Sereth listened almost..patiently. Who knew he had it in him? "Alright, so its like home only now; I can put down that blasted flint and steal. Wonderful. Not to mention eventually I won't be sweating through my silks." His grin was wide, ignoring that uneasy feeling he had around Drak. He hadn't tried anything yet, so he figured he was moderately safe.

He watched as the weaves dragged a boulder into the air, and was set down. He'd seen this before; on the practice fields. He knew the next step was to make it explode; but instead Drak had a different idea. He could have groaned as he was instructed to make lots of tiny fires on the ends of the sticks. Control wasn't his strong suit. "Alright, then. This ought to be interesting." He gingery wrapped two sticks in flows of air; two weaves was more than twice as hard as one. He hoped that ratio slowed; he'd be doing at least six.

He pulled fourth a red strand of fire, and wrapped it loosely around the end of the stick. Sereth's grin grew when he noticed the tiny stick didn't explode, but rather lit a small fire on the end. To his disapointment however, the ratio continue, and three was again harder than he thought it should have been. Resolute, he raised the stick, and drew fourth another flow of fire. He could see the strand shaking and he knew he was loosing control. Still, he went to wrap the end of the stick as he had done before. A tiny flame lit up.

Sereth was breathing hard as he moved on to the next stick. He had to grit his teeth to even draw the next strand, and to get it to bend was almost as bad as that infuriating question his Teacher had asked him, "What is nothing?" Unlike that question however; Sereth thought he might actually complete this task. He grunted as the thread of fire slowly started to bend, and a tiny fire did indeed lite. He looked at Drak, sweating, and spoke. "Well, you were right, weren't you? This is rather tricky." With that, his control loosed and the flames started to move down the sticks. He let go of the weaves, but the fires were more than an effect of Saidin by this time. He remembered the weave Drak had used to draw out the heat of the earlier flame, and as quickly as he could did so. Moving the heat into the boulder that his superior had raised. One by one the flames winked out.

Sereth simply fell, panting, and released the source regretfully. As the colors dimmed, he again looked at his Drak. "Did I do alright? Or is there something else you wanted me to do?" Exhausted, he knew he should probably give up on Saidin for the day; but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His will to learn was ferocious, all consuming. The definition of what it was to be Sereth Arian. And so, he once again overrode prudence in favor of his one great lust. He eyed the boulder, and thought briefly about the vague outlines he'd seen on his first day at the Farm. Fire and air, he thought, would make it burst. "Anything at all?"

Raithgar inhaled slowly; he knew he was impatient, it was one of his greater faults as a swordsmen. The Carhieren had the jist of his weakness versus smaller opponents as well. Almost all of his moves were aimed high; he'd have to make sure to adjust that strategy in his next bout.

He came at the man again, keeping his sword in guard position until he crossed into his own range, taking measured steps the entire time. He decided to ignore the forms he'd been taught, to a point at least, and instead just attacked. He swung the lathe horizontally aimed for Anton's chest, and not waiting for the crack as the two wooden instruments collided, he retracted again into guard. He launched another slash, this one slanted and meant to bite into Anton's left shoulder, and this time when the weapons met, he wouldn't retract, but push. He'd hoped the one advantage he had over the Tracker would be enough to tip this more in his favor; size. Something the Shienarian was not used to having over his opponents, even the slender fades were stronger than a man.

In truth though, he doubted he'd get anymore than another stern lecture, but hey, at least he wasn't treating the Carhieren like he was a Trolloc anymore.

Sereth followed Arath dutifully, taking in every structure with a glance. He'd always been taught to take in every detail at a glance. He was taught this by being showed a group of objects, and after a bare seconds time, they were covered, and one was changed. It grew difficult to guess which was changed, but he had taken the lesson to heart. Watching the men practice, Sereth thought he could see the weaves being used, and he nodded. Everyman there except the Asha'mon himself was raising dummies and destroying them. He wondered how many of the men would make the difference between an earthen dummie and a darkfriend or shadowspawn by the time they too were fully raised.

Then a silver slash appeared in the air, and rotated open to form a hole to some room or another. He inhaled sharply, staring at it, it was amazing. Still a merchants son, he thought how much money his parents could make with instantaneous deliveries... Then he was waved through, and cautiously he did follow.

Any questions? Yes, what was that, how did you do it, how long before I can do it, how strong are you, how strong am I, are there any nice people here, when do we go to kill things, is the only thing I'm going to be a weapon, etc. With all these thoughts buzzing in his mind, he still managed to shake his head no. "I think I'll be able to handle myself from here. Thank you for the tour, sir." With that, he found the door out of the house, and headed back into town. It was going to be an interesting stay here...

