Ayrik wasn't sure what to make of any of this. Naturally, he was absorbing every word that the Dreadlady was saying, but why? One thing that he had learned since his arrival at the Fortress was that everything was done for a reason. There had to be some motivation behind her actions. But one thing was worrying him above everything else. "So, you're saying that you could have killed me with pleasure?" Ayrik asked tenatively.

The Dreadlady didn't answer him right away, which wasn't very reassuring. When she did answer, it wasn't an answer that Ayrik was expecting. "Peronaly i never tried i am sure a strong enough channeler could, the one i learned from was stronger then me. Mayhaps would my teacher know, or one could test it sometime, mayhaps."

So she served another in turn. Did that mean that he had just sworn an oath to somebody above even her? The thought wasn't reassuring. "Why would you be willing to do that for me?"

Her answer sounded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Well why to open up your world of thinking, to get your imagination going on the tools possesed, that you do not need big flashy battle weaves. Sometimes small weaves, who can do the oposite of what you want can be turned into weaves for your use, and sometime pure information can be enough to intimidate." Pausing for a moment, the Dreadlady tapped her lower lip before continuing. "Peoples will see you as what you present yourself to be, and will belive what you make them hear, its just a mather of honing those skills and you will tear down one limit after another. The lesson of that specific weave is that pain and pleasure is but two sides of the same mather."

"So you're saying that pain and pleasure can be used to acheive the same ends." The thought was more a statement than a question. Even commenting on the whole thing reminded Ayrik of that sensation, that ecstasy. It occured to him that something like that could become addicting, making a person do anything to receive it again. That really is a dangerous weapon, he thought. "I must say that you do a good job of living up to your words," Ayrik said, still a little breathily. Destruction had always fascinated him, and this was a form of the sport that Ayrik could foresee being quite useful. With something like this, he could destroy the mind.

"With something like... that at your fingertips, you could raise yourself higher than the lowly level of training and babysitting trainees. And, as you said, I'm sure that you have several other little tricks which you are unlikely to share. With all that, why bother with the new blood at all?" Ayrik could hear his own thirst for power in his words, but the question was a valid one. "Why do others command you instead of the other way around?"

"Now if you would allow me I'll show you something else, something more of this world, and related to what had you here in the first place." Ayrik's instict was to flinch away from the Dreadlady's hands, but he forced himself to stay where he was. His skin was tingling; she was holding saidar, and probably had been for quite some time. Breathing deeply, Ayrik tried to force himself to be calm. And then her hands gently closed on Ayrik's head. There was a vaguely unsettling moment as he felt her eyes seeming to bore into his skull. And then...

Ayrik's mind seemed to explode with pleasure. His whole body seemed to be alive with it. He didn't notice when his breathing changed, becoming heavier and ragged. Great Lord, what was happening? His hand locked onto a post, trying desperately to keep himself standing. The pleasure increased. A low moan escaped Ayrik's mouth, his knees slowly buckling. It was if his whole body were in the throes of ecstacy. And then it was gone.

Ayrik collapsed to his knees, his breathing ragged and heavy. He could still feel the aftereffects of whatever had happened to him, like a warmth over his entire body. Great Lord, that was... Raising his head, his breathing unchanged, Ayrik looked with a newfound awe and fear at the Dreadlady. "What... was that?" he asked her between gasping breaths.

It was like a nail driven into Ayrik's head, that last piece of advice that the Dreadlady had left him with. What was so dangerous about dreams? Why should he be careful. With a sigh, Ayrik stopped himself from pondering any further. It would only give him a headache, as it had for the past few days. Great Lord, if I dont' get an answer for this soon...

The sound of hoofbeats drew Ayrik's attention to the stable, where the woman in question was just unsaddling the horse that she must have been riding. There she is. If you're so damn curious, just go ask. It was as simple as that. Stand up, walk across the compound to the stables, and ask. And hope that she didn't become irritated with him and skin him alive.

"And life used to be so simple," Ayrik muttered as he stood and started across the compound. The Dreadlady had already disappeared into the shadowy interior when Ayrik had come closer. As he stepped into the shade, his unadjusted eyes picked up the silhouette of the woman straightening up to dry her hands on a rag hanging on the wall. His footsteps must have alerted her to his presence. She slowly turned, probably to identify the intruder.

"Pardon, ma'am, but I have more questions." He had learned his lesson from their last talk. That sentence must have been enough to identify him. "That whole thing you spoke of in regards to dreams and warding. Why would I need to worry about dreams?"

As the Dreadlady spoke, Ayrik gradually allowed his consciousness of the world around him to fade, focusing on everything she said. He had known that the Fortress had been established before the White Tower, but by that much? It was difficult to believe. This woman seemed to be shattering each of the preconceptions that the had always held one by one. It would appear that I've chosen the right side in this war. Now to make a name for myself.

As she spoke, though, Ayrik began to feel a crawling nervousness. Something seemed out of place. "But since you came for advices, well then I will give one, learn to ward your dreams, and should you ever feel a dream is not rigth then imagine yourself at a safe place, envision it close your eyes if nesicary and make it come to be with all your imagination, then stay there clean your mind of all other thougths and focus on that place only till your dreams become normal again." Ayrik's eyes lit up in startlement at that. The Dreadlady, either not noticing or, worse, noticing and taking pleasure in it, gave Ayrik a wink before she sauntered off.

Okay, what has just happened here? What was that all about? Ayrik's mind was racing, even as he was committing everything that she'd told him to memory. Dreams weren't real. Why should he be worried about a dream that didn't seem right? Could she or others somehow use dreams? Maybe read minds through them? "That's ridiculous," Ayrik muttered, occasionally glancing as the woman walked away. Is it, now? Even if she was trying to pull a fast one on you, it would still be wise to learn this 'dream ward' of which she spoke. With a sigh, Ayrik settled against his post. He would have to ask her about it again sometime.

