Jeral found himself giggling as he stormed out of the tent, followed closely by the new-comer – and a flying projectile of some description. Sarge really is getting moody with age, he thought as he straightened his jacket and looked from the tent to the new recruit.
“Well, we’d better go and find you something,” he said, hefting his unstrung longbow across the small of his back and leading the two of them towards the quartermaster’s building.
“Name’s Jeral, as the old bear said. I’m one of the Band’s scouts.”
     They walked for a few minutes, passing the Citadel’s grounds and through its busy intersections. The Citadel really shouldn’t be seen simply as a military fortress these days; it was essentially a self-sufficient city, equipped with a blacksmith, tanner, mill and the means to grow its own food. Not forgetting to mention the sizable garrison always on alert that could withstand just about anything, apart from the most determined of armies.  
Jeral waved in greeting to a few familiar faces as he passed them. Arkin giving them a toothy grin as he approached the Tavern, his tankard already half empty. At three in the afternoon? The man must be off duty today. Calder would usually peel the skin off of anyone’s back – high, or low ranked – if they were caught drinking on the job.   
     After passing a few more corners, all of which was done in silence as the recruit gave no opening for Jeral to start anything resembling a conversation. They arrived at the Quartermaster’s yard.
“We’re here.” He said as they reached the stout wooden door marking the entrance. It was a separate building, out and divided from the rest of the Citadel infrastructure by a flattened courtyard used for weapon drills.
The quartermaster did not appear to be in at the moment, and Jeral hoped for the man’s own sake, that he hadn’t decided to join Arkin for some early entertainment.
The recruit on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind. The Tairen walked towards the weapon rack which the quartermaster had left out for the evening, and picked up a dagger.
     Jeral coughed, clearing his throat as the recruit weighed the weapon, testing its balance and juggling it in one hand experimentally.
“Take it you’re into daggers then.” He said, trying yet again to start a conversation. His own hunting knife sat comfortably in a loop on the left side of his belt. The slightly curved weapon was the perfect length and weight for him; not too long, and not too short. Enough to block a bastard sword, and quick enough to get under an enemy’s guard. Though in truth, Jeral usually preferred to pepper an enemy full of arrows first; nine-times-out-of-ten it worked.  Much easier to finish off a foe who resembled a hedgehog, rather than one that didn’t.
     The Tairen recruit also carried a bow of his own, though its draw-weight couldn’t have been more than forty pounds. Considerably less than any war bow Jeral and the other archers used. A hunting bow then. The boy turned, green eyes sparkling into a mischievous grin.
“Nice stuff you have over here.”
Jeral paused, closely studying the figure.
Ha.
     “Wouldn’t recommend one of the poleaxes. You wouldn’t be able to swing it, even if you were able to pick one up.”
He wasn’t really listening to his own conversation at that moment. The words flowing from his mouth was a practised distraction used to keep up the appearance of being engaged.
Well that explains it, he thought, as he looked at the boy ­– no wait – Girl, as she return to the rack and began testing the strings on a horse bow.  
The disguise had been convincing – too convincing. The trouser, tied hair and the waist length coat had all fooled to the illusion of an underdeveloped boy. Of course, as soon as she had opened her mouth, the game was all but out. The voice had been too obviously lowered, the tone distinctly feminine. Jeral was good at detecting lies – though he had not been expecting to use his talents for this purpose.
     She – the Tarien recruit, looked up after a few moments, and Jeral realised he had stopped talking; his stock packaged conversation having run out. Well balls, now she’s going to suspect that I know something.
He gave her a disarming smile. None of my flaming business if a woman wants in on the Band, his mind frantically raced. That flaming sore-toothed sow must have known this from the beginning! Set me right up, that old accursed fool!
     “Anyway…” he continued, breaking the tense silence and saying the first things that came to his mind. “I like your hair.”
RAT BRAINED IDIOT. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

~ Jeral Ahan
Scout in the Band of the Red Hand 

If you're still having trouble, i can post some direct links to help you out. On my phone atm, so not gonna do that yet.

