Mehrin winced as Ata called him by rank. She knew. Calling himself sixteen kinds of fool, Mehrin continued walking. "You do dart questions though, most like you had something to fear."

Mehrin chuckled at that. He had known a bit of what he was getting into when he had entered the camp. "If I were who you seem to think I am, then why would you want me with you? Rumors I've heard recently have the Band labelled as everything from heroes to brigands. It doesn't make logical sense."

Mehrin's eyes shifted back to Ata's male companion. The way he moved still tugged at something in the back of his mind. His eyes went back to the woman in front of him. "And if I were this 'commander' person of whom you speak, then consider the chances of a mere merchant's guard would stand against a man like that." Mehrin's lips curled into an unamused smile. "Even one that appears to have some training in the Tower."

Mehrin's hand shifted under his cloak, loosening the bindings on the bullwhip on his belt before coming out with the rest of the dried meat from earlier. "I've heard stories of this commander of whom you speak. I understand he's quite the dangerous man. Why would you tolerate such a man, if I were to be him?" There's a piece to this puzzle that I'm missing... what is it?

The question nearly caught Mehrin off-guard, and he had to stop himself short as he opened his mouth. Light, what does she know? "Ah, yes, the Band. I'm surprised you've heard of them, mistress. The rumors say that a group calling themselves the Band was involved in some sort of fighting in the Two Rivers."

Even as he answered, Mehrin knew that he was caught. The hesitation had been too long, too obvious. Shaking his head a little, Mehrin sighed heavily. "I should have guessed that such rumors would have travelled this far. Rumors fly on a myriad of tongues faster than a carrier pigeon." Maybe the situation was still salvageable. He had not said anything yet that would convict him. But he doubted it. Even knowing that he was probably caught, Mehrin continued on as if he wasn't. His question, though, carried two possible meanings. "So. Where do we go from here?"

News of Andor... Watch yourself; too much information about Emond's Field or the Band could give you away. Putting a hand to his face, Mehrin muttered, "News in Andor, news in Andor... Ah, yes."

Mehrin looked up to meet the woman's eyes before talking. "The border between Murandy and Andor is still under debate, last I heard. When I say debate, I mean small skirmishes between smaller groups. Rumors say that the tabac and wool out of the Two Rivers region may be a bit less than normal this year because of some big goings-on there."

Taking a mouthful of water from his canteen, Mehrin added, "Other than that, I've heard of nothing else. Rumors do say that the Queen has a new lover, but there's probably more fiction to that than fact." Another swallow, and Mehrin changed the subject. "So you're heading towards Cairhien? I was heading there, too. Granted, I doubt you'll find anyone on this particular road that isn't heading there. Nonetheless, as our paths are mutual, I'd be more than willing to accompany you for the time being, if you'll have me." Reaching back with his left hand, Mehrin tapped the oversized claymore on his back. "Even with this, a lone traveller is prone to attacks by highwaymen, and groups tend to fare better."

"You may enter," a female voice answered to Mehrin's call. Taking a deep breath, Mehrin stepped out of the shadows, his hands held up, palms forward in a gesture of peace, one that he had used when he wandered alone. "Are you alone? If not, there is plenty room here for your friends, as well." The woman's voice sounded friendly enough, and she didn't appear to be holding anything with which she could cause him harm.

"No, mistress, I travel alone, and I thank you for your welcome." Mehrin's eyes took in the camp and all in it. They paused and lingered slightly on the only other person in the camp, a man who carried himself like he could use the sword at his side. A dangerous man. The camp suggested either a young couple leaving Tar Valon or a traveling merchant and her guard. Nothing to be concerned over. "Very few welcome a total stranger to their fires. But I digress. My name is Mehrin Mahrvon of Andor. I work as a hired hand to anyone who needs a few more workers."

This was the story that Mehrin had been using for the past few weeks. There was no way that he could trip it up because almost all of it was the truth. It also allowed him to avoid anyone connecting the name Mehrin to the commander of the Band of the Red Hand. That would be asking for trouble if word of that got out. As he settled himself to the ground, shifting his claymore and black cloak as he sat, Mehrin took some dried meat from his shoulder pack and took a bite out of it, his eyes still studying the two from underneath the wide brim of his hat.

-Mehrin

Commander and Band DJ

It was nice to be away from the Band for a while. The stress of command had been getting to Mehrin, and wandering brought back old memories. Most of them weren't pleasant, but they brought back memories all the same.

Tar Valon hadn't changed at all since he'd seen it last, five years in the past. Mehrin's features had changed enough that he was not recognized by the guards and promptly deposited outside the city. He had made his way to the White Tower and gone to the Warder's training yards in search of a young man he had met who had been on his way to train here. It seems that the man had gone. Whether dead, bonded, or given up, Mehrin didn't know, and it didn't really matter. Jhara Sarumeki of Shienar was no longer there.

Mehrin's path took him south out of Tar Valon towards Cairhien. A week's journey, at the most. He was slowly returning to his old habits of walking for most of the day, and stopping only long enough to get a few hours sleep. A man on horseback would fare better, but Mehrin had never ridden horse, and he hoped that he never would.

It was the familiar feeling of hunger that brought the leather-garbed man to consider an earlier stop than normal. A much earlier stop. The campfire that came into view sealed the deal... nearly. Mehrin stopped in the shadows a short distance away. Light, let's think about this a moment. What would you do if a six foot, three inch man in black walked into your camp with a face full of scars and a large sword? Let's try this again.

"Hello, the camp! May I enter?" Mehrin called.