Like I said in the post, I'm not giving it up all together. I'm going to try to write a new character, but I'm not promising anything until the bio gets sent off for approval, so don't go mourning my passing yet :p

Krachend is dying.

I know that it's a pretty blunt statement, but that's the way of it. I could no longer write for him, no matter how hard I tried. I wish that it didn't end like this, but it had to end somehow. The thread is here: http://www.dragonmount.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=10957

Anything else you might want to know is in the post.

The Hold had never been Krachend's home. Whenever he could get away, he would disappear into the Three-fold Land. He had always felt at ease amidst the endless, sun-scorched land, the blistering heat, the dry wind, and the native creatures his only companions. It was out here that he was able to think. And as he jogged, Krachend was thinking really hard about why he had agreed to his raising as the Sovin Nai society leader. His training under Argono had not gone to waste, and he felt that he was doing a good job, but Krachend did not want to be in charge. He wanted to be in the front, giving his all. He wanted to wake from the dream in the midst of battle, not of old age remembering when he had been able to dance. Maybe I should just resign, leave the Hold, and live the rest of my life in the deep deserts. Fight to live and die proud. Who would he appoint to be his replacement, though? Boran? The man was suited to lead; Krachend wasn't.

Night was falling for the fifth or sixth time since Krachend had left the Hold. A pity, really. Krachend wanted to put as much distance between the Hold and himself as he could. He had nothing against those with whom he lived, far from it, but Krachend was too accustomed to solitude to enjoy the closeness of the Hold. Navigating himself carefully through a pile of rock debris, Krachend crept to the larger outcropping of rocks, their sides pitted from the sandblasting of three thousand years of wind. The lower edges of these were often marked with small caves where-

Coming up short, Krachend listened. There were voices eminating from nearby. Silently, Krachend settled himself close to the ground, becoming part of the lengthening shadows of the night. Crawling would take longer than walking, but he'd stand less of a chance of being spotted until he was close enough to see what was going on. For a time, the voices went silent, causing Krachend no small amount of surprise when he started topping a ridge to find the source of the noise below. 'Sources' was the more appropriate word. Ten men, all dressed as algai'd'siswai of the Shaido. What they were doing in Dragonmount clan territory was obvious from the number of goats they had penned up in one of the caves at the base of the rocks. Light blast them! Ten of them, and one of him; Krachend would not survive that dance if it came to-

Under his weight, some of the rocks on the rise came loose, rattling down into the camp. The Shaido were immediately on their feet, looking around for the culprit. And spotting him. Outraged cries went up from the men, who were pulling veils over their faces even as the ascended the ridge after him. Even as he slid down the back end of the slope, Krachend knew that there was no way that he was going to get away. They were Night Spears, and more apt at working in the dark than Sovin Nai. One particularly careless specimen stood up on the ridge, revealing himself against the light of the Shaido's now-bright fire. It was the work of a moment to draw one of the many knives hidden upon is person and hurl it into the man's chest. He let loose a bubbling scream as he fell. Nine left.

Krachend allmost didn't hear the man creeping up behind him, but a fortunate shift in the rock under his foot alerted the Sovin Nai, who spun to catch the Shaido before he planted his long knife in his back. Allowing a grim smile to come onto his face, Krachend struck the man with a stiff-fingered blow in the throat, pushing him away before driving his heel into the man's face. Eight. Unfortunately, it seemed that those eight had learned where their comrades hadn't. They had surrounded him.

"Surrender, Sovin Nai, and put on the white. There's no shame in surviving," one of the men called out. Somewhere else in the circle, another began drumming his spear against the rawhide buckler on his arm. This was taken up by the others in succession until Krachend was surrounded by the steady thrum-thrum of spear on buckler. The sound of death.

With a deep breath, Krachend closed his eyes and listened to the drumming. His heart, the beats of the spears, the silent rhythm of the night, all became one. Krachend had made his decision. "Such a lovely beat," he muttered, lowering his arms to his sides, his eyes to the starry night. His left hand opened, dropping the three spears he held to the ground. Mentally, Krachend inventoried what he had. His spears were on the ground, his bow was useless. He had lost all but two of his throwing knives in the scuffle with the last Night Spear. It was him, his belt knife, and Sovin Nai. The drumming continued. "Such a beat." Krachend's eyes leveled at the man before him, his smile invisible beneath his veil. "It would be such a shame to waste it."

On the word 'it,' Krachend's arms had come up in front of his chest, each hand seizing onto the throwing knife that was hidden in each sleeve. Hands shooting out to either side, the glimmering darts flew true, and two more of the Shaido fell dead. Calm, cool, unhurried. Krachend's hands went to his belt, closed around the twin handles that made up the weapons of the first society of the Sovin Nai, had given them the name of Knife Hands. Krachend's voice held laughter as he said, "Let us dance, you and I." His laughter remained unstifled, even as the first arrow pierced his back.

****************

The sun appeared the next day, illuminating a band of Dragonmount clansmen on the path of a Shaido raiding party. Several goats had been stolen, and they meant to see them returned, and the Shaido either dead or in white. They did not expect to see what they found, though. The ululating cry of a Maiden brought the entire group into the rocky debris on the slope of a great rocky outcropping. After a moment of silence, one of the men muttered, "I guess somebody did the job for us."

The area in question was littered with bodies, eight Shaido, and one Dragonmount. Another cry came up from nearer the stone outcropping: "We've got two more dead over here, both Shaido!"

"Light, ten of them? Are there any other Dragonmount clan?"

"None."

