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DRAGONMOUNT

A WHEEL OF TIME COMMUNITY

Winter Mist

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About Winter Mist

  • Birthday 11/20/1978

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  1. ~Clarai~ The other woman’s cheerfulness was a bonus to her. Everyone had a different way of behaving, that was only to be expected, but it was difficult to bear sometimes. Still, she could not hold anything against the other woman. She had comforted her in times of need. Tears started to form at the corners of her eyes. She missed him. Oh, how she missed him! To hear from him, to know that her heart still worked … that was all she needed. Purpose to live, that was what she wanted. Nothing more. A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away before the other woman could see it. Tonight’s festivities should not be marred by her maudlin streak. Even if all she wanted to do was cry. After a time, Clarai spoke. “I’m fine, thank you Masura. I’m just a little thoughtful, that’s all.” She could not tell the other woman that the majority of her mind dwelt in the old days with someone she loved more than her own life. She just wanted him here. “I’m hoping that a lot of people turn up tonight. I have not seen some of our kin in a while and it would be good to know that everyone is alright.” Yes, make Masura believe that she was worried for her kin. She nodded as though a purpose for the moment had been decided and moved with the same blank expression she had before Masura’s arrival. Pouring herself a glass of water, Clarai gestured to Masura to make herself comfortable. “We could be a while yet. Tell me, Masura, how are things with you? Have you been learning a new craft to help blend in?” Clarai herself was a seamstress that specialised in embroidery at the moment, but she was looking for a new avenue of opportunity to help blend in. She would wear her hair in many styles, learn many crafts, but her face would remain the same. As would her memory.
  2. ~Dilora~ Somewhere in the dim and distant fog of her mind, Dilora realised she had never before met a Wisdom. In all of her travels through towns and villages alike, she had always done business with the men of the councils and the women had not really been in evidence. Oh, they were at windows or busily about their work, but she had not spoken overmuch with them. A smile formed at the corners of her lips at the thought that things were coming full circle and that the women were shaping her life more than men were now, and closed her eyes to drift into a less painful slumber than she had known for a few days. Her last conscious thought was that she had not thanked the Wisdom for her kindness. Ah, well. Some time later, when the sky outside was darkening and clouds still lingered in ominous presence overhead, Dilora woke. Her mouth was dry and she tasted some foul substance in her mouth that might just have been the result of her sleep, and the world did not seem as agonising as it had done. She lifted her arms experimentally. The pain had receded a little. The burning around her shoulder joint was not as bad as it had been and she felt in better health, if still weak. Could she get up? She tried to move her legs. A few minutes later, she tried again. She managed to get her legs over the edge of the bed and almost put her feet on the floor when the tiredness hit her again. Perhaps she’d just lay here for a bit first. Relaxing sideways, Dilora put her head on the pillow and went to sleep again. Sleepwell root, she remembered the Wisdom saying. She’d have to remember that when the nightmares came again. Full dark had descended when Dilora woke again. Saerythra had thoughtfully lit a candle that burned slowly in the corner of the room, giving a cheerful glow. This time, it felt a lot easier when she moved her arm, if still painful. That Sleepwell root was good stuff. Her bare feet hit the floor and she shuffled slowly towards the door to try and find the kindly woman that had helped her.
  3. ~Rossa~ Rossa did as the older sister directed, picking up a stool from alongside the far wall and returning to the desk with it. She arranged her skirts so it would not crease them, an old habit from her days at Court, and one she would not forget. Her mother would never have her children appear at less than their best, and even though they were gone now. This was one of the ways she would honour her mother’s memory. The small carvings she had done all those years ago on the road to Tar Valon while the tears cried with grief were still fresh on her cheeks were still in her belt pouch. The faces were worn now, but still recognisable as her family. She should put a keeping on them to ensure their survival against the ravages of time. She noticed that Raeyn was looking at her in a strange way. Light blasted slips of composure were inexcusable! “Yes,” Rossa began, folding her hands in her lap “it is for my research. I am wondering whether we can work weave-based locks into barrels. A trigger system to enable food to be kept, sealed, for as long as the weave lasts – be it the duration of a harsh winter or a few years.” The texts looked as though they would hold the answer to her question, but there was something else here. There was an ineffable sadness to the other sister here that she could not put her finger on. “Do you think it would be possible? Do you think we could help people live longer, doing what I have in mind?” Rossa ventured.