Edward eyed the dagger which was stuck quivering in one of his wooden filing cabinets. Blast it! Why did everyone do that? That was precisely what Eb had done when she was last in his tent. Women, he thought moodily, turning his attention back to the face of the raw recruit.
   “Impressive…” he growled, making sure to get just the right amount of sarcasm into his words. “But don’t ever do that again. Cause next time… that’s coming straight out of your salary.”
He lounged back into his chair, which in all its capacity, really wasn’t designed for the purpose. Another orphan, his mind mulled over the factors. Or at least, the lad claims to be. Edward still wasn’t quite sure if the boy was telling the truth or not. But in any case, despite the frankly appalling show of bravado – not to mention the damaged cabinet – Edward knew he couldn’t turn this one away. The Band rarely turned away people in desperate need.
   “You claim you can fight,” It wasn’t a question. “But I don’t believe you.” The words that flowed from his mouth were familiar to him. He had said them countless times before, to each and every patch of new recruits. Not all drill sergeants were born naturally mean; some like Edward, simply did it to keep up appearances.  If all the boot camp stories were true, Edward reckoned there wouldn’t be enough mental asylum patients to fill the drill sergeant quota.   
   “But since I’m too darn lazy to even bother with the likes of you,” he continued. “I’m just going to have someone else deal with it.” Cocking his head to the side, he bellowed as loud as he could.
   “Jeral! Private Jeral!” After a moment of silence, he yelled that much louder.
   “Bear bait!” He finally tried. “Get your flaming boots in this tent this instant, or else…” he cut off as the entrance flaps threw themselves open to admit a scrawny teenager with jet black hair and coloured Tairen skin.
     “What is it sore-tooth?” the youth grinned as he walked in. “Want me to fetch you another hot water bag for your bed?”
Edward felt his left eye twitch involuntarily as he glared at the scrawny faced soldier.  
   “I’m not that old,” he snapped. “And stop using that name.”  One day, he promised, he’d find the idiot that had popularised that nickname.   
   “Whatever you say, Pops.” The boy returned with a broad smile. Insufferable teenagers.  
His mind churned as he glared first at the youth, then at the recurve longbow he carried to his side like a quarterstaff. Scouts. He huffed, then cleared his throat.
He gestured towards the other seated figure, who seemed to examine the spindly youth with the same look of distrust he had shown Edward earlier.
   “Bear-bait, meet the new kid. New kid,” he said. “Meet privat-”
   “That’s corporal to you. Sir...” Interrupted Jeral, at the most exasperating of moments.  The aged Sergeant rolled his eyes.
   “Yes,” he chewed his words, “I almost forgot. Who’d you bribe anyway?”
The scout only smiled.
   “You’re to take the new kid around, and get him equipped with something other than…” he trailed off, giving Jeral the chance to notice the dagger still stuck to the filing cabinet.
   “Right.” The scout paused, “We’ll go see the quartermaster in a bit. Come, New Kid.” He mimicked Edward’s deep growl. “I’ll have your hide if you don’t double time yourself out of this stinking pit of misery and decay!” The two of them quickly stormed out, but not before Edward had a chance to throw a few choice insults.
   Stinking youths, he thought as he sank back down into his seat. Was it too early to be seen drinking? He shrugged, deciding a quiet evening with his pipe was probably more preferable. If only he could figure out where he had placed his matches.

~ Edward Fawn
Infantry Sergeant in the Band of the Red Hand

   “A moment, please… Accepted,” came the voice of a familiar Novice as a young women timidly rimmed the plate she held in her hand. Ellisha rolled her eyes and sighed, putting down the book she had been reading to look over at the initiate.
    “What is it this time Kareena,” she gave the woman a flat stare and her lips drew to an even flatter line as she listened to the Novice explain her problem.
   “The chimney, Accepted, I think it’s… it’s… ”
   “Oh for heaven’s sake, girl. Split it out.” Ellisha was getting rather annoyed with her current assignment. Now she knew why so many Accepted moaned about having to take over supervision of the Novices. The Mistress of the Kitchen was out of the Tower today, for light knows what business that woman had out of the Tower, and so an Accepted had to be taken away from her busy schedule to go watch the Novices – to make sure they don’t accidently kill themselves. It wasn’t really physically demanding, but it sure as hell was boring.
Daes Dae’mar for Dummies lay propped open on her lap, and that had only helped mediate her boredom.
     The Novices, who was still standing in front of her – face a mask of red concentration, took a deep breath, letting her chest fill up with oxygen as if readying to jump in front of an Ox cart, then yelled, as loud as she could; “THE CHIMNEY HAS BEEN FILLED WITH CHARCOAL, ACCEPTED. CAN ACCEPTED PLEASE COME HELP US UNCLOG THE CHIMNEY.”
The Novice let everything out of her in one gigantic whoosh of air and volume, making Ellisha nearly jump out of her seat in fright. Decorum was quickly restored, but not before a frantic few seconds of scrambling back on to her seat.
   “Badger’s foot, Woman! Could you have said that any louder?”
     The Novice took another deep breath, as if intending to take up on Ellisha’s challenge, forcing the brown haired Accepted to climb to her feet and put a hand on the girl’s mouth.  
    “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point! I’m coming now, light preserve.”
Dumping the book on the bench beside her, she noticed a small gathering of white clad Novices and stomped towards them.  
    “Right then, who’s the idiot that got the flaming chimney clogged?” She glared and some of the Novices who had gathered in a ring to watch, quickly parted ways for her.
   “Oh really, that’s just flaming fantastic.”
She glared at the form of a young woman who wore what used to resemble a Novice’s dress.
   “An explanation, if you please. And it better be a good one.”