Night in the Citadel is an accomplishment in drunkedness and brawling, in some rare cases. The men and women whose shifts are up for the day collectively find themselves sharing a brew with friends and platoon mates. There are several taverns in the Citadel, gathering places for the thirsty and the tired. And the angry...

Blood and bloody ashes! If I see that flaming, goat-kissing bastard, I'm going to bloody well kill him! Frelin, a sergeant in the Bull Platoon of the Infantry sat nursing a mug of ale, his fifth of the evening. His guard shift had been rather uneventful, except for the man he had been stationed with: Sergeant Weriom of Sledge Platoon. The two platoons had always had a rivalry, and the man had made it quite clear that a private from Sledge had beaten a sergeant from Bull. As the day wore on, the man's insults became more and more irritating until Frelin had finally stormed off to the shift commander to be reassigned.

*********

At the other end of the bar, Sergeant Weriom sat nursing his third brandy of the night. That arrogant Sergeant Frelin of Bull Platoon! The weakling had run off to the shift commander and managed to get Weriom into a fair bit of trouble. Couldn't the man take a joke? If he saw that fat good-for-nothing...

*********

Neither man, once they saw each other, noticed the state of affairs in the tavern. The day had been quite a bit hotter than expected, and the soldiers' tempers hadn't fared very well in the sweltering heat. The combined heat-induced rage became coupled with the false courage derived from the alcohol. It was an Illuminator's firework waiting for someone to touch the fuse.

That task fell to Sergeants Weriom and Frelin.

Both men looked down the bar idly, searching for anyone they knew. Their eyes met, and it was all over. Both men sprung from their seats and barrelled towards each other, and the fight was on. The men in the tavern found something new to occupy their attention, and bets were soon being made as the crowd chanted, "Fight! Fight!"

The chant, of course brought the attention of the nearby Redarms. It was no time at all before they were shoving and clubbing their way through the crowd to settle the dispute. Unfortunately, the cloud of alcohol over Sergeant Frelin's reason showed him only a man with a red armband that happened to be from Sledge Platoon. One solid punch flattened the man. This gave some of the men ideas, and the whole mass of men shifted their focus from the fight to the Redarms trying to stop it. The three remaining men didn't stand much of a chance.

One of the few sober men in the crowd saw this, too, and as the crowd began turning on itself, he made a mad dash to Sergeant Daruun's office. Things were about to get nasty in the tavern...

OOC: ROUND ONE... FIGHT!

Ah, I see. I misunderstood the request. My apologies.

I'll be posting an open RP tomorrow (I hope), and there may be another RP in the future of a nature that I won't discuss at this point in time. There's also the party thread on the Citadel, and the Bubble of Evil RP that supposed to go up Monday. There's three there for sure, and a possible fourth one. Knock yourself out!

-Mehrin

Command and Band DJ

Just posted! Bubble two here.

[bubble Two]

"A morning of unease, this is," Boran muttered as he and Krachend walked through the hold. "It's like that calm that comes before those Wetland storms."

Krachend nodded, remembering the storm that they had experienced on their way to Bandar Eban. The tents had shook with the echoing thunder, and that 'rain,' as the wetlanders had called it. It had felt powerful enough to drive a man to the ground. "I know what you mean, Boran. There's a... tension."

The Sovin Nai Second and the spotter spoke of lighter things, trying to alleviate the feeling that something was not right with the world. It didn't work, and the conversation trailed off into silence. It was in silence that they came to the entrance of Deep Shade Hold, where some of the Stone Dogs were standing. Krachend wasn't sure whether they were coming or going, but in a moment, it did not matter. The ground suddenly seemed to come alive, heaving and tossing like it wanted to cast off the puny creatures treading upon its back. Both Krachend and Boran lost their footing on the turbulant earth. Gravity took care of the rest, and the two found themselves on the ground, Krachend on one knee, Boran on hands and knees.

The shaking slowed and finally stopped, only to be replaced by a powerful wind. "SO MUCH FOR THE TENSION!" Krachend yelled over the howling wind as the two Sovin Nai scrambled to crouch behind a nearby building. Both men raised their veils, hoping to keep the sand filling their mouths and noses.

"LIGHT," Boran yelled back, "I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE!" Even as he shouted, though, the wind died down, letting his last words echo through the hold. Nonplussed, the two men stood and lowered their veils, shaking sand off in the process. "What in the Pit of Doom is going on here?" Boran asked.

"I have no idea, but I'm not sure that it's ove-" Krachend cut off as he heard yelling from outside the hold. The yelling was nothing unusual, except people approaching the hold normally didn't yell, "UP SPEARS! PROTECT THE HOLD!" Krachend pointed back into the hold, and Boran loped towards the Sovin Nai roof, sounding the same cry as he ran.

Krachend went the other way, out of the hold and into the rocky terrain outside. He immediately saw the problem. And it was no small problem. Running as if Sightblinder himself drove them was a mass of scorpions. Scorpions were a common sight in the Three-fold Land, but never ones that were larger than a man. Light, they look like they're made of sand! What is going on here? The question didn't seem too important in the next instant, when Krachend caught the sound of laughter from ahead of him. The lion running behind the man meant it could only be one person.

Krachend's veil went up again, and a spear shifted from his left hand to his right. Idly wondering if a spear would do any good against a creature of sand, Krachend continued on his course, straight for the creatures. There were sounds from the hold that spoke of more of the Dragonmount Aiel right behind, which was a good thing; there were several of the creatures, and two warriors and a lion would not stand a chance against the creatures.

