you, your mistress and all the other cowards who kiss up to Forsaken. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Sirayn rounded it off with a pleasant smile.

M'bela arched an eyebrow, "You take your orders from the amerlyn, who likely is stronger then your litle self, but that you should be able to defend yourself against, and you migth be able to learn something from, but likely could teach something too as well. I sworn to my mistress willingly, she was not chosen to me by someone else, i would have as much chanse of harming her as you me, and i can learn much more and likely did from her then you could ever hope." M'bela smiled, "which is more logical?" she was bemused, "we all been novices at times, yet i would say i am doing fairly well now and for sure bether then you toy or should i rename you pet?" She imagined the womans hair in two long braids on each side of the head like a litle girl. "cute.

Now you got it rigth, you did what you shouldnt, now i could have sent someone else but the best way to see a job properly done is do it yourself. Your facts of childishness do not intimidate me, i could kill you or hurt you as pleasured me. Rigth now i prefer it this way and sending you back whan i am done, a dead mice is dead, a live one can be found and played with again, and you do make an amusing toy." She stoped, and then let a feeling of ice water slip through the a'dam. "Now should we be adults, or go on, i do have more time, since you find it so unworthy of making an amusement we will have to find another task, and with those oaths binding you a promise to not be fully as stupid in the future as in the past." she smiled and awaited the explosion she was sure would come.

Receiving a lecture on the merits of Darkfriend hierarchy from a Dreadlord struck her as blackly ironic in the circumstances. If the other woman was trying to convert her she should at least be done the courtesy of the full thirteen Dreadlords and thirteen Myrddraal; that particular brand of slavery held no appeal. She had enough difficulty handling the Hall of the Tower without adding thirteen narcissistic sadists from the Age of Legends to her list of betters. No doubt they could teach her a trick or two, maybe even how to defend herself, and certainly it made tactical sense to be on the all-powerful side rather than against it, but … she had made her peace with the Tower long ago. How did people live with themselves when they turned traitor on the only cause they had sworn their lives to? She surely couldn’t.

To tell the truth it didn’t exactly surprise her that she wasn’t intimidating the other woman. Ordinarily she liked to think she made a certain impression, but that presence was a subtly calculated effect, fit for daily life but not extremes of desperation. How precisely she was supposed to intimidate a stronger channeller, and a Dreadlord to boot, on the Dreamwalker’s own territory while stripped and collared passed her by. The First Oath prevented her from responding in kind; no amount of oath-dodging would get through a lie of that magnitude. Aes Sedai did not know fear, not even with the collar icy against her throat and the cold terror that came from being trapped and exposed in hostile company, which was partly why it was so damn shaming to be petrified.

Some time soon she would wake up in her own bed, warm and safe, and hide herself in as many layers as she liked, and even double ward the already warded door and anything else she needed to do before she could let this fear go. She clung to that image: warmth, security, protection. It steeled her a little bit for another clash. And a clash was certainly upcoming. It escaped her entirely where Kitten had got the nerve to speak to Aes Sedai that way, much less to demand oaths from them, but the Dreadlord had better be a damn sight handier with this silver thing than she had proved to be so far if she intended to make an Aes Sedai talk … either that or make some of those implicit threats explicit.

“Is this about Semirhage?” Her voice held scarcely a tremble as she feigned surprise. “But I was a good Semirhage. Ask the object of my little piece of theatre.” She’d liked being Semirhage. It was an unpleasant thought, but then again, an entirely rational one. Semirhage had everything she didn’t: power, strength … courage. Why would a woman like that ever fear? No, she needed to think less about the paltry state of her own defences and more about how she was going to get out of this. Certainly it went against all the rules she had lived by to concede any point to a Dreadlord. “I don’t think I will be making you any promises, no. I think you may just have to make me.”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Ooc: Continued from Basic Etiquette 101 and especially here.

Though she kept watching the two miscreants, inwardly she noted the boy Moridin coming toward her, catching her interest further. He remained a mystery to her; the only surface clue he gave was maybe a little bit of education in his voice, which suggested to her that he had been raised in or around a big city, or possibly to a family of independent wealth. But he ought to be too old for a trainee and he had a dangerous name into the bargain. No reasonable mother would name her child Moridin and pack him off to Tar Valon where the Old Tongue was taught as a matter of course; she might as well call him Ishamael. “As it happens, young man, I did have something in mind for you.” Sirayn added a benevolent smile for effect. Gently, she had to move gently in a class full of empty-headed novices or she would spook someone and spoil the game altogether. “I’ll be your partner for the moment. You have the advantage of me, Master Moridin, so why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Moridin was speechless. This was far from what he had been expecting and even further from what he was prepared for. He didn't even know this information about himself and now here he was being asked about it and expected to give a detailed answer. Blood and ashes. Where did that phrase keep coming from anyway? Another problem linked quite closely with the one at hand. But that didn't help that fact that she was still waiting for an answer.

Could he make something up on the spot? Could it work? Suddenly his mind went back and he regretted not having paid more attention to her earlier words when she had introduced herself to him. What in the light could he say? He was from a forest near here and aside from that had absolutely no background what-so-ever? He didn't even have the luxury of turning this conversation around back on her as was his usual tactic in these situations. His mind once again thought of how he could escape and the door was looking more and more inviting by the second. His life may very well hang on this! Running would almost certainly mean capture and questions while atleast attempting an answer had the chance of working. How many times had he said to himself he needed to come up with a story for his background. Light, if she noticed the scar on his neck...

And then something occured to him. If she was playing with him, why could he not play with her? Let her determine what she would from what he said. "My name, as you know, is Moridin. It is not my given name, but it is the name I've had for as long as I can remember. While not originally, I'm currently from a small outlying area to the south of Tar Valon in the forest region and have lived there for alsong as I can remember aswell." His ambiguous response would no doubt be thougt provoking but it gave the impression of a great deal of time. It most certainly didn't give the impression that he'd woken up there merely a matter of months ago.

Immersed in the intricacies of the Great Game, Sirayn had learnt to turn old Battle Ajah habit to her advantage in a different and subtler war, and recognising threats ranked high on her list. She knew danger in her bones like a sailor’s awareness of current, read it at every glance, in subtle tension and faces gone too impassive. Danger came in many forms -- and something about Moridin triggered old, cold instincts beneath Aes Sedai composure. Despite the busy, chattering surroundings a chill went through her and she gave a moment’s serious consideration to backing off until she found out what under the Light she was getting herself into. But some had found her dangerous herself, civilised as she took care to be in this company, and a tactical withdrawal from a Tower Trainee went against the grain.

