StarDestroyer.Net BBS

work in progress, composed of a bunch of posts I wrote for an rpg. if someone steals this, I'll find them, stalk them, kill them, and eat their spleens.

just so you know.

ic: lament is one of the traveling people; pascifists devoted to music and peace. lament is not
his true name, of course, nor is his heart pascifistic. he is, in actuality, a friend of the
dark, one of those who swear their soul to the dark one, and long was his path to the smiling
debauchery he indulges in now.

he was born in andor, a relatively peaceful land, and a healthy place for the tinkers. not much
of this time of his life is known, and he is reclitrant in its telling. what is known is that
once upon a time, he and a close friend were fishing. the close friend, unfortunatly, got pulled
in by a large fish, and, as these things sometimes play out, got caught in the line. in his struggles,
it pinned his limbs as well as wrapping around his throat. it didn't particularly matter. the
friend couldn't swim.

the struggling boy was within reach, althrough it was deep water, and cried for help, but strangely,
lament did nothing. he merely watched as his friend's struggles grew weaker, and finally stopped.
lament was 14 at the time.

lament, at the end of the occasion, found himself excited, almost exhilerated, at the power he
possessed, controlling life and death, and that day a seed was planted, a hunger.

over the next two years, a dozen more were found dead, and in the travelin people shook their
heads at such dark luck; where faces had once laughed, only sullen expressions lurked. old gil
was burnt alive in her wagon, and her not making a sound. it was assumed the lantern tipped over
while she was sleeping. maggie fell from a tree the children were playing in and broke her neck.
daryn, a somewhat slow man, was chopping wood away from the camp, when lament ran to the elders
and said he had been hurt. his throat was found ripped open by an axe, which lament said had
bounced off a rock. and who would disbeleive a tinker?

similar things happened in villages they came across, where a total of four toddlers choked
to death. things came to a head when the local wisdom, known as a seer, formed a mob to hunt
down lament, saying he had death in his eyes.

the caravan left behind half their wagons in their haste to leave, muttering darkly about madwomen.
they only found out how true she was when, that night, a shadowy figure held shining kitchen
knives above their bed, and then they died. some sixty people died that night, toddler to old man.
lament, giggling at the thrill of murder, looted the wagons, snatching small trinkets of silver,
a few gemmed peices of jewelry, a purse full of gold, then he lit the wagons on fire.

lit by the blaze that could be seen from miles around, lament danced aboutt, laughing, pleasure
going through his body in waves. it was then he realized he was not alone.

his eyes met a peircing gace from the shadows, and he gestured the man to come foward, lament's
hands still holding the bloody knives he killed his family with. and into the light, with a black
cloak that didn't move, even in the wind from the inferno. . .

myrddraal.

lament kneeled, his skin red from the heat, and the myrddraal gave a half smile. they knew what
they were about, even though lament had never seen a myrddraal before. with a hissing laugh, the
shadowspawn spoke the words, the tinker repeating them, forsaking the light for a darker master.

'I renounce the Creator's hold on my soul. I renounce the belief that He is the Ultimate power,
instead taking as my master, death's master, for none can stand against death.

'I serve the Great Lord of the Dark till the day of his coming and ever after, in the sure and
certain promise of life everlasting and power in the remade world under him,'

a darkfriend was made that day, and in some ways, would be feared more then any save the Forsaken.

the myrddraal took the newly named lament to a safe place, a haven of darkfriends in a village
in southern andor. it was discovered he could not channel, for the great lord was always looking
for new dreadlords, and though he was soon skilled with twin long daggers, he would never make
blademasters. no, it was his mind the shadow was interested in, cunning and deadly, and with it,
over the next decade, spread fear and distrust through many of the villages and towns through
gheldean and murandy,for such were the shadow's friends. he directed dozens of witchhunts where
neighbors stormed the houses of old friends, burning them. sometimes they took the victims out
and hung them. sometimes they did not. and so lament passed the years, always with that faint
smile that reached his eyes, waiting for the dream that would direct him to his earthly master.

p2

The return to awareness was a slow one. The first sensation he realized was warm cloth on his legs, and then cool air brushing along his face, trailing strands of red hair along his pale skin. He shifted, laying on something hard and awkward. He opened his eyes.

He was on the ground, on green grass, some twenty feet from the raised dirt road. It was well after dawn, and sunlight was streaming onto his body save where the branches of the tree he had slept under intercepted it. The branches swayed slightly in the light wind, but the thick foilage let little heat through. He shivered despite his layers of red cloth.

Standing with a wince, the tinker brushed off the leaves and bugs that had collected on him during the night. The tree roots had stiffened his back unpleasantly, and he stretched, moaning lightly, working the muscles.

He was a somewhat tall man, mildly Andoran in looks. Silky red hair trailed down his back, straightening as pale hands undid knots and took out twigs. Brown eyes absently looked over the environ in which he had slept.

The ashes of a small campifire lay a few feet away from him, and he kicked dirt over it so not to accidentally start a blaze. Shifting his cloak over his scarlet clothes, he walked onto the road, and started walking south.

A few small birds flitted about as he strode along, slightly ornate curling boots slipping into the loose dirt at a quick pace. As a tinker, he was loyal to the way of the lead. He had, however, hid four long daggers under his crumson sash, which wasn't the only odd thing about him. He smiled slightly, thinking that, and even as his thoughts moved on, the smile remained.

Perhaps an hour before noon, he took a small load of bread, some cheese, and some mildly warm wine from containers scattered about his person. He continued walking, idly eating a brunch, his pace not slowing.

When the loaf of bread was perhaps half finished, he saw a cart on the horizon. It tilted slightly, one wheel apparently snapped off. HE copntinued striding foward, not faster, not slower. When he was a hundred or so paces distant, he rose his arm in a wave. The man on the wagon, somewhat rotund, waved back. The tinker shouted as he came closer. "Need any help?" The man, a merchan by his clothes, blinked at the blinding array of red clothes, shades from light pink to dark crimson. "Yes, I do."

Lament nodded as the merchant leaped down from his wagon, and pointed out the problem. "The axle snapped, and through I have a replacement, I can't hold up the wagon while putting the wheel on."

Lament looked at him cheerfully, saying, "You hold up the wagon, I'll put on the wheel. What's your name?" The merchant looked back at him, then took the corner of the wagon. "Warriv." Straining, the man lifted the wagon, and Lament clicked the wheel on. "Yours?" The traveling person smiled. "Lament."

Warriv blinked, muttering that was an odd name for a tinker, then said, would you like a ride?" Lament smiled again, and nodded.

The wagon was carrying dyes to Altara from Gheldean, and Warriv spoke for a few minutes about the assorted rumours of the towns, that Illian had been conquered, and darkfriends were spreading, the Seanchan encroaching, and the Aes Sedai were behind it all. Lament nodded, making the occasional comment, but was soon lulled to sleep by the rocking of the wagon and the motonous conspiracy theories. Warriv, unnoticing that Lament was sleeping, rambled on.

Lament dreamed of the world, looking over it as it were a map, save it was not a map, but it was the true world, and he could see it as if he were a bird. It did not seem as if her were flying, just seeing events from the highest point of view.

A tree was growing out of Altara, dead and rotting, but with deep roots, but as Lament watched, it turned into a hand of shadow, stretching all about it and growing darker. Tor Valon, far to the north, was a blazing tower of light, and Lament knew as certaintly as if it had been told outright to him that he had to be in Altara, soon, or the shadow would shatter apart like glass. He did not know how he could change it, only that he had to be there. The need for haste was impressed as if by the Great Lord himself.

Lament woke with a cry, slick with sweat, and Warriv glanced at him dissmissevly. "They're only bandits. They certainly don't deserve that reaction."

Looking about, Lament could see that was so. They were a few hundred paces from the fork in the road that split to Altara and Murandy. On the road between them and the fork were three men in forest colored clothing, each with a sword. He could see as well, in the woods to the left and right, a longbowmen. In the casual way they stood, he knew any one of them could kill him without much effort. Looking into the leader's eyes, an older, grizzled man, he knew they weren't here for blood. The leader smiled, and his next statement proved Lament right.

"Greetings travellers! I am Robyn, and these are my merry men, a band that has existed since before the Age of Legends! We ask not for your lives or your wares, good merchant, only your silver." Robyn grinned. "And gold, if you have it."

Warriv sighed and tossed them a small pouchful of coins. "Business has been poor of late. Your welcome to search me for more."

Robyn caught it and bowed. "No need, good merchant, we know you would do all you can to support the common good. And you tinker, we have no need to steal from. You follow the way of the lead far more thoroughly then we."

They vanished as easily as they came, and Warriv gave him a hard look. Lament replied, "Would you like me to reimburse you?"

"It would be nice."

"Here you are."

Warriv took it with a grimace, then drove until they reached the fork. There they stopped. "I''ve changed my mind. I'm going to Murandy. You should get off." Lament looked at him expressionlessly, all trace of a smile gone, then it was back, and the Tinker bowed. "Of course, good merchant." He said, too softly. Then he leapt off the wagon, and started walking south. Warriv watched him go, then headed east, making his horse go faster then usual. Something in that voice made him shiver.

post 3

It was near twilight. Lament had passed the Altaran border perhaps an hour before, and the early summer wind still had heat. The air was crisp, seeemingly unreal, and trees lined the road the tinker walked down.

He had been tempted to kill that merchant; even someone who followed the Way of the Leaf would have disliked him, but he decided against it. It would be a bad habit to start to start, killing withoutany previous planning, and he wasn't going to fulfill his orders by being stupid.

Somewhere, in Altara, he would find his master. He didn't know where, and and only had the vaguest idea of whom but he had to find him, or face the Great Lord's displeasure, and he would rather face the entire White Tower then his master.

Who knew, perhaps later he would. Sometimes the Dark One made little sense to his least of shadows.

He wouldn't be least for long though. His dreams were quite certain on that point. He did what was commanded, and immortality and power would be his. Perhaps a lesser lord's rank? All things were possible under the Shadow.

His thoughts continued along this vein, even with a force of soldiers on horses trotted north. His conversations ran itself, even while he plotted behind his smiling mask of a face.

The horses were well bred, muscular and sleek, and riding them, with conical steel caps, men in cloaks of blinding white. Lament bowed, his red cloak flourishing about him. He wasn't worried. What whitecloaks thought were darkfriends were usually as far as one could get from the truth.

Their leader, perhaps captain, Lament was not famaliar with their rank insignia, held up his gauntlented hand. "Hold, Traveller." His voice was cool. "Few men could walk so uncaringly into a column of the Children. Do you walk in the Light?"

Lament's half smile never changed. "I walk in the Light as far as you do, good sir. May we all be sheltered in the Creator's hand."

"Good. You are a tinker? Nay, do not answer, only a tinker would where those clothes. What is your name, and why are you walking alone, away from your caravan and in bandit country?"

"The answer to that is nearly one and the same. My caravan was destroyed by Darkfriends nigh a decade ago, ones who came upon the encampment at night and slew all they saw, even unto the little babes. They let me survive, why, I think, to spread news of their ghoulish power, but who knows how the Shadow works? I know I do not. Since that horror, I have called myself Lament."

The captain, or whatever he was, nodded. "I know you speak the truth, for I can hear it in your voice. We are going north to the town of Shar. Do you know how far it is?"

"I left there this morning, as you see me. It is perhaps an hour's ride. Have you heard the latest news from there? Darkfriends, an entire nest of them, trapped in their house and burnt."

"Tell us everything."

"It was last night, and I had just arrived to the town. I went to the inn, and had a small meal, and later went for a walk. As I wandered the trail around the town, I found a large house, set in the woods. As I watched, a woman approached it from the other side. I stepped into the shadows, for something was strange about her. It was hot, you remember, but she had her hood and cloak about her. She tried to hide her face, but I saw it. It was the ageless face of an Aes Sedai."

The horseman moved uneasily at the naming of someone so deep in the Shadow. "You weave a grim tale my friend. What did you do then?"

"I went back to town of course, as I knew I could not defeat such evil as she alone. Speaking with the people on their porches, I discovered the house she had gone to was a house of witches, where herbs and darker arts had been been taught for three generations, even to the littlest, a child of six. I learned more of this family with questions to the people, and found they used their tricks to to put curses on people, that crops may fail, body wither, bones break, men leave their wives for other girls, and all in the most suble of guises, so if one was not looking, they could seem happenstance.

"But I knew better. One must always look for the Shadow, yes? And then I told them of the Aes Sedai, and as this was a righteous town, they grew angered, determined to end the threat before it grew worse. Calling together their brothers, I led some thirty men to that house with torches and woodaxes, and we did burn the house down, executing all inside for their vile crimes, their sins melting away with their flesh. The Aes Sedai could not fight the holy flame, and so died. And that is my tale."

The Child paused. "You tell of a great victory against the Shadow. Aes Sedai are not easily destroyed, and if I tried my column against them, we would loose many. We will go to Shar, and see your handiwork. Perhaps later we will try to use fire held by righteous men, and so destroy Tor Valon. Walk in the Light." With that, the column sped by, some soldiers nodding slightly to the noble tinker. Lament bowed in return.

He then began walking again, smiling. He knew for a fact that that 'ageless' woman could channel no more then him.

It was dark when he reached the next town, a village really. Perhaps not even deserving of that name; it had less then two score houses, scattered over a circular center of dirt. The road went through it, and to the south, but did not appear all that well traveled.

Given the people's reactions, it was probably true. The elderly types put down their pipes, which smoked into the darkness, little sparks flying into the night. Most of the children were asleep, but a few of the younglings were still up, chattering excitedly. They saw the figure step into the village, and asked for a song.

Their parents seemed rather wary of it, for Tinkers were not well liked most places, but the children would stay in sight, so would not be stolen away. As well, they seemed so enthusiastic about it, so the general concensus was that it was ok. The few people who didn't like it wandered off, muttering.

Lament smiled charmingly to the ones who stayed. Some of the girls were quite pretty. "Greetings, I am Deryk. I find myself in need of accomdations for the night, and I'm wondering if any of you could help."

One of the fellows, with silvery hair down to his shoulders, shrugged. "That would be no problem. I have a small room in the upstairs of my house. Hasn't been used since the children grew up, but I think it will suit you nicely. Though," The man smiled briefly, "The children would like to hear a song."

Lament smiled back. "I would be happy to play several." Pulling out a silvered flute, he found a large rock near the side of the road, and lept upon it. The flute was one of his few possessions left from the Tinker wagons, and for some strange reason, he still felt sentimental towards it. With a quiet laugh, he put the flute to his lips, and began to play.

