Sounds like a plan to me. :D

Braxton froze; arms outstretched and only foot touching the ground. His eyes slid left... then right. Then left. Then right. Damn. Several options occured to the young trainee. The first was to take the box and run--definitely out. The second was to drop the box and run but he knew from memory that the Mistress of Trainees was very light on her feet. The third option was to tell the truth. This is it. I'm dead. She's going to kill me.

The world slipped away and The Mistress of Trainees became the fulcrum around which his tunnel vision fastened. It all became very clear to him in that moment. Her body was a temple, a temple dedicated to the weave of love. Her blue eyes where the ocean of his feelings and her hair... well, that was just plain fetching. Braxton's pulse quickened, his eyes unfocused and his mouth started to accumulate drool in the corners. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind... where his waning blood flow still reached, he realised there was a need for an explanation.

"I-I-I-I-I-I err... I was uhh... you see I... ahhh... well... there was this Aes Sedai. I thought it breast--I mean. Umm. I mean best. I thought it best... best to uhh. She was... uhh.. I was meant to... collect something from one of the hips... I mean ships! Yeah... and take it to her quarters... ummm. I uhh... I uhh... wanted to do you--err your! Task but I uhhh, I uhh didn't want to be turned into a frog?"

The last words were somewhat meek... Braxton's face, now bright roseatte was hanging somewhat in shame. This had never happened at the farm.

There was a nod and a release of bated breath. A breath Brandeis had not been aware he was stifling. There was hope, then. The Inquisitor would meet this Aes Sedai; would assess her worth through his own devices and if he found her the solution to his crisis, he would present his findings to the ruling factions within the Children. Perhaps his contention would be vetoed, quashed or silenced… but he could not—would not—subject “humans†to the brutal conduct of his order. Brandeis loathed harming even those “animals†assigned to his care.

Compassion and clemency toward the enemy carried with it a heavy penalty: suspicion, accusation and mistrust. Brandeis avoided his brother Inquisitors, preferring to spend his time with anyone—or while anywhere—else. Already the strain was showing. Were he to return with a new perspective, one not so clouded by history and legend, could he ever face his brothers and sisters again? Could he swallow their lusts and blind hatreds with calm forbearance? Perhaps… perhaps a measure of doubt was more satisfactory than clarity…

How can a tower, miles away, so dictate the course of our lives? To Con he added: “Are you going to parsh me that… or am I going to haff to… take it from you?†Snatching at the bottle he took several long draws and then sighed loudly. His speech had thickened; become slurred. Worries and stresses diminished, washing away with a tide of cool placidity. “There wash a time. A time when I was sure… about… the role I played against the shadow. I am no longer convished… of any think. Do you think I enjoy… torturing…? Welsh, I don’t. There are times in life… times when we all do things… for duty. I think that tree over there is trying to talk to us. What? Never mind. Where wash I …?

“Haff… haff you ever heard such screams? Man… or beast? That ish always the queshton. We “question,â€--which ish just a fancy way to say maim, cripple and beat—animals: servants off the shadow. We do not harm humans, only animals but how often are we wrong? Part of me wants your Aes Sedai to be innocent, part of me. Aes Sedai can scream jusht like everyone elsh… Hey… you drank it all!â€

Mastor Harkon had not been the most pleasant of people. One of the most unpleasant people would have been a more apt a description. His voice could only be compared to the sound of gravel against shoes. His skin was wind-burnished a deep red hue. His hair was thin and tangled and his vocabulary sent Braxton away very embarrassed.

Braxton had never been to the docks before. This added a unique additive into his dilemma. He had seen it from afar, true, but had no previous inclination or imprimatur warranting such a venture. Therefore, he had stayed clear of the area. Docks were notorious in all the stories.

The box he collected was also not as pleasant a burden to bear as the red sister had intimated. Braxton was not pleased of this. He did not even know where he was going to take the fool thing but figured with a bit of time and some luck, he'd find his way eventually.

All that remained now was to find his way to the correct drop-off point and scurry back to the stables to complete his task before the Mistress of Trainees caught him from his duties. This was going to be easy. Too easy.

Brandeis shrugged. There had been attractions—for certain but nothing substantial. It was difficult to pursue a meaningful relationship when one earned both coin and admiration by the screams and whimpers of those interrogated by ones own hand. He had found from experience; the only women seeking him were of the Children. Blood-thirsty fanatics, wishing only to court the blunt instrument of misery and suffering wielded against friends of the dark. Hardpan refusal to speak of his experiences won him little in the way of affection.

“No.†He replied in subdued tone. “Asking anyone to overlook the obvious details of my… occupation would be hard at best.â€

Nodding, Con paused as he considered his words. "Arette do be that one love. It all be beginning with an argument too, shaky beginning but... It be difficult. I do be but a Tower Guard of no distinction then, and she be the Keeper of Chronicles. She be fearing the other sisters whispers, so we be keeping it secret, as best it could be. I be doing it for her, but what kind of hope do such a thing be happening? Yet things be changing."