Sirayn studied her prey coldly instead. He had told her nothing of any worth, certainly not to explain the black name he bore, nor to tell her just what he was covering up. As an Aes Sedai she ought to be the smartest person in the room and she had no compunctions about using it to her advantage; Moridin was no sulky child, like that pup Talcontar, nor one of the Tower’s white-skirted children, so she had no need to stay her hand. “Really?” Dark brows rose as she played at surprise. “You acquired that name somewhere? Do tell me where, I’m quite fascinated to hear who disliked you enough to call you Death in a dead language. And, by the way,” this simple etiquette class was turning out to be quite the puzzle, “you use the phrase as long as I can remember rather too much. If you’re lying, at least make it watertight, yes? It shows respect for your opponent that you give them a challenging lie.”

Moridin & Sirayn Damodred

Tower Trainee & Head of the Green Ajah

Next moment saidar seized her. Its grip only tightened the harder she fought; once she had tired herself out Sirayn subsided, bitterly furious, another opportunity lost. The silver felt burning cold against her throat. She couldn’t forget it, couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t work round it. Leashed: a black, corrosive thought: shame and fury in equal measure. The woman had been so close. If she could just take away the One Power and this monstrous collar both, she fancied her chances against the Dreadlord, but she just couldn’t work out how to remove those factors.

A better Aes Sedai would crack this. A keen mind could undo any knot and a strong will surmount any challenge; there was nothing an Aes Sedai could not master if she put herself to it. Only she had never been a good Aes Sedai, just Jehanine’s duller shadow, and she lacked the intelligence or the ingenuity or whatever it was Jehanine would have used to win. Her famous old Ajah deserved better from its Captains General than this: leashed and beaten, outfought and outwitted all along the line, a ten-day novice would have made a better showing. Even she had had a better crack at it last time -- hadn’t she provoked Amiarin Lucif, who still haunted her dreams, into giving her just one brilliant chance? She should have done the same again. Shock and confusion and fury was no excuse.

Her eyes narrowed when the Dreadlord produced a knife. If she could have put it to any use Kitten would never have offered it to her, but a good blade meant much to her Green Ajah heart, life always held chances, and … she needed to push back. Frustration had its claws in her too deep to suffer this in silence. If she didn’t push some limits soon she would snap. So she reached for the knife. The moment she did so her hand began to shake, tension creeping to her wrist, then all the way to the shoulder, muscles knotting tight. Biting back another snarl she forced her hand forward and pain tightened so savagely she couldn’t reach out another inch. She wanted the knife. Needed the knife. The pain was only in her head. It was a trick of the mind, just her imagination, she could ignore it if she could just -- touch -- the knife …

It burned her to give up. Her wrist hurt; when she moved her fingers pain spiked; useless frustration left her shaking. Blood and ashes! If it was just a trick, how did it hurt so bloody much? She worked her hand and, not needing any assistance to know how desperate her situation was, did her best to ignore this wretched woman. The sharp order triggered her wrath again. Collared she might be, and admittedly with no real prospect of escape, but she had no intention of being told to sit like a disobedient puppy … and she had seen Aes Sedai leashed before. They went in strong women, bold and full of fire, and they came out broken. Somewhere along the line they compromised with themselves: told themselves it was unreasonable to resist all the time, it only invited more trouble, they should play along quietly: and after that the Seanchan took them apart piece by piece. But it was they themselves who opened that first crack. Aes Sedai did not compromise.

Her defiance lasted all of a moment. Then pain overloaded her. Her muscles seized uncontrollably, her knees gave beneath her and she went down like a puppet with the strings cut. By the time her head cleared again she was on her knees, steadying herself with a shaking hand. Her pulse raced. Fear and the echoes of pain prickled down her back. Getting a grip doggedly she tried to rise, couldn’t find the strength, fell back. The indignity rendered her speechless: kneeling before a Dreadlord, collared and leashed like an animal, alone and bitterly ashamed … she had never felt so humiliated.

It sparked fury. She hadn’t invited this. She had been asleep in her own bed, alone, a threat to nobody. Then some Dreamwalking stranger had snatched her from her own black dreams, mocked and tormented her, leashed her and now, to add insult to injury, the Dreadlord expected her to submit. As if an Aes Sedai would ever give in! “No.” Her voice had a harsh edge. “No and no and a hundred times no. If you want something from me, you’re going to have to take it. Is your jewellery up to that?”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

"Strange you dont recognise it since you claim to be a master in it and so much more...toy" she grined and pulled back as an other idea came to mind.

Her heart still hammered. She choked off the urge to snarl; the power balance was already skewed so far it was horizontal, did the bloody woman have to point it out as well? It unsettled her. Amiarin had applied crude pressure, no less effective for its primitiveness, but this one was more … oblique. Targeting her pride, probably the best target of all, probing the limits of her resistance. Shame and unwanted pleasue coiled tight. She strained a bit at the bonds holding her, working off some tension, and did her best to scrape together some wits. “I think I’m better at taking this than you are at giving it out.” Her smile had a brilliantly hard edge. “Want to bet?”

M'bela laughed as she produced the perfect a'dam with the help of her memorie..."Maybe, but toy i got time do you?" she sliped the collar around the womans neck and then let go of the shield after doning the bracelet. "Now this migth be interesting" she let the ants nest evaporate too.

She recognised it on sight. Nobody who had gone into the west to rescue captured sisters from Seanchan hands could have forgotten it: the silver linking bracelet to collar, just a delicate piece of jewellery on the outside, but for those in the know a’dam represented desperation. A trap designed specifically to enslave channellers! This was spiralling into nightmare. She pulled away violently, couldn’t break the Dreadlord’s grip, trapped and powerless; shut her eyes in useless humiliation as the collar snapped shut round her throat.

