Something was definitely not right. That much was evident as Tayline felt her curiosity dim to uncertainty and unease. If Sirayn had a mission for her, why had she come here at the brink of dawn when she could have just as easily sent a summons? Secrecy was no answer- sisters coming into their Ajah Head’s rooms at late hours was less remarkable than vice versa. Such a visit from Sirayn would have already been taken note of by every Green subversive enough to have the Captain-General watched. Equally clear was that her near-mentor had not dropped by just to chat. But if it were neither a mission nor a personal visit, then why was Sirayn here?

Later she would kick herself for not reacting the instant Sirayn drew more of the Source than her strength permitted, but in all honesty, she had good reason to think herself safe. This was the White Tower, bristling stronghold of the Light, surrounded by brave armies and populated by women irreversibly bound to do one another no harm. She was an ordinary sister with no particular political ambitions and no special threat to their enemy- even her Dreamwalking paled next to the mastery achieved by the Aiel. There was no obvious reason for anyone to single her out save an errand in Tel’aran’rhiod, and Sirayn could not possibly be here about that. So when the Captain-General embraced the Source with a capacity only an angreal could lend her, Tayline merely watched curiously, expecting something that would clarify the purpose of her visit.

She did not expect the shield.

At another time, had Sirayn been virtually anyone else, she would have made some desperate attempt to resist. A lunge for the other woman’s throat, or perhaps towards the daggers she had tossed carelessly on her desk the night before. As it was the shock was so great that she sat speechlessly, just as she’d been told. Had the Captain-General gone mad? Her words made no sense! No one knew better than Tayline just how costly the knowledge of Dreaming had come, but she had done nothing of real interest with it since she’d returned to the Tower. Her waking-world excursions had been equally unremarkable. There was no one to whom she could have made her presence known. She opened her mouth to say so, but the words stuck suddenly in her throat as another possibility came to mind.

Semirhage.

Tayline shut her eyes briefly, as if blocking out light would somehow block the thought as well. Her memories of the Forsaken were wrought with so much pain, the intensity itself seemed to have dimmed them over time. She remembered boiling water, and jeering, inhuman forms- she remembered agony and humiliating bliss and the burns that crept up her legs like a lover’s caress. She remembered her own blood painting the walls, remembered impossible heat and pressure in her veins. And she remembered seeing, through ruined eyes that constantly mended themselves under Lwena’s Healing, a lone, dark face, narrow and twisted in sadism. Semirhage. The Wise One’s had told her that Tayline would always be stronger than Semirhage in the Dream, that the Forsaken had used a ter’angreal to enter Tel’aran’rhiod and that no visitor to the realm could hope to master a fully trained Dreamer in her prime. But this was not Tel’aran’rhiod. No, all her senses were screaming that she was very much in the real world- a world that obstinately refused to bend itself to her will. She was helpless.

But of course it was not Semirhage at all, she reasoned against the deadly fear that rose in her chest. It could not be. Sirayn was channeling more than she normally could, it was true, but Semirhage had taken pleasure in showing Tayline her true nature and strength, in letting her know just how powerless she was. What Sirayn held now was barely a spark next to the bonfire of what Semirhage had held then. There was no longer any reason for the Forsaken to maintain the disguise, if that’s what it was, and nor had Semirhage been the type to utter threats. During her captivity, the woman had barely spoken more than ten words to her- she had let pain itself become the threat. Guaranteed agony if she resisted, promised relief if she would but yield her name.

“And my idea of showing no mercy has been known to be,†Sirayn was saying, apparently taking pleasure in seeing her flinch “… a little rough.â€

It could not be Semirhage. Surely Forsaken had better things to do in their spare time than hunt down the rare mortal who escaped them. Surely Semirhage would not be able to mimic Sirayn so thoroughly in speech and manner, unless… unless this was indeed Tel’aran’rhiod, and there were things the Forsaken knew that the Wise Ones did not. Perhaps she had been pulled into a trap so insidious that her awareness and control over the Dream were compromised. Perhaps Semirhage was utilizing the information on Sirayn stored within her own mind to come up with a convincing fake. Then again, words like “my sweet†were not very much like Sirayn at all. Were they more like Semirhage? When it came down to it, how much did she really understand about the Forsaken’s methods? She might try a different approach with every victim and Tayline would have no way of knowing. Who knew what secrets of the Dream had been lost in the Breaking? Who knew what Semirhage was truly capable of, with the twisting nether of Tel’aran’rhiod at her command?