Cor and the lion made first contact, but Krachend was not far behind. Sidestepping an attack from one of the massive claws, Krachend dodged his way close to the creature's face. A spear to one of the eyes could be enough to bring one of the creatures down. As he thrust, though, a claw beat him aside while the other siezed his spear and jerked it out of his hands. The claw that knocked Krachend over took hold of the other side of the spear, and the creature snapped it in half with contemptuous ease.

Krachend scrambled back to his feet quickly, his second spear in hand. As he advanced again, another warrior joined him, another Sovin Nai named Feraj. The two warily made their towards the now-angry creature. Unfortunately, the claws struck again. Krachend was sent sprawling, but Feraj found himself caught tight between the pincers. The sand scorpion lifted Feraj from the ground, and before either he or Krachend could react, the creature's stinger flicked forward and stabbed itself into the man's chest.

The deed done, the scorpion threw Feraj to one side before coming after Krachend again. Instead of going for the eyes, the Sovin Nai Second threw himself beneath the creature and struck, his spear piercing deep into the scorpion's insides. The beast threw itself off the spear point and back before it disintegrated, returning to the sand from which it had risen.

As Krachend turned to the next one, he glanced at Feraj. The stingers were apparently quite poisonous; the body was bloated and gross. "Well, I guess that I won't let them sting me, then," Krachend muttered before throwing himself into the battle again.

-Krachend

Sovin Nai Second

It is said that insanity waits for some, and that it creeps up on others. In the end, none can really say which was more fitting when discussing the fate of Tren Kadavere, Tren Reaver. All that can be said for sure is insanity finally caught him, and became his undoing.

Fal Dara. As Tren entered the gates, his eyes began searching for signs of other Darkfriends, but above all, a nice alley. Night was falling, and Tren did not have the money to pay for a room for the night. Glancing at his tattered and filthy self, he chuckled and said to himself, "What self-respecting innkeeper would let me stay, anyway?"

Tren wasn't surprised when he didn't see any of the signs he had been taught. He did, though, find a suitable alley. Its most attractive feature was several alleys branching off from it, boltholes for extra safety. Safe? You?! You're joking, I'm sure. You'll never be safe. You'll never have to worry about being safe again. The suddenness of the dark voice took Tren's knees from beneath him with the shock. To his eyes, the world started shifting around him, changing color and shape as he watched. Get out of my head! I'm not insane!

I beg to differ... The voice said with something that sounded like amusement. As Tren curled up at the mouth of the alley, covering his head with his hands, the voice continued. You were damned from the moment you first touched saidin. It was inevitable. Two years you held back, resisted. No more, Tren Kadavere. Even as Tren shook his head in disbelief and anger, he knew it was true. He could feel it happening, as if he was losing control of himself. "But... you're not... real. You're new..."

Am I? With his last shreds of control, he looked up to see his three companions once again. Each looked at him with an odd mix of disgust and sadistic glee. They spoke as one as their shapes twisted and melted away. "I've always been here, Tren Kadavere. It was you who failed to know it for truth." Oh, Light, no! No! The bundle that had been Tren Kadavere, Tren Reaver, fell back into nothingness, still able to see, but unable to do anything.

One of the town guards noticed a man curled up at the mouth of one of the alleys near the city gates. As he approached, he cautiously said, "Are you all right, sir?" The shape shifted, then turned to look at him. The guard took a step back in shock. The plain face that stared back at him was twisted into a grotesque mask, and the eyes appeared at once both dead and alight with some unholy fire. Tears traced lines through the dirt and grime covering the man's skin. Even a Shienaran can still see something that freezes him like a bird staring at a snake. When he finally found his voice, all he could do was cry for help. His cries became more frantic when the madman drew a rusty stiletto from his belt and began crawling towards him.

The bundle of thought and emotion that had been Tren fought desparately to hold on, to fight back, but he knew that he had lost. If only he could gain control for a little bit... Strength formed from desparation hurled Tren into control for a brief moment. I've always fought it. I fought the insanity to protect others, to protect myself. I'll fail in one to succeed in the other... I... will... not... fail...

The madman paused, and another rush of tears came to his eyes. The guard could only watch in puzzled curiosity as the madman lifted his blade again. Suddenly, the madman let out a cry as if his soul were being stripped from his body... and he plunged the rusty weapon into his right eye.

Among the mad curses echoing through the dying mind, a few rational thought gathered themselves.

I did it...

I'm free...

Light, forgive me... if it's right that i should be...

I'm free...

As guards arrived at the scene, they saw their comrade in arms looking in shock at the body of a man with a rusted knife of some sort jutting from his eye socket. The odd thing about it all was the man's face. Rather than agony or insanity, there was an expression of peace. As if some heavy burden had been lifted by his death.

It was thus that Tren Reaver died- with regret and sorrow for his gravest mistake ever. Tren Reaver, Tren Kadavere- an outcast son of nobility, a burnt-out channeler seeking revenge, a madman. May the Light illuminate his way, and may his troubled soul never again walk the earth...

Nice siggy, Ata.

There once was a man named Rahvin

His hair looks so good it's a sin

The man's like a god

Such a luscious bod

Who needs Compulsion to win?

Such beauty is rare to behold

If I may be ever so bold

Just fifty gold crowns

And rope to be bound

Will get you tonight in his hold

How could anybody refuse?

His beauty you shall not abuse!

Just turn out the lights,

Hang on to your tights,

And get ready to shout your woohoo's!

On this one you hardly can pass

Unless you simply have no class

So gather around

'Tis beauty abound

And just get a load of that a-- err... butt.

That was "Ode to Rahvin." Thank you, I'll be here all week.

Oh master of all things malevolent

To whom even the Incarns genuflect

Thou, Great One, art ever benevolent

Upon this, we- the masses- do reflect.