The silver felt cool against her skin. No amount of provocation would open it. She was shaking now, defeat too bitter, after all her hard work someone had caught and collared her in her own bloody dream. Fury overrode her best efforts at calm. The situation was already desperate; she had nothing to lose; in an instant she had made her decision. Snarling wordlessly, she hit the other woman so hard it jarred her arm to the shoulder. Pain exploded in her head, she hadn’t known about that charming little addition, dazed and furious she lashed out again.

M'belas only comfort was the shock on the womans face as she learned aoubt the effect of hurting the braceholder, as the Aes Sedai moved in for another attack though she steped out of the way "Enough!" she sent a firery sensation of the skin beeing aflame into the a'dam..."your not a very good toy it would apear, but you will learn because you are clever." she girned " and i do know you do not want to return to the tower all black and blue, which will be the result as you get twice back whatever you do to me while leached" she smiled calmly

The next moment fire bloomed. An instant’s red heat seared her to speechless agony; cursing, so blind she couldn’t even see the flames to escape them, she registered nothing but pain. Only once the sensation had died did she look at her unburnt skin and realise the bloody fire hadn’t even existed. How many tricks did the a’dam have in store? Maybe she would have the rest of her life to find out. Maybe she was staring surrender in the face right now. Living the rest of her life collared and beaten, at the Shadow’s mercy, forced to spill every secret she knew until they tired of her enough to kill her … her skin crawled where the memory of fire still lingered. Light but she needed an answer to this fast.

Not knowing the range of limitations the a’dam imposed on her held her back as effectively as the a’dam herself. It had sprung two discoveries on her already and she didn’t look forward to a third. She wanted to try the collar round her throat, didn’t dare, thinking that a prime target for another incapacitating trick. Tentatively she touched her cheekbone instead; if the effects of everything she did to Kitten came back twice over, she should have bruised far worse than Kitten had, yet while her head still rang and her face burned her fingers found no swelling. Could it be that the effect was as entirely in her mind as the fire had been? On the surface it meant nothing, pain crippled be it based on a real injury or not, but … she was getting the inklings of an idea. A suicidally stupid idea. And she was all out of sane options.

She moved to the full extent of the leash, such as it was, felt the leash go tight and the collar pull round her throat. It reminded her how intensely degrading this was, leashed like an animal, permitted to stray only as far as the Dreadlord allowed. A twitch of her wrist and Ktten could summon her any time she chose. She hated it; it took a considerable effort not to pull at the leash, yank at it even, try everything she could think of to get it off her. Every passing moment she fought down that urge her hold over her temper got more fragile. She ought to calm down but … the indignity, the sheer humiliation of this stupid collar, the uncertainty of not knowing exactly what it did, stone cold fear for the future, hatred and frustration and fury … she wanted to hit something.

The leash slackened as she moved closer to the object of her hate, letting her shoulders drop in defeat. “This is a filthy thing.” It didn’t take any simulation at all to put a snarl in her voice. She risked the collar again, found no ill effects, found no clasp either. Of course she couldn’t open it; it wouldn’t be a very efficient channeller trap if she could just take it off. The second reason why she tried the collar was so that when she hit the Dreadlord in the throat it would be as fast and decisive as possible. “I see the Seanchan are doing their usual sterling job. Steal our lands, kill our people already and what do they do? They give all their technology to the bloody Dreadlords!” She inched closer. “Unfortunately neither they nor you are smart. Or maybe you just aren’t desperate enough.” Another inch. “I think this thing only reflects pain. And pain itself can’t kill. So it doesn’t matter how much it incapacitates me -- as long as you’ll be dead.”

She went for the kill.

Ooc: She’s going to try a killing blow to the throat, to crush the windpipe, reckoning that even if the (doubled) pain incapacitates her temporarily it won’t kill her most permanently indeed as it would do to M’bela. Better stop her. ;)

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

This time when Kitten took hold of her head she didn’t even get the chance to recoil; panic flared, quick and intense, which she stamped out ruthlessly. That way led defeat. The firm grip forced her to meet the other woman’s dark eyes, too detached and amused for her liking. It took concentration to relax under that stare. She resented being so closely controlled, hated being helpless as a child and at her captor’s mercy, even as she recognised it as another interrogation tactic. Unsettle, frighten, then apply pressure and step it up until the target cracked.

Inwardly she had been braced for a full Amiarin-style interrogation ever since she realised her true situation. She had no illusions; as Aes Sedai went, she was stronger willed than most and she had resisted this before, but black-haired Kitten was almost certainly a Dreadlord from her casual use of force and given enough time and inventiveness … a Dreadlord could break anyone. And nobody was coming to save her. Pain she had expected, during the Amiarin episode she had gained intimate knowledge of many forms of pain, and probably worse to come. Such old adversaries as Dreadlords and the Green Ajah knew one another well; both sides had high pain thresholds drilled into them during their long careers; someone like Kitten should know more creative methods. Rationally she knew that.

Uninvited pleasure still took her totally by surprise. Its first touch made her tense on a sharp indrawn breath; she had barely formed oh Light no in her thoughts when it settled into her bones. Indescribably strange, it lit every nerve to thrilling, spread heat through her and for a blind moment she didn’t know whether to pull away. Like a succession of fireworks it woke fear: shame: crawling humiliation that anyone should impose something so private and so intimate on her: real outrage. She felt intensely sensitive, the heat of the other woman’s touch multiplied, senses overloaded. The rational part of her clawed for control. Trapped by dark eyes and strong hands, she couldn’t find it.

Slow, deep breaths calmed her racing pulse. Inch by inch she got herself under control, her efforts somewhat hampered by the increasing pleasue; shockingly sharp now, she fought down the urge to struggle uselessly, to get rid of this building tension somehow. She couldn’t concentrate while this sweet, relentless ache disrupted her train of thought. Exerting her will she forced her voice even, though it scraped, twisted with strain: “No, can’t say this is prompting my memory-“ she broke off on a gasp as Kitten stepped it up another notch, short of breath now for some reason, striving to keep herself under control beneath this strange new assault, “I think I’d -- I’d have remembered this. Another hint? Kitten?”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Taunting her enemy in such a way had been colossally stupid. She remembered only too vividly what Amiarin Lucif had given her for her mockery: remembered the blow out of nowhere, stinging pain, the red drip of blood; remembered fear and grinding tension. But she had not forgotten something else either … that even people like that, whose cruelty armoured them, backed by the Shadow’s might … could be provoked. And a Dreadlord who lost her temper gave up control of the situation. That control she desperately needed -- to protect herself, to quiet her fears, maybe to strike back when the time was right. The game wasn’t over yet by any means.