"Trollocs be coming from the Jangai Pass, chased out by the Aiel presumably. They be travelling west towards Tar Valon, and we be meeting them in a battle. If not for the Aes Sedai and their healing I would be dead, as it was I be asleep for a week and when I do be waking from it I be finding Arette by my side. She be coming into the open about it. The Commander of the Guard, Evan Tremaine, he be falling during the battle and I be given his post. There be mutterings I be getting because I be the Keeper's lover, but I be doing my duty. Yet between our duties there be little time for both of us, though we be doing what we can to make the time."

Sighing, Con slumped forward slightly as memories came to him of what followed. "But politics be interfering amongst other things, as well as one of my students be falling for one of hers. She... So many things be coming between us. Then of course, the grand moment. Telcia who I do be mentioning earlier, she be pregnant and be wishing to be giving birth away from the White Tower, so as to be giving her children a chance to grow up normally. She be needing someone to be taking her that she be trusting, so I be agreeing to. She be giving birth in Caemlyn to twins, but we be continuing on to Cairhien where she be having time to them. When I be returning..."

Con's eyes narrowed in the memory of it, but more from pain than anything else. "I be going to Arette and after... a moment, she be telling me that she be knowing about me and Telcia, thinking we be betraying her, and be telling me it be mattering little as I never be anothing more to her than... an amusement."

Brandeis listened quietly as the tale unfolded. His Inquisitor mind ran previous actions against this new information. Many pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The suspicion that he meant more to the woman than she led him to believe was puissant but without “questioning†her it was impossible to say for certain. Nor was it his place to offer such hopes. The sympathy for his friend was genuine and he reached a hand out in a reassuring gesture. He hesitated and withdrew his hand before completing the action. His opinion of Con Stavros had rise. His opinion of Aes Sedai had not.

He was at a loss for what to say. What could he say? He could incapacitate the witch and torture her extensively… but neither Con nor his own conscience would approve of such an act. While having not sworn an oath, his word was his bond. In the end he did the only thing he could do, turning to Con he asked: “more drink?â€

"Thanks." Taking more than just a swig this time, Con was starting to feel it, which was a good thing because it was just going to get harder to talk at this point. "I no be saying anything, I just be walking out. What did there be to be said? No be saying I no struggle with it. Aes Sedai be sworn to be telling the truth, that oath be tied to them, even if they be finding ways about it. She be telling me before she be loving me, then later that she no be. For a long time... But after so long, it be something I think I be solving."

"She did be loving me, then because of what be constantly be coming between us... She be changing her mind, how she be remembering things, so she be believing that she never be loving me for true. It be more bitter than the love simply being a lie. I be giving her everything of me, yet she no be trusting me enough, no be giving me that faith back, and be sticking that dagger in because she be hurt because she be seeing something that no be true. My love no be good enough for her, so she be taking it and ripping it out of me and be yanking my guts out with it."

"And now I be finding out when we first be seeing her in the farmstead her children be by me."

Brandeis let out a loud, long whistle. There was nothing he could say or do to ease the pain of his friend. He swore a private oath, that if it were the last thing he did, he would drag the Aes Sedai witch over the coals—figuratively speaking. Of course—for her actions. He was hoping that Con Stavros would reveal some startling revelation. Some overlooked item on the list that could lead him to believe that the White Tower was more than he had ever believed. While still open to it, his hope was fading fast. Perhaps he was wrong to question the ways of his order after all. “We're going to need more drink.†He added vocally.

He had no real aversion to doing his share. His hands were stained with countless hours imbedded in soils. Often he carried with him the rich loamy scent of peat, mixed with a salmagundi of herbs, spices and flowers. Brandeis only liked to test the water to push the boundaries; see how far his laurels as an Inquisitor might take him. His station proved useful in minimizing cost and also having fun and the expense of another. Two things he was quick to take advantage of.

Brandeis followed Con from the campsite to forage; rolled up his sleeves while his bone-white uniform was quick to become bespattered with grime and dirt. A more devout Inquisitor may have removed the emblem bearing tabard, not Brandeis Meinrad. There were times for acting the foppish dandy and other times when it was forced into the back of the carriage by necessary labour. Also, Brandeis liked to irritate his superiors.

Brandeis acted only mild surprise when Con gestured for him to have a seat, on a stump of all things. He shifted his position; remained silent, waiting for his companion to begin. When he felt certain that Con was on the verge of preamble, he shifted his position again: then again. Repeating this process several times he was quick to realise that Con was paying more attention to the order of his own thoughts than the external actions of Brandeis. The conversation would be important and he knew on instinct what course the discussion would take.

"I do be owing you a few answers. Where do you be wanting me to start?"

Brandeis held up his hand to forestall any further comments. Reaching down to his belt he withdrew a sizeable flask. He held it up in front of his companion, an eyebrow half rising in query. To take some awkward gravity from the situation he replied with in a light tone:

“We start here. I picked it up from a… supplier I once brought in for questioning. Terrible stuff and over-priced but it’ll put a fire in yer belly and take the edge off any situation. From there?—Well, that’s up to you.â€

Tossing the flask to Con, Brandeis tried to keep the excitement from his posture as he waited for the man to begin.