The first song was "The Sheppherdess", a cheerful song with quite innocent lyrics, and bound to please the children. Of course, it was a song with all sorts of interesting meanings, particularly for young couples in the process of courting. Some of the older men laughed, and their wives looked disapproving, but that was no matter; he was a guest. The children loved it of course, and danced all about. Some of the older (female) ones liked it as well, and their eyes sparkled. He gave a private smile to all of them. Perhaps tonight may not be as lonely as he thought it would be.

He played a dozen other songs, and rather well too, as Tinkers were taught to play from childhood up. A gleemen could do worse. The night passed away quickly, the clouds drifted across the moon that lept along the sky. The children soon went to sleep where they were, and smiling parents took them to bed. The impromptu party ended, and Lament was brought to one of the houses. One of the girls who smiled at him came along; she apparently lived there.

It was said in some places that farmgirls from Saldea were quite foward, but farmgirls from Altara make it a close second. It was most enjoyable, though one wouldnt say what happened. They will simply have to make their own conclusions.

In the morning, Lament left, with a smile, a kiss, and a good meal. The walk south passed quickly, even though his muscles ached from the endless exertion, and he soon reached another town. A truly named town, this time, Bregost, with wooden walls and a large inn.

He went to inn directly, and even though it was only the middle of the evening, he decided to sleep early, as well. Tossing a few gold coins, he ordered the best room. He wanted to relax. While food was being he sent up, he want to the common room, and near a corner, idly stroked the hardwood table, drawing symbols asking if other friends were about.

After an interminable wait, two came to meet him, young, still in their teens. They looked like siblings, and the sister giggled at his second gesture, detailing his rank. So. Children, who hadn't learned the glory of the Great Lord. They would learn.

He bade them sit down, and coldly demanded of them, "I look for a man who has increased his standing, either in shadow or in light. He may not be a friend, but he will have those tendencies. Tell me if you know of him."

They stared at him and shook their heads, blood draining as they sensed the lethality in his voice, a killer in a clown's costume. Lament grimaced and got up, and went to his rooms.


ic: Lament woke screaming. He could remember what had
happened moments before, even though he had been half
asleep. A myrdraal, in his room, his black sword
touching Lament's throat. "You waste time." His voice
was a whip crack, a smashing hammer, a devouring
scream. "You are not here for your pleasure. Find your
master, or you will die." A branding iron, pushed into
his brain. And then the myrddraal moved his blade,
slashing slightly along his throat, just enough to
slice the skin. Then it was gone.

Lament whimpered, feeling along his throat. The slash
was there, and it burnt agonizingly. He knew it would
be black. He didn't think he'd be with a girl again
soon. He had finally been punished for his arrogance.

He leapt from the bed, rant through the door. The
innkeep was about to knock, Lament mumbled about a
nightmate, then was running down the stairs four at a
time. He barreled through the common room and outside,
into the night. He had to get moving. Running to the
stables, he buried himself in a stack of hay. The
stables were nearly empty. He was gambling someone
would arrive.

And there she was, thank the Dark, there she was! A
low ranking lady of some kind, two sleek horses, with
blue barding. A maidservant was with her, went inside
to order a room. The lady came off her horse, came
near him, he sprang foward, daggers already out. They
punched through her side, twice, peircing her kidney,
and she spun in his arms as his momentum carried her
foward.

His dagger rose, slashed her throat. She fell, blood
staining her silks and his, and the stable floor. He
grabbed her two pouches of gold and climbed her horse.
It wickered nervously at the smell of blood, but he
didn't care. His heels hit the horses side, it charged
foward, carrying the other horse with him. The inn
door opened, the servant came out, seeing her two
horses galloping away. Her cries were lost in the
wind. He drove through the empty streets and through
the open city gates into the night. He was going to
drive this horse to death and a hundred more if he had
too.

He still found an occasion for humour. He had never
eaten caviar on the road before.

ic: The tinker snarled, driving his horse faster. He
was on the remount now, as the other horse couldn't
carry him faster then a walk, but all were exhausted.
He hadn't gone slower then a gallop for the last
hours, and he wasn't planning to stop anytime soon.

Beind him, minutes at the least, the guard. They had
found the body, and with the servant's account, he was
going to be charged with murder and theft. Either was
punishable by death, when you were theiving from a
noble.

It was near dawn, and he was driving towards Evou Dar.
Enough with searching through each and every flyspeck
village. In the capital, he could find his master, or
news of him.

The trail weaved through a thick forest, a wide stone
road that connected all the cities, though not used
often. Other roads were wider, and this one was in
disrepair.

Behind him, through the trees, carried by the bitter
wind, the sound of hooves, at least a score. Five
trained horses, at the least. He cried in frustration,
tears whipping across his face. He had prided himself
on his mind all his life, and somehow he had ignored
what he was to use it for. For that, he was probably
going to die. For eternity. He urged his horse on
faster.

Turning the curve, he saw a grizzled man. Fighter, by
his bearing, murderer, by his eyes. Probably on the
road to sneak away from Ebou Dar. He had a good horse,
and better, a rested one. Lament rode to him, and the
man watched him warily.

"I want that horse. I'll trade these two for it. Once
they get a rest, they'll be worth three times your
mount." The warrior opened his mouth, and Lament
hurried the offer. "I'll give you ten gold as well."

The man stared at him. That could buy a herd of
horses. "Done." They switched horses. Lament spoke
quickly. "We never met." Then he slammed his boots
into the horse, racing foward at a rate that
astonished himself.

As he left, he heard a brief sword battle, and then a
voice screaming that the tinker did it not him, and
then a messy splat. Lament grinned mirthlessly.
Justice had been done.

ic: The horse was getting tired. It was almost
twilight, and they had been running since dawn, with
only two brief breaks for water. Lament could hear the
horse's exhausted panting, but it didn't matter. Foam
ran from the horse's mouth, and long streaks of blood
trailed his flanks. The tinker had tied daggers to his
boots, under the hell, and jammed them into the horse
to harry it. It screamed in pain and fear, it's wide
eyes rolling, and sped up. Surprisinly, it had kept
top pace for most of the day, but the rate was killing
it. Lament growled, urging his horse on.

The road widened into a larger byway, one commonly
used by the people of Altara. As sun set, the shadows
lengthened. To Lament's view, they whipped by. The
road turned a little, Lament speeding along it, and as
he followed it, he saw half a dozen men on horses with
long bows. Bandits, and by the look in the eyes,
completely willing to kill witnesses.

Lament sped towards the center mass of them, where
three stood. The daggers on his boots slashed the
straps holding him to the horse. The longbows were
leveled, barbed arrows nocked. Lament was almost upin
them. The sun had almost set, but it seemed that he
was facing three things of shadow, not men, the only
visible object the glittering arrowheads.

They let loose, the arrowheads cutting the air,
slamming into hi shorse. The horse stumbled, nine
hundred pounds of meat smashing into the ambush at
twenty miles per hour. lament was more then pushed
onto a bandit's horse, leapimng and landing wildly. He
grabbed the bandit and threw him down, spun the new
horse and jabbed the dagger points into him two
inches. The horse bolted, trampling to death the
bandit on the way. Arrows folowed their leaving, as
Lament heard screams of men crushed by his horse.


ic: The man giggled, his slow, shuffling walk betoking
an endless journey. His once beautiful face was
haggard and windswept, his long hair tangled and
dirty. Uncared for. His red clothes were torn, but
they couldn't really have all that blood on them,
could they? The man was a Tinker. He wouldn't have
hurt anyone.

Some, waking the same road with him, murmured uneasily
among themselves, occasionally speaking inanities to
the man, or asking if he needed help. He shuddered
when spoke to, and took a moment to compose the
simplest replied, his staring eyes looking inward. His
voice was wavering, as if it took too much effort to
keep it steady.

What would have pushed a human, let alone a tinker, to
such extremes? He had been traveling south as fast as
he could, and hadn't slept in four days. He trembled
as the thought worked it's way through him, and his
hand, a ragged claw, swept towards the scarf tightly
tied around his neck, before being pushed back down to
his waist.

He was a Tinker, and his horse lay disembowled,
spurred to death, ten miles behind. At least he had
remembered to take his daggers off his boots.

Lament blinked, thinking of this. Had he? He slowed,
eyes vacant, hands reaching to his boots, finding only
mud. Of coure he had. He shuddered. His body ached for
sleep, but the myrddraal's voice spurred him on.

"Find your master, or you will die."

He whimpered softly, and people on the road gave him
more room. They didn't want to be near a man that had
such fear. With an effort, he forced his face into a
smile. It felt like a rictus of one. It looked like a
snarl. Some children on the road hid behind their
parents, and Lament smoothed his face.

With a start, Lament saw the city before him. It was
one of the largest cities in Altara, called A'nell'Ae.
He could get a horse soon, and was only thirty miles
from Ebou Dar.

He giggled and shuffled on. He didn't notice the red
smears his tracks left.

<center>~*~</center>

Georg, of the Blue Boar Travelling Company, was a busy
man. He had led the company since it was one pony and
a cart to where it was now, with a dozen carriages fir
for a lady, a dozen more for merchants, and aherd of
horses, trained and newborn. And he, of course, had to
keep track of it all.

So he was somewhat surprised when a man tottered into
his office, near the front of the establishment (for
Georg liked keeping near the customers) and asked for
his fastest horse. The man looked like he had lost a
fight with Jak o' the Shadows. He looked like he had
asked Ol' Jak for the best two out of three.

Georg said cautiously, "Why do you need a horse?" The
man's eyes were stange, unblinking. Like a fanatic's.
The man trembled, staring at nothing in particular.
"Ebou Dar." He said finally. "I have to get to Ebou
Dar."
Georg blinked. That wasn't too bad, he did that trip
once a week. "You are in no condition to ride
anywhere. Take a few days rest, and. . ."
The man interrupted him. "Get me a carriage." He
tossed a bag of gold coins to Georg, coins spilling
out in a small pile. "Whatever the change is. . . use
mroe horses. Speed is the only thing that matters."
Geog licked his lips, then nodded.

ic: It was a long trip, mostly traveled in dreams. He
was asleep as soon as he entered the carriage, and his
body swayed with the harsh travel of the speeding horses.
His torn clothes creased more as he slept in them, and the
mud on his boots dripped onto the fur carpet meant only
for noble slippers. Lament slept through all of this, unaware.

He seemed to float in darkness, the soft world one rests in
before they were born. Time didn't seem to matter here,
and he was only in the most visceral way aware of bruises
healing, too tensed muscles relaxing, recovering from
the death's dance of the last week.

The carriage travled on, rattling boneshakingly, the
horses galloping, dozens of hoofs slamming into cobblestones,
but at the same time, it seemed sedate a ride as pleasure
boating, quiet as the world in winter.

His dreams eventually formed into faces, real and imagined.
The myrddraal, pale lips smiling, and Lament whimpered,
but the face was gone a moment later, replaced by his sister.
It had been more then a decade since he had seen her. Sometimes
he still missed her. Sometimes he regretted killing her.

Nameless faces he had seen in his life, some smiling,
some snarling, a few bowing. Lament had always been mildly
ambitious, even in his dreams. The tinkers he had known were
some of the ones bowing, their faces blank.

And then, in a dream with more feeling then the others, of
haste and fear, rage and hunger. He was climbing a massive
black tower a thousand feet high, and below him, deep into
the darkness, the smashing waves hammering palace sized cliffs.

The world was darkness, and the rocks slipped from his feet
as he climbed, and his fingers, raw and bleeding, continued
to dig for holes in the rock. And an eternity or a moment
later, he was near the top, his brown eyes, finding black
boots in the endless storm. His master, and blazing eyes of
silver, like stars overwhelming any other aspect of his face.
Lament kissed his boots, and in some versions of the dream,
the boot pulled back to kick him into eternal death, and
in the other, a gloved hand pulled him up, nearly as high
as the master.

And that was how he spent the road to Ebou Dar.

ic: It was a long moment before he realized he heard knocking,
and sounds of talking. Lament concentrated, putting meaning
to the murmurs. "My lord? We're here my lord. My lord?"

The Tinker blinked a few times, returning to the land of the
living. His dreams were already fading, and he put them out
of his mind. He opened his mouth, formed a reply. "I'm awake."

The door, with blue paneling and inlaid silver, opened.
The footman, impeccably dressed even before dawn, bowed as Lament
stood. The servant's eyes were expressionless, but seemed
dissaproving anyway. Lament, stepping out, saw why.

The fur floor on the inside, once white, was now brown with dried mud,
tangled into a dirty mat, and he saw he didnt look much better. His
body was as healthy as when he started this journey, but his clothes,
dirty, bloody, torn, and creased, looked like someone had died in them.

Lament put on his best smile as he smoothed his hair. "Can you direct
me to a tailor?"

The place they showed him, in the more fashionable area of Ebou Dar,
was simply called Annan's. It was three stories, and bigger then some noble's
manors he had seen. It also looked more expensive, with ornate carvings
on the walls.

He went inside, the gaurds at the door looking him over distastefully.
His clothes did have a fine cut however, so he must have had money. They
let him through.

Inside was the most astonishing array of clothes he had ever seen, superb
cuts, purer colors then the rainbow, the finest silks and leathers in every
direction. Jewelry as well, gleaming enough to suit a king. The only
man in the room carrying scissors was small and elderly, but moved with
delicate haste. He dressed well but soberly, and clucked when he saw Lament.

"You apparently have money to get past my secretaries, but there's no way
I'm fitting you a new outfit while you look like that. Come back in twenty minutes,
I have some matters to attend to, and I expect you clean!"

Lament blinked at this tirade from a man a bit more then half his size, and then
shrugged, turning and walking out. Best to do as he said.

He went to a cheap bath and barber, and digging for change, was able to bathe
for the first time in a week, dirt and mud sluicing off him. He also washed his
hair as he could, but it was a mess of sweat and tangles, and it had to be trimmed.
It was cut to a hand down the shoulders. Lament fluffed his hair in the carefree,
light style he perferred, then went back to Arran's.

Arran walked over from a rack of silks worth more then a small town, seeming
to know exactly when Lament entered. His prescence overwhelmed the room.

"You, good. Rather pretty face on you, so it won't be hard to complement it. Strip."

Lament did so, rather glad to be out of those clothes. Arran kicked them aside without
a glance, a servant coming over to burn them. Arran quickly took his measurements.

"Good, good. Lots of things in your size, not like those noblewomen carrying twenty stone
who sniff when you don't have a bushel of silk they call dresses." Peering at Lament, he smiled.
"Surprised, boy? The nobles let me talk the way I like. I'm the best tailor in Ebou Dar. Now,
what color do you want? Any particular items?"

"A cape, black, with red lining. I'm not partcular on the rest of the clothes, only that be
of those two colors, and that ravens be folded under the collar."

"Ravens, eh? Popular style, now that the Seanchan are here, though some of them don't take kindly
to seeing it. Sometimes I think you nobles only like it for the danger."