~ Ellisha Falwein
Accepted of the White Tower

Edward let out a huff. Old man indeed, he was barely. He did a quick count with his fingers, forty-nine. There’s still…  
   “I am Fang,” said Fang trying to pull off a nonchalant grin with his scowl. The youth was obviously trying to impress him, though at the moment, that was proving unsuccessful. “Mhmm...” The Veteran Sergeant nodded absently to the youth’s response, adjusting his cap to one side.
   “And just exactly why, do you think, I should allow you into the Band?”
Fang hesitated. It always appeared he was on the edge of answering, but always, the boy had to think before he gave his response.
He’s hiding something.
Again, that wasn’t unusual. People who sought out mercenary bands usually had something to hide. Or were hiding from. Which in Edward’s case was… but that was a long time ago.
    “I’m not anyone,” the youth blurted out, which prompted a raised eyebrow from Edward. This one had a particular strangeness about him. Indeed it provoked a few quite unpleasant memories from the aged footman. The stabby, dual short sword to the chest kind, in particular. Yes, why was he suddenly thinking about Captain Eb of all people? The female officer and Edward had rarely gotten along, even after they had been forced to make amends with one another following the slight… Misunderstanding.
   “I can fight.”
   “I’m sure you can, lad.”
   “I have injured a couple of men already. Some badly…”
Oh dear. We have a wild one. Edward gave the newcomer a sidelong look. Why did everyone in the world think the Band was only looking for Cut-throats and murders? He’s had to sort through more than one resume which looked more like a butcher’s list, than a job application. This kid, at least he must be pretending.
     Despite all his external hardness, despite the tough looks and menacing scowls, there was something decidedly insecure about this one. The provocative tone, the agitated air. This one probably had a rough time getting here. Edward wasn’t a particularly harsh person; which meant he didn’t particularly enjoy tormenting for the sake of it.   
   “Come over to my tent,” he said as the first of the wagons rolled through the front entrance, “Whatever comes, we’ll at least see you fed. Rodrigo!” He called out to one of the kitchen hands, which he knew by sight, as the two of them stepped through to the Citadel proper. “Get this lad a cup of broth. Come,” he gestured to the youth, “my tent, now.” Hefting his spear over one shoulder, he walked with the youth towards the familiar sight of his quarters, near the outskirt of the third battalion’s staging area.
     The tent was much as he had left it. The supply run usually lasted for only a day, sometimes two, depending on the condition of the road. Setting down his helm and laying his weapon in one corner, he turned and began lighting a stand lamp that was sitting on top of his fold up desk. After a minute of him working the flint, the lamp finally caught and illuminated the dim interior with a flickering orange light.
“Now,” he continued, fishing through for the Tobac pouch which he had stashed in one of his drawers. “We got your name, but you haven’t answered my questions. Why do you want to join the Band?”
     At that moment the broth which Edward had ordered arrived in the form of two wooden bowls, steaming with the peppered scent of mushroom in the air.
   “Thought you’d like one too,” the cook pushed aside the tent flaps and entered.
   “Yes, just leave it on the table.” He said absently, as he finally located the pouch he had been looking for.   
     Edward hadn’t realised up till that point how peckish he felt. Picking up one of the bowls he began blowing on the surface of the creamy liquid to cool it.
The newcomer didn’t touch his, though Edward noticed the all too familiar look of hunger cross those dark emerald eyes. Who has Emerald eyes anyway?
Taking a tentative slurp, he settled the bowl down to his lap, then began rummaging for his papers.
   “Right. Shall we start with how you came here?”

 ~ Edward Fawn
Infantry Sergeant in the Band of the Red Hand

Heyo! Congrats on the promotion.

Glad those bribes finally paid off, aye?

OCC: Hope you, or anyone else, don't mind if I use Edward to help our new friend. Since he's our new NSW I'd reckon he'd be pretty suited to welcoming new recruits.

   “Hey Danny, what day is it?”
   “Why do you need to know the bloody date?”
   “Not the bloody date, you stupid, the day! Is it Monday, or is it Tuesday?”
   “It’ll be a day for latrine duty for both of you, if you don’t shut up and keep your heads on a swivel,” Edward snapped. The two spearman assigned as part of the escort detail fell instantly silent as he gave them both a sideways scowl. The day had passed its zenith and Edward Fawn was in no mood for any more footslogger tomfoolery. He usually let it wash over him in camp, but after a day of walking and trekking, the two had picked a bad time to start yabbering. The spearmen slunk back to the rear, and Edward saw by the looks on their faces, that they won’t be talking for a while. At least, not yet – not when he was still within earshot.
He needed his Kaff, his warm tent office, his bed. He was getting too old for this.  
    Well you’re the one that still insists on volunteering for this, a voice whispered quietly in the back of his head.  It was true. Edward had asked to be part of the escort that accompanied the supply wagon to the citadel. And for every other week – ever since he found himself waking up at One O’clock in the afternoon. He definitely wasn’t what he used to be. The years had just sort of… crept up on him. One day, he remember he could still throw a spear a good thirty metres, the next he’d feel hung over from just a single mug of ale. The wiry sergeant shook his head as he adjusted his footman’s cap. A part of him knew it was probably high time for retirement, but another just simply refused to die. Next week, Edward would probably be standing in the same spot again – at the front of the citadel supply wagon.
     He raised his head and noticed a figure walking with his back turned towards the advancing column. A youth by the looks of it, with a grey cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Another to join the Band, probably. Young men, and sometimes to Edward’s shock – women, flocked to join the Band of the Red Hand. For whatever their reason – glory, wealth, freedom to do as they pleased, all facets of material appear on the other side of his office desk. Edward was the one who was supposed to sort through the influx of new recruits and pick out the ones that will eventually get accepted. A Human Resource person of some kind. He sighed audibly. He had grown to hate his current position. Why couldn’t one of the bloody Officers do it? He sighed once more. Might as well get this one dealt with first, he thought as the wagons, along with himself, trundled over. It might as well be on the way, rather than having to waste time in his office.
   “Ahoy stranger!” he called, and the youth, apparently having been oblivious to the rumbling of the wagons, turned to find the source of the cry. “Be headed to find the Band, I presume?” After a moment, where the youth simply seemed to study them, he nodded.  “Well then you’d better tag along; got some questions I need to ask you first. And yes, we are part of the Band, if you were wondering.” He added the last part when he saw suspicion flash across the youth’s eyes. Green eyes. That’s unusual. His skin was tanned, and the accent to which he spoke hinted of Tear.
    “Shall we start with your name?” He waved the rest of the supply column forward, as he and the youth tagged along near the rear. The two Spearman, he also didn’t fail to notice, promptly relocated to the front. He’d have a word with those two when he got back.
   “Now…Chin up lad, and stop skulking. This is after all an interview. What, you didn’t think we’d just accept anyone here did you?”

~ Edward Fawn
Infantry Sergeant in the Band of the Red Hand

So anyway, I've done the Bio. It was a lot harder than anticipated, mostly cause I'm trying to get out of writing expositions these days.

I've sent it to your mail box Quibs, and you can look over it at your own time. Again, sorry for the delay.

Nope, appears not. Elgee doesn't seem to be around. She was the previous Red.