Sirayn was behind her now. Tayline half-turned towards the sound of her voice, and could not still her trembling beneath the hand that stopped her. It felt like Sirayn’s hand. It was the right size and shape. But Sirayn would not have burst into her room to shield and threaten her for no reason at all, unless she really had gone mad. Tayline could not quite believe that either. Why was she doing this? She must have a good reason. It had to be Sirayn, behaving erratically, yet still sane, acting on some unknown piece of information and not—

“So, little sister.†The words came from startlingly, dreadfully close behind her, the chair tilting slightly under the woman’s scant weight. She felt fingers trace her throat and could not stop herself from flinching away. A test! she thought frantically. Sirayn had been among the few present while Semirhage had torn out her throat, part of the struggle between the Forsaken and Lwena with Tayline’s body as the battlefield. Sirayn was now testing to see what she would do in a situation that reminded her of it. Just a test, a commander checking up on her soldier. Routine. “Do you feel like talking now? Or do you require a little demonstration? A proof, shall we say, of my intent?â€

Test, Tayline reminded herself. She wondered if she’d receive a medal if she passed, and quelled a burst of hysteria-born laughter. She had to ask. Sirayn might think her an idiot if she was wrong, but nevertheless; she had to know.

“If that is you, Semirhage, you can stop playing your games. You didn’t get what you wanted the first time we met, and you’ll never—“

And that was where her bravado failed her, as bold words caught and died in her throat. She’d been brave in her last encounter with Semirhage, too, and the woman had been amused. There was no way she could put up that sort of front twice. Not while knowing what there was to come.

Tayline sat in her chair and focused on trying to stop trembling.

Tayline Jolryn

Green Ajah

She slept, peacefully, and for once dreamlessly. Tayline Jolryn was the only Dreamwalker in hundreds of years of Tower history and as such the demands on her beauty rest were... overwhelming, at times. Time spent Dreaming did not provide normal rest. Depending on what she encountered in Tel'aran'rhiod, it was possible to wake up less rested than when she lay down- but such were the obligations of a rare Talent. A Green sister's life was sacrifice; or so she was often told. Particularly by those who wanted something.

In such context a knock on her door in the early hours of the morning was unsurprisingly, though hardly welcome. Tayline woke instantly and worked her thoughts into as much order as possible- the Aiel Wise Ones had been successful in teaching her to wake swiftly where it had earlier required a small army to rouse her, but in the area of rapid alertness they had had less success. She yawned, stretched, and shrugged into a plain white nightrobe over her loose-fitting sleepwear. Someone with a worthwhile errand, she hoped, or perhaps another sister with an agenda she would be forced to refuse. Maybe it was time to leave the Tower again. Blinking such thoughts from her head, she opened the door to her chambers and straightened somewhat in surprise.

"Captain General." She saluted the diminutive woman as crisply as she could manage, heedless of how ridiculous it must look from someone sporting nightwear and sleep-touseled hair. It had been some time since she had seen Sirayn; recent Tower politics had seen to that. Tayline kept her nose as far out of such matters as possible. "Come in, please," she stepped deferentially to one side.

Sirayn crossed the threshold but made no move to seat herself, regarding her instead with a rather disconcerting stare. Tayline blinked. A trickle of unease pierced the morning fog. "Uh... is there something I can do for you?"

OOC- Sorry for the delay, and for the brevity. I couldn't really think of anything else to write.

Tayline Jolryn

Green Ajah

Ja’varan couldn’t help it: she rolled her eyes. The last thing a Chosen needed was to be MORE famous; there was hardly a child alive in this modern world who hadn’t been frightened into good behavior with tales of the Thirteen. What was the girl trying to accomplish? Was this an attempt to make her angry? Alec Gaidin herself mattered less to Ja’varan than an ant. She was important only as a means to get to Lanfir, and beyond that, her chances of making an impact were virtually nonexistant.

“If you really don’t know my name, you’ve either been living your whole life under a rock, or you’re an idiot.†She took in Alec’s obviously Shienaran dress and features. “Since I’m quite sure there’s no place that backwards even in Shienar, I think option two is evident enough.â€

“As for your Aes Sedai… I will leave her alone when her life and home are in ruins. When everything she has ever loved lies in ashes around her, then will I leave her in peace. She will have peace from me when she is broken, abandoned, and wishing for death.†Ja’varan smiled at the stricken Warder pleasantly. “Until then, I believe you are utterly screwed.â€

What was a woman like Alec’s greatest fear? Not death, certainly. Like most Warders, Alec Gaidin probably assumed she would either die in defense of her bondmate or long before her of old age. No, Alec’s biggest fear was something a bit more subtle. She did a quick evaluation and decided she still had ample time before Lanfir and anyone accompanying her would arrive.