The man leading the party blinked in surprise. Ten men... apparently ten had proven to be too much for one man to handle and survive. "They had him surrounded," one man muttered, his eyes surveying the carnage. "The two with the throwing knives in their chests died first. Then the man with the bow let loose, I think." Breaking away from the scene, the man continued. "He then..."

****************

...turned on his heel, his eyes locked on his next target. With a wild cry, Krachend hurled himself across the circle, which moved with him, keeping him centered as the archer drew again. With a sudden stop, he reversed himself, diving onto the man opposite the 'targeted' man. Sovin Nai plunged into his chest, piercing heart and lungs. Like an animal, Krachend pounced on the next man, even as the next arrow found his shoulder. The man was good, fending off Krachend's fierce onslaught with buckler and spears. That is, until Sovin Nai found the man's elbows. Even as his arms fell limp, the twin blades intersected at his neck, accompanied by a spray of blood as the severed veins and arteries.

Again, Krachend spun, another arrow suddenly protruding from his thigh. A spear entered his belly, and the offending arm was nearly severed by a heavy blow from Sovin Nai. An underhanded strike opened the Shaido from pelvis to chest. Even as the man fell dying, trying to keep his intestines from leaving, Krachend was moving to the next man. He could feel life leaving him. His limbs were already becoming sluggish. It was why he couldn't stop the knife that slashed across his chest. An upward stab, though, took the man in the heart. His hand numb, Krachend let the left-hand blade of Sovin Nai stay in the man, his right hand shooting out to hurl the other weapon into the advancing Shaido. The blade embedded itself between the man's eyes. As he fell forward, the blade drove through his skull, protruding from the back of his head grossly. And another arrow pierced Krachend's chest.

Slowly, his head turned to see the archer drawing back again. The next shot would be his last, the man could probably tell. His aim centered on Krachend's heart. With what seemed like mind-numbing slowness, Krachend's hand darted to the long knife at his belt, and as the other man released, the knife severed the bowstring and buried itself in his neck. Then, in the same motion, Krachend's hand twisted, moving palm-up into the path of the arrow, his hand closing on the shaft. "Light, ten years of trying and I succeed now?" he muttered, collapsing under his own weight.

Numb fingers crawled their way to the handles of Sovin Nai, wrapped around the leather-bound hilts, slowly withdrew each, pulling them close to their wielder. Lying back, Krachend looked again to the stars. It was strange. The tearing pain in his stomach was gone, and the dull agony of the arrows and the knife slash were gone. "Krachend?"

With a wide smile on his face, Krachend answered, "Yes, Father?"

"Come along, son. The fire's up, and Mother's got dinner on. You don't want to be late, do you?" A hand passed into Krachend's vision. Slowly, he reached out, his own hand wrapping around the calloused and scarred hands of his father...

*************

"Would you look at this!" one of the warriors called out as he pulled aside the Dragonmount clansman's veil. His dead, staring eyes saw nothing, but a warm smile still rested on his face. It was only then that somebody noticed the weapons by the man's sides.

"Look! It's Sovin Nai!"

________________________________________

OOC: Krachend was my first character at DM, and writing this post was extremely difficult. Unfortunately, I had lost touch with him as a character, and no matter what I did, I couldn't bring him back in my mind. As he was my first character, I was loathe to end it like this. I had considered simply having him leave, flee into the Waste and live his life in solitude. However, I had to ask myself, "How would Krachend choose to go?" It's been a blast RPing with you guys, but this chapter is done. I'm going to try to write another Aiel character, but I won't guarantee anything.

'Til shade is gone, 'til 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.

Despite knowing what kind of risk he was taking by coming here, Asmodean couldn't help but laugh. Graendal would never change. Still, he had to make a conscious effort not to openly appreciate what he was seeing. "What do I want? I want to rule, to live forever. But as to how that pertains to this meeting..." She would read into everything he did, worse than those Cairhienins did. And she would be right, generally. She would know that he was a bit nervous, there was no helping that. As calmly as he could, Asmodean took a seat. "As for the more immediate concern, I want to disappear again."

Even in the chambers of another one of the Chosen, Asmodean couldn't forget who he was. Idly, he took a harp out of the small shoulder bag he'd been carrying. Plucking at the strings, Asmodean continued, "I doubt that any of the others keep you well-informed, so this may come as a bit of a surprise to you. Our mutual acquaintence Semirhage nearly married the King of Murandy. However, fate intervened." Even as he spoke, the idle plucking of the strings became something intense, dramatic. "At her wedding, Semirhage was thinking of nothing but the power she would soon be wielding. She never saw the lowly gleeman who carefully crept his way to the front of the audience."

Asmodean silently cursed as he remembered the events of that day. He had been so close to finishing her. The tone changed again, into something comical. "Unfortunately, our brave gleeman failed to remember some of the basics of nature, and as he hurled Power-wrought lightning at the Dark Lady, the weave centered on the gold of her wedding ring, still in the king's hand." With a shrug, Asmodean quit playing and said, "To make a long story short, I failed to kill her, she failed to kill me, and now I'm avoiding any, shall we say, personal meetings with Semirhage."

He had obviously succeeded in gaining Graendal's attention. Raising his hands defensively, Asmodean said, "Hey, I'm not here to kill you. It'd be a bit foolish for me to try anything in here; as far as I know, you've got the whole room warded in the event that anybody but you spins a hostile web. I'm only here because I know you, and I want to strike up a bargain." Treachery was as easy as breathing among the Chosen; Asmodean had been forced to learn the game by virtue of being supremely overpowered by his 'comrades.'

Perhaps his time in Tar Valon had instilled more in Ayrik than he cared to admit. No matter what, he had always assumed the Aes Sedai to be nigh-infallible and omniscient. Apparently not. The thought made Ayrik smile coldly. They were vulnerable. For that lesson alone, his time had been well-spent here. The Dreadlady hadn't answered his question, but Ayrik wasn't going to press his luck. She might stop talking, or worse, she might take offense. That wouldn't end well.