Oh, did you used to be head of the Blues? Will you soon be my boss? :P

Hi Car'en. Ooo a fellow Blue! Shiny!

Anyway,

WELCOME BACK!

I'm Sherper. Your residential, newly raised, nutjob.

hope to see your bio soon!

Wait, our Biochecker ran off...

Kaaaathhhleeeeeeeeennn!!!!

'tis,definitely.

Cocaine. Cocaine muffins are the best.

thanks Lor. Just posted it. Hope that about covers it.

Weaves of fire, Heart of Stone

The dining hall was nearly full when Ellisha finally decided to go down and have breakfast. A few Novices curtsied as she passed, but were only given the slightest gesture of acknowledgement from her. She wore her usual white dress today, the one with seven stripes of colour around the hem. With eyes of emerald green and hair an earthly brown, Ellisha Falwein - now a woman of thirty-four - glided through the centre of the main hall to where the other Accepteds sat eating. 
     A few faces turned as she passed, evidently weary of her presence among them. Despite the best efforts by the Mistress of Novices to keep the news quiet, it seems, somehow, word of Aril Corland's death had still managed to leak through to the larger cohort. Ellisha had never made many friends in her life. In the beginning, she had always preferred solitude to companionship.
     Of course, that had all changed when Aril had entered the Tower.
Two years had passed since the mysterious disappearance of Aril Corland. Apparently, the Accepted had taken a horse and fled from the grounds, bound for her home village in Cairhien. Homesick, that was what everyone assumed her motives were, and it was also what everyone believed had eventually led to her death. Ellisha knew otherwise. Her friend's tragic demise had not come about because of mere fate. Aril had not been homesick – No, she had been hunting Darkfriends.
     Ellisha slowly took a seat next to an empty section of the long rectangular table. The two Accepteds sitting beside her did not move or react as she settled down, which provided the tiniest flicker of a smile from her.  They’re too well trained for that.
     Women of the Tower were infamous for their lack of facial expressions; it was practically their bread and butter on the path to becoming Aes Sedai. Yet, even for those with years of experience and training, subtle hints still occasionally cracks through the masks of indifference. Hints like the flick of an eye, the unconscious straitening of one’s sleave, all bespoke a message. And at that moment, that message said that Ellisha Falwein was – for the second time in her life – being ostracised from her peers. Not that she really bothered herself with what the others thought.  It had almost been too easy to go back to not caring anymore.

She stuck a spoon in her porridge and was about to swallow her first mouthful when the doors to the Great Hall swung open in dramatic fashion. In stepped a woman who Ellisha instantly recognised as Valeri Sedai – Mistress of Novices. The woman glided in, then scanned the long line of faces until they came to rest on Ellisha. The brown haired Accepted disconnected her outward appearance from her inward emotions – a useful trick, and one of many she’s learnt over the years. It was done out of necessity for as of that moment, her entire being felt the impalpable urge to embrace Saidar and scream to lash out at the woman. She held her thoughts back as Valeri began to speak. Ellisha had firm reasons to believe the Mistress of Novices was part of the group responsible for Aril’s death.  
   “Ellisha Falwein” the woman spoke in a loud voice, as if to make sure everyone in the hall could hear. "You are summoned to be tested for the shawl of an Aes Sedai." The hall fell silent, and all eyes turned towards Valeri and Ellisha.
   “The Light keep you whole and see you safe.” The woman then turned back towards the door as if to leave, and Ellisha stood from her place to join her by her side. She had prepared for this moment, though it seems to have come sooner than she would have otherwise anticipated. Ellisha was thirty-four, and had spent eighteen years living in the Tower as an acolyte – still a child by Aes Sedai standards. She caught up with the woman a few paces out from the entrance to the dining hall and the two of them walked towards the flight of stairs that led to the lower parts of the Tower.
     The Mistress of Novices led her towards a few rarely used corridors then headed for a spiralling set of staircase. Down towards the bowels of the Tower they went, which was fitting, as that was exactly where Ellisha’s feelings were plummeting. This would be a perfect opportunity for her to kill me, she thought as she followed the woman of her suspicions. She dismissed the notion almost as soon as she had it however. She announced it to the whole hall. Surely there will be questions asked if I never turned up to the testing. Unless... 
     Unless of course, if the Aes Sedai waiting for her were all of the Black Ajah. Some of the Accepted never return when they were called in to be tested. Similar to the test for a Novice, there was a certain chance she would disappear or be killed during the initiation process. They could claim it was one of those, and dispose of her accordingly. 
     Was it possible? Is this entire Tower a nest infested by Darkfriends? 
Out of all the things she knew of the Darkfriend Ajah's existence, she still wasn't certain how many of the Sisters were corrupt and had switched sides.

They continued deeper – deeper still than she had ever gone before. Ellisha estimated they were lower even than the time she had been forced to walk through the Three Arches. The two of them didn't speak to one another for the entirety of the trip. It was custom not to talk before they reached the testing grounds. Wall hung lamps lit an eerie staircase, throwing fitful shadows of themselves against the wall like companionable ghosts. Ellisha kept her face straight and her emotions steady as she made the descent; another part of custom was to maintain an outward semblance of calm at all times. 
     The staircase seemed to stretch on and on, growing wider as they travelled deeper. Finally, after what seemed an absolute eternity, Valeri halted before a pair of iron doors. The corridors here were free of dust and the ceiling seemed to disappear into the darkness above. Ellisha paused beside the Mistress of Novices, then nearly jumped as she felt the woman embrace Saidar. She stopped herself from doing the same just in time to see the woman channel a small flow of air to open the pair of doors. 
     Calm yourself, woman, she chided herself as she rearranged her mask.  You can't lose it now. She had to become Aes Sedai if she wanted to fight Aes Sedai. The doors swung open slowly, sliding without a sound on oiled hinges as it revealed the chamber inside. 
     Ellisha stepped forward, just slightly behind Valeri and looked up at the majestic dome that loomed above her. The room was huge. It was an expansive circular affair, with stand lamps covering the perimeter and reflecting lights off the white shone walls. It was also very bright – a shocking contrast to the shadow lit corridors she just walked across. 
     At the very centre of the room – directly below the dome, lay the Ter'angreal. Ellisha instantly knew it was an object of the One Power as it changed colour with each blink of the eye. Now it was blue, now green. It was a large ring; oval shaped and lay completely unsupported – floating a few inches off the ground. The centre radiated light which seemed to warp and distort the air around it. 