Heheh, sorry to take so long to get to this, life's been hectic. Anywho, I have one small question. It's been my understanding that once someone has been tested, they can channel, and will channel. Since she's to old to become a Novice, why would an Aes Sedai test the woman? It seems a bit out of character. I don't have a BWB to enforce my idea though, so if someone could clarify this for me, it'd be great.

Basic Information

Handle : Tigara

Character Count :3

Contact : tigara@look.ca

Character Information

Name: Jagaea Kazim

Age: 20

Nationality: Taraboner

Appearance

Hair: Very light blonde hair halfway down back in traditional Taraboner braids.

Eyes: Dark Blue

Skin: White, but slightly tanned

Height: 5’5”

Voice: A soft sultry voice, with a touch of fire to it.

Other:

Optional

Special Skills:

Knowledge Weakness: She never had any educational training.

Physical Weakness:

Personality weakness: She has a tendency to spazz out randomly at things, even if they are going her way. Easily stressed.

Personality: Jagaea has a very strong personality. If she wants something, everyone and their dog know it. She is often known as demanding and selfish. She is very emotional, she can cry, flare up her temper, and then laugh over the same thing in a matter of minutes. She does not handle stress easily and can spazz at anything. She is also very flirtatious, having worked as a tavernmaid.

History: Jagaea was born into a very poor family. Her parents both died in a riot when her and her brothers were very young. Later, when she was 10, her older brother Lionel, became very sick and died. So she was left in the streets of Tanchico with no one but her 12 year old brother, Tigara. Jobs were scarce, but she got a job as a tavernmaid. Her brother, Tigara, however, was not as lucky. He had to make his way along by stealing some food here and pick-pocketing there. The two managed to get by, but barely.

            Tanchico seemed to get worse continually. It was no longer very safe for anyone, so her brother decided it was best for Jagaea and him to go to Amadicia, where Tigara then joined the Children of the Light. Jagaea found job in the Fortress of the Light, being a secretary to one of the Questioners, so she saw her brother often. It was one her day off, because her employer was out for the day, so she was wandering the city. It was there she heard the rumor that her brother had channeled and was being hunted down as a Darkfriend. She had not been conformed to the thinking that channeling was the work of the Shadow, like many did in Amadicia, so she did not think her brother was really a Darkfriend. But knowing how Whitecloaks were, she thought she might not be so safe being here being the sister of a man they claim to be a Darkfriend. So she quickly went back, packed up her few belongings and some food, and went south. She didn’t know where she was going, really. Once she got to the border, she decided she was going to Ebou Dar. She heard of the taverns there, and they interested her.

Upon reaching Ebou Dar, she found the country divided in four. It almost seemed worse than Tanchico, but more organized and purposeful. She went about looking for work, but could find none anywhere. With no job, she had no where to stay, until she heard something about “Wise Women”. They were supposed to be Healers of some sort, with herbs and such. The man said that they may be willing to take a woman like her in for free, with maybe some chores done. So she located one of these women’s house and knocked. The woman said that she could stay for free, as long as Jagaea did her share of cooking, cleaning, and other chores. It was a fine deal. The two got along well together, and often chatted for hours into the night. It was all good until the nice motherly woman told her that she could learn to channel.

Sereth pondered for a moment, wishing for once to be right when he spoke. Though in truth, being led by the nose in lessons was nothing new. He'd been taught things from a young age just how great the gaps in his knowledge were. If only he had time to fill them. Again, he heard distant laughter, this time stronger. Oh hush up, I'm busy. With that he returned to the conversation, none of it showing on his face.

"So, it could be said that hard power leads to soft? Wonderful, that means my people have a chance in the future. Wonderful news. Now, what aspects of a person can influence a negotiation? I'd think all of them. How a person moves, talks, what impression they give off, all of it. Though I suppose that there would be three or so main ways to use ones traits. You could threaten, put their back up, and that seems like it'd work. They just wouldn't like you to much, as you pointed out. You could sympathize with them, form a kind of friendship, so they want to help you. I get the feeling you did this with our great M'Hael." He smiled; he wasn't nearly as absent minded as everyone gave him credit for. Though the illusion helped in more ways than most people could imagine.

"Then, a sort of logical approach. Spinning your words so that your side, or your idea, seems only nautural. The proper course, though this sounds more like your trying to start a cult; and I doubt it'd work on the educated. Still, it seems like it'd be a viable option." He finished up his first plateful and cup of tea. He quickly refilled both, adding a dash of milk to his tea. "Well, am I anywhere close?" He mentally beat down that cockiness forming in his head; there was no way to tell if he was right.

Sereth let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding when that fiery orb finally dissipated. He wiped sweat from his brow, looking at the man. He didn't take chances with the young Andorian's education, now did he? Still, there was a valuable lesson to be learned here and he took it to heart. The Power was not a toy; don't mess around with it. "Yes, Drak. I will do better next time."