Ja’varan ran her fingers through her hair and sighed as though in regret. “Well, you’ve already failed the Amyrlin Seat by leading her right into my trap. Surely you feel like you deserve what’s coming to you. After all, betrayal by a bondmate, someone who’s sworn to protect you… is there any failure quite so appalling? No. I think not.â€

And with that, she channeled Air and Fire and broke both of Alec Gaidin’s legs at the thighs. The weave spread through the bone, splintering the once-strong tissue into fragments beyond earthly repair.

“Unfortunately for you, the weave I just used causes damage that can’t be Healed by the Power,†Ja’varan said when the young woman was done screaming. It was utter nonsense, of course; her broken legs could be Healed like any other injury, but Alec would have no way of knowing that. “You’ll spend the rest of your life unable to walk properly. Which, by the way, just might affect your efficacy as a Warder.â€

Sometimes a psychological approach could be even more crippling than mere pain. A pair of shattered femurs wasn’t pleasant, but they caused nowhere near as much physical suffering as the weave of pain she’d channeled earlier. The anguish in Alec’s eyes told her she was on the right track. “Oh wait, I’m sorry. Did that hurt? I’d hate to leave you in such pain for long. Pity I can’t Heal you, but I do have something just as good.â€

She severed Alec’s spinal cord at the hips. The woman’s eyes grew huge.

“It shouldn’t hurt anymore,†Serashada whispered silkily. “Of course, now you’re paralyzed from the waist down. You’ll be useless as a Warder for the rest of your days. But hey, cheer up. You’ll make a truly superb Tower doorstop.â€

Ja’varan

Serashada

Chosen

Midway through her charge invisible ropes bound her from out of nowhere, stretching her arms until they pulled free from their sockets. Agony blossomed. Sylandia watched her saber skitter uselessly to one side and, strangely, felt no fear. This was where she was meant to be: directly between Lanfir and death. No man or beast would harm her bondmate while she yet lived.

"This wasn't meant for you, but I can always make more," the madman said in a whisper.

Ah, but that's where you're wrong.

Syl smiled at him. A brilliant, young girl's smile, innocent and carefree.

This is exactly what's meant for me.

And then the air around her turned white, her hair rippling with the charge, and there was heat and light and color, so much color in the world as she never could have dreamed. And there was Lanfir. Always Lanfir. Syl reached out through the bond to touch her one last time.

She could see the room from where she lay on the floor for one brief moment, and noticed with mild surprise that her hands were unscarred. There they were, lying limp and lifeless by her head, but the familiar etched pattern of white lines was gone. Alec? There was no response, but Syl felt deep in her bones that her former mentor was close by.

She passed with a faint smile on her lips. To her, it was as though she and Lanfir were holding hands and she needed but to let go a moment. They would find each other again soon.

It would be soon.

OOC- Oh Syl, we hardly knew ye. :(

Sylandia Kaiserian

Bonded to Lanfir

Always

Syl was not in the Tower when her world began its end, but in the Yards, weaving through the Forms with more determination than masterly grace. Sweat dripped from the short-cut tips of her hair, fanning the courtyard in a fine spray as she whirled. Her sleeveless shirt hung soaked from her thin frame. Most people who saw Sylandia Kaiserian judged her a servant, or perhaps an especially shy page. She was small, no taller than most children, and her face bore the youth of its eighteen years in truth. Even should she wear the White her gait lacked the budding self-importance of novices, though if one looked closely, there was a certain balance to her movement no ordinary child could claim. What people noticed about her instead were her scars. Her back was literally etched with them. They ran jagged patterns down her arms and stood out prominently on her neck. It had taken Syl a long time to learn not to be ashamed of those scars. Her road to Wardership had been marked by struggles unfamiliar to the average aspirant, and one need only look on those scars to know why. Lack of innate talent with weaponry was the least of Syl’s troubles. She had come to the Tower to escape a ruined childhood from which the healing process had been long, and quite frankly incomplete. Her… visions… spoke to that. Only Alec’s coaching and Lanfir’s patient support had taught her to discern between reality and the phantasmal images from her own disturbed consciousness. Alec was gone now- the thought of her murder triggered mixed fury and grief so strong she nearly stumbled- but her legacy lived, and Syl enjoyed a fairly normal life.