Valeri took a step forward, away from where Ellisha was standing.
   "Attend." The Mistress of Novices said in a clear crisp voice that travelled then echoed the length of the large domed chamber. Seven figures walked forward, and Ellisha noticed all were wearing their colour fringed shawls. One from each Ajah, she saw and watched as the Aes Sedais gather in a ring around her. Very little was told to an Accepted about the actual testing process apart from maintaining control at all times. She stood tall and erect, keeping her back straight and her chin raised as she waited for the next phase of the ritual. 
     Valeri turned to face her; the woman's face a perfect example of emotionless Aes Sedai serenity. Ellisha kept her mouth shut and maintained her own mask of composure. It took an effort and at times, it felt as if even that was too much to manage.

   “You come in ignorance, Ellisha Falwein. How would you depart?” The Mistress of Novices spoke the ritualised lines. Ellisha knew her own part well, and replied almost without thinking. 
   “In knowledge of myself.” 
   “For what reason have you been summoned here?” The woman continued, still holding her Aes Sedai serenity as were the other women around them. 
   "To be tried." 
   "For what reason should you be tried." 
Ellisha maintained eye contact with Valeri. She wondered for the thousandth time in nearly two years whether she should ever trust this woman. You can't trust anyone anymore, a now familiar voice answered.
   "So that I may learn whether I am worthy." 
   "For what would you be found worthy?" 
   "To wear the shawl of an Aes Sedai." 

   And to repay the debt I owe a friend.

She began undoing the buttons of her dress, one at a time; it was part of ritual to perform the tasks clad only in her skin. As she moved on to slipping off her shift, the Mistress of Novices continued to speak. 
   "Therefore I will instruct you," she said. "You will see this sign upon the ground." She channelled and traced a six pointed star with the tip of her index finger, the weaves making the marks shimmer in the air. One of the other Aes Sedai standing around her said in an almost trance like tone: “Remember what must be remembered.” 
     Ellisha let her shift slide from her shoulders to the white coloured floor, before folding her clothes into a bundle beside her. 
   “When you see that sign,” Valeri continued, indicating to the six pointed star. “You will go to it immediately, at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back, and only then may you embrace the Power.” The woman let the hovering star vanish, and then turned her attention back to Ellisha once more. “The weaving required must begin immediately, and you may not leave that sign until it is completed.” 
   “Remember what must be remembered,” the other Sister intoned. 
   “When the weave is complete, you will see that sign again, marking the way you must go, again at a steady pace, without hesitation.” 

Ellisha found herself staring at the centre of the large oval ring, floating a few paces away from her. Her last experience entering a Ter'Angreal had not ended well, and memories of that event still lingered at the back of her mind. “One hundred times will you weave, in the order you have been given and in perfect composure." 
   “Remember what must be remembered.” the sister’s voices echoed, and ended with a sinking tone of finality.

Her moment had come, the ritual was nearly over, and it was time to begin her test. 

The women around her all began embracing the source, and Ellisha felt one of their weaves settle into the back of her head. She waited as the seven figures took a step backwards so they were now completely surrounding the ring Ter'Angreal. All seven were channelling a complicated string of weaves towards the object of the One Power as it began flashing with increased rapidity. Valeri was still inside the circle with her, and she nodded as if confirming for Ellisha to begin walking. 
     She removed the last piece of clothing she still wore - the Great Serpeant's ring, and laid it on top of her pile of clothes. The flashing continued, becoming brighter and more insistent with each beat of its pulse. The white washed walls seemed to turn even brighter still, and staring into the very centre of the ring... 

Ellisha took a step forward, then another – neither hurrying nor hanging back. She made her way towards the light, towards whatever lay on the other side. The world melted behind her, no longer existing under the canopy of angelic light that became part of her. She thought of Aril, of her promise, and of... 

________

The scene before her materialized, and Ellisha found herself stepping into the interior of a building with no recollection of how she had got there. Her bare foot brushed against rough straw as she took a hesitant step forwards. She glanced down, noticing her naked form for the first time and, not for the last, wondered how she had advanced herself into such a position. The room was dark and looked expansive; Ellisha thought she could make out a silver line of light on the other end, hinting at an exit (and maybe some answers).
     She continued her journey forwards, unperturbed by both the darkness and her currently exposed form; using the former to shield the latter, like a mist cloak made from translucent fabric. Her eyes could not make much in the dim illumination, but just like her disposition, she did not let such inconveniences hinder her movements. On she walked, neither hurrying nor holding back, until she reached the end of the passage and found the light. Near the end she noticed a table, and upon closer examination, she recognised that it contained articles of clothing. She did not question how they had gotten there, or why she knew they were meant for her, she simply followed the instinct at the back of her head and began putting them on. A dress made from a rough brown fabric, accompanied by a thick pair of woollen stockings, she lingered only for a moment before stepping into a similarly utilitarian looking pair of boots. With her first task complete, she returned her attention to the only visible light source – It was a door. Ellisha stepped forward and pushed it open, thus beginning her test. It had begun.