  4. ~Dilora~ Eyes tinged with pain and tiredness regarded the thing dropped so pleasantly into her lap. A hat? Oh, whatever, it could stay there for now. Her arms did not have the strength to pick it up and put it on her head at the moment. It wasn’t precisely fear rooting her to the spot; Dilora could not have defended herself against those brigands even in perfect condition, but she could have used her charm on them. As it was, she looked as though she had fought a hedge, and the hedge had won. Still, it was a good hat, if a bit battered and greyer in places from wear. The leather was folded into shape, the sign of an expensive make at one point. She shook her head resignedly. Unable to defend herself except by a hat, Dilora let the reins drop and watched the unfolding scene. The bandits were going down one by one at the pairs’ skill. Her own skill with a bow would have been useful from a distance, had she a working arm to draw the bowstring to her cheek in the first place. No. She could not say she would have been any use at all, other than a hat stand. She muttered as such under her breath while the older looking man wiped his sword. The woman looked in dire need of a hug and a drink of some sort; Dilora’s cure-all. There would be time for medicinal brandy (naturally) after they had moved away from this spot. The bandits finished, the man held the woman close, and Dilora surmised they were lovers. He must have felt her eyes on his back, for he turned towards her and started to sheathe the massive sword to a holster on his back. The woman stood there, numbly, and then began to follow. He introduced them. Mehrin Mahrvon and Drea Raylin. Names that oddly stuck in the memory, Dilora decided. She had one of those memories for names, but she doubted she would forget those that saved her life. “Dilora Fashelle.” Weakly, Dilora extended her hand to the man and then the woman, before adding “Peddler, if you could not guess.” Her eyes flickered to the hat in her lap. “Thanks for the timely intervention. I would have been able to stop them – what am I saying? I would have had more chance of dancing the Sa’sara on a tabletop in an Amadician tavern wearing nothing but a Great Serpent ring.” Dilora shook her head. “I believe this hat belongs to you?”
  5. ~Ruan~ The pristine oaken hulls shone dully in the low hanging sun. Not yet arisen from its bed, the sun would eventually speed them on their way with fair weather and, the Light willing, swift currents. It would take time to get to their destination, but they were ready now. The High Lady Ruan Andradem Kore Paendrag, Daughter of the Nine Moons and leader of the Return, looked out to see through the spyglass and focussed on the horizon. No land mass would be visible for a long time yet, but it gave her a sense of purpose to look so far ahead. She withdrew it from her eye and held it by her side, reluctant to give it back to the captain even if she held the right to retain it. Orange beams of sunlight strained through the banks of cloud, fading to salmon pinks and the duskier purples where the night struggled to keep its hold. Dim stars twinkled overhead in the mass; Ruan made the symbol for good fortune with her thumb and forefinger and gestured in the hope of smooth sailing. May the Lady of the Shadows not rouse herself to their number yet, she silently prayed. Final preparations and checks were still being made as Ruan walked along the harbour wall to the gangplank to the Hailene. The most prestigious ship of the fleet would naturally carry her. Barrels of food, carefully preserved, would stand the test of the journey, as would the hard biscuits normally carried by ships to further eke out provisions. Not that such deprivation would affect her. No one would dare give the Daughter of the Nine Moons anything less than the highest of anything! And she would not deny it either; the position was hers by right of birth, and the blood spilt by her hand had cemented that right as her own. Small cracks began to appear in the clouds overhead. The sun would be breaking through at any moment. Those to accompany her awaited the final orders to board; there was little remaining to do now. On her words, the Return would begin and on her second words the lines would be cast and the harbour at Seanchan put behind them. She should check that all of the Damane had been brought aboard safely and kennelled and that there were no issues with the Sul’dam. Most likely such issues would not be brought to her attention anyway. Ruan regarded a seabird flying over the boat, dipping its wings briefly in some sort of salute before diving cleanly into the ocean. It was a good omen. She returned her gaze to the deck. At the far end, the handlers were loading the Raken on board; they would be so very essential to the Return. Able to fly easily for long distances carrying scouts and messengers, most of the distance communication would be enabled by these winged darlings. She rather fancied having an exotic, one day. Effectively everything here was her property as she was in command, but it was not the same as raising it oneself. On the far side the soldiers were drilling, preparing themselves for the inevitable resistance they would encounter on the mainland. A few of those hardy souls had caught her eye in training and she felt a few field promotions were in order. As soon as the sun sank behind the horizon this very night she would pen the necessary words to install some of them in her personal guards; Deathwatch by name. The experiences received by a new recruit would be far greater than a lifetime spent in the somewhat protected expanses of the Court of the Nine Moons. Fighting battles was a completely different exotic to protecting the nobility from a dagger in the back, or settling minor land