Dark ruler of all that we hold dearest

Commander of Dreadlord and assassin

At thy name we are filled with fear... umm... -est

Thine enemies know terror out and in

Our love for thee reaches beyond the stars

Whether they burn red or blue or orange

Thine glory is praised in inns and bars

Crap, there is no word that rhymes with orange.

Hmm, you know, when you get right down to it

Looking back, I realize that I'm full of sh**

Thank you.

The scout's story was relatively common- man meets woman, man falls for woman, man offers to give up his former life for woman. It was, anyway, until the end. Light, that's the second! And the first left him for me. No man should have to go through that. "I'm... I'm sorry, Bruce." No one ever used Ram's real name, as far as Mehrin knew. "I don't think I ever did apologize for what happened with Anya, so once again, I'm sorry."

An awkward moment of silence followed, wherein both men tried to gain control of themselves. Finally, Mehrin rubbed a hand over his face and spoke again, forcing levity into his voice. "Well, I'm sure that your Amelia and Anya are exchanging stories and laughing at our silliness as we speak. Let's go get something to eat."

As they approached, Mehrin began relating what had been happening at the Citadel in Ram's absence, oftentimes with as much humor as he could. "Well, first and foremost, Old Cookie's been replaced. It seems that a batch of his trench muck jumped out of the cookpot and strangled him. The new cook is a bit better, so only one-third of the casualties in the infirmary are food poisoning." The talk shifted to how building on the Citadel was going, and then to the group of Asha'man that were now stationed at the Citadel, which in turn led to the events leading up to that- espionage, confession, and a near-riot. The conversation then turned to Cairhien.

"Light, the man is terrifying. Do you remember Bandar Eban, where you first joined us? Do you remember the vision in the sky? It's him! That man is the bloody Dragon Reborn! And we fought alongside him and his Aiel; many of them were at Bandar Eban, as well."

By this time, the two had made it into the mess tent and were seated at one of the long tables. Mehrin leaned towards the prodigal scout and said quietly, "I've been hearing disturbing rumors from the north. These rumors speak of a battle at Chachin. They say that the city has been obliterated. Did you hear anything about it where you were? It was said to have happened recently."

OOC: In the main storyline, Chachin has been destroyed, but it's not really known in the south.

OOC: I'm really sorry that I let this go for so long.

The training grounds were one of the places where Banders gathered to be around their friends... not to mention mock the green soldiers as they were knocked about by trainers and sparring partners alike. Mehrin loved the atmosphere, a combination of tenseness and humor all in one. "Thanks again, Beleo. I really appreciate your help."

"Don't worry about it, Mehr. You would have ordered me to do it if I'd refused, anyway." Beleo was about six feet tall and well-muscled, but not huge. It didn't really matter with all the padding that was wrapped around him, anyway. He had a sense of humor, though. The job definitely required it. Sergeant Beleo Ronas of the Infantry was affectionatly known as Punching Bag.

"You know me better than that, man. I wouldn't have ordered you to help; I'd have just made the next six months of your life miserable!" Mehrin said with a grin, which promptly left he glanced at the sun. "It's noon-"

"You know, I didn't notice," Beleo said sarcastically from beneath the thick padding.

Mehrin couldn't help but laugh at that, though he added more seriously, "Need I remind you that he was recently the recipient of a flogging? Give him a break, though if he isn't here in five minutes, we'll have him put on the padding and we'll demonstrate how each of these blows would feel."

-Mehrin

Rurak hustled up to the sparring area. He had barely enough time to wash and change after cleaning the latrines and stables, but he wasn't about to go into the citadel among all the rest of the people reeking of crap and urine, and only the light knew what else went in there. Mehrin was already there waiting for him with a patient look, and somebody else who looked like an overstuffed pillow.

"Sorry... I'm late... sir" Rurak managed to pant while attempting to swallow some air. "I .. Just finished the latrines... and I don't think... anyone here would have been... apreciative... of the smell"

-Rurak

The latrines. Right. Mehrin remembered that order, the punishment, and the amazing amount of alcohol that came after that. None of these memories came through in his voice, though. WIth something that strongly resembled amusement, Mehrin replied, "You're right. I doubt the others here would appreciate being downwind from you, and anyone who ended up working with the Punching Bag would have held it against you for quite some time."

Beleo chuckled at the use of his nickname, reminding Mehrin of his manners. "By the way, this is Sergeant Beleo Ronas. He's pretty dense, so the padding isn't all nessecary, but it's useful." At this, Mehrin walked over to the man, who was now bracing himself for what he knew was coming. Not wasting any time, Mehrin threw two quick punches with his right hand, one hitting the padding over Beleo's short ribs and the other hitting right below the first.

"In hand to hand combat," Mehrin began without any form of introduction or response to Beleo's quiet groans of pain, "an inch can mean the difference between a debilitating blow and irritating an opponent." Again, Mehrin approached Beleo, speaking as he did so. "Many trainers use a dummy for this course, and I'm not that much different." By this time, Mehrin was standing next to Beleo, who punched Mehrin as best he could for the comment. "A dummy, though, can't tell you if you've struck the right area, something that Beleo can do.

"Now," Mehrin said, finally reaching the beginning of the lesson, "I want you to find a comfortable stance. Not everybody is the same, so I cannot tell you what to do other than to center your weight between your two legs and keep your feet far enough for balance, but close enough to allow mobility."

-Mehrin

Mehrin quickly agreed with Rurak's assessment about other people's attitudes toward his stench then began by launching right into the training regimine. He threw two quick punches into Beleo's midriff, one right on top of the other. Beleo groaned in pain as Mehrin started his lesson right over him.