With that, he formed the void. He reached again for the source, but it didn't come to his call like it had before. Annoyed, he tried again and again. He could have growled, but quickly schooled himself in patience. No need to light oneself on fire. At least not twice in one day. After a moment of relaxing, he again launched himself at the light that filled the void, and this time he felt that vile taint and the sweet currents of molten ice beneath it.

Wrestling with it, and trying to be patient at the same time was frustrating. So, he began by examining it, and again pulled out a familiar strand. Except this time, he was careful enough to control the amount he drew in. He spun it into a tight ball on the grass before him. When a fire lit up, satisfaction skittered on the edge of the void. Though he squelched both the flame and the thought. Not a time to get cocky.

Rubbing the ash into the ground with the toe of his blacked boots, he moved to another easily controlled piece. He threw this one at a tree, and watched the branches sway. "So, that'd be air." Satisfied, he moved onto the next cord of life. It to gave way easily, and he wove it into the ground. Nothing happened. The air, nothing, frustrated he started swinging it around, before stopping, realizing that this was in fact spirit. He flushed, "Eheheheh, oops."

He began on the next one, and it resisted more than the others. Finally, he wrenched it free and wove this to into the ground, and then pulled it up. A small pebble rose, "Earth." Satisfied, he wove the final element into the small void; this one was hardest to handle. Still, the hole filled with water. Breathing harder, and wiping sweat from his brow, he looked back at Drak. "Alright, whats next?" He was still eager to learn, even with the fire and the exaggerated caution. It was doubtful he'd ever quit wanting to learn.

Vincent shook his head at her comments, "Or you could be leading a false trail, trying desperately to evade the Tower Guard." He stroked his smooth chin, mimicking the act of considering these thoughts, before laughing and sinking into his story.

As she told hers, he nodded. He understood the principles well enough, even though his were applied differently. It wasn't the first time this had happened; he'd felt the same kinship with his father. Both knowing what it was like to dedicate your life to something else, and now he could add a third to that list. "Your fortunate to have a companion. The world is a very dark place when your alone." He still held his smile, but his mind moved briefly to darker times. He quickly changed it, willing his thoughts to the present.

He looked over the glasses as she spoke, smiling. He could drink a good amount more with out showing the effects. Still he stood leaving them behind. "Alright then, show me around the city. I suppose I should enjoy at least one day of freedom before submitting myself to whatever horrors the yard can conjure up." He let out a chuckle, and thought better of extending his hand to help her up. She was a warrior; a better one than he most likely. No telling if she'd find offense to such a gesture. "Lead the way."

Character name: Meecham Delconde

Age: 32

Place of birth/raising: Shienar

Physical Appearance: Meecham is 5'8 with narrow shoulders for a Shienaran. Unlike the usual style for the men of Shienar he wears his dull brown hair short and without the top-knot. Considered slight in the north Meecham weighs around 135lbs.

History: Birthed to a housemaid Meecham grew up attempting to hide from his father. A well muscled man, as should any heavy cavalry squad leader must be. Though with this honor came the added stress of the position. And with the stress came the bottle. Known to fly into drunken rages on long nights he always sought out his son as an outlet for his anger. From these lessons in pain Meecham learned to tread quietly and became quite good at finding hiding places and ways to escape his fathers beatings. After a few years people started noticing changes in the boy. He became more secluded and cut off his top-knot. He also began stealing away for hours at a time. In these long hours Meecham had learned how to vent his own frustrations. Approaching the small rodent he had just stunned with his sling he picked it up and slowly started turning its body and head in opposite directions. As the creatures neck began to pop and break a wonderful sense of peace and security washed over him. Over the next few months he became bolder, sneaking into his neighbors yards and claiming relief and security with their pets as well. Upon the morning of his 18th name day his father rose him and announced that they would spend the day hunting wild boar in celebration of his entrance into manhood. As Meecham entered the small room where the bows were kept he noticed his fathers bowstring was slightly frayed at the bottom knot. As he began to measure out the string needed to repair the bow a thought struck him like a bolt of lightening. Today would be special indeed. Replacing the new string to its storage area he took the thin colorless paste his father used for minor weapons repair and smoothed it over the frayed area. It looked perfect. Even if his father were to inspect the bow he wouldn’t notice the small clear area at the bottom as anything other than wax. Returning to his father they rode to the large forest due east of the town. Almost four hours later the time came. A small boar burst through the underbrush, startled by some sound to their left. Meechams father stepped forward and drew an arrow from over his shoulder. The bow had fired properly the last seven times, the paste proving to truly serve its purpose well. But as he watched his father nock the arrow and begin to draw it back he saw the paste crack and start to give. The line broke causing his fathers hand to continue back into his face arrow still in it. The arrow tilted down with gravity at the loss of support and drove into the older mans stomach, not a killing wound but enough to stun him. As he stood looking at the arrow protruding from his stomach he suddenly noticed the absence of his son and the very closeness of the boar. Meecham stood twelve yards away watching his fathers distress from between two trees that had grown directly beside each other. He watched as his father pulled the knife he carried and as the boar slammed into his mid-section, tusks finishing what the arrow could not. He let the feelings wash over him as the animal continued to gore the man long after he was dead. As he lay there giggling uncontrollably he heard footsteps behind him and jumped to his feet pulling an arrow as he did. There entered his vision a tall man with long black hair and unusually cold eyes, dressed in a weather worn cloak, tunic, and trousers, though small bits of armor shone through from underneath them. But it was the eyes that struck Meecham the most. He had seen those kind of eyes before in the men brave enough to enter the Blight and lucky enough to come out alive. The man approached him and an odd feeling of relaxation seemed to fill the air around them. Meecham lowered his bow and replaced his arrow, surely this man wouldn’t hurt him. The man stopped directly in front of him and pulled out a small piece of paper upon which he wrote something he could not see from that angle. Rising the man the pulled a ring off his finger and proffered it with the paper. Meecham took it and looked back at the man who said, "Go there and speak with the owner when you feel worthy of seeking me out." and with that turned back the way he had come and strode out of site. Looking down at the letter he saw the three words the man had written. Dancing man, Baerlon.