A few hours later, Lament was fully dressed, with thigh high crimson boots, silk pants of
the same color, held up with a black leather belt, and the cloak, his daggers hooked at his back.
Black and gold embellished the outfit.

"Excellent. Here's my bill."

Lament took it without looking. He could get the money easily, and he wanted to make a good first
impression at his rendevous.

Going to an inn, populated by the well to do merchants and lesser lords, he gave his last coins, two gold,
to the innkeep, and asked for a room for a week. Then he left, with a few quiet enquiries, looking
for who had been successful of late.

ic: The Tinker leisurely stepped into the alleyway. The charming and most
knowledgable Slick had already led him to three rising stars, and none
of
them had any imaginings of greatness. Two of them weren't even Friends
of
the Dark!

So it was with a casual indifference the well dressed man stepped into
the
simply atrocious alley way. Surely there had never been a place more
disgusting, and the clothes themselves seemed to pull themselves away
in
revulsion.

High crimson boots slipped delicately into the filth, slime seeming to
climb
them in a desperate reach for the silken clothes overlapping them.
Slender
pale fingers brushed at his tunic, removing the faint dust that had
gathered, as if showing he felt dirtied by the very air. His cloak
folded
behind him.

"Ah yes. . ." Lament said, for the all the world an uncaring nobleman.
"Slick, you said he would be here. I am tempted to stop asking for your
services. . ." The Tinker's eyes briefly slipped over the men in the
alleyway, dismissing all of them, then flicking back to Arryk, brown
eyes
meeting hazel.

It was like a lightning bolt to the forebrain.

Lament slammed to the ground, suddenly, very uncaring of the muck that
was
there. Mud and filth splashed up, ruining his outfit, but Lament didn't
noticed. He reached out his hands, began kissing the leather boots of
the
Darkfriend before him.

He saw Arryk pull back his boot in alarm, but it didn't look at all
like
that. Tendrils of darkness seemed to writhe around the man, a halo of
flies
and horror, a pillar of utmost black; a promise of power and
retribution
beyond comprehension. Lament whimpered, his words a babble.

"I swear loyalty undying to this man on my oath to the Great Lord. This
man
is my master forever, the Master's regent is this world undying. My
life for
his, all my efforts will be to serving him. When I break one oath, I
break
both oaths, and suffer the wrath of the Master."

ooc: right. my compandre sends me to find a magical artifact, and is unnice about. I wander off.

post

Lament walked casually up the finely paved roads of Ebou Dar, well at ease in the wealthiest portion of the city. His clothes were expensively cut and with gorgeous materials, a sign of having visited the tailor that made clothes for all those who wanted to be someone, Annan's. The stains of having dived into the muck earlier that day had been meticulously removed, and now his red hair lifted in the wind, trailing along scarlet cloak. His boots tapped into the road with concise sounds, and even the pretty birds of paradise nobles here took note of him, seeing a new face in their tight circles of aristocracy.

An expensive outfit alone rarely carries off the affect of the nobility, but he had the inherant confidence as well, as he had learned from his teacher and was his inherant preference. Lament enjoyed being a part of the nobilty and ruling class, and knew it was only a matter of applying one's self to get there. He would serve Arryk, of course, but he planned to pick up a few trinkets of his own on the way. Arryk wasn't the only route to riches.

Those who cared about such things, and there were many in a city such as this, were a touch surprised to see such a well dressed figure stop in at a minor lord's house and ask for entrance into the villa. Surely such a person as this would have more important aquaintances then this, or more confidence when striding into the home of that rank of nobility? But few indeed would have guessed the nature of the visit.

<center>~*~</center>

Lord Poul Fortunato looked up from his desk. It was strewn with papers, and his eyes had been staring at them for some time without seeing them, pondering his next move in the game for the throne. His objective was almost too far to be seen from where he was, and as his mind considered it, his fingers were given faint cuts as he twirled an elegant dagger. His fingertips had dozens of scars from earlier such expierences.

He blinked, becoming aware of the pain, and ignoring it. He slipped his dagger back into his belt, brushing off the blood on the lining of his green silken coat. It wouldn't do to distract the guests. Whoever it was. Poul glanced at the servant who had come in, then said, "Send him in."

"Who are you?"
The Tinker smiled. "Poul, my friend, we have certain mutual companions. Do you remember the name Tobias?"
Poul grimaced. That brought up some memories he was trying to forget, along with some promises he had made in his youth, and trying to gain control of his House. He had gained it, certainly, but the easy promise at the time had some hidden, deadly strings. Now this phantom from the past had returned - a friend of Tobias, a Darkfriend of some infamy in the more shadowy circles.
"I know him. I'm forgetting him. No one can walk in the Shadow so long that they cannot return to the Light."
The Tinker's smile widened. "Oh, it's not as easy at that, Poul. I have only a small favor to ask of you, easy to fulfill. The one asked of me was far less easy, and when I did not do it quickly enough. . ." The man in crimson pulled down his collar, revealing black flesh from a Myrddraal blade. Poul shuddered. "My name is Lament, and this would be a child's dream compared to the punishments those who forsake the Shadow recieve. You will serve me."
Poul sighed, his hand reaching down to stroke the dagger blade at his belt. Perhaps life under the Shadow was not life worth living. "What do you want?"
"An invitation, to a ball. I know of the party that's going to be happening there, and I have reason to go there."
The noble's hand caresssed the blade, slashing his palm. It would be easy to end it. His other hand reached up, pushed an envelope to Lament. "I have the invitation here. Please don't come back."
Lament smiled, as if reading Poul's thoughts. "You can never leave the Shadow."

post

"And she said, no, that's a trolloc! Hahaha, what? No, I don't want diced crab. Bring some wine over, there's a good fellow. Come back later, after you've cleaned the rooms or whatever it is you servants do. Anyway. How are your dealings with Illian going, my dear? Yes, that Rand fellow, quite atrocious. . . "

Lament was enjoying himself, a lord in scarlet regalia, surronded by his peers, a glass of fine wine in one hand, a girl in the other. He hadn't caught her name, but didn't really need to, everyone at this party had had more drink then was strictly neccessary.

Of course Lament was only sipping, but the people with him were already having trouble walking across the marble ball room, with it's hundreds of guests, and a few had already stopped off at the carpeted alcoves off of the chamber. They had already been replaced, a group of people always interested in talking to the young Andoran lord Micrav, a sheer delight at the party experience.

It was well into the night, as shone by the tall windows set in the walls, but that didn't stop the party. The chandeliers were still gleaming, and the refreshment table still full, due to the endless checking of the servants. Lament smiled as others grabbed another glass of wine. He turned back to his circle, smaller now that the couches called to them, alone or in pairs.

A Darkfriend servant, much earlier that evening, had pointed out who might be responsive to talk, either with the aid of drink or the knowledge of their audience, and Lament had taken the former route, toasting one and all. Now, through fragments of conversations, he knew of several digs looking at remenants of the Age of Legends.

The first was looking for aged pots, out in the countryside, but Lament didn't think that would be of the category he was looking for. The second had found books, very quietly, near Seanchan held Almoth Plain. And the last, from an older noble who had an interest in the past, but was unable to go out himself - he had heard of a dig in the Black Hills, north of Andor, and that, Lament, held possibilities.

post

Though Lament thought he could find better ones then in the Rahad. Admittedly, he had no money, but that could be changed. There were a number of gambling parlours, and where they were, money would be. A couple of words to the right people, and he'd have a purse full of gold, half again due in a month. Quite simple, really.

It was with faint distaste he walked into said gambling parlour, his senses more attuned, and preferring, the upper nobility as opposed to the poor quality of life down in the rough. But he could get what he needed here, so his red swept forms walked from table to table, boots clicking on the saw dust of the floor, looking about for a certain type of person.

Said person approached him first, with good quality garb of black and dark green, and two largish people at his back, with short swords. Lament smiled easily. "Evening, old boy. Don't suppose you could sport me a loan? Say, two hundred gold?"

The man smiled in return, taking in the richness of Lament's outfit. "Of course, my lord. I am assured you can return the four hundred in two weeks, for you do look like a man of honestly." Lament smiled more, knowing what was not being said. "Of course."

The large pouch was handed over without further ado, holding fourty five-marks, and Lament walked out. A number of eyes followed him.


~*~


It was in an even seedier tavern that Lament found what to spend it on. The tavern, hidden away in the back end of an alley in the more dirty sections of the Rahad, was called the Empress, in honor of the new government in Ebou Dar.

Inside, there were few lights. Some said this made for a romantic atmosphere; personally, he thought it was to hide what the food looked like. Overpriced and quite possibly still moving, one avoided the dishes here if they had any idea of survival.

The same went for the drinks.

Of course, this place wasn't for food and drink; it was a meeting place, where secrets were bought and sold, at best semi legal activities planned, and no one listened in unless they were paid to.

A few thugs were here, willing to do anything for the right price, and their hungry eyes looked consideringly at the value of Lament's clothing. He smiled easily, his eyes glittering, and they went to looking into their cups.

One of them did not, and Lament walked over. "I have a small operation I would like done, and I am curious if you and a few associates would be interested in it." The thug didn't say anything. "I am going to Andor and need a small escourt of five men. I will supply horses and uniforms, which can be kept after two weeks ends. A large amount of gold will be given as well, the total of all benefits being two hundred. Interested?"

The thug smiled, revealing only a partial set of teeth in a dirty, grizzled face. "Very much so. I'm Rillian. When we do leave?"


post

Six men rode north, on one of the major roads of Altara, on the way to Salidar. Their horses were lean and muscular, purebred stallions, and they ran tirelessly along the fine roads of the country.

They were obviously a lord and his gaurds, though their insignia were not well known. Their clothes were a base black, dark as the night, and they were mildly embroidered in crimson. Their boots had a gold colored rim, as did their wrists, and a crimson bird was placed on their black collars in the stance of a heron, though if one looked close it was a raven.

Their lord, on a beautiful horse, wore red predominately, though he had some black and gold as well. His face was arrogant though cheerful, and his red hair flew in the wind. They rode north tirelessly, and to all it looked like they were on a summer jaunt.

They passed many people, in carriages and on horses, on foot or on cart, and did not slow for any of them. So if there were those who were watching, they would have been surprised when they slowed and stopped on the fork to Amadicia, land of the Whitecloaks.

On that road, heading deeper into the land of light, three Whitecloaks, pulling limping horses. Their once flawless white clothing was dirtied and frayed, and in a few cases singed as if by fire. Their horses nickered nervously as they took in the five fresh stallions.

Lament dismounted and walked over, a faint smile hidden on his lips. "Greetings, noble protecters of justice. What happened this day, to cause such horror to men such as you?"
The whitecloaks looked up, their faces as ragged as their clothes. One of them, who had sandy hair and blue eyes, spat.

"Our noble leaders in Amador decided to listen to rumour and hearsay, probably from the Questioners, burn them! Two Aes Sedai witches were seen near Salidar, and having decided that witches could be destroyed with 'fire weilded by righteous men' they sent us out, ordered to use torches instead of swords.

"It was a disaster. Whoever heard that was a fool, the witches turned the torches on us with their One Power, and their Warders cut us to mincemeat. We're the only survivors, and I'm going to tell Amador exactly what happened, and I don't care what they think."

The Whitecloak snarled and walked away, pulling his horse. The two others followed behind him with dull eyes, and Lament's men looked at him confusedly. He grinned and remounted. "A little rumour goes a long way."

He was still giggling later that night.

post

It was nearing sundown as they left the forest of Altara, only a few miles from civil war wracked Gheldean. The crimson light fell from the horizon, highlighting the riders as their horses walked out of the thick woods. The light enveloped them, making the lead rider seem soaked in blood, the riders behind him splashed with ribbons of it. If one was a philosopher, one could suggest the lead rider was seeped in evil, while the others following him were only on the edges of it, but there were no philosophers in the empty plains near Garen's Hills, only wild grass and aged stone.

It was a silent place, spanning for miles in all directions, the sounds of civilization far behind them. The only sounds, really, were the quiet movements of animals and their callings for food. The horses shuffled uneasily when they heard wolves howling, particularly when light was fading, but Lament didn't mind. His men carried short bows, and wolves would have easier targets then stallions. They continued riding, the sounds of the forest fading behind them as night went on, and soon only the wind accompanied them.

The night seemed to pass on forever, their drifting through the plains timeless. They did not feel weary as they rode, and felt no inclination to stop, so they traveled past acres of thick grass, seeing a few deer in the night, and small hills where ancient towers once stood. They saw no intelligent thing, and seemed to have gone into another world beyond time.

post

The silence of the last few hours was breifly broken. ". . . Are you sure you don't want to read some of my poetry?"
"Lament, I said no!"

From such adventures are legends made.

post


It was cold. The air was crisp, near freezing, and frost covered the grass, and had for miles. It seemed the weather was making up for the unnatural heat of the endless summer for the unnatural cold of the winter. It would not snow this night, now with this cloudless sky, the stars glittering, but it might as well.

So thought Lament bitterly as he buried himself in his silks. They might have been the most fashionable in Ebou Dar, but they were far too thin for this weather. It had been five years sinc ehe had been in northern Andor, and his memory seemed to have dulled regarding the temperture.

His men had it worse, having never left Ebou Dar, and they shivered night continously as the freezing wind cut down from the Black Hills, ranging the next hundred miles north. Their wool kept them warmer then his silks, but they trembled at the cold and cast bitter looks at the one who had brought them here. The money, once so seeming extravagent, was now just barely enough.

Lament's pale lips curled back in a mirthless smile. They would not be here long, thank the Great Lord - only four miles away was the other encampment, a harsh valley between them, rocky and steep. A few birds flew over it, at his eye level, but still hundreds of feet above the ground, visible against the backdrop of fading night.

Lament held up his hand, stopping the horses' trot as he looked over the place. It was a clearing set in among several trees, with the grass high, curling around a number of rocks. "We'll camp here. Who's the best climber?" One of the men, grubby even in his hereldry, assented, and Lament smiled. "That camp over there is a dig, looking for artifacts from the Age of Legends. As you see, they have a large fire and several guards. I want you to go over there amd bring back one of them alive. We really must aquaint ourselves and see what they have found."

The man nodded, and started walking down the slope, his boots, and soon his hands finding holds to skitter on. Lament looked to the remainder. "Take those rocks out of this clearing, and bring in a large amount of wood. We are having a good fire." Over the men's sounds of appreciation, Lament said, "I want a watch kept, and tomorrow, before we go, you are cleaning those uniforms and weapons, as well as shaving. You are to look like my retinue."

They began their work quickly, wanting the warmth of a fire before night truly set in. If the evening was enough to freeze one's breath into mist, they had no wish to feel the bite of true night.