"In hand to hand combat, an inch can mean the difference between a debilitating blow and irritating an opponent." As Mehrin was saying this, he was slowly drifting back over toward Beleo. "Many trainers use a dummy for this course, and I'm not that much different." At this comment, Beleo threw a punch back at Mehrin. Rurak was surprised, but then again, Mehrin had said they were rather relaxed here. Still, it hadn't crossed his mind that he'd have to take a shot at his commander! Not that he'd be able to hit him, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered.. "A dummy, though, can't tell you if you've struck the right area, something that Beleo can do.

"Now I want you to find a comfortable stance. Not everybody is the same, so I cannot tell you what to do other than to center your weight between your two legs and keep your feet far enough for balance, but close enough to allow mobility."

Rurak quickly took up the stance that felt most natural to him. It employed many of the principles of archery. He stood with his left foot back, and right foot forward since, like his hand, he favored his left leg. He faced Mehrin an angled towards him so that only a minimum of his body was displayed as a target. The angle was such that his right shoulder was nearly pointed at Mehrin so that he would take most of his blows on his right side. He planted his feet only slightly wider than his shoulders so that the center of balance would be just right, Then merely stood there, wondering what Mehrin wanted next.

-Rurak

"Good," Mehrin said, assessing the man's stance. Now to test it. Mehrin tossed his cloak, hat, and vest to one side and started unlacing his shirt. "Don't move, Rurak. Hold that stance until I say otherwise." As he finished the sentence, Mehrin pulled his shirt over his head, turning his whip-scarred back to Rurak as he approached Beleo. "I'm going to demonstrate some basic attacks. If you don't understand how one is done, just tell me and I'll demonstrate again." With that, Mehrin squared off against Beleo, who braced himself again. Mehrin's punches came pretty quickly, one to the padding around Beleo's face, one to his belly, one to the groin, one to the short ribs on either side.

"The nose, if hit, will cause your opponent's vision to fail temporarily, not to mention the amount of pain that comes with it. An upward jab to the stomach will knock the wind out of your opponent, leaving them breathless and easy to finish off. The groin... well, if I have to explain that one, then you've never been in a fight before. A note, though: a groin shot will work well against a man, but not so well if fighting a woman. Finally, the short ribs. Anything there is so painful that anybody would speak all kinds of profanities at that. Besides, a powerful blow stands a chance of breaking ribs and puncturing organs. Always a plus."

Mehrin stepped away from Beleo, who was bracing again for Rurak. "Your turn. You'll hit each of those four areas until Beleo says you've got it right. He's going to try to defend himself, so make sure you're on your guard. A bit of advice: try to look through Beleo. It allows some to react faster than focusing on one's opponent might. If it doesn't work like that for you, don't bother."

Mehrin stood back a little and said, "Good luck."

-Mehrin

After assuming the stance, Mehrin ordered him to hold it. Rurak cringed inwardly as Mehrin approached Beleo and laid a series of blows to the face, ribs, stomach, and then, horror of horrors, to the groin. As beleo sat there groaning, Mehrin overrode the sound with a short lecture.

"The nose, if hit, will cause your opponent's vision to fail temporarily, not to mention the amount of pain that comes with it. An upward jab to the stomach will knock the wind out of your opponent, leaving them breathless and easy to finish off. The groin... well, if I have to explain that one, then you've never been in a fight before. A note, though: a groin shot will work well against a man, but not so well if fighting a woman. Finally, the short ribs. Anything there is so painful that anybody would speak all kinds of profanities at that. Besides, a powerful blow stands a chance of breaking ribs and puncturing organs. Always a plus."

"Your turn. You'll hit each of those four areas until Beleo says you've got it right. He's going to try to defend himself, so make sure you're on your guard. A bit of advice: try to look through Beleo. It allows some to react faster than focusing on one's opponent might. If it doesn't work like that for you, don't bother."

Rurak walked forward and took up his stance again. At first, he tried to lay the blows in as lightly as he could, but that earned him a stinging blow to the side of the head as he moved too slowly to counter it. He then tried Mehrin's trick about unfocusing his eyes, but that just earned him more blows to the head. Finally, he just used his own focusing trick from archery. It allowed him to hit his targets really well, and helped focus his mind on the battles at hand. Once he had that down, it was only a matter of finding the exact spots that would do the damage. He could tell when he got it right because beleo would grunt from the blow and slow down temporarily, even though he had padding on. After a few minutes of this, Beleo finally stopped, deeming his work to have been adequate.

-Rurak

"Okay, then. On to kicking. The basic principle of kicking is that your body will dictate what you can and cannot do. For instance, I could kick someone in the side of the head... if they're under five-and-a-half feet tall. Other than that, I tend to go for the ribs. One's feet have the advantage over hands in that the feet are normally in some kind of shoe or boot. This added hardness, combined with the stronger muscles in the legs, leads to much pain."

Again, Mehrin approached Beleo. "For the kicks, try not to kick the sergeant too hard; these are much more painful than most punches can be." Mehrin than kicked Beleo in the chest and the belly. "Those are the general places you should aim for. I did not include the knees because even a light kick could cause irreversable damage. I also did not include the groin. If you're going for injury, those are the places that most can actually reach. A good distraction technique, though, is the shins. It may seem childish, but it is very painful."

Without a word, Mehrin stood back and allowed Rurak to practice.