"So these Talents of which you speak and the ability to learn them fully give us an advantage over the Aes Sedai." Ayrik quietly considered that thought. Not omniscient. Not infallible. They were human, and poorly-trained in comparison to how he could be trained. "What kinds of Talents are there?"

"Why must you lie to me? I abhor liars." The man may have been one of the Blood of Seanchan, but he screamed just like any other man would. Asmodean wasn't as talented at the stimulation of the pain centers of the brain as Semirhage was, but he was good enough for something this simple. All the man would know is that the man standing before him would reach out at touch his forehead, and there would be pain. A lot of pain. "You primitives couldn't lie to save your lives. I know that she's here somewhere, High Lord. Where is she hiding?" Asmodean had to give the man credit; he had held up for the past two hours, but he was going to break. Reaching out to the Air-bound man, Asmodean touched his temple, spinning a web of all five elements and touching it on the man's pain centers. The screams came immediately, pleading, begging, and promising anything. Asmodean didn't think anything about increasing the stimulation. The man's pleading changed into wordless howls of agony. It sounded almost musical...

There was an ocean between him and Semirhage, but Asmodean wouldn't feel safe until the Dark Lady was dead. That was part of the reason why he had chosen Seanchan. If she did what Asmodean expected and fled to a stronghold somewhere else, he would need an army to see to her. And a Seanchan army? She might not even die. How Asmodean would gloat if he could stand over her and see her broken and leashed. The chaff whittled away, the strong core left. And Asmodean would be at its head.

It took a moment for Asmodean to realize that the agonized screams had changed into a name. The name of a High Lady. Perfect, Asmodean thought, letting the weave dissolve. "You've done well, High Lord. Thank you." Asmodean's bow was mocking. Dark eyes glittered in their deep-set sockets. "As payment for your services, I won't kill you." The High Lord relaxed visibly against his bonds of Air. Asmodean began to spin again. Compulsion was not a Talent for him, but there were some things within his power. As the web settled upon the man, Asmodean said, "Okay, listen well. You will leave here, mentioning nothing of what has happened, and you will go before the Seekers of the Truth and confess to them that you are a Darkfriend. And you will go now." The man's eyes widened, but once the weave locked in, he had no choice. Even the basest delving by one of these damane and their sul'dam handlers would reveal the weaving, and the man would know exactly what happened, but he would have no choice. He was dead. In the most technical sense, Asmodean hadn't lied. Now to go meet an old friend...

******

Getting into Graendal's stronghold wasn't nearly as difficult as Asmodean had thought it would be. Aside from the guards on the door, he met no resistance except for the guards at the door. Getting in to meet her, on the other hand... "Please state your business, Bard," the doorman said in that strange, slurred accent of the Seanchan.

Asmodean smiled the same smile he'd given his mother just before severing her. Even three thousand years couldn't dim that memory; she had been the first to surmise what he had become. But now wasn't the time to reminisce over days long dead. "If you could, tell the High Lady that an old friend named Joar is here to see her. Tell her that it feels like an Age has passed since we last saw each other." In truth, it hadn't been nearly that long, but she would get the picture.

Just hearing that it was worth it brought a smile to Ayrik's face. He had known that his time would not be wasted, but being reassured of its worth was always nice. However, Ayrik was not expecting what the Dreadlady said next. "If you want to learn then now is the time maybe to tell you some channelers has extra skills, we call them talents. Some the witches know of but most they dont and have no real way to teach in but let their candidates figure out things as best they can. Thus ending on that they never fully learn to harvest the resources in themself."

Talents? Ayrik liked the sound of that. But why mention it now? Was there something that he was supposed to glean from that? Slowly pieces began coming together. These Talents would require more investigation. He might as well start here. "And you have one of these... Talents? One that the Aes Sedai know nothing about?"

Ayrik quickly reasessed the Dreadlady. She was definitely living what she said; her dignified and self-assured air was far from what she had described to him. It would be another thing for him to remember: things weren't always as they seemed.

"My story's pretty dull, aside from being abandoned on the front step of a bookseller as a baby. Both parents were Friends, and I was raised learning the ways of the Shadow." Ayrik knew that some looked down on those who had lived their entire lives in the Shadow. He would have tried to gauge the Dreadlady's reaction to that, but Ayrik knew an exercise in futility when he saw one.

"One night, I woke from a vivid nightmare and things just caught fire. I ended up hurling my father across the room, and felt that it would be best if I were to leave the city, and quickly." Giving the Dreadlady a sideways look, Ayrik added, "Considering you recognize the accent, you can probably guess why I was in such a hurry to go."

One of the horses approached the fence. Reaching out, Ayrik stroked its neck, feeling the muscle beneath the shining coat. "I take it the end result, the Power and everything that comes with it, was worth it?"

The Dreadlady's eyes returned to the horses as she spoke. "Very well I guess, though if you where that smart you wouldnt let yourself push around. As you say its more to it then just sheer body strength, though full grown now i was a lil girl when i came into the dark side of things. It was my wit and quickness who was my strengths, grow up more or less on the streets as i was." It was difficult to imagine the woman as ever being little; she was nearly as tall as he, though more slender. "You should think through what are yours, by your dialect i think i know where to place you, another thing you should think about, twist your voice, learn new dialects. Learn to walk in difrent ways, peoples only see what they want, one dont need illusion to become someone else, and give off a total other picture."

Ayrik shrugged. "I have no intention of letting them push me around for much longer. However, there's a major difference between reading books on combat and actually practicing what you've read." Very true. In his first encounter with the Fortress's local thug, Ayrik had tried to remember the various nerve strikes of which he had read, how they could be used. Nothing came to mind. Ayrik knew that he had the size and muscle, but he didn't have the training. Illusion? It was probably a weave of which Ayrik hadn't learned yet. He could guess, though.