<center>~*~</center>

Marc winced as his fingers grasped the rocks. They were bitterly cold, and his hands were going numb. He had almost fallen once already, and now being far more cautious. Better cold then dead. His boot scrabbeled for a hold, found one - he sihghed, moving his hand down. Even in the light of the campfire, more then half a mile away, this was hard. He idly wondered if the flickering shadows made this a harder climb, or easier, but eventually dismissed it. It was a hard climb, either way - climbing into upper windows in the Rahad was nothing like this.

he shivered as a harsh wind whipped at him suddenly, freezing his muscles, and he shuddered at the sound it carried - wolves. They probably could climb worse then most humans, but the howls froze his blood nontheless. With an effort of will, he put them to the back of his mind, his hands looking for the next rock.

After a little while, the steepness ended, and he could shuffle his way down the broken rocks and small vegetation. His eyes, now away from the fire and deep in the shadows ravine, had adapted, and he traveled the rest of the way down with little time lost.

At the bottom, he looked at the jagged landscape upwards, deciding what would be the simplest route, the cold in his hands forgotten as he considered. He enjoyed climbing, and this held a challenge like nothing he had ever tried before.

Eventually, he decided on cutting to the left, along an outcropping of rock, then up along a small path between layers of bushes. Probably an animal trail. From there, it would be more fo the steep hand over hand work that he had finished earlier.

He stood there for a little longer, getting his breathe back and warming his hands, then he walked foward, stepping onto the rock. It wasn't that bad of a trail, jutting a span out on the cliffs, and it curved up and down the occasional break that he had to leap over.

It took perhaps twenty minutes, walking this trail and the next, up along crumbled rock amidst dark and thorny bushes. He cursed more then once as they scratched him, but it ended quickly, and he was soon looking at a rockside a third from being vertical. He paused, warming his hands again, and started climbing. It was somewhat monotonous, find a rock, move up, find a rock, but the trail he made shifted, and no handheld was the same. So it kept his interest.

It was almost a surprise to the him when he reached the encampment. They had made a large fire which was now dying down, and all but one person was asleep in their bed rolls. That person was a guard, dressed in dark green with a gold hawk armband. He held a crossbow, and his back was to Marc. He was looking down a cart path, supposedly the only approach up there.

The camp was large, with twenty or so researchers, a wagon of supplies, and several carts surronding a deep pit. Most of the carts were full, and Marc could tell there were items half buried in the pit, a few set in stone.

He walked silently over to the guard, and ability learned from years of stalking in the Rahad, drawing his knife as he did so. With one quick motion he grabbed the guard's hair and put his dagger to his throat. The guard tensed, going pale.

Marc said softly, "Make any form of outcry, and I will kill you. Understand?" The guard nodded. "Now hand me that crossbow, along with any other weapons you have." The guard pulled out two daggers, and Marc put them in his belt. He uncuffed a silver bracelet off the guard too, it looked valuable. Then he aimed the crossbow at the man's back, letting him feel the steel barb, and said, "You're going to keep me company on the way back to the that other campfire. Come along."

It was a slow trip. Marc had to wait for the prisoner to find each step, even though he told him where to go, and the man stayed pale throughout to the journey. Apparently he didn't like heights. Or maybe it was the arrow pointing at him.

They were nearly the way back to camp, a hundred feet up to go, when Marc began wondering about his employer out of sheer boredom. What they were doing out here, that sort of thing. He was rich and seemed a fop, but there was that feeling of coldness, and perhaps malevolent laughter, behind that cheerfully smiling face. There was a feeling of wrongness about him.

His train of thought ended there when they came off the rockside, into camp. He saw a shortbow leveled at him, and said irritably, "Rillian, it's Marc. Drop it." Rillian grinned, lowering the bow. "Just having some fun. Lament, your guest has arrived."

The man in red sat up from his curl in his blankets, sleepiness vanishing from his eyes as a gleam entered them. Unsheathing a dagger, he walked over. Marc was working on eating a hot meal of cheese on beef, but his eyes looked over the proceedings.

Lament grinned widely, and something in his face and his stance was frigthening. An eagerness perhaps, to use that dagger in his hand to feel flesh tear and blood spill. Rillian caught the breathiness around Lament's words and shuddered. He knew a few who got excited when killing, but not like this.

The ex-Tinker stood close to the prisoner, the blade at the guard's eye, cutting delicately at the skin. A drop of blood slipped down his face like a crimson tear, and he whimpered. Lament smiled, his glittering eyes the only thing the guard could see.

"You can call me Mr. Teatime. I hope we can be friends. Do you think we can be friends?" The guard nodded as best he could. He knew a scripted question when he heard it. Lament didn't blink. "Now, since we're friends, I think we can share secrets. Tell me, who is that group you came from working for?"

"Lord Ambrose, my lord." His voice shuddered. Another drop of blood went down his face. Lament nodded. "Thank you. You've been a good friend." Then he punched the knife blade foward, crushing the eye and slamming into his brain, killing him instantly. The corpse stood for a moment on the blade, then slipped off it. Lament shuddered, taking a breath, then lowered the knife. His retinue watched, fascinated. He smiled a trifle dreamily, cleaning his dagger. "Bury the body. We leave at dawn."

post

There was only one path to this particular black hill. It had been made centuries ago, by a long forgotten village who had worshipped here, believing they could become closer to the Creator if they were in a pure place away from the business of civilization. Rocks and trees were taken out of the way, the harsh and jagged setting of the peak smoothed away, to make a circle of large stones, in which a building had been made. The building was destroyed long ago, but some of it's parts remained, and that was why a swarm of archaelogists, in the service of the Lord Ambrose, were digging here.

They had found four carts of things and were filling a fifth, working as the sun came over the horizon, peircing the dark trees that were scattered over the area like so many clawing hands. Dust was brushed away and old rocks, sometimes melted into the items of long ago, were labriously chipped away. Twenty people interested in the past, and six guards. At least, they'd started with that many. One had been killed by wolves, and another had vanished, probably deserting.

They had been working there for close to three months, and aside from those events, nothing had happened, and they had had no contact with other people. So Augsgrabenson, the overseer and professional researcher into the Age of Legends, was more then a little surprised when he saw six well bred horses working their way up the path. They were being ridden by armed men in black and red, and looked quite professional.

His people were in the pit, working their way deeper into the past, and didn't see what was coming. So he had some time to think. Augsgrabenson was getting older, with a long beard of grey and clothes dirty from the wilderness. His hands were overused from years of digging in the rock for elements of long ago, and his blue eyes were tiring. He had no idea why such a group would be approaching his excavation, but they didn't look like bandits - they looked like nobility. He decided to wait and see what happened.

The Lord approaching them seemed quite indifferent, like he had a great number of things to do and this was only a minor part of a very long list. He had brown eyes and red hair, looking to be from somewhere in southern Andor. He looked over the encampment, and Augsgrabenson looked calmly back.

The noble spoke first. "Yes, well, this will have to do. Bring that cart over here," He pointed. "And then we can live this miserable place." Despite himself, Augsgrabenson was caught be surprise. What was this man about? "Who are you? Why are you here?"

His workers heard the argument, began coming out of the pit, curious. The gaurds shifted uneasily, weapons getting ready. The pale man on his horse turned an angrier red. "I'm Lord Makura, and I'm here to take one of your shipments as proof your doing your job!" Augsgrabenson interrupted him, "What? I wasn't told about that."

Lord Makura snarled, his eyes like daggers. "Lord Ambrose sent me, and I will not fail him. You will give him, and I his servant, that cart, as proof of your work."

One of Augsgrabenson's guards stepped foward, saying "Here now, the boss didn't hear anything about this. You'll need a better argument then that." Makura went cold, his voice dull. "Rillian, show him our argument." Rillian smiled easily at the guard, who looked suddenly nervous, and then hefted his mace, smashing it down on the guard's skull with a sound like a melon splitting. Much of the camp made horrified cries, and the guards started to draw their swords, but froze when they saw shortbows leveled at them.

Augsgrabenson shuddered as Rillian licked at the blood on his mace, and said, "Fine, take the cart. You can be sure Lord Ambrose will hear about this." Makura smiled coldly. "I'm sure he will. You'll find I did exactly as I was told."

Makura rode his horse foward, and dismounted, looking through the carts, muttering to himself, moving things from cart to cart. After about ten minutes, the camp silent save for him, he nodded, and pointed to one. "This will do. Good day."

The lord took two horses and the cart, and started working his way down the hillside. Augsgrabenson sighed, and said sadly, "Back to work."

Far down the road, out of earshot, Lament looked at Rillian. "I thought you didn't like the taste of blood?" Rillian looked back, face cleanshaven. "I don't. But they needed a bit more scaring." Lament smiled, a small white rod dancing along his fingers, and rode south.

post

In the town of Four Kings, Lord Lament and his retinue of five well dressed thugs rode in, a cart of dusty relics in tow. They were safe from the elements under a tarp, but one could see assorted bits and peices of furniture, some scraps of books, and a few dozen apparently valueless trinkets. Lament didn't know if they were worth a thing, and he didn't really care. The item he had been sent out to acquire and had, he had it in a rather obvious place. He had become rather fond of the Seanchan style of dress, and so had rearranged his hair into a bun and ponytail, the relic holding it into place. Who,

of dress, and so had rearranged his hair into a bun and ponytail, the relic holding it into place. Who, after all, would rob someone of their hair pin?

They rode into Four Kings, and Lament brushed free floating dirt from his clothes disdainfully. This was not the kind of place he preferred - lines of houses and inns along an intersection of major roads, and swarms of dirty merchants and their guards. He liked a Palace far better, and wondered how he would survive slumming in such an area as this.

A small voice tugged at his brain, mentioning he had absolutely no money, and was in fact in debt dozens of hundreds of gold to assorted loansharks and fashionshops. He ignored the voice. It sounded far too sensible to him.

Looking over the inns, he saw one he thought was appropriate to his rank, in his mind at least. Lament was already plotting how to use what he had acquired to his own advantage, and if reality hadn't caught up to his vision of being a mighty Lord, well, that was just too bad.

The inn, large and ornate, at least for this place, was called the Royal Inn, and such a name soothed Lament's ego. Silks and baths and fine dining, they were the things truly meant for him, not mucking about in the wilds looking for things forgotten centuries ago.

He dismounted his horse, as did his men, and he told them to do what they liked, only be back at the inn by two hours after dark. The horses were taken to the stable. Three of the retainers, the ones whose names Lament hadn't learned, went off to find entertainment of the female persuasion; he saw the gleam in their eyes. Rillian and Marc chose to stay, so the entered the Royal Inn, the fine oak door opening soundlessly into a large chamber that suited well to do merchants and lesser lords. Lament was dressed the best of them, of course, having spent more then most merchants earned in a year to get the outfit he wore.

He smiled confidently and sauntered over the Innkeeper, an obviously wealthy man by his dress and jewelry. He smiled back at Lament, seeing similar wealth. "A private room, of course. Our best, which you so obviously deserve, is ten gold a night, and we can bring up food to you.."

Lament nodded. "That will do, I think. Take us there."

The room was indeed all Lament had hoped for, with silks and soft matresses, baths and mirror. He spent an hour in the bath, making himself pretty; one must have their standards - and in the meantime had his clothes mended. Rillian and Marc found some couches near the door and dozed for a while. Occasionally one of them reached for breads, fruits, and cheeses that were on platters for dinner. When they woke up, they would stuff in into their food bags.

They were on the third floor, and the windows were small, but Lament noted he could get through them. Something to do later. It was nearing sunset, and he decided to sleep for six hours. It passed quickly, and without dreams, far better then the last time he had slept, with the relentless prescence driving him on to meet his Master. Lament woke before dawn, as he had planned, and smiled mirthlessly.

He opened the windows, letting a cool breeze swirl in, and woke up his two retainers, who had slept light. The town was asleep, with little sound inside or out, and Lament walked over to the window. With a minimum of effort he squirmed out, his feet on the cornice. He then lept down a story, his hands catching where his feet were, and from there went to the ground, his men following.

They went to the stables, got their horses, and the six of them rode away, the cart with them. Lament smiled, replying to that inner voice that had talked to him earlier. He indeed owed money to people, but it was just money, and more importantly, they were just people.

post

Near Garen's Wall they traveled, east of Gheldean, travelling to their master's home in Ebou Dar, in Altara. They were near the land of the Prophet, a place of civil war, where the prophet's men swarmed, proclaiming the radiance of the Dragon Reborn, and thousands turned to banditry in his name. Gheldean, land of spilt blood.

Such travellers as these, a noble and his small guard, was nearly certain to attract attention, particularly since they walked the endless plains while the sun shone, instead of at moon's gleaming, the last time they had crossed.

Lament rode confidentally, arrogantly, as if this was his own estate, not one of the worst bandit countries known. Admittedly, the other side of Garen's Wall was worse, but groups would spill over, and his escourt knew it. They rode with bows out and arrows resting on the notch. The value of their horses, uniforms, and whatever was in the cart would set up a mercenary for a year, and such ungaurded holdings begged a change in ownership.

It's what Rillian would have done.

So they were not at all surprised when such a group slipped out of the deep grass, wearing blending clothes and holding lowered swords. They looked much like the entourage did before Lament got to them, grungy thugs looking for profit. The bandits, or Dragonsworn, so close as not to matter, moved closer. Lament smiled faintly, knowingly, and pulled his horse to a halt. "And what, dear boys, are you up to."

The leader looked at him, his eyes burning with fanaticism, as did a few of his men. "We serve the Dragon! Turn over those horses and that outfit, man, for no one should be better then another, save the Dragon in his glory."

Lament looked unconcerned. "Old boy, why should I give up what I earned and paid for? I've never seen the Dragon, and don't think he even knows I, or these horses, exist."

The bandit nearly frothed at the mouth. "The Dragon, bless his name, knows all, and the world shall kneel to him! Those horses will help us spread his holy name!"

"No. I don't give to bandits claiming to work for a false Dragon darkfriend."

The Dragonswron rushed foward before he had even half finished, swords raising, but the arrows were already on their way. Four men smashed backwards at the impact, barbed arrows deep in their chests. Lament grinned - arrows like that would kill a horse. He pulled at his reins, and his stallion kicked the leader in the skull, smashing his brains into pulp. Lament then turned, galloping the horse well away. He wasn't a fighter.

There were only eight attackers left, and versus five men on horses, it wasn't much of a contest. There were reasons cavalry were favored over infantry, and they showed it now.

Lament's men had dropped their bows after the first volley, not having time to reload, and drew swords and maces. Their horses whipped through the line of men, scattering and occasionally wounding them as the hoofs worked their way. One man was trampled - his screams ended quickly. Maces and swords moved in quick slashes, their riders not staying in one place long enough to be attacked.