-Mehrin

Kicking wasn't something that Rurak was used to. Always in archery Rurak was taught to have your feet firmly planted for your shots. The stance seemed to be holding up though as Rurak could pivot from either foot to add the weight of his body to the force of his blows. not that he did so of course. He had seen how Beleo winced from the blows even through the padding, and as Kedyn said, Kicks were much more powerful. His first kick he attempted to kick as lightly as possible, but he had forgotten that Beleo was supposedly defending, and made himself look the fool when Beleo easily trapped his foot, causing him to dance around on one foot, till Beleo released it and gave him a shove that deposited him on the ground.

Chagrined at having been humiliated in front of the Commander, Rurak continued his workout with much gusto, though with a little less accuracy than he would have liked. He laid kicks to the chest and stomach that staggered 'the punching bag' and knocked the wind out of him, then just for good measure laid a kick to the shins that was imperfectly executed and hurt his foot probably worse than it did beleo's shins.

Laying on the sand to take the wait off of his foot, Rurak apologized and told Mehrin that he'd be fine in a second if he'd just continue with the lessons.

-Rurak

OOC: Due to my extremely poor writing in my section on holds, we'll just use that as a springboard for the end of the lesson, okay?

A slight smile flashed across Mehrin's face as he looked at Rurak, who was rubbing his sore foot. "What do you think, Beleo? Did he get the idea?"

Beleo's eyes moved from Mehrin to Rurak, and then back to Mehrin. "I'm reasonably sure that he understood. I think he also learned how not to kick a person." At Mehrin's nod of agreement, he began pulling the heavy padding off before addressing Rurak. "Okay Rurak, here's the deal: for the next two weeks, you'll have some time off from the kitchens. Instead, you'll spend the time in my loving care. I'm going to help you 'study' for the final test with the commander there in two weeks."

Mehrin nodded once at Beleo's words before addressing Rurak. "You're dismissed."

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

Mehrin was finishing a series of stretches when Rurak arrived. Hmmm... he looks alright. I'll still have to be careful, though. Skipping the formalities, Mehrin said, "Here's how this is going to work: we're going to do three distinct sets. The first set involves you attacking while I defend. The second involves me attacking while you defend. The third will be a normal spar." Mehrin adopted a defensive stance, facing Rurak. "Whenever you're ready."

OOC: You can cover the first two in one post, as there would be no real break in between except for Mehrin stopping it and beginning the second part. The spar will be like something you'd see in the Red Trench, so I'll come in and start that off. I apologize again for the delay.

The sword had walked a strange road to arrive where it had, by the story that Gareth told. Tren didn't question it any further, but he was slightly incredulous as to the veracity of it. No man would give up a heron-mark blade willingly, even if he would wield one of the Eyeless swords. The thought was only half-hearted, though, as his mind drifted to questions of his future.

Where do I go from here? he thought as he settled himself in the grass. Those who had discovered him had sent him north to the Blight, but Gareth, by his comments about the dangers, was probably not heading in that direction. The man carried himself as a soldier would, a great advantage in a fight and not much to comment on in the Borderlands. He also seemed kind enough.

Kindness?! Kindness is but an illusion. This man does not know what may throw you into insanity. If you really care to repay his 'kindness,' leave him. The dark voice spoke with hatred and cynicism, but Tren could see truth to what it said. "Am I really so far gone already?" The question hung in the air unanswered, and Tren left it there. Rolling onto his other side, Tren closed his eyes and slipped into a sleep riddled with dreams brought on by madness. And the dark presence waited.

There were times when the incessant reports and paperwork that accompanied rank became too much, and when this happened, his office was the last place that Mehrin could be found. He took whatever opportunity he could to walk around the growing Citadel. The bustle that accompanied its every step toward completion was one less worry on Mehrin's mind.

As he moved through the Citadel, Mehrin took in everything there was to be seen. Occasionally, a man or woman in the uniform of the Band would holler his name, but most simply let him be; it was well-known that the Band's commander had no real love for command. Even among those who didn't know what he looked like, Mehrin's unique mode of dress was enough to identify him. This led to Mehrin always being in a small, open space in the crowd. When he was in a hurry, Mehrin appreciated it, but not when he wanted to forget his post.

Mehrin's wanderings took him to the main gate, where a veritable river of humanity was constantly pouring through the gates. Traders and merchants, carpenters, masons, smiths, and the civilian population mingled with many men and women who had come with hopes of joining the Band of the Red Hand. It was people like them that surprised Mehrin. Since Cairhien and the successful attack on the bandits, the Band had recieved enough recruits to replace those who had fallen in battle, and then some.

The wind changed, bringing with it the unmistakable odor that often eminated from the mess tent. Despite the joking that everybody in the Band participated in, the food was actually pretty decent. Especially since they had gotten rid of the previous cook. As he approached the mess tent, Mehrin's eye was caught by one of the newcomers. The man carried himself with an air of confidence that was rather peculiar for a newcomer. The man began walking towards the mess tent again, turning a little as he made his way over, and Mehrin suddenly realized why the man seemed abnormally confident.

"Shepherd! No doubt you were on your way to report back in, as I know that you would do that before poisoning yourself." Even as he spoke, Mehrin closed the distance between them, a rare smile on his face.

*suddenly appears by the magic that is the internet*

Did somebody say 'oosquai?' Well, then... *whistles*

*gai'shain come in, each toting several skins of 'Nai 'Squai*

-Krachend

Sovin Nai Second

Title: The Blight Beckons (Repost) An SG RP- Gareth

Characters/Divs involved: Tren- SG, Gareth- SG

Background: Tren gets lost in the Borderlands on his way to Shayol Ghul.

Start Date: Feb. 21, 2006

End Date: Two more posts, at most.