conflicts by open displays of force or object lessons. Besides, it would improve morale, and there would likely be casualties even of those with the calibre of the Deathwatch. An idea occurred to her. No commander would dare let his or her unit become idle or complacent on such an important mission as this, but she felt morale needed to be wooed to her personally, as a figurehead, rather than the Seanchan as a whole. They were proud, and rightly so, but Ruan Andradem Shoa Paendrag did not know how much of that pride was for her mother, the Empress, might She live forever. Tournaments would be held, and the winners further tested and promoted. Daily swims would be encouraged as well as demonstrations of fighting ability. They would acquiesce; they had no choice, but it would be for the good of all. It would be for the Empire. She raised her voice. Every face turned to look at her, even as their downcast eyes did not catch her visage. Every soul stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Time for a speech, she decided, and then time to leave. Time to put Seanchan behind and reclaim what had been denied. It was time. “Until now, those ignorant savages have occupied what is rightfully ours. You know why we load bales and barrels onto so many ships. Now, we return to take back the lands so vehemently denied to our ancestors! Now, we are ready. Do not think you are so little to be noticed. Everyone will have his or her piece of glory in the coming days. New names will be recorded by our scribes and taken to the Empress, might She live forever! Yes, there will be danger, but nothing good is ever easy! For those that demonstrate bravery in the face of adversity there will be riches and there will be glory, prestige and a new name. There will be many lands in need of new leaders, all united under the Ever-Victorious banner and I mean for as many of those that deserve to claim one. Every man, woman and child has their part to play and by the Nine Moons I intend to use you all, but I will reward you handsomely. Now we sail to glory!”
  6. OOC - I've had a very trying week and am sorry for not replying sooner. I shall post something in character during the next day or so. No voting for the Mod, either ;) I am above suspicion and cannot be voted for as I assigned the roles in the first place ;) Also, can I please reiterate that no communication should take place between members except communicating with myself for a night action or for the killers. IC Wynne looked around at the assembled people and smiled. "So far we have the following votes:" She looked at her list and began to read them out. "Thea Taisse, one vote. Burgundy, two votes. Myst, one vote and Kara Jay'Alon, one vote." Wynne looked at those that had not yet spoken. "Do not be afraid to come forward and voice your suspicions. Also, in this matter I am above suspicion, so do not seek to cast your votes at me. You shall have a little while longer to put forward your arguments, but then one person must be eliminated." She steepled her fingers. "It is up to you." OOC (again) - You'll have until Wednesday night at 5pm GMT for anyone else that wants to put their vote forward to do so, then the person with the most votes will be eliminated.
  7. ~Wynne~ Her keen eyes took in the rest of the room, taking in every little detail. So far there was nothing overly suspicious about any of them. Uncrossing her slightly muscular legs, Wynne pushed herself to her feet and crossed to the sideboard, taking the stopper from a decanter of wine and pouring herself a small restorative measure. She had been to see the body of the former Lady before coming to this room and, although she had seen some gruesome sights in her time, she had not been prepared for the amount of blood the woman had lost. Some of the people gathered had not yet identified themselves. They would, in time. They would have to really, if they wanted to either defend themselves or accuse anyone. For now, she would have to progress matters along so that the killer could be brought to swift justice. “I have already mentioned that at least one of you is a killer. Now, talk amongst yourselves and see if you can pick up anything that might be of use.” Wynne cleared her throat and looked sideways at someone, sharpening her gaze before turning it on each and every one of them to stress the importance of their gathering. “We will take one person into custody when a consensus has been reached, and believe me, they will talk. If they are a killer or have any other ulterior motive for being here, they will say it.” Wynne cleared her throat. “They will not return here though. I doubt they will be in any condition to face company.” A sardonic laugh escaped her lips. She knew they would not be in any condition for company ever again. “When you have reached your decision, embolden it on a piece of paper and pass it to me. I shall count the votes and let you know who we will be, ah, removing.” Wynne wet her lips with the wine and allowed a trickle to course down into her stomach. “Rest assured that justice will be done, the Light willing. Think carefully on whom you accuse. Pass your accusations to me like this.” She took a piece of paper from the sideboard and carefully wrote her own name on it. My vote is: Wynne Termist “Commence your discussions and start accusing! If I find your talks are getting too long winded without any accusations being made, I will take someone away at random and hand them over to a Questioner I know in the Children of the Light.” Wynne made a face. “You wouldn’t like their methods. Were I you, I’d begin, and hurry about it!” OOC – as there are people on LOA, it comes down to a simple majority. The person with the highest votes will be ‘questioned’ ;) Figs and mice, anyone? Accuse, reason and vote!