Lanfir’s presence in the back of her mind spoke of administration; Syl had come to recognize the peaceful semi-boredom in her bondmate’s thoughts as a herald of paperwork. She took a breath, began the sweeping transition into Low Wind Rising— and then the contentment she’d been enjoying evaporated from under her like so much thin ice. People were screaming. Syl picked herself up off the cobblestones with ringing ears. The foundation was damaged- she could feel the earth beneath her trembling from the onslaught, and groped for the handle of her fallen saber in a daze. Doing so brought her in contact with a young Warder who’d been practicing near her only moments before. Now his eyes stared sightlessly up at nothing. Anduin, that had been his name. He’d earned his Tower Guard’s cloak so recently, Syl had been wearing one herself during his promotion. Perfectly healthy Warders falling dead in the Yards could only mean one thing: Aes Sedai were dying. For the first time in centuries, the White Tower of Tar Valon was under attack.

Syl found her saber and ran towards the chaos full tilt.

She could feel Lanfir moving through the corridors towards the source of the destruction and sent a surge of caution through the bond. Wait for me! She couldn’t lose Lannie like she had Alec. No chance of a battle-hardened veteran of centuries sitting quietly in her office while her very home was under attack; Amyrlin or no Amyrlin, Lanfir Aes Sedai would meet the threat to the White Tower on her own terms. Not a thought for her own safety skittered across her bondmate’s emotions. Wait, Lannie. Syl ran.

Unsurprisingly there were far more people trying to get out of the Tower at that particular moment than in, and Syl was delayed by a throng of panicked visitors and residents alike. Someone had taken it upon themselves to start herding the novices outside to where it was safer, and white-clad girls were everywhere, crying, screaming, or just standing around dazed. “Bloody move,†she growled at them, with uncharacteristic vehemence. Something was happening within the Tower. Another vast tremor rocked the stones beneath them and a bright jolt of pain went through the part of her directly connected to Lanfir. They had fallen- where? Cellar door. They were in the cellar below the Tower, but the chaos around the Great Hall would be too great for her to reach them in time. She had to get to the door. Sylandia gathered herself and ran through a mercifully deserted series of interconnected corridors until she found the set of stairs she wanted. She leapt to the bottom and flung open the door.

The scene she faced was one of nightmares: the simple storage space she was familiar with was now an unrecognizable mass of stone, rubble and bodies. She could see Lanfir on one side of the makeshift chamber, with Lyanna beside her- a bit bruised, but mercifully otherwise unharmed. The amount of saidar she could feel surging through the bond meant without a doubt that they were linked; Syl uttered a silent prayer of thanks that Lanfir was not alone, and that it was Lyanna who was with her. There was no other soul in the Tower she would rather have defending her Aes Sedai.

The figure standing opposite of them would have been unremarkable if not for his obvious madness, which Syl noted with a grimace of reluctant familiarity. She of all people should know the signs. His face was flushed, eyes wild and ecstatic, and whatever he was mumbling about the White Tower’s tombstone was clearly not sane. A rogue male channeler, then. Some distant part of her had hoped for Serashada. Not a day went by that Syl didn’t pray for a chance to reach her mentor’s murderer, but if her prayers were ever to be answered, today was plainly not the day. She took a step forward, moving silently into the room.

“You shouldn’t have come here,†Lanfir said, serene and almost kind. Through the Amyrlin’s inner eye Syl felt the lifeblood of the Wheel coalesce and take form with more complexity and depth than ever she had felt before, and suddenly she knew her bondmate’s plan. Balefire. It would work! She whirled back to the madman and saw this time the tiniest glint of a spark between his fingertips. And another. And another. The hairs on her neck rose. Was there a charge in the air?

He lied. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. He’s going to channel lightning, he’s channeling it already I can feel it, and they’ll be too late, the weave is too complex… Caladesh shifted slightly, and panic consumed her. Lanfir and Lyanna were too far away for Syl to get to them in time.

“No!â€

The word was out of her mouth even as her sword was in her hand and her first running steps pounded amongst the scattered rubble. She could feel Lannie’s frantic denial through the bond, words echoing through the chamber, but nothing except their assailant mattered. She watched as if in slow motion as his features softened, smoothened, red hair blooming around his shoulders and settling provocatively around his waist. Serashada. Alec’s murderer. So it WAS her, after all.