Link: http://www.dragonmount.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=676

The world around Tren seemed to be washed out, as if all the color had gone from it. As glad as he was that his tormenters seemed to have left him at Four Kings, Tren couldn't help but feel that perhaps the short time he had wielded saidin had indeed proven to be too much. Come to think of it, the first man began following me around shortly after I started at the Black Tower...

Tren's reminiscing didn't help him find where he was, he knew, but what else could he do. All that he knew was that he was alone in the Borderlands somewhere. And that left a lot of room for being lost. The stars didn't help; the stars twinkled mockingly at him, shining like saidin, and, like saidin they were far out of his reach. The trees danced around him in an unfelt breeze, tormenting him, mocking him. All of nature seemed to laugh at him now.

In a mad rage, Tren pulled a burning piece of wood from his campfire, hurling it into the dark forest around him, where it landed in a small creek. Tren didn't notice. In his eyes, the forest around him burst into flames, the trees and grass screaming in agony. An owl begged for mercy before it was swallowed in the flame. Then, as suddenly as it began, the fire ceased to be. Tren found himself laughing hysterically at the forest around him for no real reason as sanity once again settled upon him. With a heavy sigh, Tren fell back against the grass, staring again at the sky.

The sound of somebody moving through the brush roused Tren from his depressed stupor. He stood quickly, drawing the rusted stiletto at his belt, and called out, "Do the trees move again, or is there someone out there?"

-Tren

His fate was spinning out of control, why was he out here really, what had drove him to wander the past few weeks. Nothing had happened, other people would wander after a great tradegy had occured in their family or to a friend, but Gareth just had the urge to wander. The boarderlands were a bad place to wander for one like him. The sword that ZIO had given him had drawn many stares in the towns that he had been to, as well as his jet black warhorse. After awhile he resorted to wraping his sword when he went into town, in order to cover the heron. But he would only go to town if neccesary. He spent most of his time in the woods, searching for only the Dark Lord knew what. Much had happened to him, so much so that he was now wandering the countrside for no apparent reason.

The sun had set awhile ago but it was not the first time Gareth had moved long past the sun setting. A crackle caught his attention. "A fire out here, must be another traveler, my sword is not wraped but out here it doesnt really matter, I can kill them if they bother me, but lets see who it is." Gareth thought to himself. Dismounting from his horse Gareth hit the ground silently, tieing his horse off he slid silently through the woods towards the fire. The woods were thick he he could barely see the fire, but it was obvious in these dark woods. He was no more than a ghost, sliding through the underbrush until he was near the edge of the treeline, he could see a single man around a campfire. He was alone and his face told of great thought, he was alone so Gareth retrieved his horse and was walking back towards the man when a flaming log flew towards him and landed in the creak where Gareth was standing. "that wasnt very nice" Gareth said to himself with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

Gareth intentionaly made noise as he walked towards the fire, he didnt want to startle the poor lad. The boy called out to him from the safetry of the fire, and Gareth responded in answer. "My name is Gareth and I am a traveler as you are." the last was said as he emerged from the trees pulling along Shadow his horse. The warmth from the fire was comforting, it had been several days since Gareth had had a fire to sleep near and he was glad to find one. The boy had a small stiletto drawn, a look and a hurmph was all it earned him, Gareth turned and tied Shadow to a tree near some grass. "I hope you dont mind me intruding on your fire but it has been days since I had a fire in front of me. Would you mind teribbly if I joined you. My name is Gareth by the way, what brings you all the way out here to the middle of nowhere." Gareth gave the boy a little smile to ease him, but made sure that he was turned so that the boy could see the heron on his sword hilt. Gareth sat down on the ground and watched the boy.

-Gareth

Tren only relaxed slightly as the man emerged from the forest, calling out, "My name is Gareth and I am a traveler as you are." The snort that the man gave upon getting a good look at him could have meant anything. The man continued, "I hope you don't mind me intruding on your fire, but it has been days since I had a fire in front of me." Tren shrugged. As far as he was concerned, one more person present meant one less tree to talk to. "Would you mind terribly if I joined you?"

Tren shrugged, then gestured to a spot on the ground across from where he had been seated. "What brings you all the way out here to the middle of nowhere?" Tren didn't answer right away, but instead watched the man for a moment as he seated himself, taking great care to make sure that he saw the bird on his sword hilt. Something at the back of his mind told Tren that the bird meant something. His face twisted slightly into something resembling a smile before he finally sat down, paranoia subdued for the moment

"What am I doing out here? Quite simple, really. I'm lost. When I arrived in the area, I was assured that I was within a day's ride of the nearest city. I've been riding for three days now, trying to find this city." On a whim, Tren decided to try the sign that the old man in Four Kings had shown him, the one that would identify himself to other Friends of the Dark. As he gestured subtly, the paranoia returned.

Tilting his head slightly, Tren asked the newcomer, "Are you real? Many have found my campfire on previous nights; none of them lived, though. They attacked, I attacked, they vanished. How do I know that you are real?"

-Tren

The sign of the Dark was very noticable, Gareth was actually suprised, that was a rarity. Gareth was the type to expect the worst, but at least he was with a fellow Darkfriend, he found it funny in his own way, he was in the middle of nowhere and he not only found another person but an allie. Gareth laughed at the mans question, "I am as real as you are my boy." Davik said.

Davik grabed his small pack and pulled out a skin of water and some dried beef he had. He had not eaten much over the past day or two. It was the perfect opportunity to do so. Davik motioned some of the jerky to the boy "You know some people consider it rude to not introduce themselves" with the said Gareth wove the sign of the Dark deftly like he had done it a million times and was only second nature to him.