The real struggle is here, now...Now is being decided whether, in the day of your supreme sorrow or temptation, you shall miserably fail or gloriously conquer. Character cannot be made except by a steady, long continued process.

Raithgar nodded as his mentor spoke. "Yes, I suppose this will be quite alright." He took a deep breathe, and envisioned a flame, and sought to feed everything he was into it. He tried desperately, but the void eluded him. Suppressing a sigh, he instead moved his sword out in front of him. A staff? Well, it wasn't the most common weapon to fight against, but he had experience against spears, and so he knew there greatest advantage over a sword. Reach.

He approached cautiously at first, his sword held in guard in front of him, just out of range of that staff. Anton had said he would only defend; but he really had no reason to believe the Yellow eyed man. Besides, what good would it do to throw cautiousness to the wind, while it was still prudent?

Then, he began. He pivoted off of his left foot, his lathe going diagonal to intercept either a vertical or horizontal swing. His goal was simple, to get up close and personal with the staff wielder, and so he did. Getting within range so that, by extending his arms, the 'blade' of the lathe would lay against the staff in guard position. With that, he stepped forward and to the right, moving into Arc of the Moon to get a good gauge on how well the man would block. When a loud crack split the air, Raithgar's blade retracted to guard.

Without hesitation he moved into Lion on the Hill before going into a triple repetition of The Falcon Swoops, and moving into a fourth, before his blade instead formed The Kingfisher takes a Silverback. The last aimed at his legs, and was pair with a charge forward against Anton, doing his best to push the man over. "Anytime you are ready sir." He was growing tired of being the only one to attack. It took out the greatest motivation anyman had in battle; fear.

Vincent's eyebrow raised as she continued to speak. She seemed to have an interesting life; especially compared to his of being beaten, getting up, and getting beat down again. "Well, that will be an interesting tale, I'm sure. By these drinks," he motioned to all the drinks being set on the table, "You owe it to me eventually." He gave her a laugh, and again sipped his drink. "Oh, and to warn you. Being intuitive is the only way to beat so many opponents, especially when your only real advantages are a high pain tolerance, and strength. Just give me a while to catch up." He tossed her a wink, "And now now, how do I know you haven't killed an initiate, and taken her gear?" His eyelid fell into a wink; an obvious jest.

Another couple inches of his drink slid down his throat before he began his tale. "Why this dream? My father. Its not that he trained me, or had a particular love for Aes Sedai, though he had nothing against them. It was his dedication to the Queen. He loved that woman as much as my mother, and seeing that devotion revealed one of the basic things a man needs in his life. Something to die for." His eyes closed, sipping again, getting more into the story telling as he continued to speak.

"One day, I was only about nine, and my father sat me on his shoulders to watch a parade that the Queen herself was in; it was the first he wasn't on duty for. All of Camelyn gaped at her, except perhaps myself; though I did gawk just as hard as the others. Just at her adviser, an Aes Sedai. A society older than any country, and held more power than any throne. That day I knew that if I was to give my life for anything greater than myself, it'd have to be for the greatest cause that deserved my life. That night, I asked my father for a weapon, he gave me this dagger," he patted the second hilt on his waste, "and later this sword. I trained every day, and after about a week started getting my beatings from the local boys. Five years later, I'm here. Talking to a Trainee of the Warder's Yard, and a Novice of the White Tower to boot." His lips moved to take another sip, until he realized it was empty and grabbed another.

"Now, you've got every key point in my life. How about a couple of yours?" He was getting far to comfortable with this girl..