In moments, it was five to four, and the four changed their tactics, pairing up. One swung his sword into a horse's leg, cleaving it off at the knee, and as the rider fell, he was impaled on the second waiting sword. But none of the four survived long afterwards - the other horsemen had turned and slauughtered thme.

Lament trotted over, looking over the bodies. Rillian was among them. He looked impassively over to Marc who still rode, breathing hard. "Loot the bodies and bring half to me. You survivors, of course, will split the shares of the pay. And somone kill those horses!"

The two horses were screaming, trying to handle the pain of the severed limbs. Their throats were cut in one merciful swing of the sword, and the bodies were looked through. Lament got twenty gold, and a few gemmed rings and bracelets. He wouldn't have been surprised if they had kept more then that, but he didn't need much. "Let's go."

The bodies lay where they were.

post

Lament, dreamer and murderer, pouted coquettishly. For all his hard work in getting to Ebou Dar and his master, at the Great Lord's behest, and at the end of it, ignored, save given a minor command. He had seen animals given more attention then that, and he had far higher ambitions then an animal. His master had told him to find an artefact, and he had, but he hadnt specified a time limit, so he would have a few days to prepare.

Oh yes.

The pout vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a slow, subtle smile. He had a few minor ideas that would stabalize his position - he had been told to aid this man in all ways, but Lament was going to gain from it, even if his master tried to keep him down. It was already beginning.

Lament, dressed in crimson and black, strode down the cobbled road in a lower class section of the city, if not the Rahad itself. His plan entailed the aid of one or two people, here and there, and he was now looking for them. It was beginning to darken, the sun falling beyond the buildings, giving the city an unreal look. Lament smiled. And if it seemed a metaphor for what was going to happen, all the better.

He eventually found the place he was looking for, a Wise Woman's shop, with the herbs she used hanging from the window. He had found a few buildings that had similar, but this was the first that had a white rose, wreathed in black thorns. Stepping off the road, he pushed the oak door open, ringing a little bell as he did so. The Tinker almost laughed. Aesthetics were important, even in the shadows.

The room was empty of people, if not of plants. They draped and grew on everything, tables, chairs, hanging from the ceiling, draping into a little fountain. Behind a nigh wall of ivy, a handsome woman, with black hair stepped out, looking at who had entered her shop. Lament idly tapped his leg with the ter'angreal, meeting her gaze. She took in his clothes and nodded. "Yes, milord? I am Marie."

He said nothing, seeming to consider what to begin with. As he did so, his left arm moved up to scratch his right shoulder, then he shook his head, seeming to dismiss the thought. Marie looked at him again, then bowed. "Milord, what do you request?" The tone was rather different, and far more subservient.

Lament smiled again. "You can channel?" At her nod, he said, "I need you to find another channeler, as powerful as you know, but not affiliated with any friends. I hope you can use your power to persuade her not to fight; we wouldnt want damaged merchandise." Marie nodded, and left the room for a moment, bringing back tea. "She'll be here soon. Wait here."

The tea was fine, rather minty, and he finished half of it as he glanced about the room. The plants were everywhere. She returned as he was about to finish the cup, and he stood up to meet her. She had a beautiful young woman with her, eyes dulled with Compulsion. Blond hair trailed halfway down her back.

Lament tossed the Oath Rod at Marie. "Have her swear loyalty to the Dark, to me, and to use all means needed to keep from betraying either." As they did this, Marie glancing occasionally at him, wondering what he was planning, he glanced inward, thinking. He wanted no one to know of what he was doing, not for a long while yet, and Marie had already had someone leading her. He glanced up at the girl who had just arrived, who was shuddering.

"What's your name?" She glared at him, tears of anger on her face, but answered anyway. "Tina." He smiled easily. "Very good Tina. You are more powerful then Marie?" She nodded, rage in her features. "Good. Kill her now."

Marie snapped her head at Lament in fear and betrayal, but then was knocked back against the table. They stood where they were for sometime, just staring at each other. Lament almost wished he had an apple; this was deserving of a meal. A little while later, Marie slumped to the ground, bleeding from her ears.

Lament nodded. "Good. Follow me Tina. We have work to do."

post

They spent most of the night out, wandering the streets, looking for women who could channel. Tina could identify them, even though to Lament they looked the same as any other. Only a few had red belts, and they all went into isolated areas of the city when the Compulsion took their minds, and then they swore the same oaths as Tina had. In time, he had thirteen loyal channelers - an excellent base for what he had planned.

They followed him at a distance through the streets, half a dozen women with one man would look strange, and they soon expanded the group to thirteen, who clustered around him at his demand. At his word, they quickly set up a weave Lament had dreamed the specifications for.

His trail to power, he knew, would involve bringing channelers to heel, and Aes Sedai would certainly try to assassinate a Darkfriend Lord if they found out about him. So the weave, utterly invisable to all but the caster, would activate when the One Power was thrown at him. The weave would sever the attacker, instantly.

Admittedly, that wouldn't allow him to be Healed, but he didn't expect to be in combat personally.

He called it a Latent Fang.

post

Lament grew tired with the dawn, but he had one last thing to do before sleeping. Dismissing the women from his prescence, he strolled over to Lord Fortunato's estate, his noble clothes not at all out of place. He entered Poul's office, who was working even then, and smiled casually. Poul met his eerie gaze, and held it for a little while.

He wasn't surprised when Lament said, "You are going to change your heir to Lord Micrav." Poul did so slowly, knowing what was going to happen next. When all the seals were placed and signatures signed, he watched the Tinker cut out his heart.

~*~


Following the sudden death of Lord Fortunato, Lord Micrav was accepted as his heir. As he was a far more charming figure then Poul, and Poul had become increasingly inconvenient, there was a minimum of investigation. Lament Micrav, lord of one of the smallest estates, smiled happily.

He was in his new office, dressed to the finest, and used the treasury of the Family to pay for his debts to Annan, as well as refit some of Poul's clothing. He sent out a number of invitations to some friends he had gathered earlier, youngest sons and daughters of other families who would welcome another party, and had his Manor ready when a woman arrived.

Lament smiled, letting the servants bring her in, and Tina knelt to him, repeating her oath. He smiled more, idly touching the Rod of Dominion at the front of his desk. This party was going to go well.

They arrived an hour after sundown, a dozen prettily dressed birds of paradise, and Lament had the servants direct them to one of the larger ornate chambers. There was mulled wine and assorted delicacies, and Lament was charming to one and all. The lady Tina was at his side, dressed in a blue silk outfit found in one of the wardrobes, very lightly touching people's minds to have more wine.

It was late into the night when Lament gestured slightly, and Tina touched one of them with Compulsion again, suggesting they play a game of Kings, pretending to swear loyalty to Lament and then being ordered to do silly things. When they got bored of that they could choose a new king and play the game all over again. It was late, and they were tired, drunk, and the One Power held them, so they all agreed. A dozen nobles swore loyalty to Lament on the Oath Rod, and shuddered as the oath took hold. Lament smiled. "And your first order is to convince your friends and heads of household to join me for a party tomorrow. Otherwise, act your normal merry selves. After all, this is a time of joy."

post

The hours passed, and Lament spent them by making a much more elaborate (and much more expensive) preperation for the party of tonight. The children of a dozen families had been most persuasive, he knew, and now their parents and friends were on their way to see the stunning celebrations of the newly raised Lord.

A bard and her retinue would be part of the proceedings, with The Hunt for the Horn the hottest rumour about them. The gardens were hastily trimmed and beautified, the old ball and guestrooms dusted off and cleaned out, and a swarm of servants made sure everything ran right as food arrived in countless number. Lament was spending his fortune far faster then the income of the estate would ever cover, his savings melting away for cosmetic changes.

Lament, it may have been noted, did not have a head for money.

And so the House was readied, and two hours after dark, the guests began to arrive, dozens of them, in their best dress. Much of it was designed by the famous Annan, and it glittered and gleamed more beautifully then nature had ever dreamt. One Lady seemed to have a reptilian skin that swayed with her, dark green sequins glittering on her form fitting outfit, and that was only the average of the assortment.

They were directed to the ball room, after putting up their coats, and were greatly impressed by the long lines of tables that nearly bowed under the weight of food, with flaring lights curling in twisted shapes under the ceiling, brilliant and beautiful Skylights.

Lament rose to meet them, and was charming with one and all, enjoying every minute of it, having a greeting and best wishes for all invited. He was dressed in black pants that were hooked into red boots, with a black shirt and red cloak, every inch of him the Lord he always aspired to be.

Food and wine was taken in abundence, and a dance began, accompanied by music hastily hired by the new Lord, and many joined in. Just as many did not though, enjoying the food and the company, and Lament took that moment to sneak away into one of the side alcoves, the at his side. The Damane was left briefly alone, working the aerial entertainment, for she was a good pet.

At a quiet word, the nobles already loyal to him began persuading their entourage, one by one, to talk with Lament. They didn't have to try hard, as many were curious to speak with the rising star in the city. And when they went there, they found themselves saying things they never thought they would, and a feeling of a door closing somewhere inside of them. And so Lament passed the night, joining the dance, drinking the wine, and gaining loyalty of the lesser houses.

post

The night passed quickly, and Lament woke with the dawn, tired from his days of partying. But there was only one left to go, and that would be the culmination. He left his heavily silked room, spending his last parts of fortune to make this party the talk of the town.

With dozens of nobles loyal to him, it already was, but he wanted to make it worthy of it's reputation. Appearences were important to him. And so Tina and her pet were called in once again, food brought in by the cart load, and invitations and requests for invitations flew through the upper class. Tonight, many of the movers and shakers of Altara would come to this celebration, and thus be ensnared.

It was much like the previous night, skylights and music and dances, fine food and dining, though Lament's tiredness showed through at times, and some nobles raised eyebrows when they thought no one was looking - surely this was not the Creator's gift to Enjoyment they had heard so much about?

Lament waited an hour, then slipped the Oath Rod out of a pocket, going about and shaking hands, a beautiful blonde at his side, his pet Tina, though no one knew her name. The nobles looked surprised, finding an object in the midst of their hands while they greeted the Lord of the Manor, but their surprise ended quickly when Compulsion took them. It took nearly two hours to get them all, and Tina was sweating with exhaustion at the work of it all, but it was completed. The musicians were sent home early, with full purses of gold, and Lament smiled.

Nearly one hundred and fifty nobles taken to his hand tonight. It was delightful. He raised his voice over the crowd. "There now, did I miss talking with anyone?" The individual conversations stopped, waiting for a voice to be raised. No, he hadn't missed anyone. Many of them glared at him balefully, enraged at their loss of free will, but they could do nothing. He smiled knowingly.

"Line up in front of me, there's a dear." His finely dressed slaves did so. "Good. Now, all of you; swear loyalty to the Dark." There were tears at that, oh yes, cries and shouts and snarls, but they did it, the upper aristocracy of a kingdom turning to the Shadow.

"All of you, pay attention. There's a man called Arryk Vander Grey. You will treat him as you would me. That includes funding, and I do think you will be paying for my party of tonight. I can't be in debt, after all."

Lament walked closer, pointed at six at random. "You. Give your souls to the Dark." They stared at him, horrified, and then their faces opened in screams, their color fading as their will was torn out of them by a malevolent force. Then they vanished from sight.

Lament looked at them, though he couldn't see them. His own Grey Men. "You will defend me at all times." Lament looked at the rest of the crowd, their spirit broken. "That's it, party over. You had a wonderful time. Get some sleep, the game is just beginning."

post

Dawn rose, and with it, Lament's self satisfaction. His rise felt ordained by the Great Lord Himself, and after one additional boost, he would push up his earthly master as well. No matter what, he would be seated in power - Arryk would have to kill half a thousand of the rich and famous to remove that. Not that he would put it past him, but it would cripple himself as well, and he wouldnt do that.

Dressing in ornate blue silk with black threadings, he found a cane with a silver raven head, and decided to walk with it for a while. Crime was a horrific thing in this elegant city, and it was time for it to be dealt with. And he was the one to do it.

Walking past long lines of rooms of beauty and granduer, all his, tapestries, vases, rugs, servants, wealth beyond any previous imagining, he left his mansion, seemingly alone, to visit the jailhouses of the city and the dungeons of the aristocracy. He met up with Tina on the way, who wore an expressionless mask, revealing none of the thoughts. Lament laughed softly.

He was in the area of the aristocrats, so he visited them first. They let him inside their houses without hesitation, fear in their eyes for the man who literally held their souls in his hands. Lament smiled charmingly to all, tapping an imaginary hat as he went. It was good to be polite with his lessers.

Every house had a few prisoners, and some of the major players in the political feild had more then a few. Lament took them all of their captor's hands. A few muttered words and they all but vanished from sight. It was nice that crime could be eliminated so easily. It continued on in the city prisons, with the guards hanging on to Tina's every word as he idled with the evil, viscous thugs of the city. They were removed as well.

He scattered them through the city, they had little self interest now, and they sent him information of what they heard. A few were sent with the Oath Rod, with a note wrapped around it.

<i><center>
My Lord Arryk
The Oath Rod as you requested. I send some aides as well - speak a name to them, and he will die. Yours in loyalty forever.
Lord Lament Micrav</i></center>

Post

Out of darkness, out of night, a woman of shadowed face and shadowed heart walked. She was dressed in sheer blue silks, with a heart shaped face and almond curved eyes. A mysterious smile seemed to dance about her rose blossom lips, though her eyes were strangely bitter. It looked like she was doing something she abhorred, and did it anyway because there was no other choice.

Perhaps it was true, too. Few ignored Lord Lament when he set forth his whims, and Tina had perhaps more reason to serve him then most. An oath had been clawed into her soul, and now she served him to death and beyond. He was one of the Shadow’s minions, and now she was his. She had a rough idea of what he was planning, and though she once would have thought she would have died before aiding such a design, she had no choice.

Death wasn’t an option, to her.

She stopped near where she had used to work, and live, passing each day as it came, before the Shadow had blackened her. It was not a rich place, like she lived in now, but Tina would have preferred the worst slum of the Rahad and freedom then the Palaces of today and slavery. But the Creator, burn him, had other plans.

Or perhaps Lament’s word games had some truth in them. Perhaps there was no Light, after all.

She stopped before an oaken door. Lament had heard about what had happened here, through his utterly omniscient network of spies, and she had been sent to help. Sent to turn another innocent woman to evil, and aid a thug in his dreams of corrupt power. Ebou Dar was going to follow her soul, in darkness and depair.

She opened the door without knocking, and smiled meaninglessly at the man there. He was covered in blood, and so was the woman slumped on the ground. She knew him by description. He glared at her, a hawk’s gaze, perhaps about to tear out her heart. Tina spoke before he did. “Lament sent me. I can channel, and am to have this woman swear to you.”