I’ll kill you for Alec, you Lightforsaken whore.

Syl’s teeth bared themselves in a snarl. Her pace quickened, her saber raised.

She would end this.

OOC- So no one is confused, Caladesh is not actually morphing into Serashada here- Syl is simply a bit touched, and since she's upset at the moment that’s what she sees. I’ll post once more to reflect her final moment once Caladesh has a chance to react.

Sylandia Kaiserian

Bonded to Lannie

Ah. Never. The young were inordinately fond of that word, given how little they knew of what it meant. Ja’varan had been young and careless once. The section of the Blight in which she was ambushed had been unpatrolled, isolated, yet she took no extra guard. As a result her struggle had been brief and futile, herself taken, her Warder slain. Oh yes, she knew those words. How hoarsely had she screamed them herself, when they dragged her to the chamber of the Thirteen?

You

will

NEVER

turn me!

You will never turn me to the Shadow. You will never harm them through me. I am a sister of the Green Ajah. I am an Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah…

And it had been with these words echoing in her head, echoing in her screams, that the circle’s leader had touched her with the Source. The darkness had flooded in, her life’s convictions been swept away like so much garbage. Never? Never was a bubble bursting on the needle of inevitability. Never passed as you drew breath. Never was millennia imprisoned, watching her body waste away. A child like Alec understood less of ‘never’ than she did of variegated Gate penumbras, and Serashada doubted the girl could even pronounce the term.

Yet something of the woman who had been Ja’varan Durlani stirred faintly in recognition of the young Warder’s words. Not compassion, as compassion was beyond her, but… a memory of compassion, perhaps. A shadow of something long forgotten.

“Oh, you poor, poor fool,†Ja’varan said in tones that were not quite pity. “If there were a flower for every time I’ve heard those words, I could bring the Tower down under their weight.†Whole continents would drown in petals if every man or woman’s pointless, defiant grief could be channeled somehow into blooms. That was the ‘never’ Lanfir’s Warder so blithely spoke of. Alec Gaidin was lucky that this taste of it was all she would ever get.

Ja’varan channeled pain at peak intensity for what were probably the longest 15 seconds of Alec’s life. Any longer could kill her, and Ja’varan was not yet finished.

“So tell me,†she said when the Warder was again able to meet her eyes, “what do you think Lanfir is doing right now? Is she sitting in the Hall with her hands folded neatly? Or is she coming… at this very moment… to help you, and in doing so coming – right – to – me?â€

The girl’s eyes were leagues wide with comprehension or pain, and Ja’varan’s vague sympathy turned to disgust. “You little fool, you have already given her to me. You betrayed her by your very existence. The link between you, and her concern for you, is bringing her here as we speak.†Fine specimen of a Warder, indeed. She could not stay long enough for Lanfir to show up in person lest the Amyrlin be bringing an army with her, but Alec would have no means of knowing that.

“Shall we wait for her together, then? You’re a clever girl, you can make good use of this time. Think of something that would let a woman like Lanfir forgive your failure. Do it well enough and I may even let her live.â€

OOC- Bleh, this didn’t come out quite right, but oh well. :)

Ja’varan

Serashada

Chosen

OOC- Apologies once more for the wait, girls. :S If I had realized this weekend it was my turn, you’d have had this days ago.

Cruelty was in Serashada’s nature. Emotional fits of pique were not. Thus as she made her way to the Amyrlin’s chambers, the overwhelming, almost hysterical desire for revenge faded into something cooler, reasonable, more calculated. It wouldn’t do to go barging in with saidar blazing and sparks flying- that would attract too much attention, not to mention lever unnecessary risk to her person. Something a bit more subtle would be needed until she had both women Shielded and firmly in her grasp. Serashada ran through the potential options in her mind. She could try the invisibility trick- it would be wonderful to watch the dawn of horror and realization on their ageless faces as she appeared out of thin air. That approach had its risks, however. She was no more able to walk through wooden doors while invisible than while not, and stupid as the Amyrlin and Keeper might be, they were not SO stupid as to ignore a door opening of its own will. Pity. Ja’varan pursed her lips, considering. Eventually she decided on simply disguising herself as another sister- hey, if it worked for Mesaana all this time, why not for her? A moment of channeling and a quick twist to invert the weave rendered it done.