________

Through a world of fire and ice she walked; past torched villages set ablaze by the hand of vagrants, into crowds of hostile eyes; trials of body, trial of mind; to stand in the way of a Trolloc charge and ignore the cries of sickly children. Ellisha walked, neither hurrying nor hanging back. A hundred weaves she performed, a hundred times she longed to lash out at the source of her torment – for she knew there was a source somewhere. Each time she performed her task and each time she followed that six pointed star, her memory was erased. Yet some things can’t be erased. Hours passed, days even, and though each time her mind cannot call upon its memory, her body began to feel the inevitable signs of fatigue. Remember what must be remembered were the words she heard most often, and remember she did of what she needed to do.
   One hundred times she performed, and on her final trial she stepped through the six pointed star only to find herself returned to the centre of the oval chamber.

Memories assaulted her as soon as she hit the pavement. Hours of memories, of torments and recollections, broke through the channelled barrier like a dam under a vengeful monsoon. She collapsed to the ground, her multitude of cuts and badly bruised leg finally succumbing to the weight of supporting her fragile body. A voice, distant and unimportant, was murmuring something in the background. Ellisha paid little attention to it as she felt the cool marble beneath her, sapping away the last of her body’s warmth. She was crying, she knew; the tears of a thousand emotions colliding against her fortitude as she allowed the fat droplets to trickle down the side of her face.  A clap, thunderous and like the all mighty hand of the creator echoed across the hall.
   “Ellisha Falwein, you will spend tonight in prayer and contemplation…” it said; cold and emotionless like everything else in her life. “… of the burdens you will take up on the morrow, when you don the shawl of an Aes Sedai.” With another clap, the voice condemned her to her fate. And just like that, it was done; she had done it.
    Bodies, the presence of other people – hands, heads, soft condoning voices, gathered around her in an instant. Ellisha blinked, clearing away the condensation to get a better look at the women around her. Someone was offering her healing, to which she did not reply.  With a strength she did not fully possess, she shrugged them off and made to stand on her own. Light burn her, but she did not need their sympathies. She was angry – a familiar emotion that riled the pits of her stomach, made worse by the knowledge that the ones offering her comfort right now, were the ones who had tortured her but a moment ago.
     With the initial shock of having her memories returned, Ellisha was beginning to think straight again. With an effort, she pushed herself off the ground and made for the bundle of clothes she had cast off before entering the ring Ter’Angreal. The voices around her fell silent as she threw the white dress over her head, the fabric soaking in the scarlet beads of blood as she hurriedly walked outside.  Two sisters followed – one Green and one Blue – whilst the rest remained behind. They escorted Ellisha back to her apartment. None of them said anything.
     With the sun having already fallen no one was there to see Ellisha in her bloodied dress, though it would have probably made for an amusing image, if only by the looks of horror from passing Novices. She found her room much as she had left it, the residence having been cleaned and with the addition of food steaming in one corner. The Sisters bid her goodnight and with a tinge of concern previously unfamiliar from Sisters, told her to get some rest.

She listened as the door closed behind her and waited a few seconds before letting go of the breath she had been holding. She sank down into her chair, finally allowing herself to wince under the pain of such an action. Light burn her, but she had done it. The gravity of such a thought pressed heavily down on her. Why did it? She pondered this thought for a moment. Once upon a time, a long time ago, Ellisha could remember a little girl who had dreamed of wearing the shawl. Now such a goal had finally been achieved, one would have expected her to feel emotions other than… Dread?
     Excitement couldn’t have been further away from what Ellisha Falwein felt as she waited alone in her room: “Contemplating” as the voice had said for her to do. She left the food mostly untouched, taking only occasional sips from the tea provided and only because it gave her hands something to hold as she sat waiting. One of the servants had started a fire in the stone hearth before she had entered, and was this to which she occupied herself for the duration of the night’s stay. There was much yet to think about – much to plan. Hours passed, and Ellisha fought down the request of her tired body to lie down and rest. On the morrow she was to be an Aes Sedai – a sham of a title if ever she heard one.
    Aes Sedai – the servant of all. Ellisha doubted if anyone in this Tower had ever taken the meaning seriously.

All too soon in her estimation, the time was up for thinking. The fire had long died to embers as the first rays of sunlight seeped through the window pane. Two short sharp knocks rapped at her door announcing the arrival of her escort.
     Seven Sisters, one from each Ajah, stood at attention as she opened the door. Not all the representatives were there from yesterday, and a few she saw grew wide eyed as she stepped out from her room. She was still wearing her blood stained dress she realised; the one she had worn to her testing. Yet, Aes Sedai being Aes Sedai, the signs of surprise were quickly swept away as she was led outside. No words were exchanged as they walked, though Ellisha thought she could feel some of the eyes being drawn to her as she walked down a familiar flight of stairs.

   “Who comes here?” The Amyrlin Seat, a tall regal woman, spoke as the party of seven and one drew near the large wooden doors. The Keeper of the Chronicles stood beside her, and they stopped just short of the two. “Ellisha Falwein,” she replied in a steady voice.
   “For what reason do you come?”
   “To swear the three oaths and thereby claim the shawl of an Aes Sedai.”
   “By what right do you claim this burden?”
At this, Ellisha found herself pause, “by right of having made the passage,” she continued,
   “submitting myself to the will of the White Tower.”
   “Then enter, if you dare, and bind yourself to the White Tower.”
She, along with the others stepped forward into the room, filled by the entire hall standing at attendance.