"So what you're suggesting is that I should become somebody different?" Ayrik had always lacked the emotional set for acting, but he counted himself a fair impressionist. For the first time, Ayrik realized something about the woman. He could hear the accents of Tarabon, Cairhien, Andor, and Tear among the other trainees, but she had none which he could identify. Now that's a neat trick. "That's an interesting idea. I'll have to take that into consideration." For a moment, Ayrik said nothing, his gaze following one of the horses in the pasture. When he finally spoke again, his tone was quieter. "When you discovered your ability, why didn't you seek the island?" A male channeler and a Friend of the Dark, Ayrik was. However, he was also a Tar Valoner. The thought of a woman who could channel not going to the Tower was one as strange to him as flying.

Mehrin shot a look at the cook, who returned his gaze steadily. Maybe choosing him for the job hadn't been the best idea. If his daughter knew more about baking a cake than him... Now wasn't the time to be shouting. Not only would it do him very little good in the long run, Mehrin tried to keep that part of him subdued as much as possible when around Renalie. She was too young to know what kind of a man her father was. If he had his way, Renalie would never know that her father was a killer. How many times are you going to do this? Be happy, for Light's sake! Smiling, Mehrin watched as Renalie examined the... What was that thing? It appeared to be a miniature version of a mace or something. Why was it in a kitchen? As he watched, Renalie dipped the thing into the stone crock of honey. The way that the thing seemed to soak up the honey revealed its purpose. Ah, aha, Mehrin thought as Renalie said, “We need to put this in the bowl before we add the milk, and then add the milk a little at a time so it doesn’t go all … icky.”

The word 'icky' struck Mehrin as amusing, and he had to pretend as if he were scratching his nose in order to hide the goofy grin that came onto his face. Stifling laughter was never easy. Quietly regaining his composure, Mehrin watched as his daughter's eyes took on a distant look. When she spoke again, her voice had gone from the playful ordering tone it had held to something more sad. "Oh, daddy..." she said, her voice trembling as if she were holding back tears. She seemed to regain control of herself, though, and meticulously shoveled honey into the messy concoction, pouring milk in on top of it.

Thinking about her mother again, Mehrin thought sadly, placing a hand on Renalie's shoulder as she put down the pitcher. "Ummm... Mehrin?" the cook muttered. Leaning in, the man whispered into Mehrin's ear, "Forgot a step. We should have blended the sugar and butter first. Like this, I have no idea how this will turn out." Mehrin sighed. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. One lesson that Mehrin had learned on the battlefield, though, was improvisation. Again sparing a look for the cook, Mehrin said, "Well, let's add the sugar and butter next." Hopefully, she didn't know the recipe much better than he did. Handing Renalie the spoon, Mehrin dumped the premeasured amount of sugar into the bowl, sending a billowing puff of flour out of the large bowl and over his face again. That was going to get old. It was with a dantier touch that Mehrin added the butter, leaning away from the bowl to avoid a repeat of the previous occurence.

Mentally, Ayrik kicked himself at the woman's words. It had been a simple mistake, but simple mistakes were going to be the death of him. It was obvious that the Dreadlady wasn't too impressed with him, especially by the way she twisted his own words about. "Now what do you seek company for?"

Shrugging, Ayrik spoke earnestly. "First off, I apologize for the indescretion; it won't happen again. And as for your question, it's pretty simple." Ayrik chanced a glance back at the outbuildings, seeing if any of the others had noticed him. They hadn't. "Being what we are, most others will choose not to associate with us, and people are not meant to be alone."

With a quiet chuckle, Ayrik added, "Besides, I prefer to exercise the muscle that's going to matter most when it's all said and done." Giving a tap to his head, he indicated what muscle he was talking about. "Not to mention that I've become quite unpopular with most of the others, and I would prefer to keep my skin in one place, even if for but a few seconds longer." Great Lord, I hope this woman has a sense of humor. If not, I'm dead. "On top of that, by speaking and listening to you, I can learn, and that's what I'm here to do."

Morning practice was an hour finished, yet Ayrik still felt the burn of his muscles from the workout. He had changed his sweat-soaked shirt for another, this one lighter than the first. His first day at the Ranch had taught him just how warm it was here, and though he would eventually be able to shrug off the heat and cold like the Dreadlords and Dreadladies, Ayrik couldn't yet. It was nearing midday, and Ayrik was leaning against one of the walls of the main ranch house. His position allowed Ayrik a commanding view of most of the ranch, including the many outbuildings and the training field. Any who would have judged Ayrik unattentive by the unconcerned look on his tanning and lazy-looking face would be in for a rude awakening.

People scurried through the alleys of the outbuidlings, carrying on with their normal lives. They were either obliviious to the fact that there were channelers among them or they didn't care; Aryik wasn't sure which was the case. However, it wasn't them that concerned him. It was the channelers. One, in particular. The Fortress's bully was down among the buildings with his gang of mindless followers. The man was dead, but he didn't know it yet. It was going to happen, though. Already, Ayrik was starting, planting stolen items in the man's things. He'd have quite the time explaining that away.

The man must have sensed that he was being watched, because he was suddenly looking around for the culprit. Discretion is sometimes the better part of valor, Ayrik thought. Time to move. As he stood to leave, Ayrik noticed the Dreadlady who had brought them to the Ranch leaning against the fence around the horse corral, seemingly lost in thought. Better to be near somebody who can teach me than somebody who will beat me. It was a matter of seconds to get across the small open area between him and her. Appearing too friendly where it wasn't appreciated wasn't always a good idea, but some risks were worth taking. Leaning against the fence a few feet away, Ayrik nodded to the woman. "Good day, Dreadlady," he said, his cool voice properly respectful. "Would you care for some company?"