Her breath was slow and even, her heart steady, as she approached the ornate door of the Amyrlin’s study. She felt no nervousness. No excitement. Only a tightly controlled sense of anticipation guided her footsteps. This time, on this day, things were going to go her way, and there would be no escape.

A brief knock on the door and she was admitted by a young woman she recognized after a moment as one of Lanfir’s Gaidin. “Lanfir Sedai is rather busy at the moment, Aes Sedai, and I can’t say when she will be back,†the girl recited cheerfully. “May I take your name? I can ask her to arrange a meeting with you if you should wish it.â€

Serashada considered her for a spell, thoughts racing. Except for the convening of the Hall, Lanfir and Lyanna spent practically every moment of their miserable lives in these rooms- that there apparently had been a meeting just as she stopped by was a particularly brutal streak of bad luck. She could wait for them, of course. Or simply stop by later. But every moment that she delayed increased the chance that Lanfir would realize she no longer wore the bracelet, and simple revenge was not worth the premature risk of discovery. No, the best thing to do was to cut her losses and… execute a tactical retreat. Chosen never ran.

Besides, the presence of the girl posed an unexpected opportunity.

Lanfir’s hapless Warder was still waiting for a response. “Yes, you may give the Amyrlin my name. I am called Serashada.†And with that, she dropped the weave of disguise and embraced the Source, wrapping the child securely in thick cords of Air and hoisting her off the ground.

Her prisoner’s yelp of surprise barely registered with her as Ja’varan absently channeled a weave to soundproof the chamber. “Now, what was your name again? Alain? Alex? Al… ah, that’s right, Alec. Well Alec, I’m afraid I can hardly leave you to deliver my message in person, but the link between you and your Aes Sedai provides… other means of communication.â€

Fire and Spirit, laced through with threads of Water, coalesced before her and raced towards her victim. Alec Gaidin screamed in agony as soon as the weave touched her, settling in intricate knots around the young woman’s head and spine. As Ja’varan increased the weave’s intensity, she felt a powerful sense of satisfaction. Weren’t Gaidin a wonderful thing?

Ja’varan

Serashada

Chosen

Ooh right. I knew that at one point. *is a retro noob*

Thanks Lie. :D

Ja'varan, Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah, experienced veteran of centuries, servant of the Dark Lord, Chosen - Forsaken - strode the corridors of the Tower, a perfect Aes Sedai mask of serenity in place to hide her tumultuous feelings. The past months had been beyond horrific for her. Captivity. A simple slip, the tiniest mistake - everything had been going according to plan! Certainly, Lanfir had deduced her true identity in a moment of unusual insight, but that should have been easily taken care of with a bit of Compulsion and some careful monitoring. So she'd gloated a bit before applying the weave to make the Amyrlin forget. Who could blame her? Serashada outshone Lanfir as the sun outshone a candle. Her strength - impressive for this day and age - barely presented even a nominal threat. She'd overwhelmed the leader of the modern world effortlessly. So, why, then, hadn't she thought to look over her shoulder? If Lyanna had been so foolish as to channel, Ja'varan would have crushed her easily, put her under the same weave of deception as Lanfir, dusted her hands, and waltzed out. Yet she hadn't channeled. Instead she'd simply crept up silently from behind and knocked her out with a vase. The humiliation of it was unbearable, and if she hadn't hated them both as much as she did, the Keeper's clear thinking and unconventional assault would have earned her a glimmer of respect.

There was no room for respect beneath the pure loathing she felt for them both. Killing her outright would have earned her rebirth under the Great Lord's blessing - reduced perhaps, but still more than a match for the pair of chits and their infantile mechanisms. Instead... she put her hand to her throat, withdrew it before touching the delicate necklace that lay there. Early experience had taught her better than to touch it. Never had she heard of a ter'angreal so singularly capable of reducing a channeling woman to utter helplessness. And it was unescapable! She could not channel without their permission, attempting to remove the necklace was an excellent way to writhe in agony, and Great Lord protect her, the pain they could inflict! They knew exactly where she was at all times, how she felt, maybe even her thoughts themselves. Necessity had forced them to allow her to move freely around the Tower lest her disappearance raise suspicion, but Ja'varan knew all too well the price of attempting to leave. The price of defiance. Such pain as she had never known... and that was before they'd introduced her to the Chair of Woe.