Vincent discovered just how wide his eyes could go this day. He had to consciously control his breathing, all he had to do was keep her happy, and he got a guide to the Yard. Plus, there was a chance he'd be training with the woman; no sense to upset her. None at all, still, there was the chance that she was lying. "Well, though I hate to waist time, I suppose you deserve a drink." He reached his hand under the table, and behind his belt. There, molded into the back of the belt, were slots. This way, he had some money unless some girl managed to get his pants too. He almost sighed as he realized how close that was to happening...

He pulled a single Camelyn silver mark, and set it on the table. He motioned for a serving girl to come to him, and ordered whatever this bought him. "Well, I'm no stranger to competition, though being on good terms with them would be." His arms swooped over his defined body, "Almost every scar I have is from the same group of boys, who loved to tease the boy who hadn't the best education. Worked fine for about five years, every day. Then apparently I got just big enough to get them all." A smile crept over his face at that memory; the day he left his home. "I'd been training myself before that, trying to be passable by the time I reached the Yard; my trip here showed me how little I accomplished." His neck fell into his chest at that; and then the drinks came.

What it got him was ale; a lot of it. He shrugged, and downed the first stein. "What about you? You got any interesting stories about your pre-yard days?" Alright, so he was starting to warm up to her; what could he say? She was a bit charming, and it had been a long time since he'd seen a friendly face. He rested his jaw in his calloused hand, and picked up another stein; though he drank this one slower. It wouldn't do any good to show up for admission to the yard drunk.

Well, they are active enough to get the job done RPing, so I'd suggest starting him up. Though, I do plan to change the system soon; though I can transfer all the existing bios over without incident, so don't worry about it. ;)

Raithgar had three inches of cold steel showing before he was told to return it to the sheath, and he did so. What choice did he have? When his mentor returned, he caught the lathe easily. He twirled it a couple times, familiar with the length and width of such things; he oft trained with them. "I'll admit, I've never been much more than mediocre with swords; but I've slain enough trollocs to make most southlanders faint." He looked at the man who taught him, "Peace! Forgive me, I've always had a bit of a free tongue." He scolded himself for being so rude; he doubted Southlanders liked to be reminded of how soft, on a whole, they were. Even if this one moved with a grace greater than most he'd seen.

Without another word, he bent his knees and leaned forward a hair, the lathe moving to his left side, both hands on the hilt, Leopard in the Tree. He 'unsheathed' the lathe in another form Unfolding the Fan, with the initial diagonal slash; he was used to having an enemy in front of him if he was drawing a sword. He then moved into an overhand thrust, The Falcon Swoops. This moved into one of the more deadly beginner forms, Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose Trollocs deserved no mercy. He continued through the forms, Lion on the Hill to Arc of the Moon, and while his blade was still high he moved into The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback. His face was grim as he completed the forms, thinking of all the times he'd needed to use them in battle; and the imperfections in them, before moving into Folding the Fan.

"I'm sorry you had to see that; my moves are far less then grand. I.. I never really got the hang of Ko'Di, the Flame and the Void." Raithgar sighed, holding the lathe loosely in his hand. "And I have almost no blight experience; the true training ground. I hope you don't mind working with someone of my skill." Sure, he'd probably just given a better show than half the south, but he was Shienarian; a borderlander. He watched blademasters die. He couldn't take a single Half-man! He took a breathe, "So, where shall we begin?"

Sereth schooled himself, taking deep breathes, and watching the man who was teaching him to wield life. He was examining him; was he trying to figure out how strong he'd be? Or maybe gauge the effect of the taint? Who could tell? He simply wanted to learn. Yes, he wanted to learn everything he could.

A chair was raised for him, and he sat, and then it was taken away. He grumbled, but kept in a good mood; how could he not be? When he was instructed to begin, he did just that. He examined the stream of molten ice that flowed through him, and picked out a cable of what felt right. The 'red' cable he'd chosen was ripped out. He felt the power behind it, and drew out more, launching it at the ground to the left of the group with his mind. It was then he realized two things. What the 'red cable' was, and how big a fool he was.

The first was easy, red was fire, as was evident by the stream of fire that seemingly came from no where, the second was even easier. He had no idea how to control this flame. The brush caught on fire almost immediatly, and at the other end of the tongue Sereth's shiny new coat lit up. He quickly pushed the source away, and began to pat at his coat, ignoring the flames that he had sprung up around him, and hoping that Drak would be able to fix what he'd just done.

Vincent, was to say the least, a bit taken aback by the woman approaching him. She even complimented him on his sword; which caused his hand to reflexively reach for it. She explained herself, and his hand relaxed, but never left the hilt. "Pardon me, I've had a bit of a rough journey, the last woman who talked to me wanted into my bed; so she could rob me in the morning." He blushed, though it hardly showed. "Oh, um, sorry. I didn't mean to imply.." He took a breath. "I'm Vincent, a future Warder, just as soon as I can find my way to the yard." His eyes fell to the sword at his hip, a smile creeping onto his face as he thought of what he'd soon learn to do with it.