He had no real aversion to doing his share. His hands were stained with countless hours imbedded in soils. Often he carried with him the rich loamy scent of peat, mixed with a salmagundi of herbs, spices and flowers. Brandeis only liked to test the water to push the boundaries; see how far his laurels as an Inquisitor might take him. His station proved useful in minimizing cost and also having fun and the expense of another. Two things he was quick to take advantage of.

Brandeis followed Con from the campsite to forage; rolled up his sleeves while his bone-white uniform was quick to become bespattered with grime and dirt. A more devout Inquisitor may have removed the emblem bearing tabard, not Brandeis Meinrad. There were times for acting the foppish dandy and other times when it was forced into the back of the carriage by necessary labour. Also, Brandeis liked to irritate his superiors.

Brandeis acted only mild surprise when Con gestured for him to have a seat, on a stump of all things. He shifted his position; remained silent, waiting for his companion to begin. When he felt certain that Con was on the verge of preamble, he shifted his position again: then again. Repeating this process several times he was quick to realise that Con was paying more attention to the order of his own thoughts than the external actions of Brandeis. The conversation would be important and he knew on instinct what course the discussion would take.

"I do be owing you a few answers. Where do you be wanting me to start?"

Brandeis held up his hand to forestall any further comments. Reaching down to his belt he withdrew a sizeable flask. He held it up in front of his companion, an eyebrow half rising in query. To take some awkward gravity from the situation he replied with in a light tone:

“We start here. I picked it up from a… supplier I once brought in for questioning. Terrible stuff and over-priced but it’ll put a fire in yer belly and take the edge off any situation. From there?—Well, that’s up to you.â€

Tossing the flask to Con, Brandeis tried to keep the excitement from his posture as he waited for the man to begin.

Milton fumed. His tobacco stained fingers worked in furious, furtive movements: stuffing his pipe and striking flint beneath the bowl, while he inhaled the rich smoke to dull the edge of his agitation. He glared with unbridled anger at fair-goers, those able to enjoy the heat, rather than slave through it. His clothing was matted, stained and soaked through with perspiration. The remaining strands of hair clove to his balding scalp. The coin was lousy, the labour hard and the gratitude non-extant. Milton attempted to straighten his filthy shirt over his out-of-control girth. Pudgy fingers pulled, in a vain attempt to appear presentable as the young maidens walked by, their faces screwing up in disgust as they past.

Milton hated fairs. He had hated them as a child and he hated them now as a middle-aged worker. Something about all that pleasure at his personal expense gnawed at him. That is why he was behind a tent, leaning against a pole and filling his lungs with stress relieving poisons and chemicals. At every fair he wished that one child would injure themselves. If he was really lucky, perhaps the wound would be grievous. Light be praised if one of the insolent little pups happened to die. Every year Milton hoped and every year he was let down. Oh how he hated them. Many times he had fantasied about it. He would never have had the courage being ever the coward but his blackening teeth split into a grin at just the thought.

It was not until he heard the scream that Milton noticed the sun was not shedding it's customary light. The scream had split the air like a thunderclap and in his haste Milton had spilled tobacco down his trousers. This hardly mattered. Hopefully he would arrive too late and the child would be dead. The sight that greeted the evil coward was not as pleasing as he might have imagined. Through the dull grey illumination his mind recoiled at the impossibilities registered.

Vague silhouettes shambled across the fair grounds. Faster shadows wound in and out of stalls as impossible speeds. The screams of men, woman, children and animals alike pierced the chill air. Much of the scene Milton could not fathom, he could have sworn he saw a man explode into a torrent of rats: sworn he saw flags and ribbons snagging the unwary to suffocate the breath from their lips, or hinder them long enough for the silhouettes to fall upon them. A peel of lightning split the the clouds, that veil of mercy, filling the fair-ground with a sudden vivid clarity. The truth of things forced Milton's scream to add its pitch to the unholy harmony.

He hid within the tent, beneath a table, as evil descended upon them all. Milton was in a state of near catatonic shock. The dead walked. Impossible but he could hear them even now. The soft tapping of bone... the sound of soft, putrid decay dragging slowly over soil and earth. Flesh splitting like old paper, teeth grinding unrelentingly against bone. Several times he knew with certainty that blood was being smeared against the outside of the tent.

He shook uncontrollably, whimpering like a small and frightened child. Wreathed in darkness and cloaked in the tent's pitch. Blood dripped from his mouth, while he held back a cry, as he realised he was no longer alone. All hope of another person was short lived. A terrifying mockery of his own whimpers began to echo back at him: guttural and inhuman sobs. Reverberating through a hollow chest and long since decayed vocal cords. The choking cries ended abruptly and silence rushed to fill the vacuum.

Milton stiffened as he felt cold, fetid breath touch his cheek. Deep, rasping breaths sounded next to him. The blood in his veins froze and all colour drained from his face. There was a blinding flash of lightning, so close that it reached through the canvas walls. For one moment a deformed, face met his gaze. Piceous, malignant, eyes filled with the impotent fury of death. Veins played across sunken skin and bloodied teeth glinted as the rasping breath grew louder... and louder.

Darkness swallowed the scene, yet Milton remained paralysed by th lurid vision. A monstrous wail erupted from undead lips, so fierce and forceful that it shattered the paralysis of Milton's mind and left burst his eardrums. A small consolation... for no longer would he hear the sounds of feeding as black agony took him.