Intellectually she knew she had no chance against a Dreamwalker. Even if she could crack this stranger as she had done Amiarin Lucif she couldn’t defend herself. But on a basic and primitive level she rejected defeat; a soldier of the Battle Ajah never gave up. Her own courage and cunning had to be equal to the situation or how could she call herself Aes Sedai? It benefited nobody but the enemy Dreamwalker for her to just give up as if there was no hope at all … and though she had no skill at Tel’aran’rhiod herself, nor could she even access the One Power at the moment, it might not always be so. A keen mind could be just as good a defence as saidar. So she had not conceded and this strange Domani woman would have to be just as darkly imaginative as Amiarin to get that from her.

Something solidified round her to trap her in place. She tested it, found it undeniably stronger than she was, forced herself to relax though cold awareness tingled over her and told her that she was trapped and helpless. The association only doubled when the woman lazily drew a finger down her cheek. It jolted cold fear through her; she jerked her head away, gone taut as wire in an instant, and then cursed herself bitterly for her stupidity. In better times she would have been able to control that panicked impulse but Aran had targeted her defences so hard and so relentlessly, brought so many bitter memories to the surface that she just couldn’t, too many raw nerves, too much fear. Next moment it occurred to her like a dash of ice water that that might be exactly how the Dreamwalker had known to touch her. She had known Aran was a Darkfriend since the blackmail began, and if he had told this woman how to get to her, a Dreamwalker who could twist Tel’aran’rhiod to anything she wanted …

She was feeling less inclined toward defiance every minute. It shamed her; a true Aes Sedai did not know fear. A true Aes Sedai would not have let the Solin affair happen either, nor would she have carried that fear with her ever since, so she had no excuses. What if the other woman realised? It didn’t even bear thinking about, she’d terrify herself before the Domani ever got started. Had to think clearly. The link might just be a product of her imagination and one mistimed flinch meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. She had promised herself nobody was going to come near her again; even Green Ajah courage had its limits.

A sudden crawling sensation jerked her out of bargaining with herself. It maddened her in short order; when the first bites came and she found herself immobilised in the middle of an ants’ nest, then fear and shame and the stifling feeling of being trapped choked her and she had to draw a slow breath to steady herself. She had weathered worse than this and would do so again but all the same … it burned her to be targeted by a child’s trick as if she were a naughty novice rather than an Aes Sedai facing serious business. Calm, she needed to be calm, a Captain General should be in command of herself at all times. Guess what she did wrong? It meant nothing to her. Of course she had offended the Shadow in numerous ways, that was her job as a Battle Ajah member after all, but … she didn’t like the sound of that playtoys at all. She knew what Dreadlords did to their toys.

Nevertheless, she had a duty to her Ajah, the Tower and the Light and she meant to uphold it. An Aes Sedai did not bow to intimidation. “What I did wrong? How long do you have … Kitten?” Her lips twitched despite the ongoing crisis. Imagining this black-haired Domani stranger six inches high and playing with yarn did a good deal to fix her composure in place. Going on the offensive reassured her; she adopted her most offensive drawl. “Let me see.

“In my younger days I swore and drank to excess and indulged in unseemly practices. I’ve lied, insofar as the First Oath permits, and wilfully deceived my superiors, and disobeyed orders and even betrayed my own people when the Tower ordered it. I’ve sent Darkfriends to their maker without trial and numerous other activities not strictly endorsed by Tower Law. I have disrespected my elders and betters, I’ve picked fights with the wrong people and opened my mouth when I should have stayed silent, I’ve been a poor sister and a poorer friend. I've been a spy and a soldier and a schemer,” and a coward … but that much she did not mention. Her smile was slow and cold. “Shall I go on? Or would you perhaps like to be more specific?”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

I expect you read the same mythology. :D Welcome aboard! Good to have you around.

Any relation to Eadon Isolde? :D

Arette! You never said. :D Welcome back!

Figures had never been her fixation, but all Aes Sedai should have a basic grasp of mathematics, and the underlying concepts had a certain elegance. It occupied her mind most satisfactorily as she worked. Papers lay scattered over her desk in apparent disorder, numbers and symbols in orderly columns, annotated at crazy angles as if a spider had gone pattering in her good black ink: ink on her fingers, ink on the papers, ink on her desk even; brows furrowed, she chewed her quill absently and thought.

Planning a military campaign was harder than it sounded. She had discovered that a good two centuries ago and it had remained true ever since; even with her supposed intelligence, at least she considered it an improvement over the green stripling she had been, and the amassed skill of her Green Ajah life it taxed her concentration. Not enough to make her give up of course. If she couldn’t go along herself -- and how she burned for that, to be back in battle where she belonged, directing divisions like pawns on the internal chess board only she could see -- she had to settle for giving those who fought in her place as good a chance of victory as she could manage.

Logistics and details and contingencies complicated each other like half a hundred spiderwebs. Later she would have to draw a line beyond which the law of diminishing returns took effect; in the end nothing she did could make victory certain, success in such a difficult campaign could not be snatched like an apple from a branch, but for the moment she pushed those traitorous thoughts away not wanting to accept how futile her best efforts were. For now it satisfied the discontent in her heart, convinced her that if she couldn’t bring war to the Shadow herself she could at least play a necessary part, and she ignored the lurking fear that she would never see battle again.

Tower Law worked in ways she had to find ironic or else weep. How else would the Green Ajah’s Captain General, supposedly the best and most skilled war leader the Tower had, be raised to the Amyrlin Seat where she was specifically prohibited from danger? That particular law had written itself on her memory in words of fire. Unless the White Tower be at war by declaration of the Hall of the Tower, the Amyrlin shall seek the Lesser Consensus before placing herself in the way of any danger, and she shall stand by the Hall’s decision … It burned her even to think of it. Trapped here in Tar Valon, a crippled spider spinning her webs, when the war that would decide the world’s fate raged on without her? No, she did not intend to stand for it. One way or another she would break the chains of tradition. Let it only be before Tarmon Gai’don.