Bil Tarin cast a scornful eye over the gathered Darkfriends. Half of them looked terrified to be there. This wasn't an army. It would be the Shadowspawn that did the damage. The Shadowspawn and his brethren. Ageless faces and black coats had gathered in unprecidented numbers, all managing not to kill the other. Today, they shared a single mind. The Great Lord was going to break free. It was up to them to defend Shayol Ghul until he did. Gray eyes looked scornfully on the pins fastened to his collar. The sword and the red-and-gold Dragon. Symbols of his life before revealing himself. Bil passed a hand through his black hair before seizing saidin. His oaths to the Great Lord protected him from the taint; he could feel it sliding around his core, but never touching him. He was safe. The pins on his collar tugged for a moment before coming free. Threads of Fire flowed into each one, turning the suspended metal into a lump of silver and red-stained gold. Air compressed the whole thing, and Bil let it drop carelessly. His old life as a greater man hiding behind the illusion of adherence to the Light was gone. A new day was dawning, a day ruled by the Great Lord of the Dark.

Despite having let go of saidin, Bil could still feel it pulsing, calling to him. According to the scouting reports, the army of Lightfools arrayed against them demanded that something be done. They had to die. Saidin had always felt as if it were made for destruction. Wait for the signal, you fool. You were promised immortality if you obeyed. Bil wasn't about to risk losing that; he had dedicated his soul to the Shadow for that very reason. And now he was called to fulfill those oaths. His lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. The Asha'man had taught him well; killing was second-nature to him. However, against an army this large... Even the amassed channelers would only be able to do so much, and the Lightfools had their own channelers.

One of the rank-and-file Darkfriends near him was looking nervously at the Trollocs and Fades wandering amongst them. Night was coming, and the Lightfools were probably bedding down, wherever they were making camp. Nightfall here meant that men were going to die. A terrified scream sounded from the Darkfriends. Turning, Bil watched impassively as one of the Trollocs seized ahold of a man, carrying him towards one of the myriad cookpots scattered around the area. The man's screams were fading when they suddenly turned into a wet gurgle. Another Trolloc belly would be full this night.

"I hope your Black Tower taught you well," the tall man next to Bil muttered. This man, Ayrik Drayven or whatever he called himself, unsettled Bil. A Darkfriend his entire life, he'd apparently been trained by channelers in the Blight. He was one of the true Dreadlords. Cold, callous, and uncaring, Ayrik didn't seem to look at people like people. Rather, he looked at them as if they were pieces on a stones board. Name or age didn't matter to the likes of him. As long as the right piece was in the right place, it was all the same. Some, Bil knew, would be moved to kill. Others would be moved to die. It was... disconcerting. Even as long as he'd been in the Shadow, Bil couldn't reduce human life so far. It was as if the man believed the ends justified the means. Once again, Bil found himself wondering just what this man would use him for. Would he be sent to kill, or would he be sent to die?

Sign-ups are here. This class is open to both Acolytes and Adepts, so get in there and have at it, new folks!

Ahhhh... fresh meat!

Well, this is going about as well as I expected, Mehrin thought as Drea retaliated. What had he been expecting? Had he really thought that she would run across the room to him, leap into his arms, and kiss him for the rest of the day? As pleasant as that would have been, Mehrin knew that it wouldn't have happened. Light, he wished that it would have, though. But to accuse him of still hallucinating? The memory was too close, and he knew that he wasn't. Any attempt to deny it, to explain, though, was blatantly ignored. Nothing he could say would slow the accusation. "I wont have it, Mehrin. I wont be number two! I'm sick and tired of always being put behind someone or something. It's me or it's the door. You choose."

That was enough. She wanted him to choose. Either reject Anya for her, or watch Drea walk out of his life. Blood and ashes... About half of him was telling Mehrin to tell Drea to leave, to choose Anya over her. But the other half... You're not actually considering it, are you? Light, man, don't be a fool. If she feels anything of what you feel for her, she'll understand. You never let go of her, did you? He hadn't. The choice should have been easy, but it wasn't. What did the dead offer the living? What could the dead offer the living?

Nothing.

Closing his eyes, Mehrin sat in silence for a few moments, thinking about that. Nothing. It carried significance. "What do you mean by that?" Mehrin retaliated, bringing Drea's own question to bear. "Do you have any idea how cruel you are being, not only to me, but to yourself? I know you, Drea. The Band is your home. Would you really let a fool of a man force you out of your home?" With a groan, Mehrin stood. Muscles in his legs protested the movement, the weight being more than they had borne for the past three days. Even in his soreness and tiredness, it only took a few steps to close the distance between him and Drea, his hands resting on her shoulders. "Do you really believe that I'm seeing things? All I see is you, Xandrea Raylin. I can't make you stay. I don't see why you should, honestly. Here I am, a man who has spent the past two years in a bottle trying to avoid his problems rather than deal with them. No more." Mehrin's voice dropped to something less caustic, more warm. "Those three days brought back my worst nightmares, my biggest issues. I'm ready to move on. Just, please, don't leave me like this." Breathing a heavy sigh, through his nose, Mehrin repeated, "Please." In his mind, however, another matter had come to the surface: Light, you need a bath!

Light, Mehrin didn't want it to end, but end it did. He could still feel the aftereffects, the memory sensation of her lips. For a moment, their eyes met... and it was over. The suddenness with which Drea pushed away from him and stood up was astonishing. What are you doing?! Does this look like Anya to you? Don't you love Anya?! Drea was pacing across the room, her fingers tangled in her hair. The sound of muttering reached Mehrin's ears, but only a few words were discernable. Even angry and confused, she was lovely.