Milton fumed. His tobacco stained fingers worked in furious, furtive movements: stuffing his pipe and striking flint beneath the bowl, while he inhaled the rich smoke to dull the edge of his agitation. He glared with unbridled anger at fair-goers, those able to enjoy the heat, rather than slave through it. His clothing was matted, stained and soaked through with perspiration. The remaining strands of hair clove to his balding scalp. The coin was lousy, the labour hard and the gratitude non-extant. Milton attempted to straighten his filthy shirt over his out-of-control girth. Pudgy fingers pulled, in a vain attempt to appear presentable as the young maidens walked by, their faces screwing up in disgust as they past.

Milton hated fairs. He had hated them as a child and he hated them now as a middle-aged worker. Something about all that pleasure at his personal expense gnawed at him. That is why he was behind a tent, leaning against a pole and filling his lungs with stress relieving poisons and chemicals. At every fair he wished that one child would injure themselves. If he was really lucky, perhaps the wound would be grievous. Light be praised if one of the insolent little pups happened to die. Every year Milton hoped and every year he was let down. Oh how he hated them. Many times he had fantasied about it. He would never have had the courage being ever the coward but his blackening teeth split into a grin at just the thought.

It was not until he heard the scream that Milton noticed the sun was not shedding it's customary light. The scream had split the air like a thunderclap and in his haste Milton had spilled tobacco down his trousers. This hardly mattered. Hopefully he would arrive too late and the child would be dead. The sight that greeted the evil coward was not as pleasing as he might have imagined. Through the dull grey illumination his mind recoiled at the impossibilities registered.

Vague silhouettes shambled across the fair grounds. Faster shadows wound in and out of stalls as impossible speeds. The screams of men, woman, children and animals alike pierced the chill air. Much of the scene Milton could not fathom, he could have sworn he saw a man explode into a torrent of rats: sworn he saw flags and ribbons snagging the unwary to suffocate the breath from their lips, or hinder them long enough for the silhouettes to fall upon them. A peel of lightning split the the clouds, that veil of mercy, filling the fair-ground with a sudden vivid clarity. The truth of things forced Milton's scream to add its pitch to the unholy harmony.

He hid within the tent, beneath a table, as evil descended upon them all. Milton was in a state of near catatonic shock. The dead walked. Impossible but he could hear them even now. The soft tapping of bone... the sound of soft, putrid decay dragging slowly over soil and earth. Flesh splitting like old paper, teeth grinding unrelentingly against bone. Several times he knew with certainty that blood was being smeared against the outside of the tent.

He shook uncontrollably, whimpering like a small and frightened child. Wreathed in darkness and cloaked in the tent's pitch. Blood dripped from his mouth, while he held back a cry, as he realised he was no longer alone. All hope of another person was short lived. A terrifying mockery of his own whimpers began to echo back at him: guttural and inhuman sobs. Reverberating through a hollow chest and long since decayed vocal cords. The choking cries ended abruptly and silence rushed to fill the vacuum.

Milton stiffened as he felt cold, fetid breath touch his cheek. Deep, rasping breaths sounded next to him. The blood in his veins froze and all colour drained from his face. There was a blinding flash of lightning, so close that it reached through the canvas walls. For one moment a deformed, face met his gaze. Piceous, malignant, eyes filled with the impotent fury of death. Veins played across sunken skin and bloodied teeth glinted as the rasping breath grew louder... and louder.

Darkness swallowed the scene, yet Milton remained paralysed by th lurid vision. A monstrous wail erupted from undead lips, so fierce and forceful that it shattered the paralysis of Milton's mind and left burst his eardrums. A small consolation... for no longer would he hear the sounds of feeding as black agony took him.

Brandeis shifted his weight in saddle, his mount responded in a quick precise manner. Turning a full about-face, the Inquisitor and his chosen mode of transport trotted back toward the waiting Children. Con seemed in desperate need of time to himself and Brandeis was in no way prepared to hinder that. Con was comrade, kinsman and friend. The latter perhaps deserving prime position in the list.

To say that Brandeis had become disillusioned by the system would not have been a just claim. He had become disillusioned with his personal part in the greater glory of the light and its children. His conscience found no loophole or rationalisation for his crimes. In the end, the blood of guilty and innocents were on his hands. The fear and animus held against those of his order were well justified. Brandeis considered many of his own brethren to be monsters.

The mainstay of his childhood diet had been tenets. His adolescence spent with catechisms, apophthegms and adages. The very air he breathed was tainted and poisoned by the moral code of the children. His garden, his place of isolation and solitude had become a far too frequent retreat. Con had offered him a new corral from reality: friendship.

The two had never spoken of it and Brandeis hoped it would never come into play. Con Stavros had been a guard to the White Tower, the ink blot on the Light's domination. Brandeis had been responsible for the suffering and ultimate execution of various Aes Sedai. While not agreeing with the tactics, Brandeis hoped Con might at least understand his oath to duty.

The Inquisitor reached the remaining children. The highest ranking amongst them had the audacity to query the whereabouts of the mission's commander. In response, Brandeis narrowed his eyes an almost inperceptible degree but the act enjoined swift and silent obedience as he called his orders. Within moments they were mounted and heading back toward Con and the enigmatic female.