Piles of paperwork and tomes towered around her as, draped in her seven-striped shawl, Sirayn contemplated the far wall distractedly and calculated how to beat the Hall at its own game. Though that specific Tower Law concerned her most at the moment, surrounded as she was by the symbols of a war she couldn’t attend, in the long term she meant to make other changes; ones she had not trusted to paper yet, certainly hadn’t confided them in her Keeper, she was keeping those for a different day. But not too long in the future.

Through the half open door she glimpsed her new Keeper at work greeting visitors. Unobserved herself, she took the opportunity to watch Marahja do Igone a’Remei; a slim woman of average height, dark-haired and brown-eyed, high birth written in her fine strong bones. Since the Grey Ajah had seen fit to put her in the difficult position of being a stranger’s Keeper in a tense situation worldwide, it seemed safe to assume that Marahja Sedai was a political mastermind of some sort, but the woman remained very much a mystery to her. She needed to unlock that Aes Sedai composure and figure out who she was dealing with before she dared make any moves with this sister at her elbow all the time. The Grey Ajah had been cunning to hamper her with a politically motivated stranger.

The object of her thoughts tapped at her door and let herself in shortly afterward. They exchanged the guarded courtesies of two masters at their respective trades. “It’s Taya Gille and Isra Alisandair for you, Mother.”

It was rare that she be moved to a display of feeling, but on this occasion, Sirayn felt justified in returning an incredulous stare. “It’s who and who?”

“You must know them-“

She waved away the interruption: “No, I know who they are.” For a given value of know. The gulf of rank and age had been too great for her to ever be close to Taya Gille, though she had looked up to the older sister greatly, once upon a time she had learnt all she knew from the then future Captain General. As for Isra, she rarely crossed paths with the White Ajah, but anyone worth their salt had heard of Isra Nimriel d’Ilin Alisandair. Frowning over the implications she put her ink and quill away, stacked books even as she thought.

Both had been away from the Tower for some time, missing the entire Caladesh affair, they hadn’t even left in company if she remembered rightly. During her brief term as Captain General she had heard once or twice that Taya was in the Borderlands; nobody had reported anything else of interest and she’d had too much on her plate to give it much thought, but the White Ajah did not journey to the Blight border as her own folk so often did and now she wondered … why appear together? And why now? If it had been anyone else she might have discounted it as a coincidence. But such senior Aes Sedai, well respected in their own Ajahs, did not ordinarily leave the Tower and in such dangerous times their comings and goings had to be studied carefully. Political consequences, while important, were near the least of her concern with the Black Ajah still at large.

On the long, harrowing journey to Tear, the first Black Ajah Hunt, she had been among the lowest of the Hunters with many others to guide and guard her. Even in recent times, when the second Hunt had been gathered, she had had an Amyrlin and a Keeper in whom she could place her faith: the great Lanfir and Lyanna, a pair the Shadow should rightly fear, whose orders she could follow willingly. Now … there was no such buffer between herself and ultimate responsibility. Nobody would pay up if she gambled wrongly. Nobody would come to her rescue if she made the wrong call. As the Amyrlin Seat, nominally the most powerful woman in the world, the Tower’s salvation and that of the Light was her job and hers alone.

As such she’d be damned if she let the two Aes Sedai out of her sight before she knew exactly what was going on. Difficult discussions would come first, she didn’t doubt that. Unless their eyes and ears were good they had come expecting Lanfir Leah Marithsen, not a crippled old soldier without half their distinction, and if she herself could see that was an unfair trade then they wouldn’t be any too thrilled about it either. Taya especially might be hard to handle … she had known the two dead women long before anyone else still living. The Green Ajah had fallen far and hard when it lost its most talented leaders.

“Send them in.” She spoke without turning as she finished tidying her desk. Once her Keeper had gone she crossed briefly to a mirror, straightened her skirts as if smoothing out her appearance would help any, though she wished like hell it was Lanfir looking back at her. It wasn’t and it never would be … but she was the Amyrlin; she might be short and crippled and in this company no doubt she was in the shadow intellectually as well, but she wore the seven-striped stole as of right and nobody would take that away from her. She was the Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, and one day she would lead the Tower into the Last Battle whether people liked it or not. So she waited for the returning Aes Sedai calmly, giving them back their own impassiveness, and greeted them with the traditional words:

“The Light shine on you, daughters, and welcome back to the White Tower.”

Sirayn Damodred

Watcher of the Seals

Flame of Tar Valon

The Amyrlin Seat

A morbid request and one which, at first glance, she was disinclined to grant. The dead held no secrets; life escaped so suddenly, with the last gush of crimson blood, it left no further information even for the most desperate mourner. She knew and recognised a desire for certainty, proof enough to convince anyone, hard facts to begin the long dark journey into grief but … if the Accepted sought comfort then Faile al’Rahien would not find it out there in the relentless storm. How did it benefit anyone to brave the pouring rain, the mud and cold to see a body, a broken shell, no longer housing even the slightest spark of life? Dead was dead. And no matter how many tears she shed the child could not raise her dead.

But then it occurred to her that some day -- inevitably, if she were frank with herself, though the thought twisted at her -- someone would bring her the same news about Lyssa. Maybe something as simple as an accident in training; she could never be certain, of course, the links between them made her Lyssa a name on so many black lists; perhaps the strike would come openly, perhaps not. Her daughter would be just as dead whoever’s hand dealt the blow. And she would want to see her daughter’s body. No, she would have a right to see her daughter’s body, to touch her cold brow a final time and see the truth for herself.

Only an idiot would let a distraught child near the body of her sweetheart, but thinking of Lyssa frequently made her an idiot -- like the false, cold liar she was -- and she found herself saying: “As you wish. Let’s bring Danian in from the cold.” Outside the storm doubled it assault. Wind and rain lashed the glass window. The skies had darkened still further and when she glanced outside she couldn’t even see the outline of Tar Valon through the deluge. She looked over the child’s white wool and her own heavy skirts and shook her head; they were both going to end up drenched. It was a small enough price to pay.

“Out then.” They left the Mistress of Novices’ office; it bore no marks of their passing, untouched as if they had never even been there, and silent like the grave. Due to their location and the swirl of crowds as novices filed to their chores and classes it took her a good five minutes to find the nearest exit from the Tower. Once she did so Sirayn pushed open the door only to be greeted with a wash of howling wind which sought to rip the door from her fingers; she looked out into the gale, grimaced, and strangled out the urge to ask why the child was so eager to add some more lives to the storm’s tally. Instead motioning curtly for the Accepted to follow she stepped outside.