  8. ~Ivy ~ The trees bore their gentle mantles of spring with pride, Ivy thought. Above her, wide arcs of pink and white blossoms decorated some of the younger trees danced in the gentle breeze that flickered idly among the boughs, scenting the air with their perfumed delicacy. Ivy looked up from the sketch pad she had bought from a peddler of renown in the city proper and held her breath as one of the petals spiralled slowly to earth. “Is this how it will be? All things will fall in their appointed time. Will I find him? Will I?” She sighed, and blew the heads off some nearby flowers. Cursing her hasty gesture, Ivy once again realised her own height and stature was larger than most. An Ogier grown now, she had to be careful around the humans, whose movements were far smaller than her own. Indeed, the sketchpad was dwarfed in her own hand, and the pencil-stick she was using a mere twig in her fingers. Still, the depictions she carefully drew on the flat surface would remind her of the beauty of the grove here at Tar Valon. Few of her kind had dwelt within these walls of recent years. Fewer and fewer Ogier ventured from the safety of their Stedding and, Ivy reflected, they were losing their place within the world. Only the most cosmopolitan towns and cities were remembering them now; the outer villages and smaller towns saw their kind as Trollocs or worse. Several times she had run from the hastily wielded pitchforks of village folks wanting to defend themselves against Shadowspawn. Were it not such a pity, Ivy would have laughed. Yet they remembered here. As long as the Aes Sedai were in Tar Valon, or even the world, the world would remember the builders. Ivy smiled. The peace and tranquillity of the grove here reminded her of the Stedding. A small bee drifted among the flowers, lazily collecting pollen and going about his business. Overhead, birds began to dart after insects amidst the blossom-laden boughs. There was beauty here. Looking up, she saw a figure on the edge of the grove. Not wanting to scare her, even if it was an Aes Sedai that ought to know better than to mistake her for a creature of the Dark One, Ivy sat perfectly still as though she had not seen her. If the White Tower had business with this representative of Ogier kind, let her approach. Otherwise, let it be as nature intended. A few more pencil strokes were added to the sketch, and Ivy looked at it. In her sausage-sized fingers, the pencil seemed tinier than usual, but it was more than her hand’s size that made it small. She had used most of the pencil already. Light! She’d need to find that peddler again and buy a new one, perhaps in exchange for a sketch or two. From memory, Ivy set about trying to draw the woman as she remembered her; dark hair, dark and mischievous eyes with the faintest of faint creases underneath that spoke of not enough sleep, and a figure used to the open road. Hopefully it would at least be passable and appeal to the peddler’s ego enough to let her have the pencil in exchange; Ivy had little left in the way of coin. The woman had not moved yet. Turning her head, Ivy felt the sun warm her long chestnut hair and regarded her openly. She wore a red dress and was really quite pretty. Red Ajah then, if she were Aes Sedai and not some noble guest. She smiled peacefully and put the pencil down, folding her hands calmly in her lap, and enjoyed the sunshine.