Arryk nodded slowly, then tossed her the Oath Rod. “Do it.” His voice was harsh, and gravelly. Dear Creator, what would this man do with the power she was giving him? She caught the rod, and knelt next to the woman. A Wise Woman, like herself, though her red belt was lost in the blood. Touching her forehead, she wove Healing – a brief respite from the pain.

The woman murmured incoherently, and Tina clasped the Rod to her palm, Compulsion melting into her skull. “Swear loyalty to the Dark and to Arryk and to Lament. Promise death before removing these oaths.” The woman nodded slowly, dazed, muttered the words. Healing and Compulsion and the beatings confused her; then her eyes widened in realization, as the oaths took hold. She began to scream.

Arryk snapped, “Shut up.” And she did so. Tina wept inside. This was the beginning of slavery, for another woman. Tina’s face was emotionless – stone. The new darkfriend matched it. Tina looked up at Arryk. “Are you ready to go?” He blinked. “Go where?”

“To your coronation, of course.”

<center>~*~</center>

A man walked into the Tarasin Palace, home to the ruling Queen Alis, supposed monarch of Altara. In name alone – nobles scattered the country-side controlled their estates, ignoring the petty commands of whoever ruled. A dozen of them could have claimed the Throne themselves had they bothered. And one of them, in Ebou Dar itself, was going to bother.

The man, in nondescript tradesman’s clothes, strode through the outer gates. No one challenged him, even though rumors of riots had been heard. No gate was barred, and tripled guards let him pass as if he wasn’t there. He ignored them in reply, walking through the gardens and down the halls, stepping aside of people in his path. A man not worthy of noticing.

He walked casually into the Queen’s own suite, where she was resting for the evening. Guards there ignored him, even though he clasped a short sword on his belt and a crossbow on his back. He drew his sword as they looked past them, and slashed both their throats before they even noticed. They slumped, turning the green tiles crimson, and he kicked the gilded double door in.

Inside, past an outer room, Alis sat up from her bed, a dagger in her hands. She was nude to the waist, and looked past him, her face grim and ready to fight. The man unhooked his crossbow, took aim, and as the Queen stood up to see farther, the arrow took her in the chest. It was a barbed arrow, with heavy steel capable of killing horses. It lifted her off the mattress and slammed her into the headboard, pinning her. Blood poured out like water.

Shouldering his crossbow, he walked out.

<center>~*~</center>

When Lament arrived in the Palace, he announced the unfortunate death of the Queen. Guards ran off to check, and found the dead bodies. It was as if he kicked an anthill, and servants and advisors ran about, in shock and panic. How could such an assassination happen? He suggested that the Lords of the city be summoned, so that a new monarch could be chosen. The servants weren’t sworn to him, but they knew him as a man the aristocracy listened to, so it was agreed.

They arrived in minutes, so many fluttering birds of paradise, so many slaves to the Darkness. Lament smiled warmly, and as they gathered in the main hall, where food was brought, and Lament stood next to the throne, standing with easy arrogance. The nobles murmured uneasily, the vast majority sworn to him. This was a joke, and they all knew it. They knew who would rule Ebou Dar.

With a grand gesture and bow, he introduced a man none of them had ever seen, who seemed to wear the darkness on his face that Lament hid in his heart. Trumpets and drums were played, giving him the entrance he so richly deserved. His clothes were of less quality then many of the room, and the few who weren’t loyal to the Darkfriend spoke derision. The slaves held their tongues.

Lament gestured again. “I suggest this man be king. Who denies him?”

Those few laughed uproariously, and then stopped as the hundreds about them knelt. Blinking in surprise, they found themselves standing in a crowd of lords loyal to the new crown, a nameless anonymous. He had the City’s backing, though they knew not how. They knelt too, confusedly. They swore to him as liege lord and king, and after he accepted their loyalty, he proclaimed Lament as Minister of Education. They would be working together in the future.

The crown, still warm, was placed on Arryk’s head.

post

Lament smiled roguishly. A sewer rat become king, and a Tinker Minister of Education. Who would have thought of it? An utterly amusing twist in the weaving of the Pattern, and perhaps the first tangle on the way to the Breaking of the Wheel, and the rising of the Great Lord to ruler of all. Lament planned to have his preparations ready for that, and be well rewarded for his service. He had dreamt of becoming a lord, and now he was, but the path of daggers could be climbed higher.

He had a few ideas for the schools that would ensnare the malleable young children, but first one must snare the parents, which was a rather more complex task. Brushing his strawberry hair behind his ear, he lounged back in his chair, almost a throne. When in doubt, do as the Chosen do, and rule by fear.

A rather sizable force of Grey Men had been developed - to the best of his knowledge, they had in the past only been deployed in small numbers, and only then for a quick assassination. Lament had a much wider array of uses for such delightful creatures, and suicide runs the least of them. And even if they did suffer losses, why, he would always get more. His regime would be based on the sacrifice of the ideologically incorrect.

You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.

First on the agenda - make use of the spy network his silent stalkers had formed. He had them in place for sometime, and probably knew every secret in the city, for who would hold their tongue when among trusted friends? And in the background, ominpresent, a nondescript man, listening. Knowledge was power, and it was time to reveal what he was capable of.

His first edict would be a double prong into the belly of Ebou Daran culture. First, a change in religion, with schools (mandatory of course) taught by reliable and intelligent darkfriends. Mesanna's children lived again, but this time with a subtler twist. Instead of worshipping the Dark One and breaking the world to bits, the Dark One didnt exist, and neither did the Creator, for after all, where was the proof of either?

Some people would of course disagree with such a rightful view of the world, with humanity leaving behind old myths and legends, and that's where the Grey Men came in. It was a crime to disagree with the official views, sponsered by Good King Arryk, and those who did vanished, taken from their homes by Grey Men and turned into the same. The purge would be delightful, and Ebou Dar would be paralyzed in fear.

The edict following about ensuring Ebou Daran safety by revealing traitorous neighbors would be an additional spice, with a great deal of the population looking over each other's shoulders, feeding more information of evil to the monarchy. The police, to handle the crime, would simply have to be trebled in number, if not more, to clean the city. The Rahad in particular.

Let it be written, let it be so.

Post

Lament, Darkfriend and vile whipmaster of Ebou Dar, laughed softly. The human secret and public police had been expanded to a tenth of the population, and informants three times that. When he walked the streets, which he rarely did, a silence formed around him, of fear and outright terror. He was the Minister of Education, and his schools somehow found more about a man then any eyes and ears.

The children, now, began to learn spying with their letters and numbers, turning in friends and relatives with a laugh, being rewarded for weeks afterwards in class. Those who did not look for treasonous material in the hands of their aquintances were taunted and jeered, and the City quivered in hate and suspicion.

The numbers of Grey Men bloated.

Lament lived in one of the larger palaces, now, in a mostly empty place of shadow and fear, where the Soulless came and went by the dozens, documents seeming to appear out of nowhere on his desk, summaries of the City, random tidbits on the gossip of the streets. The servants stayed well away, only coming in when forced to give him food, blood drained from their faces as the Power seemed to pulse around them.

They wouldn't say anything. They were being watched.

The perfect spies were soon less necessary, even as their numbers expanded - the humans did their job well. So following his master's edict, he sent them north and eastward, expanding the eyes of the monarchy, extending the lines of police state. Schools and purges followed in their wake, and the underlying fear spread.

Obeying the King's wishes, he placed the names of Tinkers and Sea Folk on the secret lists, and mobs formed in some towns, forming around brightly colored wagons then soon burned. Those trying to escape were cut in the back with axe and spear. The Sea Folk ships were chased from the harbors, and the trade was cut off.

Hearing of incidents of Wolfkin able to see his spies, Lament ordered them on the lists as well, though the populace knew none of this, only that the purges continued. And knowing the power of spies, he searched out those sent by the White Tower, and had them assassinated in secret, messages sent to their employers outside the border that the Imperium of Man did not allow spying.

The Ebou Daran throne was the most powerful in it's history, and it held the most brutal regime imaginable.

Post

<i>Tel'aran'rhiod</i>, the world of dreams. A distorted mirror image of reality, where all your dreams can come true, even the bad ones. Perhaps especially the bad ones. A place of infinite possibilities, where one could travel across continents in hours, or find things of great importance. A place where you could be broken and sworn to the Dark, or killed without knowing you were in danger.

Tina knew all of this, having applied herself gruelingly to learn enough to fill her master's orders. There were a few Dreamwalkers in Ebou Dar, and they had taught her some, and she had learned a little more in her time since. Perhaps, hopefully, enough for what was necessary.

She stood in the dreamworld, in Tarabon, where the Seanchan held reign. They had been pushed back from Falme sometime before, but now had returned to the coasts, and in force. And Lament, her master for this life and perhaps the next, wanted her to chain them to him. She remembered his words.

<i>The Seanchan are a power like nothing else on the continent; they can break any army and possibly shatter the White Tower itself. You will bring them to me. </i> His eyes, often so playful, glittered like diamonds. <i>Do not fail.</i>

She had learned some small amount of their culture from watching their dreams, and found them to be a ravenous culture, twined in among itself in endless backstabbing and scheming. It was a surprise they managed to hold together as a kingdom, let along expand to a second continent. Apparently their Empress was the most viscous of the bunch, with cunning intelligence holding absolute power to her.

Absolute power was the key - all along the rigid social heirarchy, one held absolute power above the ones below, with the royal family holding life and death over all. Tina planned to insert her control, and thus Lament's along the ladder, and gain control of a lethal force. Although he preferred more subtle methods of control, as his quiet conquest of Altara had shown, he did understand the use of an nigh invincible army.

With that thought, she called out in a way she could not describe, reaching among the million million stars, dreams from all the worlds, and brought someone forth. A name she had heard often from the thoughts of sleeping Seanchan soldiers; High Lord Tywin.

He appeared before her, with delicately painted nails on the three outermost of his fingers and the partially shaved head in the manner of one of his rank. He was dressed in his insect like armor, and his eyes, set in a cold face, were hawkish.

ooc: to be continued.

post

Tina smiled easily, before letting the Seanchan speak. "Greetings, my lord. You have been chosen for an offer beyond price; bringing the lands east of the Aryth Ocean to heel. Glory and power to you, for a lifetime, and a legend for an Age. Does it not call you?"

The High Lord's voice matched his face, cold and hard. "The Empress, may she live forever, chooses who she will, and any glory I earn is for her alone. Who are you to speak to a High Lord so, and why are you here?" The woman cocked her head. "My name does not matter, only my offer. And it is not from the Empress, nay, it comes from a higher power."

Her voice seemed to echo along the hills and plains about them, and it seemed all the cities of the world were on the horizon, and between them, a roaring, cheering horde of troops, regiment upon regiment, of human soldiers, <i>damane</i> and <i>sul'dam</i> by the thousand, hills blanketed with the creatures of Seanchan, the sky blackened by the raken.

"All of this could be yours. . ." The cheering did not seem to quiet, but her voice could still be heard, quiet and compelling, a soft sibilant whisper. "Not an Empress on a throne five thousand miles away, not a glory given to others. Power beyond belief and beyond age, yours."

The High Lord grimaced. “And what is the price of betrayal and loss of honor, an army forgotten in a man’s lifetime? Is glory the price for treason?”

Tina smiled almost unnoticeably. “Join the Shadow, Tywin. Death is forgotten then, not the empire. An army unlike the world has ever seen, and your name greater then Hawkwing’s ever was.”

Tywin snarled and drew his sword, “Darkfriend!”, or tried to. It stopped before halfway out of the scabbard, for all his efforts to move it. Tina stepped closer, graceful, the silks around her seeming to cling. Her voice was soft, suggestive. “It’s not so bad. The Creator has done nothing in an Age, but the Shadow grants unending life, and the power to make it worthwhile. All your wishes, granted.” She ended in a whisper near his ear, licking her lips briefly.

He tried to push her away, but hit only Air. His face became more disgusted, if possible. A Darkfriend and a <i>morath’Damane</i>. “The Shepherd of the Dark has always been a lier, and always will be. Your power will be over dust, and your immortality will be as his slaves.”

The army vanished then, and Tina snarled at him for a moment. “You have no idea what’s in the shaping. If you will not join it freely, then perhaps I can persuade you by less pleasant methods.”

post

Tywin slumped on the grass of the curving hill, grass now red with his blood. His skin had been peeled off him in great strips, and he was quite possibly half flayed. His clothes had been literally burned off, and it had descended from there. He wondered hazily if he was going to survive this. Probably not. He never thought a dream would kill him, but they all had to die for the Empress one day or another.

All the bones in his legs had been broken twice, and he bit back screams as he felt the ocean of pain nigh envelop him. It had when she made him walk on them; he had screamed loud enough for a flier to hear. His broken fingers tried to hold his insides back - some of his ribs were missing, and his heart beat blood over the skin that remained.

Most of his hair had been ripped out, too.

His teeth were gritted; the ones that remained, anyway, as the darkness swirled around him. The Mistress of Shadows was close; he could almost hear her breathing at his back. Snarling, or perhaps whimpering, he worked on hearing what the darkfriend was saying. She seemed to be talking to someone else.

Tina ignored the shattered wreck of the High Lord on the ground. He would die soon; she had been perhaps a little enthusiastic in swaying him, but now his aide was here, and Tywin had been forgotten. Alek’hander, from what she had heard, was an even better general then Tywin was.

He was looking at her cautiously with those beautiful blue eyes, set under a mop of curly brown hair. He was not a man of caution, usually, but seeing what had happened to the man at their feet had made him step light. She doubted he even recognized him.

She smiled charmingly, and he tried to ignore the blood on her face. He had seen similar incidents before, particularly in battles, but on her it was positively disturbing. Alek’hander brushed the sword at his belt, then tightened on it. He did not fear death, but he doubted even the Tower of Ravens could hurt a man so thoroughly as she had.

“You have been chosen for an offer beyond price; bringing the lands east of the Aryth Ocean to heel. Glory and power to you, for a lifetime, and a legend for an Age. Does it not call you?" He laughed suddenly. “I take it he refused?”

The smile never left her face. “He did.”

“Continue then.”

Her voice seemed to echo along the hills and plains about them, and it seemed all the cities of the world were on the horizon, and between them, a roaring, cheering horde of troops, regiment upon regiment, of human soldiers, <i>damane</i> and <i>sul'dam</i> by the thousand, hills blanketed with the creatures of Seanchan, the sky blackened by the raken.

"All of this could be yours. . ." The cheering did not seem to quiet, but her voice could still be heard, quiet and compelling, a soft sibilant whisper. "Not an Empress on a throne five thousand miles away, not a glory given to others. Power beyond belief and beyond age, yours."

Alek’hander smiled wolfishly. “I’ve always been a fan of power and glory. I assume you’re a darkfriend? No need to nod. Very well, I accept.”