The Amyrlin seat stepped forward, taking the ivory oath rod from the cushion held out by the Keeper as Ellisha made to kneel. She accepted the object, and with no further delay, began binding herself to her fate.
   “Under the light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I vow that I will speak no word that is not true.” The oath, emphasised by the power being channelled into the rod, settled into her as she began to speak.
   “Under the light and by my hopes of salvation and rebirth, I vow that I will make no weapon for one man to kill another.” Again, the oath settled, like a coil of rope, only it covered the entire length of her body.
   “Under the light and by my hopes of salvation and rebirth, I vow that I will never use the One Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, or in the last extreme of defending my life, or that of my Warder, or another Sister.” With the last of the weaves completed, Ellisha handed the rod back to the woman in front of her.

“It is half done, and the White Tower graven on your bones. Rise now, Aes Sedai, and choose your Ajah, and all will be done that may be done under the Light.”

She rose, coming level and meeting the eyes of the Amyrlin.
   “Go on now, Child. Find your way home,” the woman whispered as Ellisha turned to face the rest of the hall. Now was the moment of truth. Seven Ajahs waited in attendance for her, the eyes of each Sister fixated as she walked to the edge of the marble pedestal. Home, was what an Aes Sedai called her Ajah. But Ellisha knew she wasn’t going home. She turned to face the ranks of Blues standing at one end of the room, and with this proclamation made, the rest of the hall quietly filled out through the back door.

The six Blues stepped forward as Ellisha came towards them, and the youngest of the six draped a Blue fringed shawl around her shoulders. Ellisha stood in silence and forced a smile as one by one her new family welcomed her into their ranks, one quick peck on each cheek. On the sixth and final Blue, the Sister – one Cooran Sedai, bent towards her and laughed quietly next to her ear.
   “Child, you owe me a pie,” before she too kissed Ellisha on her cheeks.
Ellisha’s smile nearly lost its curvature as the Sister drew back. One of the Blue’s ancient traditions no doubt. The six stood in front of her, all of them for once not being held back by Aes Sedai serenity. They assumed her silence to be her loss for words, out of joy from the occasion. But in truth, Ellisha was still getting used to her new restrictions.
   “I can already imagine fitting in here,” she finally managed after a hurried second attempt at producing words. What she had originally meant to say was: “I’m so happy to finally be home,” to which she quickly realised, was a complete lie. She wasn’t happy – she wasn’t home, she never will have a home. The Sisters around her took no notice of her inner transaction however, as they all continued to beam broadly towards their newest member.
     How many of you are faking those smiles now? She wondered as they took her up to her new apartments in the Blue’s quarter. How many of you are rotten to the core?
She knew there to at least be one. One Blue Sister out of the Light knows how many that had started all this. I will find you sooner or later. Light burn me, but I will. She would find that woman no matter what happens, even if it would be the death of her. She hadn’t been lying when she said she would fit right in – the Blues were masters of Daes Dae’mar, and Ellisha intended to play their own games against them. They walked, Ellisha with her newest family towards what lay for her beyond. 

To life or death she marched the steps of the Tower, the polished marble walls and its pristine walkways, the sands of her next battle.

A battle she was determined to win – no matter the cost.

~ Ellisha Falwein
Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah

We're actually all out of cookies.

Exams just finished. gonna try get back to writting.

It's always been a goal of mine to climb a heap of smoldering corpses to the top of DM. Been telling people for years. They still don't buy it.

been telling it to the wrong people then. Of course the WT will scoff at your sugguestion; they're too conservative and reactionary to see the true benefits of a revolution based upon violance and hostilities. The band on the other hand...

Taking me ages to get back on the creative road. Hope that makes up for my long absence. 

The forest was lit by a strange backlight; the source of which was unknown to Jeral as he raced through its low hanging canopy and twisting roots. He was hunting something – for that he knew. Or was he the one being hunted? As often of late, that line of distinction was getting blurry.
     A sound materialised somewhere to his immediate right – the snapping of a branch.
Careful, it might be a trap; his hunter’s instincts immediately warned him. Be on the lookout for a decoy. The bow and arrow appeared in his hand as if out of thin air; the Ashwood rough and weighed perfectly in his practised hands. He drew, putting pressure evenly on the bow string as the feathered shaft brushed lightly against his cheeks.  Nothing stirred as he trained his weapon upon the silent forest. The trees looked to be grim sentinels as they stared down at him with disapproving eyes. Jeral lowered his bow, relaxing his right arm which had begun to feel tense from holding the draw weight for too long.
     Something flashed in the air and he only just managed to dodge out of its way as the heavy bladed throwing knife thudded into a nearby tree trunk.  He turned, trying to pinpoint the source of the knife, bow raised once again at cheek level. A second flash and a familiar hissing sounded dangerously close to his right ear. Another loud THUNCK and another knife imbedded itself in a trunk.
“Who are you?” Jeral called out, his bow now raised at half draw, “show yourself!” Were there more than one out there? He was in serious trouble if there were. The forest stayed silent and empty, with only the trees being visible – continuing their cold passionless stares. Where did they go?
He did not observe any more movement as he scanned the perimeter, backpedalling in a small semi-circle.  
     Who was after him? What did they want?
His rear foot caught against something and he glanced down to see that it was the base of the Yew which the knife had struck. With his back protected from at least one angle of attack, he allowed himself the chance to retrieve the knife down from the tree trunk. It slid away easily and he glanced about before studying it. No attackers.   
     The weapon was finely crafted, the blade of good forged iron and the hilt evenly balanced with a dense type of wood. Jeral weighed it gingerly in his hands, spinning it then catching it by the hilt. He gasped. Upon mid-toss the knife suddenly stopped and floated mid-air as if held by an invisible hand. He screamed. The knife plunged itself deep into his right shoulder, and stayed there. The pain was over him in an instant, inducing a violent bout of spasms as it slowly twisted.
     Pain. Burning. Burning flesh. He was being charred from the inside, the cold metallic object somehow making his chest feel as if it was on fire. He grunted, miraculously staying upright despite the agony that threatened to overwhelm him. The knife twisted further then pulled itself free, not a speck of blood marring its polished surface. Jeral scowled as he recovered his footing, dropping the bow to the ground and pulling free from its scabbard his own long hunting knife.
“What,” he coughed, “kind of sorcery is this?” The knife did not answer, instead floating as four more joined its rank, slowly encircling Jeral in a wall of sharpened steel. He gritted his teeth.