  9. ~Dilora~ She had promised him a song, and so a song she would sing. Not one of the ribald ones that most merchant guards seemed to like, but she’d sing one of the old ballads. She’d not promised him a certain kind of song, after all. Lifting her voice above the hubbub, she began to sing. My love, my love so far away Like the wind that shakes the willow… At this, the man’s face betrayed his disappointment and his lips curled into a pout. “What’s that then?” He interrupted; ignoring the looks his friends gave him. Dilora smiled. “I’m singing for you,” she told him. “I don’t want some foolish tune to make young women’s hearts ache. I’m looking for something a bit more … racy. Something to warm the blood on a cold night like this.” Dilora cocked her head to one side and looked at him. Really, he probably had a wife and at least nine children at home, and was more than likely just trying to push his authority where he had a chance of being a man. “If you want a racier song, then race me. First to the bottom of the tankard wins.” “Done!” Both reached for the tankards of foaming ale and set to drinking them. This time, Dilora did down it. Headily, she looked over the edge of her cup and watched him spill most of it. When she had reached halfway down the tankard she set it back down on the table. “I am done, good sir.” Her brown eyes twinkled merrily. “Do not think you have won.” “Of course I have won!” He declaimed, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, lustily. “You have given up!” “I have not. I have drunk at least as much as you have. The difference is that you are wearing the other half of your pint and I am going to drink mine in a little while.” The man looked confounded, and then his friends began to laugh at him. Suddenly he realised that the front of his shirt was sodden with ale, and even his hair was wet from the brew. “Shut up!” he roared to his friends, who responded with hoots and jeers. He threw his hands up in the air and whirled back to Dilora angrily. “Now, now,” she began, holding her arms up in front of her “do not be a sore loser. While it is true you are wearing most of that round, I will sing something ribald for you. But you’ll owe me a favour.” Dilora trailed off, waving a finger mystically in the air. “I’ll tell it to you after the song.” The man was nodding vapidly now, attentively waiting for his bit of skirt to dance and sing for him. There was no way though that she was going to get on a table to dance for him. A song would be enough, she thought. Clearing her throat, she began. “My thighs are strong as an anchor chain My hips are curved like ocean waves My current draws you close to me But only keeps the very brave My bosom ‘tis an awesome sight But one you’ll never know That’s why I wear my shirts so tight And now I have to go!” She had unlaced her shirt a little as she had sang the second verse, and on the last line she pulled it tighter to her body and whirled away to the door. She ignored the man coming in, another guard from the looks of him, and held her breath as she heard the unmistakable sound of a knife being drawn from a sheath. “Very well,” she muttered. “I’m sure the door guards do not want any problems here, good sir.” Dilora spoke in a louder voice now, for the benefit of all. Hopefully they had seen what an overweening idiot the man was being and if he had been pulled down a peg or two they would see it as something he deserved. “Dance for me!” The man would not be put off, it seemed. “Will you pay me?” Dilora responded. “I doubt you will. Stop being so petty – you cannot handle your ale.” The man growled at her. Growled! She shook her head from side to side and reached for her own knife. “I will use this, you know. All here bear witness – you are not behaving as a decent man ought!” She tried to lay back down on her bed, her toes now beginning to warm up from their walk in the cold. Not much longer until first light, and then she’d be away. For a time, she slept, until the loud noise of someone pounding on her door woke her. “What is it?”
  10. ~Dilora~ Did it feel easier? Dilora was not sure. Certainly whenever she tried to move it was more difficult. Her first vague memories were of feeling dizzy, then of looking at an unfamiliar ceiling, and now this. A damp cloth lay on her forehead, sending cool trickles into already messy hair. As if she could do anything about her hair at the moment. Light, it was hurting purely to move her arms. Where she had been achingly stiff before, at least now she was merely stiff. Oh, whatever. She was in the considerate hands of someone that was looking out for her. My ear itches she thought. Oh, Light. She’d not given her name at all to the kind woman now treating her. Light, Light, Light. “My name is”, but the woman was already closing the door lightly behind her to go and put the kettle on, she had said. “I’m Dilora Fashelle.” The room was warm with vague hints that it had belonged to a young person before this. The bed was comfortable underneath her and she would have stayed longer if she could. Of course, that would depend on her carer. When the door creaked open, Dilora weakly told the woman her name. “Dilora Fashelle,” she began, watching a single ray of sunshine breaking through the heavy cloud visible from the window. “I cannot begin to thank you enough.” And then she fell silent for a time, words being too tiring for her. “Have you given me something to make me sleep?”