Riding at the head of the column, Brandeis displayed a genuine smile at the discomfort of his fellow Children. Life as an Inquisitor wasn't all bad.

Wash up and get the docks? Yes, master. Whatever you say, master. Come on! Braxton was tired. Tired, sweaty and with patience frayed enough to be a servicable whip cracker. He had long gotten over his nervousness toward the young horse, much to it's displeasure. Things were not all bad. While the scenery had changed, it was typical far work. All too familiar.

The one advantage turning horses out had over conventional stalls and stables was that mucking out had a certain appeal. Rather than peeling back old straw, removing any unwanted material and then laying down fresh, less soiled matting: one needed but a bucket and pail. The air was fresh, the grass was green and the overall activity had a relaxing quality. What he was doing now did not.

Propping his fork against the door of the stall, Braxton leaned comfortably against the flank of the young horse.

"You know, horse. I think you and I could become great friends if given the opportunity. No. No, don't look at me like that. I can and will find a rasp and file you lopsided for a month. Better. Now where was I? Ah. Right. You and I, champ? Friends forever. That's right. It's true.

"What you need is a good groom and I, if I may say so myself, am a pretty fair hand. I must leave for a time. Yess. I'll miss you too but don't worry horse, I'll be back to complete the job. It isn't that I'm afraid of Aes Sedai... strictly speaking it is just that I've heard some unpleasant tales and don't fancy life as a toad. I mean, have you ever seen one of those up close? Well. I'll be seeing you horse. Don't get up to too much bother without me. I don't need the complication."

On that note the young trainee left the stable with all haste to become a touch more respectable and far less aromatic for his visit to the docks. He just knew the package was to be a damn sight heavier than was explained to him. He could feel it.

Braxton was--to say the least--impressed. Having never seen a person wield a sword with proficiency it was a fascinating event. His grandfather had been capable with the weapon and yet the old fool had abandoned it for the stave. Braxton would be the first to admit that the stave was formidable but it could not catch the sunlight in that peculiar way, to flash silver in the sun's fire like a weapon of immortal sundering... well... at least that's how the book described it...

Sheath his sword... while looking at her? The chit was--oh... but her eyes were very--mad! There was no way he was going to... Braxton's internal tirade ceased as he tried to remember the last time he had seen lips that vibrant... Braxton's cheeks began to warm and his adolescent psychology came to the conclusion that a brash and impulsive action was the order of the day. If--and only if--he wished to impress his young mentor.

Now rash adolescent actions, especially when performed by males of the species are never truly successful. The one universal excuse for such failure has and always will be "it seemed like a good idea at the time." Braxton, having been in possessing a sword for the better part of an hour, flourished his sword about in what he hoped was an impressive arc. It wasn't, by any definition of the word but let's not deflate the young trainee. Barely managing to keep his grip on the weapon, Braxton sheathed the weapon with decisive force...

... Directly into his thigh.

The young trainees teeth flashed white as a grin spread across his face. Now there was an proposition worth entertaining. He had no inclination whatsoever to show off what he could and could *not* do with a whip. It was impolite. He would be more than oblinging in recieving some lessons though.

"Well. If you find me an adequate stockwhip, I will perform a show, but this--" he patted the whip handle lovingly--"this is not for show. It doesn't crack, nor does it perform. It was created as a means of defence only and I fear that any tricks I attempt will lack substance. I would humbled if you would teach me the sword, however. Perhaps I will showcase my farm talents at another time."

The inquisitor watched the exchange with an air of quiet menace. It was practiced; feigned. On the inside Brandeis was content and even rather enjoying himself. It wouldn't do for the "others" to become aware of is relishment at this change from his normal "duties." After all, he had a reputation and an image to maintain. He sat in a military saddle, staring ahead with polite disinterest.

I did not take long for him to realise something was amiss, at which point his Inquisitor instincts took over. The body spoke as often as the tongue and as most of his 'patients' were often in too much agony--or rendered incapable through other means--to speak, it was just as necessary to learn the lanaguage of their movements.

Brandeis preferred to keep his operations as simple and painless as possible. It took days, even weeks to break down a potential Dark Friend or spy. True, there were many of his fellow inquisitors who entertained such gruesome feats that their victims broke rapidly but it suited Brandeis to chip away slowly. To examine, cross-examine and then re-examine... and so it was that he ascertained nothing over and above the tension between the two. Now, had he both strapped down and given to his tender care...

He looked to Con, then to the woman at whom he was staring; back to Con.Curious. His companion had frozen. Seeming almost suspended in animation, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Brandeis speared the larger man with a hard look, his eyes narrowing slightly. It was an indisputable fact that six times out of ten the reciever of a stare will instinctively turn to meet their silent accuser. Not so this time. Brandeis was about clear his throat loudly when Con seemed to shake free of his torpor. Interesting

His interest became bemusement as Con tentatively gestured his wishes. Bemusement passed: back to curiousity. He held the reins and helm, his eyes searing into the woman's back as she and Con disappeared from sight. Most interesting!