That night he told his father what he wanted to do came back to him, but the scene was so familiar by now it hardly distracted him as it flew by him in real time. "Now, may I ask your name?" The thought that trailed after, So I know who to turn in?, but he wisely kept it to himself. A very hard journey. "Maybe even a bit about yourself, if I may be so lucky?" He actually gave her a grin; no reason to be cold if she her intentions were as innocent as they seemed.

"Or, maybe even directions to the Warder's Yard? It is a bit hard to find anything in such a large city; as grand as Camelyn." Yes, so, he was still a bit arrogant; just not so bad as most Andorians. He doubted he'd ever truly rid himself of his national allegiance, just supersede it with his loyalty to one Aes Sedai.

Arcon moved slowly; cautiously up to the deck. Everything was odd without his eye, his left one to be exact. His vision wasn't so wide, or as clear and he had a hard time judging distances. He'd adjust though; he wouldn't let Mr. Sweeper have the final victory. Some of the others gave him a wide birth; they'd seen his outburst. They knew what emotions boiled under his cool exterior; good. Fear and Respect was a great combination for those under you to have towards you. Mr. Sweeper on the other hand, looked ridiculously pleased. At that moment he knew exactly who had taken his full vision from him.

Still, he obeyed. Why? Well, he was half-blind on a ship that was geared towards teaching him the sword, and lets not forget shielded. So, he put the lathe into the beginning of Unfolding the Fan. Well, thats awkward; he couldn't see the lathe. At that moment it hit him just how much he'd relied on his eyes, both of them. He gazed again at Mr. Sweeper, and smiled. He knew it wasn't the man's intention, but he did give Arcon an idea. Another limitation of channeling; if you couldn't see you couldn't weave. So, blindness would be another area he'd need a weapon.

He closed his right eye, and began Unfolding the Fan. He felt that it was wrong in his left hand, felt Mr. Sweeper's calloused hands correcting his form. "Now? What do we have here?" He heard Mr. Sweeper's voice, but not the words past that point. He was concentrating on his forms. Lion on the Hill, again it was off, and he dropped it and repeated it a couple times, until it was passable. Then he moved into Arc of the Moon. Again he had to move back into Lion on the Hill, and try Arc of the Moon again, and again. He moved through all of the forms like this, and when he finished. He did it again, and again, and again. He repeated the forms until the sun was down, and his arms ached from the repetition.

Then, he opened his eye, and saw Mr. Sweeper. He flashed the man a grin, "I have to say, thanks. Since you took out my eye, I noticed a couple more limitations of channeling. Don't worry though, I'll have a weapon or two to make up for them, Mr. Sweeper." With that, he went downstairs, caring very little how Mr. Sweeper reacted. He just wanted to sleep, and see what was in store for him tomorrow.

Soldier

Name:Sereth

Learning Saidin: 2(myside-should be upadated later)- [ATT: Sereth] to insanity and beyond... er, to learn saidin too!-http://forums.dragonmount.com/index.php/topic,24346.0.html

Non Saidin Learning: 4(myside)-Black fading to Grey ((Attn: Arette))-http://forums.dragonmount.com/index.php/topic,23203.0.html

Free Roleplay: Thread One - 3 posts(myside) 

Accepting the truth (Sereth's Arrival)-http://forums.dragonmount.com/index.php/topic,22347.0.html

Thread Two (reqs met)- Guide to avoid the pitfalls (attn: Sereth)- http://forums.dragonmount.com/index.php/topic,22664.msg592002.html#msg592002

Yeah, that'd be exactly what I was talking about. Thanks.

Sereth gobbled down his food with the manors he'd been raised to have since birth. By now it was all second nature; he could devote his full attention to Annias' teachings. For once he managed to say silent, listening to every word she had to say, before responding. Almost every word revealing his own ignorance; something he sought desperately to do away with. He thought he heard laughter at that thought, but ignored it. He was to busy learning to give credence to any insanity that may have infected him.

"Hmm, I am far more ignorant than I had imagined. I hope you don't mind the large gaps I've asked you to fill." A laugh, and again he scratched the back of his head. He'd have to learn to stop these habits. "The Black Tower? Well Aes Sedai, we are taught to be weapons. I'm still new to the power, but have faith that I could destroy at least twenty regular soldiers; especially if I saw them coming. So, I'd assume we have more hard power, as you call it. The White Tower; well, they have both, but more of a soft power. As I have said so rudely; that ring gets you places. Not to mention they have an entire Ajah devoted to negotiations. I'd very much like to equal the odds, if I could." He gave her a smile, and awaited more speech.

((Sorry, have to cut this short, being rushed.))