-Gareth

Gareth offered Tren some dried beef, which he turned down as graciously as he could. He then called him down on his manners. "You know, some people consider it rude not to introduce themselves," he said as his hand moved the same way that he had just moved his own.

Tren noticed, but didn't say anything about it. Instead he replied, "My apologies. At times, I tend to forget myself... in more ways than one. But that's no matter, nor is it an excuse. My name is Tren Reaver."

Well aren't we just the mannerly one. Tren thought he heard a voice address him. A voice that he'd never heard before, a voice that had a distinctively evil tone to it. To try to avoid thinking about it, he asked Gareth, "What brings you to the middle of nowhere? Just a random wanderer?

-Tren

"I dont really know if you can believe that, I just got the urge to wander one day, and I have been in the woods since, few people have bothered me and those that have, didnt live to regret it." Gareth said offhandedly. "I shall ask the same of you, what would one so young be doing wandering this close to the Blight, Trollocs dont distinguish between us and followers of the Light. So why would you risk yourself, are you searching for something?" Gareth inquired.

-Gareth

One so young... The words would have stung if Tren had cared anymore. "I've heard it said that youth ends the moment you realize that you're going to die. If that's true, then youth lays behind me by two years, and I've been dying slowly ever since." Tren took a deep breath to calm himself. And then another. He hated remembering the shock, the pain. The emptiness. "I was once a channeler, a wielder of saidin. Once."

Tren gave that a moment to sink in before continuing, his eyes focused on the flames in the campfire. "I do seek something; I seek the Blight. I swore myself to the Shadow because the Light betrayed me and left me to die a slow, painful death." The flames shifted to form figures dancing the dance of battle, men fighting and dying. "I hope that the Shadow can give me the means to extract vengeance. Or the means to end this torment." The battle shifted suddenly to a skeletal hand reaching for Tren's throat. With a shout of fear, Tren threw himself away from the fire. As he did, the illusion faded, leaving only the fire.

Hesitantly, Tren returned to his spot before adding, "I think that the taint may have gotten to me more than most. It may be vengeance, it may be madness. I risk myself because I don't care anymore. I want death."

-Tren

Gareth Listened to Trens story intently, he had decided that he had wandered enough and that it was time to stop wandering. Gareth had been gone so long he would need allies.The fact that the boy had once been able to channel was shocking but he couldnt anymore. Personally Gareth had never held any love for weilders of the Power, they were too upity, thought they knew everything. At one point in his story Tren fell backward as if he was escaping something, aparently he was already a little mad, but he could be useful.

"Death is pointless, you can serve the DarkLord in death but you are more usefull alive. There are many things you can do, you think channelers will win wars. A knife in the night can kill anyone even our Dreadlords, they need people like us to defend them, fight and lead the wars, they are powerful yes but not invinciblle. We the nonchanneling Darkfriends are the true power of the Dark Lord. Even the Chosen are powerless without us to follow them and do their bidding. they may guide the blade but we ARE the Blade. If you truly seek death then just slit your throat but if you want to live, serve our Great Lord and learn to be the sword then tomorow we shall begin our journey back to civilization and I shall teach you. You will live and die well, in battle not as a coward running from your fears."

-Gareth

"Fears... Fears have nothing to do with it. Nonetheless, there is sense to what you say, more sense than I've heard in quite some time. I think I will accompany you, though." Tren's voice did not stop carrying its sense of world-weariness. His eyes sank back into the fire. "If for nothing else," he added, "to regain my bearings."

There was silence in the small camp for a little bit, broken only by the breeze through the trees and by the crickets in the grass. Tren allowed his mind to wander, hoping to regather his thoughts. All that stopped when he remembered what the man had displayed so prominently when he had first arrived. "Master Gareth, when you arrived, you made a point of displaying that sword of yours. Is the heron on it's hilt there by right, or did you get the weapon as a gift?"

-Tren

Despite himself, Asmodean couldn't help but chuckle grimly at Be'lal's comment. Before he could voice his defense, the older man continued. The man knows what's going on, I'll give him that, Asmodean thought before returning to his score.

If only the great symphonies of his Age still existed! If this piece did not tell of the Chosen, then nothing ever would. As far as he could remember, Asmodean had associated people and things with music. Be'lal brought to mind a baritone sound with movements that reflected speed and rapier-like wit. Semirhage made him think of the screeching of violins. Aginor was an assortment of instruments vaguely resembling the background noise of a lab. Sammael was a smart snare cadence and bugles. Then there was...

"Have you lost your touch, darlings? Just anyone could slip in here without you noticing it..." In his suprise, Asmodean's head whipped toward the source of the comment, his hand following, dragging the pen across his work. He had already seized saidin and was making ready to throw some very nasty weaves when the newcomer, a tall blonde woman, spoke again. "Take it easy! I'm Moghedien."

In this group, Asmodean never pressed his luck. Still holding saidin, he listened as the woman claiming to be the Spider briefly told her story before turning to the table that held the drinks. "As sneaky as always, I see," Asmodean said lightly.

As he let go of saidin, Asmodean turned back to his music... or what was left of it. He cursed lightly under his breath before allowing the music to vanish. He could have corrected the error, but there was no reason to do so; Moghedien's arrival had caused some of the mounting tension to snap and destroy his inspiration. The music he had written, though, would still be there when he returned to the waking world, safe in his mind.

Of course, now Asmodean was left with little choice but to acutally participate in conversation with the rest of the Chosen. As long as I don't have to watch The Family.

I'm here. I think...

Yo.

*checks out the checkers*

*checks out what the checkers are checking*

Coolness. Now must go sleepy-time. 163 hours of work in one week is not healthy in the least.