Braxton eyed the horse. The horse eyed Braxton. Braxton moaned. The horse whickered in amusement. Wonderful things, horses. Capable of picking up the sublest forms of body language. This was unfortunate. There was a snowball's chance in the bore that the horse had yet to identify Braxton's nervousness. The added insentive of saddling the magnificent creature would have been a motivating one but for Braxton's logical fear of the damned thing.

He could hear her pawing at the earth: loud snorting breaths. He could almost picture the grass churning as hooves pelted the plain with a torturous rhythm. Instinctively he knew she would be waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

Braxton frowned at the memory. The horse had made his childhood somewhat unpleasant. That is to say that the young fillie had taken an instant shine to him, or at least her teeth had. It wasn't as though he was afraid of all horses. Only the ones that looked like that. What were the odds? Braxton fully intended to cater to the horse's every need... Providing this did not require him to part with any flesh, blood, or articles of clothing. With a torpid sigh and a jerk at each and every one of the horse's movements, Braxton began the slow and methodical mucking out process.

The young trainee shivered. It was not a chill morning by any standardisation of the word. Neither breeze nor rain stirred. The eye of the storm. The thought an exequial melody. As good a day as any to die. To comprehend this rather mordant train of thought, one must examine many facets of the trainee. Why does he head thither with faltering; lurid steps?

The answer is simple. Braxton was on his way to the Mistress of Trainees. The same mistress he had slapped in a vain effort to earn himself the rank of Tower Guard. In the end was revealed to havebeen but an entertaining prank pulled by a notorious Tower Guard. Aran. In an act of vengeful recompense, Braxton had attacked the man and met with a conclusive beating.

Aran had then proceeded to refuse to return Braxton's whip, forcing him to report his actions to his own mentor in order to have it returned to him. This he had done, after finding a marginal dose of courage in the bottom of a cup. Thus leading us all to this exact juncture in the pattern. Braxton, on his way to report to the Mistress of Trainees with a note from his mentor, preparing himself for whatever punishment was to be sent his way.

After knocking; secretly swearing he heard snatches of a song and then gaining admittance, Braxton shifted uncomfortably. The Mistress of Trainees was not pleased to find him in her presence, not that he could blame her. This latest quarrel was sure to do little to add brevity to her assessment. Her question was the thunderclap of doo: the death knell presiding over his own funerial mass.

"Excuse me... err.. sir, I mean ma'a--mistress!" Oh. Real smooth. "Umm... I umm... was sent by my mentor. I have been... instructed to give you this." Offering a weak; pale smile. Braxton handed over the letter from his Mentor.

Braxton gave a thinlipped smile. He could hear the beginnings of excess-libation creeping into the woman's tone. Soon would come the obnoxious phase, then the 'help-I-can't-find-my-nose'phase... the course would go down hill swiftly from that point. If the lass didn't slow down, it wasn't going to be pretty and Braxton didn't really want to be around for any ensuing eruptions of the stomach order.

"My name is Braxton, lady and while it has been a pleasure to meet you--even under these peculiar circumstances--I must take my leave." He turned to Aran, "I trust you will keep my weapon in safe-keeping until I am able to return for it. I apologise for my rash actions, you have beaten me fairly. At a disadvantage, to be true."

With that he bowed a courteous, if stiff, bow and walked brisquely from the room. He had lessons to contend with and a mentor to front up to.

Braxton found this all very strange. He was grateful for it. Aran could have done much worse than a simple beating. While that chivalrous and fantastical hero within him burned with opprobium the rest sighed with relief. Now he was faced with the obstacle of retrieving his whip... that was unfortunate. Discretion is the better part of valour, so they said and he doubted the advisidness of confronting his mentor with the previous actions. It would end... badly.

There was only one thing to do and that was accept the offered cup and drink from it. It was potent enough but nothing compared to the homemade batches his Grandfather created. Admittedly, while he could swallow the stuff he still had alow threshold for the debiliting alcoholic after-shock and the brew his Grandfather concocted was used to remove deep-seeded stains and burn away proudflesh on injured horses. You would perhaps manage half a glass before you went completely blind and your centre of gravity became several feet beneath the earth's crust.

"Here's to a magnificent lecture I am soon to recieve. My back burns with anticipation!" He drained the remainder of his cup. The courage would be needed.

"About myself?" Hesitation. "I come from a cattle-farm a few days ride from Tar Valon. To tell the truth I haven't been here all that often, once or twice that I can remember and never by myself. It is much different. To be here alone. It is larger than I recall. More complicated and complex but thus does the world appear without the ornery minioning of my grandfather.

"He is the reason I am here. I would have been here sooner but for my mother and her worries. Were it her choice alone I'd never have left the milking sheds. She does what she thinks is best. Often they turn out to be dead wrong from my perspective but she does what she does out of motherly protectiveness. Thankfully that hasn't urged her to abandon her senses completely.

"My father was a Tower Guard, you see, as was his father before him. My father died in service, a noble death by all accounts but not the stuff of legend. My mother forbade me to follow in his footsteps. A command that held sway until recently. Finally she relented and here I stand. You might say it's in my blood.