Tina cocked her head. “You will also have to serve a man called Lament.” He blinked. “You never mentioned that, but very well. I offer my service to the Great Lord - that is what you call him, yes? in return for power and glory.”

Tina smiled.

post

In a tavern in Tanchico, a gleeman plied his trade. The room was crowded, though not packed, and he had spoken to larger crowds, and more interested, but they had rarely paid so well. Gold in his purse now, and gold afterwards, paid by the Seanchan overlords.

The room was dark, and his hand outstretched as his voice hissed. “Humanity stands at the brink. On one path is power beyond imagining, and on the other, slavery unending.” His hand reached upwards, to the heavens, then beat down, in a fist. “Humanity has yearned for it’s freedom, straining against those that would chain it, and they acheived it during the Age of Legends.” His voice, a whisper, seemed to hint of all the greatness of that time. The crowd shuffled, listening closer.

His voice ripped into the silence, angry. “But such power in the hands of the righteous was not to be!” He sneered derision. “The Aes Sedai, those self proclaimed servants, shattered the world, and leashed the remenants.” The voice pulsed anger, and the crowd fell under his spell. “For more then three thousand years, these “servants” have beaten down the highest of Creation, using their power to quail instead of support. Humanity has brought forth channelers to enhance it’s inherant greatness, but these channelers instead chose to place themselves above.

“The Aes Sedai have played the puppet master, keeping Humanity in the gutter. With their servants the wolfkin, perversions of humanity, they siphon away our greatness, scattering us across the world,” The crowd nodded at this, hearing, believing. “stealing the fire from the soul, with Tinkers, and earth based might, with the Sea Folk. Humanity was formed from the dust, and it is the highest heresy to spend a lifetime away from it.”

“These “Aes Sedai” even dance religious, talking of a Creator and a Shadow, but the Shadow doesnt exist!” With that shout, the audience grew startled, their noise curious. He went on “They only claim such to put themselves in power. Look what they have done to fight the shadow, becoming advisors to kings, generals and commoners among them. Its the easiest thing in the world to claim power in the fighting of an emergency of your own making.” They didnt beleive now, but the thought would gnaw at them.

“They claim to sense the taint of the Shadow, and why not? They made the trollocs, animals in the shape of men to keep us beaten down and them in power. We had nearly climbed back to the summit” The gleeman’s voice turned hopeful, then harsh “when the Trolloc Wars started. It battered Humanity down and left the Aes Sedai the powers behind the thrones.”

His voice was again a whisper. “The Aes Sedai and their slaves must be cast down, so that we may acheive our birth right.” He didnt know what the Seanchan were up to, changing their views like this, but it was no doubt some sort of plot. Gleemen across their territory was telling a similar story.

post

Alek'hander's arm jarred under the impact as his sword scythed through the man's chest. The air was filled with blood and screams, and he ripped the Power wrought blade out with a grunt, spinning to disembowel a Taraboner coming on his side. The man gasped as his insides spilled out, his mace dropping from nerveless fingers. Alek'hander ignored him and strode on.

Smoke belched from half the city, and his force advanced into the urban areas, dispersing into alleyways and side roads, slaying anyone they saw with a weapon. Suddenly they fell, peirced by wickedly barbed arrows. The High Lord roared orders, and <i>damane</i> took to the flank. The building ruptured in a fine mist of brick, and burning timbers flared as blasted corpses hung limply.

Both the Empress and his lord Lament commanded him to punch into Tarabon, and he was doing so, with extreme prejudice. He had fifteen thousand horse and five score <i>damane</I>, backed by <i>grolm</i> and <i>raken</i>, and they advanced at a gallop into the territory of the oath breakers. He had divided them into ten columns, lead by his best captains, and they spun foward like a whirlwind, probing, darting, and then smashing.

Further dividing gained them a town, a hundred cavalry and a dozen <i>grolm</i> all that was needed, and they slowed only long enough to resupply and chain those who must be bound. Oaths were recieved, more loyal council members chosen, and the armies advanced, seeming a hundred times their size.

A few regiments here and there tried to rally and stop them as they advanced, but they were seen from the sky, and ambushed, decimated in seconds by the One Power. Cities fell in hours or minutes, their gates blasted open by fireballs and their militias broken like so many porecelain dolls.

Alek'hander willed his army foward across a front of two hundred miles, and they did so, crushing all before them. Parrying a sword blow with his own, he kicked the attacker in the belly, and when he gasped for air, beheaded him. The few times more then a dozen soldiers gathered, they were turned to so such meat, and the city they assualted whimpered under the attacks.

They would have surrendered, but Alek'hander didn't let them.

Soon the place fell to blood and fire, and the new regime was placed in hours, with all that that entailed. Then they were off again, galloping along the paved roads on the way to the Mountains of Mist, companies breaking off to quail towns and villages. A thousand or more horse, with women all too willing to use the One Power in battle.

post

His eyes gleamed. That was Marc's first thought. It was set in a jagged face, not particularly attractive, from what he knew of women's tastes, but there was definitly something compelling. Charismatic. Hair was cut close to the face, showing the harshness of the bone structure beneath, but there was something undefinable in the looks, something that demanded trust.

The face was of Good King Arryk, plastered on one of the warehouse walls, thirty by thirty feet. The prescence seemed to emenate beyond the pastels, like sunlight behind clouds, as if only such a large picture could give his larger then life visage. It called - demanded - attention, and though Marc had seen a hundred similar faces over the city the last few days, he still looked at that one.

The posters had been placed on every surface that stayed still long enough, walls and banner stands and stair ways. One could not travel into a room without seeing his face, and it seemed he truly was watching, as the banners proclaimed. People that spoke out against him, or for the Sea Folk, for example, vanished. Those who graffitted the posters vanished as well, though most returned, pale and shuddering. Though they would have sworn their soul that no one had seen them, apparently Arryk knew.

The posters in all their glory, vibrant colors of a healthy, brilliant, and magninimous man, were accompanied by all sorts of statements. Eyes and ears were almost blinded and deafened by their number. They all proclaimed his benevolence, his genius, his righteousness in building the Imperium of Man and destruction of the impure. Including the flaming Aes Sedai!

Marc blinked at the thought. He had rarely felt one way or another towards them, aside from a very healthy wariness, but it seemed the posters were affecting him as well. Part of his skepticism said that so much effort into saying such a thing, of course he would think it later, but the rest of him, the deep part of him wondered. The entire population said the same thing, against the Aes Sedai and Sea Folk, and that Good King Arryk was doing the right thing with them.

After all, how did he know of what was spoken within hours, and had it dealt with? No one Marc had ever heard of had such a sheer omniscience. Some, in only the slightest whispers, said he was the Creator's Chosen, working tirelessly to set Humanity on it's true path. Others, in shouts, said he was the last hope of mankind. It was never said, exactly, in all the banners, but it implied.

On every lips, it was sung his praise, and men Marc had known for years as cold hearted businessmen proclaimed his name, whispering with fervent eyes of his salvation. He brought his one hand down and brought paradise on earth, wealth and justice for all. And in the other. . . in the other, casting his enemies into the darkness forever. Although he was benevolent and merciful, his patience did have an end, and those who pressed him were as if they never existed.

OOC: this is going on in amadicia as well.

post

They rode north, an armored spearhead some fourteen thousand strong, backed by the monsters out of nightmares. They nearly outsped rumor, so the villages of Almoth Plain they came across became terrified, finding the ravings of a madman true, demanding their subservience. Most did, believing the horrific tales of the south, of villages and cities burned to the ground and women kidnapped and never seen again.

Some did not, and more rumors began, of villages scorched out of existence, and cities with flames burning high into the night sky. Those that surrendered kept most of their customs, save their Village Councils were changed, and oaths were sworn to insect like men and three eyes monsters. And then they were gone, speeding northward, stealing away some women and girls as they went.

No one dared think what was happening to them.

Alek'hander grinned wolfishly, riding harder. His army, though far smaller then what they faced, slammed through the territories, a long knife into the belly of a helpless enemy. No <i>damane</i> battled them, as had happened in rebellions on the continent, and the few Aes Sedai they met were brought to heel quickly and leashed. His <i>sul'dam</I> said they had learned many new tricks from the new pets.

His master, the man he had never met named Lament, pushed him faster. Events were under way, he said, and it was of dire need to gain as much of the territories as possible. All glory to the Empress, and himself - no one would match his march in a thousand years. His troops, loyalty forged in the unending sucesses, would follow him to Shayol Ghul, and he demanded such of them. They outrode supplies, eating and sleeping in the saddle as they ravaged all they came across. Split into a dozen wings, they darted and improvised, making Arad Doman think it was under attack by millions.

Rumor gave their numbers treble that, as one noble's retinue after another was shattered on the field of battle, by exploding earth and the assualt of catlike lizards and three eyed frogs, and man sized insects riding horses. No ambush suceeded, because their preperations never looked to the sky, and the <i>raken</i> warned the Forerunners. Entire cities soon surrendered as the lightning war passed them, hoping for a peaceful change, but even they lost some of their women.

Bander Eban fell in minutes, lasting less then some villagers had as four dozen <i>damane</i> shattered the walls like an egg, and a rolling inferno burst into the city, incinerating all it came across, leaving charred corpses and ashen structures. As the cavalry charged in, they couldn't surrender fast enough. Alek'hander laughed softly as they gave their oaths, and then they were off again, north, leaving the west forgotten. The Borderlands awaited.

post

Alek'hander gritted his teeth. The Borderlands and a conquest unequaled in his lifetime called, but his master Lament had pulled his leash, and the armies had to be recalled, consolidating what had been taken. The Altaran man had some sort of elaborate plan going, a nightmarish civilization still growing in the womb. All the <i>cuendillar</i>in Falme and Tanchico had been sent by <i>raken</i> to Ebou Dar, and Lament's replied edict had lit the West on fire once again.

There was a thrill in combat like nothing else, but breaking what had been broken held little joy. The new horizons and new wars held glory, not reprimanding little villages. The order, given to every place of civilization in Seanchan territory, was a strange one, and he had little idea what it would turn into.

It proclaimed all territory held by the Seanchan to be the property of the Throne and Empress, all houses, horses, feilds, and farms, and the people that lived there only worked them. The oathbreakers were used to strange commands from their liberators, but this was beyond belief. For wealth, in gold, buildings, and trade goods, to be stripped away for a nameless woman thousands of miles away - no.

It turned the nobility into less then peasants, and gave the peasants nothing to look foward to. What did it matter if a crop was good or not? Any money made off of it went directly to the rulers. And so the rebellion wracked the countries again, and the High Lord sent forth his command in dozens of units, hanging peasants by the hundreds and turning manors into funeral pyres.

One particularly strange thing in the edict was that it claimed to be by the Empress' will, even though she had said nothing of the sort. The Seanchan under his command did not question it, of course, but Alek'hander expected the Seekers were already taking notes and readying the devices of confession.

It didn't particularly matter - he had two <i>damane</i> with him at all times, with the same. . . inclinations. . . as himself. A Seeker would be dead as soon as he revealed his tattoo.

Some nobles noticed that while one could not possess wealth, they could be the . . .caretaker. . . of it, as Alek'hander was caretaker of the armies and conquered lands. They depolyed their troops in hundreds and thousands, on horses, on foot, with swords, or pikes, or bows. Some killed those they thought were in rebellion, only to be slaughtered by others in turn.

And so the armies moved back and forth across the territories, beating a mind boggling idea into a stubborn population. They served as long as they kept their wealth, and could improve it, but to be turned into a cog in a clockmaker's device was too much to be borne. Blood spilled, turning the ground to red mud, and farms were burned. Those who disagreed, died.

post

In the Mountains of Mist, hidden behind countless tons of rock and long forgotten passes, rumors of monsters and thick crags of evergreens, camps were building built. They were scattered over a thousand miles, having no contact with each other, or anything at all, for that matter. They were built by prisoners taken during the rebellion, and would be killed when their work was done.

The flames of revolt had sputtered out, devoured by the flames of <i>saidar</i>. No mob could stand long against erupting earth and scything air, and so the remnants filled mass graves. Now a sullen silence had come over the territories, accepting what came to them. What must be endured, could be endured.

These camps came directly from the orders of High Lord Alek'hander, undisputed master of Seanchan held lands. What he wanted with them, no one knew, and the soldiers who watched the prisoners were sworn to silence. They were walled, every one of them, with twenty feet of lumber, spiked on the top, with a dry moat and a single entrance.

Inside were dozens, and sometimes hundreds, of sheds, perhaps the size of rooms, with bunks being nailed in on the inside. Some were big enough for one person. Some were the length of the cabin long. It depended on the location of the camp - in the north, there were no single bunks. There was a large building in the southern camps capable of holding of hundreds at tables being brought in.

Signs were being lifted onto the entrance way - on some, it said, in stylized letters large enough to be seen a score paces away, The Blood of Martyrs is the Seed of the Imperium. On other signs, it said, The Rewards of Tolerance are Treachery and Betrayal. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, they were divided by location.

There were two dozen camps under construction, and what they were for, no one could have said, even if they saw them. And far, far to the south, the propaganda campaign added a small quirk amidst the banners and parades. The line was, or a variant of, It is better to die for the Emperor then live for yourself. The populace considered as the new motto was injected into it's bloodstream.

The camps continued their construction, although only volunteers would go to the southern ones. The people deemed unsavory - and quite a lot were expected - would be sent to the north. Lament, high in his ivory tower, smiled. He called this new project the Order of the Gray.

post

ooc: as it happens, I wrote this days before the crossroads of twilight preview came out. I suppose great minds thing alike ^_^

ic: Fleets, in their scores of ships, left the Western Coast of the conquered territories. Many had square sails, come from Seanchan over the last few months, although many were captured Sea Folk vessels or seized smuggler ships. Every one of them carried <i>damane</i>, and they dispersed into the vast ocean, blasting apart Sea Folk ships as soon as they saw them.

From Aile Dashar to Tremalking, to the coast of of Arad Doman and Tarabon, a vast territory spanning tens of thousands of square miles, ships dealt each other a fiery death. Windfinders looked the chained channelers in the eye, and never flinched. Sometimes they beat off the Seanchan ships, letting them sink into the dark green waters, and sometimes they themselves erupted in wood and flesh.

New Seanchan ships landed their troops on the mainland, then spun back out to sea, hunting for the worst of the oathbreakers, as ordained by High Lord Alek'hander. Trade could wait, and did, as Sea Folk ships swore never to trade with the occupied countries, and the captured ships were set out to war. Neither side took prisoners - it was a war to the knife.