Raithgar nodded when an opening allowed, but otherwise kept silent, especially upon learning that this man was by far his superior. Still, he seemed friendly enough. When questioned directly, he had no choice but to answer. "I know that I can talk to wolves, my eyes will turn a brilliant yellow like your own, and my senses will sharpen to an unbelievably sharp point." He looked at the lodge, and shook his head, "No, I'm not all that hungry. Peace though, its hot this far south. This," he indicated his armor, "Can't be helping. Is there a room I may use to store my armor? I'll gladly help with whatever chores you have in return."

Even though he still had doubts about where his, and Anton's abilities originated; he found himself trusting the man. Still, he doubted he'd leave himself to open for a while yet. He'd seen men die, because they trusted another man; and he without strange abilities. After being led into a room, he methodically removed his heavy armor and let it rest next to his bed. He kept his sword belt on, he'd hate to be without it. The cotton underneath his armor was soaked with sweat. He did what he could with a basin to tidy up; but only a nice long bath would ever truly clean him.

Satisfied, he returned outside, and went to Anton. "Now, what would you have me do?" He looked at the unshaved log, wondering if that'd be his first chore. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to do such a thing; often he'd had to make a barricade.

Sereth nodded, taking every word the man gave him without much comment. He was still uneasy about the man, but was starting to push it away. "Yes sir." He assumed the void, and dug through it, and then he saw it. A golden light inside of his skull, pulsing; he was amazed that he hadn't seen that before! Taking Drak's words to heart, he launched himself at the source. Instantly he hit the taint, and he almost threw up every meal he'd ever drooled over.

Beneath it though, beneath that vile rot, he found life. Every color shone, vivid, had he ever seen before? Scents seems sharper, and every noise heard with a clarity he'd never thought possible. All of this paled next to the feeling of grappling with the source though. To ride those currents of molten ice, feeling it coursing through his body. This was worth the taint a thousand times over. A smile swept over him, and he looked at Drak. "Oh.. Oh by the light! This is both the most fantastic and vile thing I've ever felt! Teach me more! I want to wield it!" His voice echoed, and his tone was riddled with excitement.

Today was a new beginning; and in his mind, he owed it all to the man standing in front of him.

Arcon's jaw locked. By the Great Lord what had his mouth gotten himself into this time? He forced his jaw to unhinge, and instead flashed a grin. Oh, sure, he knew he was going to regret this, but it had to be done. "Thank you for the accommodations, Mr. Sweeper." Pushing fear of exactly where an arrow would be placed thanks to that comment out of his mind, he stepped into the middle of the ring.

His right hand held the sword at his left hip, and he bagan to draw in Unfolding the Fan. The first volley was shot. Three arrows, one in his back, one in his left shoulder, and the other in his right arm. His jaw clamped, and he dropped the sword. Bloody things hurt... He looked at his arm; that was going to bruise.

Still, he was prepared for the pain now, and so, he bent to pick up his fallen lathe. He ignored the words of the crew, and again began the forms. Right to left, Unfolding the Fan; three arrows didn't get a grunt. Lion on the Hill; he took two in the abdomen and three in the back, but continued with the now innate movements of Arc of the Moon

He continued from there, every form met with arrows, and he managed to get through one full set, then two. By three he felt his arms growing heavy, with both the repetition and the angry red welts forming all over his body. Still, he pushed on. He couldn't fail this late in. Besides, he felt fortunate; he hadn't been hit in the face yet. He finished Folding the Fan for the third time. As he began again that familiar motion of Unfolding the Fan for the final time, it happened.

He wasn't sure why, but one 'twang' of a bowstring stuck out above all others, as he moved into the initial slash. A heavy ball seemed to form in the pit of his stomach; and he knew why. A blunt arrow flew for his face, straight and true. He opened his eyes in shock, and that moment was all it took.

The Arrow struck him in the left eye.

He dropped the lathe; and his legs dropped him. A piercing scream ripped through the salty air on board the Merry Pauper. Arcon writhed on the deck, cursing, vowing things he wouldn't remember. After a minute, his managed to get onto his knees, and wrap his hands onto the shaft. Blood, tears, and pieces of his ruined eye burst fourth onto him and the deck as he pulled it out. His jaw was locked, as he desperately sought the void, but it evaded him. He instead sat shivering from pain and anger, as he looked around at the group of men whom had been shooting at him.

Each looked a few shades lighter; one of them had just blinded a future dreadlord. The words "Heal me" burst from him, every bit of malice he'd ever hidden bursting from him in those words. Oh how he wished he could seize the source! Everyone of them would be incinerated before even that crippled Rat could get him. He only wished he'd known who had shot that arrow; the arrow he still had clutched in his hands. A man appeared, Arcon could feel him holding the source. The man took his head, and the young acolyte felt cold washing over him. He shivered as it dug into his face, clawing at the injury and defeating it as well as every bruise that checkered his skin. He felt the blood stop flowing, and fell to his knees panting.