Rain hit her like a cold hand. It seeped through the layers of cloth she wore, soaked her skirts, trickled icily down the back of her neck. Since nobody could hear her anyway Sirayn permitted herself a muttered curse as she slammed the door and started into the storm. The child a barely seen shadow at her elbow, they forged onward across the open ground, found their way into the welcome cover of the yards; a high wall shielded them momentarily from the worst of the weather. The veiling rain slackened, just a moment, and before them lay a huddled shape.

She had never seen Danian Grey alive. Death had crumpled the boy like parchment; maybe he had been tall and strong once, she couldn’t tell, but right now he lay white and lifeless as a puppet with the strings cut. He had bled a great deal. Red still tinted the puddle he lay in. A fitting end for a brave boy, she had said that before, but the falseness of it twisted at her now. There were no fitting ends for children who met violence.

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Despite her general discontent with this scenario Sirayn herself was no stranger to grief. She had lived long, and Aes Sedai ageing being a curse as well as a blessing, she had buried those she loved on many an occasion; she might even call loss an old friend, it had accompanied her on some of the most difficult and desperate missions of her life. So she had been prepared for a number of responses … denial, disbelief certainly, perhaps even anger, though it would take a brave Accepted to turn on an Aes Sedai in that manner. Had she been asked prior to the meeting she would have said that nothing Faile said in reply could startle her.

Unfortunately she hadn’t anticipated that Faile al’Rahien was a conspiracy theorist. It appeared she had been wrong to conclude the child was no fool; if the other thought for a moment that she would go to all the trouble of escaping the First Oath, possible but dangerous and time-consuming, simply to disturb some Accepted she had never met before then Faile had a greatly overstated view of her sadism. She bit off several caustic comments on the intelligence, or lack thereof, revealed by that little hypothesis. It would not be fair. The child grieved, whether she knew it yet or not, and it did not become an Aes Sedai to speak sharply in this situation.

To be called cold as if it were an insult puzzled her. Aes Sedai were supposed to be cold; they lived separate lives, above and beyond ordinary people, and if the Last Battle was to be won they could not afford such luxuries as sentiment. Obviously she was cold. One day the child might know the truth of that. Cold words, cold tone: “Believe it or not as you choose. I am merely here to inform -- and inform I will. By the First Oath, I speak no word that is not true, and I tell you Danian Grey is dead.”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Not a fool, this child, not by any means. According to her memory Accepted only associated with Tower Trainees for one reason, but Faile al’Rahien stopped short of saying so. Perhaps wiser instincts prevailed upon her to hold her tongue; love and trust held the dark rust colour of death. And she had already picked up on the tiniest of errors … Had the past tense been intentional? Even the speaker did not know. Sirayn did not understand people, couldn’t grasp the simple social courtesies others took for granted, and no doubt her explanation would have all the grace of a lead weight. Far better that the child realised it for herself than that some idiot Aes Sedai spelled it out for her in all the wrong ways.

Silence drew inward on the tiny room like a smothering hand. Gesturing toward the nearest chair, she herself took the Mistress of Novices’ seat without another word, facing Faile al’Rahien across the polished table; enough time for her to prepare her next words properly. Only subtlety and sympathy would do. She had neither. For once she felt very old indeed. “Something has happened.” She stuffed down the fear that she was going to mess this up spectacularly; there was a time and a place for doubt. Instead Sirayn watched her quarry, her gaze steady, unmoving. “Not long ago. But too long by half. As I heard it, so I will pass it on to you, who have the right to know.”

Old words, ritual words, and she reached for cool language to distance herself from everything. “Why they came, who they were, even how many, nobody knows. They came from Tar Valon proper, so we think, but they may have entered the city by any number of ways. Nobody even knows if they encountered the Grey twins by mishap or design. Maybe when he wakes the boy Dorian can shed some light on this … and wake he will, by the Yellow Ajah’s magic, though by all rights he should have died today.” Perhaps he would have preferred it. She knew the intensity of blood ties herself.

“Your Danian and his twin, the boy Dorian, fought an unknown number of assailants. Some are dead. Others fled. It appears that Danian took his injuries while saving his brother.” As well that the Yellow Ajah had intervened. She did not hold with children sacrificing themselves for nothing. “If that’s any consolation.” It wouldn’t be; she kept her tone flat accordingly. “You should know that Danian died as a warrior, bravely, honourably and well, in service to the Tower and in loyalty to his twin. His watch is over now. But he will not be forgotten.”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

A well-spoken child, it appeared, if none too quick to curtsey, with Shienar on her tongue and the Borderlands written in her bones like a language few could read. She stored away the smallest details to distract herself from the task at hand; this should be handled sympathetically, by an Aes Sedai who knew her, but instead all this Borderlander child had was her. Given her own record in showing the proper sympathy it could be said that the Tower had failed Faile al’Rahien in this as well. But she did not linger on it. Someone had to break the news and it might as well be her.

“You and I have some business to attend to, Accepted.” Business was a cold term to put to someone’s untimely death, but to spill the truth now and cause a frenzy in public would benefit nobody, the child deserved at least to hear in a secluded private place where nobody would see her grief if she did not desire it. “Come now. Talk later.” Leading the way Sirayn headed smartly to the Mistress of Novices’ office. Here thousands of women had begun their first journeys into Tower life; at the moment it stood silent, having been emptied for just this purpose, and the door opened at a light touch. She indicated for the Accepted to enter and closed the door behind them, sealing them into coolness and quiet.

Rain hammered against the windows in a steady thrum. Somewhere out there a small body lay broken, most likely the blood had already been washed away, and someone would have to bring it in … perhaps even them if she thought it would do the child any good. As for now the memory made her frown. Sirayn drew the curtains, shut out the storm, spoke without turning. “You knew the boy Danian Grey, correct? A Tower Trainee?”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Even for an Aes Sedai veteran it had taken less than five minutes for the infirmary to get too oppressive. It brought too many memories; firelight and blood on her hands, like red ribbons in the water, she had always hated seeing children in pain. Her sisters in gold had taken the survivor in and he’d get no better care anywhere than with the Yellow Ajah, so with the Light’s luck there would be no more deaths tonight, but what a bloody mess. Defenceless children assaulted inside Tar Valon’s walls while the Tower slept! So much for the protection those trainees were entitled to.