Listen to yourself, man! Are you going to throw away Anya for the first thing in a dress that crosses your path? Shaking his head, Mehrin tried to silence the voice, tried to ward off the rising guilt that he felt. He was a commander of an army! He couldn't afford- Listen to yourself. Excuses, excuses! She's dead. Anya is dead. You're not. The dead don't come back. You'd better really think about who you're being faithful to. She's been gone for close to two bloody years! "Easier said than done," Mehrin muttered softly. So that's how you're going to rationalize- whoa, wait a minute. She's talking to you.

Shifting his attention back to the real world, Mehrin saw that Drea was actually addressing him. And she wasn't happy. She had spun on her heel in mid-pace, her finger pointing at him like it was a lance. "Blood and ashes, man! What was that for?" The woman had more layers than an onion! One moment, she was worrying about him; that memory floated vaguely through his mind. The next, she was about ready to stab him. It's no less than you deserve, you bloody oaf, Mehrin thought derisively. Almost on top of that, another thought crossed his mind: Light, man, if I could, I would beat you across the head right now. Get over her! Move on!

All that was fine and dandy, but Mehrin still needed to extricate himself from the mess he had gotten himself into. Raising his hands defensively, he said, "I'm sorry. I know that I shouldn't have, but..." But what? But I think I love you? But I couldn't help myself? But I was collapsing and your lips broke my fall? How do I get myself into these things? "... it just seemed, I don't know... the right thing to do." Mehrin winced. That wasn't the right way to say it. "I mean, you're an amazing woman, and..." Shaking his head, Mehrin trailed off into quiet mutterings. This was a lose-lose situation, and he knew it. "I'd be lying if I said that I wouldn't do it again, but I'm sorry nonetheless." For once, his entire mind agreed on something: This isn't going to be pretty...

Ah, aha, Ayrik thought as the man spoke. Unless he was totally wrong, which wasn't very often, the man had learned all that he needed to know about him. The thought was vaguely unsettling for some reason. “As for our little conversation, I think it is over for now. It is apparent that you are both intelligent and bold, but I believe you are careless. If you survive that mistake and don’t let it happen again, perhaps we can talk in the future…” The comment made Ayrik chuckle, but there was something to it, an edge. Whatever had transpired, Ayrik didn't think that he had come out the winner in this. The man stood, looking around the room before addressing Ayrik again. “I think you have potential, but discretion is the better part of valor. I don‘t think you‘ve learned that lesson yet. I truly hope we get to talk further, but until then if I were you I’d duck.”

Ayrik didn't even bother hiding his confusion. Duck? Why? The man was stepping out the door when realization hit. Oh, this isn't going to feel good, Ayrik thought seconds before the chair broke across his back. The blow sent him flying out of his chair, leaving Ayrik dazed and sprawled on the floor. The perpetrator of the altercation stepped into view, a young man a bit heavier set and taller than Ayrik. "Welcome to the Fortress!" he said before kicking Ayrik in the ribs. Instinctively, Ayrik curled around the affected ribs. There you go again, overthinking everything. Why couldn't you just take the easy way out and take the offered chair?

The kicks continued for a moment before the bully said, "You want my advice? Leave." Laughing, he brought his foot back to kick Ayrik again. We're not doing this again, he thought angrily, lashing out with his own foot, catching the bully in the side of the knee. With a surprised cry, the man found himself at floor level with Ayrik. For a moment, the two were face to face, and in that moment, Ayrik spoke quietly, ensuring that only the other man would hear him. "I swear to you that you'll be begging me to kill you before I'm done." The coldness in his voice, the lack of hot anger, must have taken the man aback; for a moment, fear was evident on his face. It was the first time that Ayrik had ever spoken of killing a man himself. And he liked the sound. It was that thought that held him when the guy's cronies stepped in to clean up. It was that thought that allowed Ayrik to stand when it was all over. It was that thought that saw him back to his room. It was that thought that drove the plotting.

It was a sudden thing when it happened, but Mehrin knew what was going on when Carnhain recovered from the heavy blow. There was a different man staring him in the eyes. A man that would not stop until Mehrin was dead. The game was no longer a game. In an instant, Mehrin's mind underwent a transformation. It was no longer about winning or losing. It was about defeating the man before him, either with him unconscious or dead. If the opportunity came to kill him, Mehrin no longer had any qualms about it. Some men on the sidelines must have realized what had happened, as they were slowly advancing. Quickly, Mehrin waved them off as Carnhain attacked again. Light, he had become fast. But Mehrin knew that he was faster. Even as the first blows began to fall, the oversized claymore came alive in Mehrin's hands, knocking the opening thrust to his right, then coming about to deflect the downward strike while his heavy boot kicked out, striking the other man hard in the belly. Mehrin stepped back, his blade still spinning, the heavy steel humming in the air.

The pain and the rage seemed to be feeding the thing that was attacking him. The more the blows were deflected, the angrier the man became, the more he opened himself to injury. And Mehrin took every opportunity. A heavy slash at Mehrin's side was easily dodged, and his left fist thundered into the man's face. Mehrin could feel the bones in his nose crunch. Stepping away, Mehrin took the brief moment that he gained to survey his handiwork. The man's nose had been crushed, and his bottom lip bled. The man roared wordlessly and came at him again. This time, the thrust at Mehrin's belly ran across the steel blade of the larger sword, ringing angrily as it nicked Mehrin's arm. With a careless shove, Mehrin pushed the weapon aside and drove the hilt of the claymore into the man's ribs. There was more of a give than there should have been, but the man didn't stop.