"I made this whip with my grandfather, a parting gift you might say. For his sake I'd better not return a failure, he's an old man but I swear he's as spry as a yearling colt in a field full of mares. He has this stick... well that really isn't important but there is little else to tell. I came here to make a future, not to perpetuate the past."

Now being kicked in either of the shins is a painful prospect from the onset. Second only to being kicked in either of another set of twins. Add on top of that the spiralling collision between shin and stockwhip handle and you have what I like to call a brief contemplative pause giving all due consideration to the level of pain being experienced by Braxton at this moment in time. Females often brag a higher threshold for pay. This is not a strict truth, were Braxton a lesser man he would have cried right there.

Various options entered his head at ground zero--the point of impact. First: he could beat the female over the head with a log while she wasn't looking. While it would be entertaining and gratifying in the short term he doubted the out and out repercussions of act would be so pleasure inducing. The other options were not nearly as worthy of note. They expressed the other spectrums on the rainbow of collective possibility. For instance; screaming like a girl, clutching shin and jumping up and down on one foot or biting his lip and turning an incredulous stare on the fiesty wee wench.

Let's go with option C. Braxton was at a loss for words. He had, lost a duel with an enemy, then helped that enemy depose another assailant who then in turn kicked Braxton in the shin. What is the normal procedure for a situation like this? He could always invite them back to his dormitory for some scones and tea. Capital!

"So... I err... I'm going to be needing my whip back."Awkward Smile.

The Mudfoot was--at that very moment--staring at the conflagaration with an unhinged jaw, as it were. After much huffing; puffing, grunting and groaning he had finally managed to stand after the horrific and rather odd beating he had just recieved. His body ached and he was pretty sure there was going to be a large bruise where the handle of his own whip had struck him. That was ironic. Ironic and embarrassing.

Braxton had lost... not formerly as such but he would have. He should have. The laws of honourable combat stated with emphasis that a vanquished warrior must meet his fate with aplomb--and only if he could manage it--some honey tea and marmalade sandwhiches. There was no honour to be had in a loss but a loss was clear-cut preferrable to the shame of another coming to his aid and distorting the predestined outcome of the battle.

Why, he had a good mind to... nothing. Actually. All of his weapons seemed to have vanished. He was also very sore and was quite adament in his belief that there was a boot print squarely on his... assuming that the culprit was a boot and not one of the many other limbs or whatever else had been within easy reach to beat him with.

It was an interesting conundrum and had he the time, Braxton might have spent many entertaining hours pondering the many answers to the riddle. He felt though, that some form of reaction was called for. Prudent, even. He also considered some form of response rather expected and necessary under the circumstances. Very well! Respond I shall!

Honour and chivalry governing his actions, Braxton performed the only act allowable without disgracing himself further. Grasping one of the woman's ankles in each hand he began prying the death grip lose. Now Braxton had been required to perform many such operations as a farmer. Flipping steers, aiding in the difficult birthings that often occurred--that sort of caper. Despite this he find himself hard pressed to dislodge the stubborn woman from her perch.

"Light and table cloths!" He swore. Or at least Braxon considerd it cursing... to most other people it was to cursing what attacking a grizzly bear with a yoyo was to big game hunting. Still he found himself feeling guilty over his indescretion and muttered a quick apology. There was, after all, a lady present... and what was going on with all the cream!

Braxton and Aran between them managed to pry the fiery woman loose. Braxton holding her ankles, Aran her wrists. In a fair imitation of an alligator's death roll she was doing her best to twist free. Having seen what she had done to the man who had humiliated him in "battle", Braxton had no true inclination to render her freedom.

Meeting Aran's gaze, Braxton grinned in spite of his own ethos. The two of them began a crab-like walk, the lass stretched out between them. Resigning himself to his own complicity in the act, while secretely enjoying it nonetheless, the trainee and the Tower Guard dumped their fuming passenger into a pond.

Yes! Braxton lurched forward, short sword flying out of it's sheath wildly. The sword whistled shrilly, humming through the air with an insensate melody... only to miss. Braxton reversed the stroke, aiming true once again. Miss. Braxton cocked his head slightly to one side, then grasped his shortsword in the other hand, whipping out with the blade once more. Miss.

Aran did not seem alarmed in the least and that was perhaps the most infuriating aspect of this entire ordeal. He moved in a queer waving motion. Reminiscient of the ocean the young trainee had read about. It almost churned his stomach just watching.

"You're drunk, aren't you?" He cried in exhasperation, "take this seriously, would you!" Enunciating his words with a punctuating sword stroke that once again missed. This wasn't going nearly as well as Braxton had hoped. It was, in fact, going much, much worse.

The young trainee was quickly sweating. He had thrown every sword combination in his reportaire at the drunkard and his blade had whistled to a miss each and every time. It was as if the pickled fighter was aware of moves before he was! Switching the short sword to his right hand, Braxton unsheathed his dagger with his left. Hoping that two weapons would meet with better success--.

--Two weapons did not. The Tower Guard had yet to even defend himself, let alone offend.

"Stand still, will you!" He was, of course, totally caught off guard when the Tower Guard did stop. Dead in his tracks. Braxton squawked like a flustered parrot and fell backwards. Using his short sword as leverage he pulled himself to his feet. Holding up his finger in the universal, "one moment" sign, he bent double, sucking in huge amounts of air. He couldn't remember the last time he was so tired. His arms had grown in both proportions and weight, it seemed and he could barely lift them. His feet protested in rather gruff tones and began refusing to support his steps.