Rain sheeted down the windows and matched her mood for greyness as Sirayn made her way through the Tower; at this hour the corridors still hummed with activity though few got in her way. She had gone by the Mistress of Novices to keep her informed and find out where she could track down her quarry. Strictly speaking it wasn’t her job, but she had been present at the last, and where had the Green Ajah been when blood was being spilled on their own ground? It added shame to her unsettled mood. The knowledge that she brought news as black as the sky overhead did not improve her either. Someone was going to face a nightmare very soon.

Class was just ending when she found her way to the correct hall. As white-skirted children flooded out Sirayn waited, composed as a painting, nothing outward to show what she had witnessed … or what she brought. The sister teaching the class stopped for a brief word but she got rid of the other woman as soon as she politely could. Here came her target: a brown-haired, brown-eyed Shienaran, pretty enough, but delicate looking. “Accepted Faile al’Rahien.” She kept her voice even. “Come with me, please.”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Another meek as milkwater response. She was beginning to suspect that Halvie picked colourless, silent novices deliberately so they would not betray her affairs, much as some lords back in the days of barbarism had cut out the tongues of their slaves. No doubt she could provoke the child to utter at least one original thought if she spent all day trying to get a rise, but it would be an unproductive use of her time and effort, and besides which the girl might not know anything of any use anyway. It was just … unsettling the way everything had worked out. Not knowing what was going on made her doubt how much control she retained and, in this particular case, control she very much needed.

Gone silent as the grave! Halvie, who had once gone to such lengths to gain her notice, who had portrayed herself as the poster child of potential. Halvie with her dark heart and darker thoughts who had perturbed even the normally imperturbable Sirayn Damodred. How mortifying the whole episode must have been! In hindsight she could just imagine how many hours Halvie had put into making exactly the right approach, extracting some information from her, believing that she held so many secrets … only to dash all her hopes at the last moment by being just a touch too unstable for any sane person to teach. If she had been a better liar she might have gained a great deal more.

Sobering thoughts. For all she knew Aramina sur Dulciena was playing her in exactly the same way, only better and more subtly, thanks to that exquisite Cairhienin training. Somehow she doubted that anyone had the same goals though. Nobody else spoke such black words to her; talked of murder, talked of evil. That kind of discussion took some leading up to. This particular novice struck her as too dull to be interested in anything of the sort. Either that or she was up to her own game, an option which Sirayn did not discount, but the play of novices did not concern her over much.

One final question though. If she got nothing of any interest she could dismiss the child just as easily, nothing gained, but just as valuable nothing risked. Sirayn continued to contemplate her now closed envelope feigning great interest in the broken seal. “Does your mentor ever speak to you about … games?”

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Icy winds drove rain against her window panes. It cascaded down the leaded glass in an endless stream; behind her candles danced and their pinpoint reflections wavered, pale as ghosts, in that wash of water. Blackness had gathered in the sky like the sweep of an immense wing … perhaps that of a raven, the Dark One’s spy, whose vast shadow turned Tar Valon dark. The sight of the famous ivory walls shrouded by the raging storm struck her as too ominous for comfort. She drew the curtains together, sealing out the hammering rain, and closed herself into an island of warmth and golden silence.

Comfortable disorder ruled across her quarters. She had removed anything a novice should not see, she was expecting a visitor after all, but enough remained to paint a truthful picture of its occupant; dozens of books, papers in various states of disarray, a bottle of something that looked black and toxic, a dagger whose dark blade bore a stylised rose, maps and ink and half-finished work. The desk she had cleared, or at least pushed all the papers to one end exposing the polished dark wood, to lay out something she rarely removed from a drawer. Black lines and arrows covered a piece of red cloth; pale wooden discs stood stacked up on either side, one wave-marked stack for the snakes, one triangle-marked stack for the foxes, plus a single ebony black piece for each player.

Centuries ago she had spent many a lazy afternoon playing this game in warm green woods far from here, just a child herself, and more recently her own children had puzzled over the same seemingly simple game. Most people gave it up when they realised that the only way to win was to cheat. Courage to strengthen, fire to blind, music to dazzle, iron to bind! Her life was too busy for children’s games now … but she suspected that Snakes and Foxes might open up a way to a larger game, one of far greater interest to her, the Great Game of Houses. So the board game lay arrayed on her desk, counters at her fingertips as she settled into her chair, awaiting her visitor.

Like a thief, she had sticky fingers where it came to novices who caught her interest, as the beautifully behaved and otherwise fascinating Rossa could attest. Initiates were the Tower’s future, of course, and so much easier to catch than Aes Sedai; they thirsted for knowledge, hungered to prove themselves, not to mention the obedience schooled into them by life in whites. In a way she liked their innocence even as she knew it would never survive -- a transient sense like the brief life of a flower. But novices had other qualities and ones which charmed her much better.

Intelligence, for example, and discretion. The ability to lie. Soon enough the First Oath stilled lying tongues and took away all their deceitful promise; they clamoured for use before they could be silenced forever. Independence … but not too much, of course, lest they turn traitor as quick as certain Tower Guards she had had the displeasure of knowing. All skills she had read into Bethelynne a’Raposa during their interesting little lessons together. That class had shown little promise on the whole, infested as it was with Estel’s sulking spawn and various ill-mannered children, but other than Rossa and her Cairhienin shadow it was Novice Bethelynne who had drawn her attention.

Not wanting to arouse comment, she had spoken only briefly with the girl after the last lesson, but long enough to arrange a meeting tonight. In the meantime an interesting little visit to the Mistress of Novices had stoked her curiosity further. However successful her gambit proved, she thought Bethelynne might provide a night’s diversion from her work, and perhaps further-reaching consequences beside. Hence she waited for her guest to arrive so the games could begin.