Faster he came, his smaller blade dancing in, trying to do anything it could to find a soft spot. Even if they were dulled weapons, the heavy blows that the man was raining down upon him could be deadly. A half-step too slow cost Mehrin a small puncture in his thigh as the man tried to sever the artery in his leg. As he withdrew the weapon, Mehrin's claymore spun a clockwise circle, shoving the man's sword arm to one side, and the hilt of Mehrin's claymore descended heavily on the top of Carnhain's skull. The man staggered, one hand going to his head. Even as he did, Mehrin's weapon struck him once again in the ribs, once on the point of his hip, and once on the knee before he spun about, driving the pommel of the weapon into Carnhain's other thigh.

It looked to be over. It should have been over. However, Carnhain still stood. He shouldn't have been standing, yet he stood, nonetheless. It took a moment for him to come again, but when he did, it was blatantly obvious what he intended. In his right hand, the broadsword, it's point aimed at his knee. The left was balled into a fist, and coming for Mehrin's ribs. It was but the work of a moment to take his right hand off the hilt of his weapon. Grounding the sword, Mehrin leaned it away from his knee, catching Carnhain's sword and forcing it away from his body. His right hand seized onto the man's wrist, and a quick tug pulled him close. Even as the other man was staggering in, Mehrin's head struck him in the bloody ruin of his face, his arm pushing him offbalance. It was the work of a moment to lay both hands on the hilt of his claymore again. Kicking Carnhain's blade away from the steel, Mehrin stepped around the grounded weapon, his back to his opponent. The tip of the blade came out of the ground in a shower of sand, up in an arch... and then straight back. Mehrin felt the all-too-familiar impact of steel on flesh, felt the tip of his weapon break through skin and muscle. He gave the weapon one twist, then turned to see his handiwork.

Mehrin could see that Carnhain was done, even if he didn't want to admit it. He was staring at his blood-soaked hand, the source being a ragged hole in his belly. Surely, he would- The man threw himself again at Mehrin, as if he would take him down into the grave with him. As if he thought he was going to die. Again, Mehrin's weapon danced in a high arc. A loud crash was heard as his blade collided with Carnhain's. The lighter steel bent around the claymore, and as the blade ascended, the now-useless sword was ripped from Carnhain's hand. At the apex of the arc, Mehrin let his claymore fly. Carnhain seemed momentarily stunned. Putting all the weight he could into it, Mehrin's right hand connected with the side of Carnhain's skull. The force of the blow was enough to bowl him over. He twitched once, but didn't rise.

Nobody was moving. Nobody was speaking. Mehrin wasn't even sure that anybody was breathing. Except for him. Mehrin was breathing enough for three people. "Blood and flamin' ashes, people. One of you dumb bastards get a medic down here NOW!" he shouted. In the scramble of people, Mehrin stepped to the edge of the circle, collecting his gear and dressing calmly in the mad dash of humanity. He should have felt something, a little guilt. However, he had only been interested in surviving. Maybe the man would think twice the next time he challenged Mehrin. Fastening his cloak back over everything, Mehrin donned his hat and strode into the crowd.

Bits of memory fell into place as Drea spoke, and it was all that Mehrin could do to keep his features smooth. Light, if what she was saying was true, then Mehrin had been like this for the past three days! And if what she was saying was true... She's been here the entire time? A strange sensation settled over him as Mehrin listened to her. What was worse was that Mehrin recognized it. He had felt the same thing twice before. Once for a blacksmith's daughter, once for an infantry woman, and now for... I can't fall in love now! I've got obligations, responsibilities! However, another part of his mind was saying, If not now, then when? Why can't you be in love again? You're still human, you bloody fool!

It took Mehrin a moment to realize that Drea had finished speaking. He never would have noticed, had the silence not become so deafening. Lifting a hand to his forehead, Mehrin passed it across his face, feeling the exhaustion from even that small exhertation of energy. "Light," he muttered tiredly. "Three days? I've been like... this for three days." Mehrin sighed heavily, turning so his feet were on the floor. For the first time since awakening, Mehrin realized that he was still in his breeches. The strange things that one notices when he doesn't want to admit the truth, he thought.

Mehrin didn't try to stand. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on Drea's. Being this close to her... "Xandrea Raylin, you know that this is all your fault, right? For the past twenty-one days, I've had to deal with this, the physical need for the alcohol. You took that from me, you rendered me to a twitching, hallucinating madman capable only of lying in bed and screaming. Blood and ashes, I've spent three days in hell because of you." Reaching out slowly, he took Drea's hand in his, feeling her soft skin against the heavy callouses on his palms. Softly, he said, "Thank you."

Mehrin wasn't sure why he did it. One moment, he was looking into her eyes, holding her hand. The next, he had leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. Light, he was never this forward! Even knowing that, the kiss lingered. He couldn't make himself pull away. He didn't want to pull away.

OOC: Renalie's not going to be around until either Saturday or Sunday, so I'm not sure if you want to wrap it up differently or if we want to stick to the original plan.

After his time in the Fortress, Ayrik had begun taking the freedom to openly be a Friend of the Dark and a male channeler for granted. The trip to the Ranch seemed to be proving just how important it was that he remember that the world was not too accepting of his kind. Despite the number of Friends at the Ranch, Ayrik had to be careful.

Inconspicuous was the name of the game here, and Ayrik's clothing reflected that. A simple white shirt in black breeches with calf-high boots and a gray vest, all in wool, served as his costume for this masquerade. It was comfortable, but not flashy. That's all that Ayrik needed. Besides, it would work well for the training that he would be receiving here. He hadn't forgotten why they had Traveled from the Fortress.

It was ten minutes before dawn, and the horizon was starting to brighten as Ayrik arrived outside the house that had been pointed out to all of the trainees. Leaning against a fence post, he turned to face the street in front of him. With all the children and Lightfools present, Ayrik doubted that anybody would be up to their usual tricks here. All there was to do now was wait.