His stomach growled, but he knew what he needed more, and the dreadlord helped him to his feet. He was swiftly put into his bed. A few days later, he found food waiting for him, and he eagerly devoured it. Besides the tray, sat a black silk eye patch. He reached for it, and with a sigh fitted it onto his head. Checking his reflection in the water left for him; he shook his head. It overlayed his scar. "One scar is as good as another." He reflexively fed the next memory into the flame. It would do him no good to think of Alice now..

He promptly fell back asleep.

I haven't been able to find an updated list, if I can get the scores I'll gladly update that table though. So, is Demus' WS 7?

Arcon watched every piece of wood get lashed into place, and shook his head, fingers absently running through his hair. What wild scheme does he have for us now? He looked at his fellow classmates, and all returned a shrug. He noticed how a few didn't hold his eyes as long as normal. He could have growled. This ship was loosening his hold on the entire lot. Today, he had to succead, and all the unfaithful had to fail. Dominance was the only plausible way out of this.

It was good he'd remembered something about the Void. He couldn't believe he'd never thought to use it before today. The Oneness would be immeasurably useful, unless Mr. Sweeper planned on starting a knitting circle. Looking at the burly man, he doubted it. Then again, Arcon was here to learn the sword. At last, the raft was complete, and Mr. Sweeper spoke in his typical drawn out, arrogant tone. If Arcon didn't know better, he'd lathe him straight in that Goat Kissing Mouth. But alas, his jaw had only recently stopped clicking.

He was first. This was the chance to regain his dominance; he thought he needed it. The second his second foot hit the bound wood, two things happened. He assumed the void, and he felt the source being embraced. The mental equivalent of a sigh skittered the edge of the void, and he quickly grabbed hold of some bindings. Just in time for the first jerk. His arm wrenched, but pain was distant. Getting his adjusted sea legs, he moved to the center of the raft.

He started as he was taught to, Unfolding the Fan. The motion a graceful arc across the cool sea air. The raft hit the wake of the ship, and his legs buckled reflexively, adjusting for the height. None of this stopped him from raising his blade into Lion on the Hill. Without hesitation, he took that reflexive diagonal step, almost over balancing on his rolling platform. Still, the blade came from right to left, in Arc of the Moon.

He slammed hard onto his knee, but the concentration technique held firm. His wrists rotated, causing a simple downward slash, Courtier taps his Fan. Faint joy skittered the edge of the void, his favorite move so far. He was on the front of the raft, when he chose to extend his bent knee, and another large wave struck as he pulled into guard position. His back heel was on the edge, and he knew he was about to fall in. Reflex more than quick thinking saved him; The Falcon Swoops. Each of the overhand thrusts was in tune with a heavy step, Arcon fighting for position in the center.

Distantly he felt sweat beading on his body; the forms were taking him far longer than usual. Another thrust into, Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. He thought Mr. Sweeper would be proud of the extra strength he put into the blow; until he realized just who's face he imagined burying the blade hilt deep into. Without further ado, he finished with the sheathing technique. Folding the Fan. A graceful arc, slipping the wooden lathe into his imaginary sheath.

The ship slowed, and Arcon climbed aboard. Just before he was over the lip, he released the void. Those not intelligent enough to realize the Void's other uses didn't deserve it. He looked at the next one in line, nodding, before turning to Mr. Sweeper. His hair hanging wet against his head, and his clothes drenched. He did his best to put all of his father's arrogance into his stance. "Come on old man, next time make it hard."

He hid his surprise well when a ham sized fist didn't come flying for his face. Instead, he got a wide grin. This can't be good... Hope it was worth it. He looked over the men, hearing the satisfying yell of someone falling off the raft, and stood with his arms on the end of the hilt; the 'point' resting against the ships deck. He thought it just might be...

Well, I want a Band character, but the idea I want might better be suited in the Freelanders, thought I'd run it by the OOC forums.  The main issue, being his weapons.

I've grown kind of sick of the standard sword, axe, knives, etc. So, I wanted my primary and seconadary weapons to be a set of guantlets and gloves, with gloves as the primary. The characters general battle strategy would be more akin to a Greco-Roman wrestler/Sumo than a blademaster. The gloves would have barbs/blades (probably something akin to razor blades) on the palms, so any open palmed slap/attack would do some serious damage, especailly if he managed to get off a raking attack. The Guantlets would have a blade on top of the arm, so he could further rake an opponet, but the specail thing about them really is the outer side. I'd have notches, like a sword breaker. To give him some sort of an edge against a weapon with a far superior range.

I was thinking I might take him through FL for a couple WS points, then transfer him. Ideas on what I should do? Or if I should even bring him to the Band?

Thanks for the help. ^_^