She lay trapped in darkness, the cold walls of the storage shelf, air pressing in on her on all sides, long since failing to recognize the screams echoing off the narrow metal walls as her own. Starvation and dehydration racked her, her dessicated form fouled with her own waste. A thin tube lead into a vein in her arm, providing her with just enough sustenance to stay alive, though nothing like what she needed to stay healthy. Her arms lay crossed over her stomach, legs straight, wrapped tightly in a shroud-like fabric prison. Movement was impossible. A strap held her head immobile to the slab. How long she'd been there, she'd no idea - an eternity since they'd forced her screaming onto the metal tray and slid her into what the operators simply called Storage. A wall of lockers identical to her own, just large enough to contain a human adult with only a few inches on all side, resonant with the screams, moans and gibbering madness of its occupants. Insanity wracked her. Light glimmered in the total, absolute darkness. She ranted and she raved. She screamed, wept and fouled herself without noticing. And then there was the awful knowledge that sometimes prisoners were left in this inky hell for years, decades, never again to emerge..."

Ja'varan blinked and found herself leaning on a wall with one hand. Sweat had broken out on her forehead, and she was trembling. Those "memories" were thanks to Serashada, the most notorious horror she'd committed during the War of Power - though it was hardly the only one. Thousands of men and women had been interned in those rectangular coffins at her command, to be released at her whim, insane, twisted shadows of their former selves. Semihrage had her methods of ensuring total submission, Serashada had her own. As a method of extracting information from the most powerful of leaders, only Semirhage's weaves could rival the nightmare of Storage. That was what the Chair of Woe had shown her. The secrets she'd given up afterwards filled her with shame.

"Are you all right, Aes Sedai?" Ja'varan jumped, and turned to see an Accepted peering up at her with mixed trepidation and concern. The temptation to rip the girl apart was overwhelming, but like most of her desires these days, unacheivable. "I'm fine, child," she gritted out. "Now run al-"

Her eyes went wide. For the first time in months, the looming presence of Lanfir or Lyanna on the other end of the a'dam link was gone. A trick? She hesitated, wondering. The link remained empty. Ja'varan steeled herself- this was the chance she'd been waiting for, and she wasn't likely to get another one. The Accepted was still looking at her, clearly unsure whether or not to fetch a Yellow. "Actually, child, there is something you can do for me. Do you see the necklace I'm wearing? It has a... rather unusual clasp, and very difficult to unfasten on one's own. You will help me unfasten it, and maybe there will be some sweetcakes waiting for you later."

Sweetcakes her Forsaken hiney, but the little fool's eyes lit up at the mention of them. It took a moment for the girl to puzzle out the mechanism of the clasp, but eventually there was an audible click, and the seemingly innocuous piece of jewelry slid off and into her hand. Ja'varan placed it into her pocket with as much dignity as she could muster. Tears of joy threatened. Finally. Freedom. She barely saw the Accepted's curtsy and cheerful departure.

Mastering her emotions, she straightened to consider her options. Now what? She could flee, of course. Take her horse from the stable, ride to the countryside, open a Gateway someplace no one would detect the residue and Travel to wherever she pleased. By the time Lanfir and her frizzle-haired idiot lover even knew she was gone she'd be on the other side of the continent. Or... or she could make them suffer. Oh yes, they would suffer. Serashada didn't have Semirhage's talent for exquisite agony, but she knew a few of her more basic... very uncomfortable weaves. And when she was done with them both, she'd put the collar on Lanfir and see how SHE liked it. After Compelling Lyanna to fling herself off a Tower balcony. While Lanfir watched. The tragic suicide of the Keeper, which no one saw coming, and if the Amyrlin looked a little worse for wear afterwards, who could blame her? The Amyrlin would dance as a puppet to her tune - Mesaana would love this, oh yes. And maybe the Chair of Woe would find a new occupant. Lanfir didn't have Serashada's capacity for withstanding guilt. She could watch, helpless, as her lover flung herself to her death... again. And again. And again.

With a laugh that sounded a trifle mad even to her own ears, Serashada set off towards the rooms of the Amyrlin.

OOC- Mwahahahaha. ;) I hope this satisfies you girls.

So, it's been so long since I posted that my account was inactive, I had to re-register, and now I get a "Sorry, only users granted special access blah blah" message when I try to post. I would appreciate having my access renewed before I get beaten upside the head by impatient fellow roleplayers. ;)

Who wants to help me? :D