“Well then," he hissed. "Do your worst.”

The knives happily obliged.

     He awoke with a gasp. Something was pressing down on him, restricting movement. There were voices too – blessed, sweet voices. “I think he’s awake.” Jeral could barely make out the words, as if a dome was wedged between him and the outside world. “Lad, can you hear me?”
Jeral reluctantly nodded, feeling his mind sluggish at comprehending his situation.
“A… forest…” his words cut off. Where was he?
“Lay back, stay still,” that same voice commanded.
The lights around him slowly came into focus. He was in the citadel triage, the white washed ceiling and the overpowering smell of antiseptic confirming this first observation.  
     A face appeared; a mature spindly man with a kind face and an even warmer smile. “Good, so you are awake.”
Jeral coughed, trying to sit up to get a better view of his surroundings. The face pressed down upon him with a soft, yet very insistent hand.
“You need to lie down and rest; your wounds are fully healed yet. Was lucky you were bought just in on time. Another few minutes and we might have lost you. Name’s Emrin by the way.”
Jeral nodded, obeying the instructions of this kind stranger who had presumably saved his life. one of the citadel medics, no doubt.
     “What happened? I remember a forest and a woman, and… Arkin! Arinth! Are they alright?!” Despite his previous promise to the figure, he tried sitting upright again.  A flash of annoyance crossed Emrin’s face as he pushed Jeral down again, this time, more insistently.
“They’re fine. Your friend who bought you here told me all that had happened…”

~Jeral Ahan
Scout in the Band of the Red Hand

I think this thread has helding enough cussing. All could be said in the next one.

Hi. So, just finished Ackley's wrap up. Guess that concludes part 1 of the arc?

“So, how bad is it?” Ackley winced as he placed a finger on the spot where his mysterious assailant had struck him.
“Bad, might be a slight understatement.” His first Bannerman wore an uncharacteristically dark expression as he took out a crumpled piece of paper; “two fatalities, four with injuries that need medical attention, and don’t get me started on how many horses we lost.” Relatively light casualties compared to what could have happened.
Ackley closed his eyes, partly to control the insistent pounding that sounded at the back of his head, and partly to force himself to think.
“How many horses do we have left?”
     Mehrin bloody flaming Deathwatch. He still couldn’t quite believe himself for what had happened. They had come this close to clapping the darkfriend in chains; no, they had clapped him in chains, and still he had gotten away.
“Second squad’s picket was not cut and we were since able to gather up a handful of others.” The man paused, breaking off from his delivery of the report. “You… sure you’re alright, sir?” Ackley opened his eyes. The pounding in his head continued but he forced himself to look up at O’Reilly worried expression.  “I’ll be fine, just… continue.”
The Bannerman still wore a look of concern but reluctantly did as he was told.
     “We’re not certain how the fire started, but it somehow spread throughout most of the camp…” The voice trailed off into the background, continuing the summary of last night’s destruction as Ackley closed his eyes once more.
Mehrin bloody Deathwatch. He needed to think this through carefully; the man had fooled him once but that was because he didn’t know what he was dealing with. Mehrin bloody flaming Deathwatch – one of the most notorious persons living, the man was practically a walking legend. Ackley shook his head as he mentally sighed.  A darkfriend was still just a darkfriend; he had a job to do.
      “It’ll take at least another day or so, with outriders, to round bac– ”
“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted the Bannerman and opened his eyes. The pounding in his head had subsided, thank the light, but it did not change the icy chill that ran down the length of his spine.  
“Gather up second squad and any who still have their mount. And someone go fetch me my horse!” A groom – one of the Children’s lower ranked troopers, hurried away to retrieve Ackley’s mount. Sunflower appeared a second later, the brown mare looking almost eager as it trotted up to nuzzle its master. Ackley patted the mare and with one well practised motion, climbed a top Sunflower’s saddle, spinning the reigns so he was facing O’reily once more.
“I’m taking personal charge of our mounted contingent. We’ll ride and catch up with the two darkfriends whilst you follow behind with the remaining foot.” The order having been given, the men of Ackley’s company began disassembling the camp of its tents and fortification.
      Within the space of a quarter of an hour, the hundred odd Children of the Light were ready to begin the forced march ahead. Ackley nudged Sunflower towards a group gathered near the front of the company column – the remaining horsemen and the men we will be leading. He frowned as he drew closer and spotted a familiar figure sitting among the gathered horses. The Questioner smiled as he saw Ackley approach. The look on the man’s face could only be described as smugly condescending, and it said clearly “I told you so.”
     Ackley tried hard to ignore it, instead turning to his command. With one swift snap of his reign, Sunflower trotted forward, the rest of the Children following close behind. The hunt was on.

~Ackley Carnel
Hundredman in the Army of the Light

Summer means finals. *grumbles*

Aye, I'll think about it. Might be a bit slow though. My exams are here at last and I'll need to study for them. *sigh*

Still try and get something out in the next few days.