Out of tricks and out of energy, Braxton tried to think of something that would, while not turn the hopeless cause--yes. He realised by this point that there was no way in The Blight that he was going to be "victorious"--into victory, might at least redeem some small portion of his self-esteem.

The swift, fierce glint in his eyes stated blatantly that he had thought of something. With a not so practiced ease he threw his dagger at the tower guard, well off the mark and his hand disappeared behind his back, re-emerging with a dark, spiralling mass that slithered toward the Tower Guard like a rapidly uncoiling viper. The end of the thong; the fall and the cracker locked tight around Aran's feet. There was a brief lull as Braxton pulled hard on the whip and Aran's legs were ripped out from under him.

Braxton blinked a few times, mouth agape. He had not expected that to work.

"I say, Man! Important business, this! What's wrong with you, you, you scallywag!" Braxton frowned. This is not how it worked in the stories there was no crowd, no atmosphere and no willing participant! This had definitely not been the expected response and he was pretty darn miffed. No. Not really.

Pacing backward and forth for a time he observed his surroundings and considered the next logical approach. He would throw rocks, but none were available. The most he could summon would be grass and he doubted he could sustain momentum enough to have them reach the sleeping Tower Guard.

"Sir? Sir! Excuse me sir. Wake up! You, you unprincipled child! Wake up, I say!" At his wit's end, Braxton jumped up and down crying oaths and imprecations like, "sour sow", and "inadequate milker."

For the briefest of brief moments Braxton considered giving up his quest for vindication but it was conincidentally at that moment when he spotted the salvager of the situation. A long branch, fallen not too far from the tree. Grinning, the young trainee scooped it up and started prodding Aran. Prod. Prod. Prod.

Braxton hummed a war song as he strolled. Short sword and dagger sheathed; whip hidden firmly beneath his tunic. He felt good. Better than good. He felt great. His thick clumsy farmer’s body had slimmed; was becoming harder. It was one thing to cart water and mend fences, it was another to run until even the smallest of stomach contents could not avoid being expelled. Life as a Trainee was hard. No harder than his former life, just different and it would take some time before he was properly accustomed to those differences.

Quitting had yet to enter his head, there was always his grandfather and ever-threatening stave protectively corralling such thoughts. Progress had been slow and his mentor had a fiery temper but Braxton took it all in stride. This was the life he had longed for, for so many years. He was not going to begin complaining now. The sound of triumphant celebration played in the recesses of his mind.

Today, however, he was setting out to regain lost honour and defeat his nemesis, Aran, in mortal combat. Well, that was the plan. Braxton knew were Aran was currently to be located and was making steady progress toward that position. All the while he wrestled with a moral dilemma. Did he slap Aran with the glove before declaring a duel? Or did he just throw the glove?—Decisions, decisions. He had heard some rather alarming things about the man’s prowess with the drink; very little as to his abilities in battle and was loathe giving him even the slightest advantage.

Still. Reckoning was at hand! Especially now, as he had already reached the tree and his target whom lazed beneath it with no clue that his doom was almost upon him. Braxton scratched his chin contemplating which deliciously poetic line he would use to call his soon-to-be-opponent out. Frowning at the lack of response, he balled the glove up inside his fist and sent it hurtling toward Aran’s face.

“You Sir! I challenge you to a duel!â€

Several things struck Braxton at once. The first was the physical nature of his mentor, the second was that he recognized most of these weapons from his many stories and could attribute most to one hero or another.

Glendermid, for instance, wielded the spear of Ephraim in a titanic clash against a great and powerful Dread Lord. Ephraim, of course, was a broken Dread Lord who sought redemption and the light. The final act of his life proved to be the echantment of the spear, into which he imparted all of his being, including his dying breath as he was struck down by assassins.

The infamous pirate captain Gordon Bleu wielded dual scimitars in his many voyages plundering coastal villages and sinking enemy vessels. He met a gruesome and fitting end at the point of a Sea Folk first mate's sword.

On and on it went until Braxton came upon a weapon, one weapon he could not assign to any of his childhood heroes. A humble, simple, shortsword.

This is the one! He told himself firmly, with this I shall leave my legacy. He also selected a small rudimentary dagger.

As for his third choice, or to be precise, his second. Braxton reached behind him into a cleverly concealed sheath and drew forth the whip he had lovingly crafted with his grandfather. A grandfather who, despite his rough nature, Braxton missed terribly.

"I choose these three." He stated, sounding more certain than he felt. He was finding it increasingly difficult to find his voice around his mentor, who by all accounts was very pretty.

His childhood stories were filled with them. The type of woman a mother tells her son to stay away from. Braxton's grandfather had been much more frank in his warnings. He had told his grandson that it was great while the flame lasted, but when one wanted out, it was difficult to extract oneself from the situation. There were always the small parts of the anatomy that had been severed and were carried around by said strumpet in a purse. Getting those back was almost impossible.

Braxton winced, his eyes straying to the figure of his mentor, just to see if he could find one.