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah

Any Children around? Can we get a CC on this please? :)

Blood and ashes, she’d said something wrong again. So much for this new political game she had thought herself so skilled at -- something she’d come to unnaturally late in life, full of a soldier’s simple instincts she couldn’t shake, and had to learn better than those who had drunk it with their first milk. One could not play Daes Dae’mar poorly in Tar Valon itself; the game was played at too subtle a level, the stakes too high, webs lying layer on layer around them and the white city consumed all failures so nothing darkened its flawless face. She had studied the Great Game so intensely in her drive to reinvent herself and still she made stupid decisions like being too curt when people touched on her insecurity.

So much for a competent Amyrlin. It was unreasonably hard to navigate these waters safely, to be a good Amyrlin when she couldn’t even be a decent Aes Sedai, to offer leadership to those who by rights should stand above her. People acted so incomprehensibly sometimes that she didn’t know what to do with them. Frankly their logic left much to be desired, at least by her standards, and without logic she found it difficult to calculate their next moves. She didn’t know how to frame her own thoughts sometimes, much less puzzle through other people’s, and the added interference of Aes Sedai protocol and Daes Dae’mar made her life more complicated still.

Maybe she ought to let Aramina go and forget the whole episode. Maybe she should be contrite. It filled her with questions she didn’t know how to answer, ones she didn’t even know how to ask, such as why it dented her certainty so easily when Aramina apologised like that or why an Aes Sedai with the world at her feet would put such faith in a battered old cripple. Yes: definitely that one, a thousand times why. She would have been a friend to this Cairhienin woman if she knew how, if she could have forgotten that friends turned on each other at the worst possible moment, but she didn’t and she couldn’t. So she bit off the urge to reach out. In the end she said only two words, quietly, and trusted them to be enough.

“I know.”

Sirayn Damodred

Watcher of the Seals

Flame of Tar Valon

The Amyrlin Seat

Denial, it turned out, was not necessarily the best plan ever to occur to her. On the one hand, when her fears and the weight of past memories got out of hand, she got to tell herself that it didn’t even matter because nothing had happened. On the other hand, this explanation would not have convinced the dead to lie still.

Rationally she knew that she had survived with at least one hand and a good part of her mind intact, that she had navigated Dumai’s Wells and other crises competently, that she had clawed her way to Captain General … so it couldn’t have been that bad. Her licence to suffer while recovering had expired. No more excuses. Irrationally, on a fundamental level she rarely accessed, she knew entirely the opposite. The worst damage had been done below the surface; mostly she remained in control of her subconscious, enough so that to the Tower she presented a serene front, enough to satisfy her Ajah; but other times she remembered iron and fire and her instincts clamoured fear so intense they couldn’t be ignored.

In the end, she had been taught from the moment she put on white that her will was the one overriding force that could never be undermined without her consent, and usually she could just about make herself do whatever she had to. It was just driving her insane. Slowly, inescapably insane, the kind of insane that slid into her mind, the kind of insane that dug its claws into everything -- so that when she read a book she would find herself ten minutes later staring into space as she relived some sharp piece of memory, so that she couldn’t sleep except that her dreams filled with nightmares, couldn’t let someone touch her but that she had to hold down the urge to flee.

Humanity was a luxury, she had told someone that once, but she had never known that as intimately as she did now. Aes Sedai should be flawless; perfection required machines, not heads stuffed full of doubt and irrationality, not hands stayed by mercy or words that wouldn’t come out in quite the right way. If she could have excised every scrap of useless, extraneous feeling with a scalpel she would have done so without a second thought. And though weakness couldn’t be severed -- not as easily as, say, a hand -- she gave it her best shot. She taught herself as best she could not to feel: to be cold inside as well as outside: to let nothing touch her. After all, nothing had even happened. And most of the time it worked just fine.

It still had a distressing tendency to crumble as soon as Aran made her touch him. He did it all the time … disturbing certainly, terrifying always, confronting instincts she couldn’t ignore; showing her, over and over again, that no matter how hard she fought she couldn’t master her subconscious; that her son still had his claws in her from the grave, that she couldn’t escape it, that she was his possession as much now as she had ever been. He seemed to think he was doing her a favour. Actually he was pointing out the complete futility of all her efforts. If the Dark One held out his black hand right now and brought her son back to life, to finish off the job he had started, she would be no better defended than she had been before. Less, even, because Aran was massacring her attempts to accept touch. Frankly she could see why Lyanna al’Ellisande had turned to drink to escape Aes Sedai life.

The one thought that terrified most her was that it could happen again. Not impossible; no amount of work would make her defences perfect. And this time she knew the price of defiance. This time she might not be so stupidly, suicidally insubordinate. Sometimes when all was dark and quiet she asked herself if she would make the same choice again; if she could put the Tower’s best interests before her own; and while her rational mind said yes, she had made that decision a thousand times before … her irrational mind said no. No more. There was a limit to her endurance. No wonder Jehanine had told her she should never have been Green Ajah. Jehanine had seen the truth.

It was a slow kind of torture. Every day she had to comply like a puppet while Aran systematically awoke all her most uncontrollable impulses: the need to escape, to hide, to protect herself: he didn’t even need to say anything, by doing it he ensured that she would punish herself, the shame and fear crippled her. She dreamed it sometimes -- trapped in a room too bare for hiding, far from any rescue, while some man wouldn’t stop touching her. If she had ever been able to stand even casual touch, she certainly couldn’t now.

The irony was that she couldn’t say why. Like the first time he had asked once or twice, but even if she had temporarily lost her mind enough to consider talking, she couldn’t have answered. Couldn’t say why she had no confidence and didn’t want to gain any. Couldn’t explain why people frightened and repelled her so intensely. Couldn’t fit clumsy words round the horror. She had been a coward, the Green Ajah should have disowned her, she had even confessed so that the Mother could punish her, but Lanfir hadn’t and she had never known why. Nobody else could forgive her; when Lanfir had done so she hadn’t been able to accept it; she certainly couldn’t forgive herself. She couldn’t move on without it. Couldn’t forget. Stuck in guilt and doubt and dread as thick as amber.

All things considered an extremely subdued Sirayn waited for her daily dose of aversion therapy. The usual room stood empty and silent around her; the comforting stillness wouldn’t last. She kept her eyes on the ground, though her mind showed her other images, and reminded herself uselessly for the hundredth time that nothing had even happened. An Aes Sedai wouldn’t care even if it had. They did not indulge in sentiment. So she waited, said nothing and showed nothing.

Sirayn Damodred

Retro Head of the Green Ajah