  11. The Manor House Murder Conversation was a buzz; all around the flames flickering and casting light in the mirrored sconces, mingling and creating an atmosphere that spoke of the highest of social occasions. Guests in fine costumes of various shades of silk were enough to make it seem a softly shimmering rainbow. Every nationality was represented; the Lady Jayne Talman knew that her functions were of the highest importance. The Queen of Andor herself was reputed to have sent a polite note stating her inability to attend. It created a ripple of rumour that all wanted to discuss and yet they did not. The evening began to draw to a close. Those guests that lived too far out were beginning to make their graceful withdrawals and, wont to linger to ensure all of her guests had enjoyed themselves, the Lady Jayne stifled a yawn behind her hand. Maids began to clean away the last vestiges of the night’s revelry and as the last guest faded from the grand ballroom, Lady Jayne moved to retire herself. She gestured to one of her maids to prepare some scented water for her; rose, naturally, and bidding the room farewell until the morning, she made her way to her rooms. The maids hung her dress on a hanger and placed it back in the wardrobe to allow the creases to fall out of it. Outside her window, where a balcony overlooked the street below, sounds of those just making their way to work could be heard. The party had lasted well into the early hours of the morning – no wonder the Lady was tired. Maids pulled the coverlet up over her shoulders and with a soft sigh, the Lady settled down to sleep. Daylight blazed through the windows, and the maids began the day’s bustle. Here and there the odd servant crept to clean her rooms, hoping not to disturb their mistress, and the faint call of birds issued amid the industry. When the lady had not risen by gone mid-day, the maids began to wonder if their mistress was somehow taken ill. One braver soul, her chestnut hair in curls kept back with a single white ribbon, went towards the pale hand that extended from the duvet and patted it. It was cold. Reaching to tug the coverlet down and wake her mistress, the bold maid gave a startled gasp as she saw the Lady’s sightless blue eyes staring at nothing. Her mouth was open, at that point mirroring the maid’s own shock. And then the maid’s eyes fell to the dagger that still protruded from her Lady’s heart, blood staining the blankets around her with their crimson. It is a scream that wakes you, that reaches into your mind and makes you rise with a question on your lips and a self-appraisal to make sure that you yourself are not hurt. You pat at your clothes and reach frantically for your belongings to make sure all is present, as a scream of such shock could only have come from something impossibly negative. One by one, you make your way to the grand ballroom where just hours before you were enjoying an evening of gracious hospitality, and you seat yourself where you can. Someone has thoughtfully laid on some wine to help ease the shock. You look and you see me tapping my lip with a finger and writing little notes in a diary, and when I speak, all eyes turn to me. “My name is Wynne Termist. Whether you heard the screams or not, you should be aware that the Lady Jayne Talman was found in her bed this morning, dead from a knife thrust to the heart. The servants say that no one has left the manor house and none of the windows have been opened, which means that one or perhaps more of you is responsible.” She looked at those assembled and tried to assess each of them before the truth was unveiled. Impossible. The murderer would have to be discovered in some other way. “None of you will leave until this mystery is solved, ladies and gentlemen. As for my credentials, I am a thief taker by trade and it is my job to get to the bottom of this murder so we can send for the guard. Please be so kind as to introduce yourself to all of us.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Out of Character/Context – This game will take the form of a slightly modified classic mafia game. There are the following roles: Murderers Healer Finder Sympathiser Assassin Innocents One by one, role-play your arrival into the grand ballroom and introduce yourself, not giving any indication of your true role. Only the murderers can communicate with each other outside of this thread, except for those with night actions for the moderator. I am the moderator. Wynne Termist, thief taker, is going to get to the bottom of this. When day has lasted long enough or by a maximum of four days has passed, I will lynch the person with the most votes. If you have not received a PM, you are a roleless innocent. Do not disclose the contents of PMs from the Mod (me) in your posts! All roles have been randomly assigned. It is now DAY! RP talking with everyone and your thoughts and suspicions, voicing them if you want them to be heard. When you want your vote to be heard BOLD it so I know how many votes have been cast for each person. Begin!
  12. Be welcome, Aian! Great to meet you. :D
  13. Welcome from another fellow Brit! I'm in Peterborough myself. :) Welcome welcome, hope you have a good time here. :D
  14. I'm happy to help, Durin :) I, too, love to write characters so I can be a part of Robert Jordan's world and keep the memories alive every day. If we can help in any way, just ask. :) Welcome to DM, welcome. I'm the Freelander Division Leader, responsible for the Aiel, Seanchan, Sea Folk, the general public of the world, the Kin and the Ogier. I find writing gives me a great sense of peace and love to write, so if you do choose to RP, I would love to write with you. Again, welcome. :)
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