(Captured) Sea Folk ships, the only ones that could handle the clustered islands of Aile Dashar, sailed the dangerous curves and landed on civilized areas. Where once the Sea Folk ships carried silks and furs, they now carried a human cargo, depopulating every town they found and bringing them to an uncertain future in the east.

Seanchan ships, massive beasts of war, sailed south into the docks of Tremalking, using a similar strategy. Wherever they found humans, they kidnapped them and stuffed them into the holds of the dark ships by the hundred. Whoever resisted was blasted apart in fire, and the people who made the Sea Folk pottery were shattered, leaving broken vases - and lives - behind them.

The slaves, as many as could be brought, came back to the mainland. Often, half the people in the holds were already dead, but that didn't matter. There would be more on the islands, and ships were already flying that way. The thousands, tens of thousands of prisoners walked a death march to the Mountains of Mist, rarely given rest, rarely given food. They left bodies every mile of the road to the Mountains, and the ravens gorged.

The humans who lived in Almoth and the rest did nothing, said nothing. They were broken.

When they arrived at the northern camps, they begged for a rest, or food, or just a little water, but were beaten or put to building trenches - those would later be filled with bodies, although extermination in that manner was not Lament's intent. He abhored waste.

The prisoners here would soon learn what it meant by the phrase, trading your soul for food.

Some did, too, as they arrived, and gorged on meat and vegetables, eaten in full view of the others. And then they swore, and were gone, unnoticeable to the naked eye. Lament had designed a gray men production center, and he fully expected a hundred gray man per camp per day. The Sea Folk were an excellent beginning, and volunteers from Altara would spice it up nicely.

The new Gray Men were deployed as sentries all about the mountains, told to kill or capture all who approached the camps. When the numbers seemed approiate there, he expanded his spy network to the Seanchan held territories, and truly did the Seekers appear to be omnipresent. Eyes and ears - literally - went to the White Tower. To prepare for the next expansion, all nonchannelers older then fifty five were inducted as well, all across Lament's territories.

And night and day, without break, more prisoners were brought from the Seas.

post

Marc snorted. It seemed Lord Micrav, the rightly named Lament, had finally decided to do his job as Minister of Education instead of making people vanish. Marc had traveled with him for several hundred miles, and it was quite like Lament to do something like that. Marc considered himself a rather cold man, but Lament but shivers right through him. He would kill just for the amusement value.

This kingdom wide education thing, now. It was the strangest thing he had ever heard of; instead of a man working as an apprentice of something, blacksmith, pickpocket, noble, or what-not, Lament was placing everyone in newly built schools, and teaching them all sorts of things. Instead of just the new religon (and Marc had very quickly decided it a good idea to know his catechism), it taught almost everything as well.

The math for a clerk, the history of the third Age (with Aes Sedai the assured villians), the accents of a diplomat, the writing of an arisocrat. And that the least of it - every child, starting at five, learned all the traits of a soldier, endurance, strength, swordplay, hand combat, bows, riding, and as they aged, tactics and strategy, supplies domestic and military!

It lasted for twelve years, although Marc expected those in their seventeenth year were having to learn quite a lot, very quickly. It didnt help that the classes literally killed the slow ones, and formented the jealously and paranoia that was serving their parents so well, with the all knowing Minister of Education.

When they finished their twelveth year of learning, and were better fighters then anyone this side of the Aiel, every male was given weapons, and used as militias, while the best of them put into the army. Altara was going to feild an army not seen since Hawkwing's day, and all completely loyal to their Emperor.

When they graduated, they had the manipulation of a Cairheinen, as well - <i>Daes'dae'Mar</i> was carved into their bones, and more then one student had seen a rival meet with an . . . accident. What that would do to Altara, Marc couldn't imagine. Either a civil war lasting half a dozen centuries, or a massive empire drenched in blood.

post

Propaganda, the strong right arm of the Imperium of Man. It expanded like a plague, filling every available wall and announcement pillars, parades and speeches, uncounted official and unoffical praise of the Good King Arryk and his genius handling of the future of humanity. Even in Seanchan territory, if it did not praise Arryk, it said the same things he did in one of his many speeches.

The Aes Sedai, and they alone, were the source of mankind's afflictions. They crippped humanity under the chains of false dreams and false fears, whispering the formation of darkfriends to a shadow that never existed, fighting a war that had no end. They said it was a battle for survival, and pointed to horrific creatures as what they fought against, but in the same breath, they said they could detect them.

It was obvious. Everyone could see it, and the new view was on everyone's lips. Whether in Arad Doman or Altara, trollocs and myrddraal and all the darker things were admitted to exist, because Good King Arryk had cast the light into the blackness of ignorance. The creatures were designed by Aes Sedai, made to be the counterweights to mankind's genius as the Aes Sedai held the leash.

In every newspaper along the thousand league coastline, it was pointed to Sea Folk as cripped humans that must be dispersed, their acts a heresy enforced by the Servants of All. More then one shipmistress found her ship burnt to ashes, even in ports she thought friendly to the Sea Folk. The rumors, posioning a world, spread to Tear and Illian.

Tinkers as well were hunted, not just chased out of villages. Where they were found, wagons were looted and burnt for theivery, and a hundred pascifists were hung. To be the Aes Sedai' slaves in such a way, and trying to spread their vile doctrine of the Way of the Leaf, was to die.
Wolfkin, although seen far less, were killed on sight, and golden eyes were sudden bad luck.

Lament had tapped into the pulse of his empire, and it now beat at his command. Where he directed, hate and vileness spread, and Aes Sedai and whoever else attracted his bile were attacked and often killed. Even the One Power could not stop an unexpected arrow, and although there were those that swore to the Imperium, the rest found their welcome well worn.

A new cult begin, the Order of the Gray. Although it was not known exactly what the cult demanded, for it hid it's secrets well, and none of it's initiates ever admitted knowledge, it was publicised on every street corner. Devote your life to Good King Arryk, and serve him all your days. Even more so then the military, the order was revered, and money went to the families of those who joined. Lines of hopefuls went to the Mountains of Mist, and what awaited them there.

post

Ah, music. The passion of whatever gods existed, and perhaps the ones still thinking about it. Truly, one of the things making life worth living, a few notes able to change moods, happiness to sadness, sadness to bliss, bliss to hurt or rage. Some of the great bards, such as Spar of six hundred years before, could wrap an angry mob around his finger, and direct them to his whim.

Music was one of the major influences on humanity's soul, and who better to sway it then the Minister of Education. He was, after all, in the right position for the job, educating their soul as well as their minds, and limiting corruping influences away from him. He held control of the schools and newspapers, parades and posters, so it made perfect sense to control music as well.

There were songs - not a large percentage, but some - which praised Aes Sedai, honoring them for their 'help' through the ages. With thousands of songs written, the number added up, and in the quiet places, far from prying eyes, they were still sung, as well as ones that made the Aes Sedai the center of a joke. One in particular had her ending in a tavern, dancing on a table, of all things.

Humor was not to be discarded in the Imperium of Man, indeed, it would be folly to suggest it, but such humor should not be aimed at the Aes Sedai, the most ruthless traitors and slavemasters the world had ever known. Hate, and only hate, was the emotion that deserved them. Other songs, verses and poetry, made wolves their subject, praising their sleekness and beauty, or perhaps the sway of the Sea Folk, or the amusing customs of the Tinkers.

Lament choose to ban it all. They deserved hate alone, and the empire would be forged into a mighty sword to thrust into the beating hearts of his enemies, and that most definitely included Aes Sedai and their damnable wolfkin, the only beings capable of seeing his delightful Gray Men. He almost snarled, thinking of a number of unfortunate incidents involving that. His spies weren't as invisible as he hoped, but they flayed the fur off those wolfkin anyway.

It was not an official edict that he made this news clear - an opressive command like that would gain mutterings, no matter the power of the regime. Removing a harmless song? Unthinkable. Instead, he gave the orders to his secret police, who informed the bards and gleemen and singers of fortune. A small suggestion, at first, not to sing such songs, with harsh penalties if they continued the treasonous activities. Breaking of hands perhaps, or gouging of eyes.

Gold was paid out as well for the composer who wrote new songs, some catchy, some profound and darkly beautiful, all praising humanity and reviling Aes Sedai and their pets. The populace, already hearing the old songs rarely, would scarcely miss them. The new songs replaced them, and were sung spontaneously across the territories.

Lament knew it was foolish to ban music entirely. Instead, he directed it in his own image.

post

The <i>raken's</i> wings flexed, the powerful muscles rippling under the scaled skin. Half of Saldea lay spread beneath them like a perfect map, everything in exacting detail, towns and cities rising out of the earth. The <i>raken</I> was one of a hundred others that flew in a swarm, looking like a cloud of gnats, high in the sky.

High Lord Alek'hander was at the forefront, riding behind one of the better pilots of the scout force. His hand was gripped on the hilt of his sword, and his face was slighly pale. He loved battle and the approach of it, but something about hanging in the air a mile or two up with only the Great Lord's goodwill keeping you up did not reassure him. He had not experienced much mercy from that area.

With him, flying at impossibly high paced speeds, four dozen <i>damane</i> and <i>sul'dam</i>, all the ones that could handle the heights. Walk into places Alek'hander wouldnt go without half a Legion, but fell in faints if a hundred feet off the ground. Not that he didnt understand the feeling. He took a breath and closed his eyes.

They used every <i>raken</i> they had to mount the force, an impromptu Fist of Heaven. While they did not have those elite troops on hand, they did have fliers who had carried passengers before, and Alek'hander had mounted them with the most lethal troops he had - <i>Damane.</i> The High Lord had devised a rather amusing plan on the annhilation of Borderland will, that needed little swordcarriers or even prolonged battles.

What the captured Aes Sedai to the west had told them was really quite helpful.

And there, before them, Maradon, the capital of an entire kingdom, with large numbers of veteran troops from fighting trollocs, a stubborn force backed by professional heavy cavalry. Oh, how <i>would</i> a few handfuls of women take on such a lethal fortress? Alek'hander smiled at the thought.

There were hundreds of people, moving into and out the City, crossing the bridges into the walled defenses. A rather prosperous place was Maradon, and merchants of all sorts filed into it. Until the winged monsters landed, of course. They ran screaming for the most part then, and the High Lord watched, smiling slightly as his women deployed as per their orders given earlier.

They landed in three groups, with Alek'hander and a few more channelers in a fourth. They would be his reserve, although he doubted he would need them. At three corners of the city, the thirteen women linked, and began weaving the new trick they learned earlier. Alek'hander turned his head away; he could see the brightness from here.

It was more brilliant then the sun, liquid white fire. His <I>sul'dam</I> had said earlier that they would tie off the weave, as if he knew what that meant. They said it would let them use the fire like a sword, not a arrow, launched and forgotten. He shrugged. They knew what they were doing with balefire.

The light brightened now as the three swords lengthened, all their power going into it; a sickening stream of vileness longer then a hundred men. Alek'hander used <i>damane</i> indiscriminately, but he did not have to like what they touched. The <i>der'sul'dam</i> reached out her hand, and the bar followed, like a grotesque exageration of her action. Around the city, two other bars did the same.

They slashed into city walls, ignoring the screams, and then the entire outer wall was . . . gone. As if it had never been. Alek'hander blinked appreciatively. The swipes of balefire swung like a massive blade, carving entire sections of city out of exstence. In a few places, men died before they knew it, having walked onto a wall that was no longer there. In under a minute, thousands were gone, leaving only the inner keep. Outside that was. . . nothing. Streets without a city to form.

Moans and cries arose from inside the keep, and Alek'hander gestured to the <i>damane.</i> They raised his voice to be heard. <b>"Surrender now, oathbreakers! If you do not, we will let you live, but we will go to every city in your kingdom, and it will recieve no better then this!"</b> His gesture took in the vacant area.

After a little while, the inner gates opened, and a small group of people came out, garbed in the clothes of royalty. Tears were on more then one face. Not all of those faces were women. "We can't fight against you. Saldea is yours." The High Lord smiled. "Here's what you will do."

Troops on the Blightborder were to be moved to the south, leaving the forts unguarded. Instead, new forts would be constructed, and the southerners kept out - to hold against a Blight emergency, supposedly. All the rules of New Seanchan would apply here, as well. The surrendered went whitefaced in rage and shame, but could do nothing. Against such an indiscriminate slaughter, they could do nothing.

After a few hours relaxation inside the fortress, the invasion force took flight again, to do the same measures against Kandor, Arafel, and Sheinar. The Borderlands had held against the Dark One for three thousand years, but even they could not fight the One Power.

post

Even as the long forbidden weaves reduced half of Maradon to dust and less then dust, an unfamliar weave was formed in Ebou Dar, rotten heart of the Imperium of Man. Formed by the wilder Tina, the first channeler to join Lament's crusade of the dark, it opened a gate to <i>Tel'Aran'Rhoid</i>, a place she barely knew.

It was eerily similar to the place she walked from, a stylish room in the manner that Lord Micrav preferred, and had many of the same tapestries and valuable art peices. However, even as the place swallowed her up and the sounds of servants lost behind her, she felt a vast emptiness, an entire world with only a few visitors. It was said the Chosen frequented here, and stole souls and minds in much the same way she had.

Tina hoped with all her heart she would not meet them. She was truly a novice in this place, and would probably die, her spirit shredded under impossible pressures. No, far better to avoid them. She shook her head, trying not to think of them - perhaps idle thoughts could summon them? The rules were different here, and once or twice, she had travelled to places she felt she needed, or things were drawn to her. It frightened her to her bones if the Chosen could do the same with her.

Shuddering, her breath the only sound in the ocean deep silence, she walked onwards, past open doors and up ungaurded stairs. She was truly alone here, walking into places that would have earned her a hundred questions in the real world. After a time, she arrived at her beginning destination, the rooftop of Lament's palace.

A <i>raken</i> and pilot awaited her, her thoughts bringing them into being, and they bowed to her, seeming a touch distorted compared to the real creatures. She needed speed, so they were sleeker, lighter. Even the pilot's face seemed a little strange, shaped for enhanced travel. Tina climbed on without a word, and they took off, a silent wraith in a silent sky.

They flew west at speeds never dreamed of, pun intended. Amadicia passed them in a blur, and Tarabon seemed only a green landscape with the ruins of a thousand buildings, watched from a thousand sleeping eyes. They were not in this world, but she knew they were in the other, and could almost feel their prescence.

She knew of the poision that was in the blood of these countries.

In minutes, it seemed, they were over the Aryth Ocean, traveling a thousand leagues an hour. For all their speed, the green waves stretched from horizon to horizon, buried under miles of clouds. She wondered what was in the clouds, or beyond them - old, old tales spoke of giants, weilding lances that destroyed entire cities in a moment.

The seas plunged and rose, a vast, vast mountain scape of infinite waters, the islands that lessened the waves far behind her. These, curled by the Great Lord's own rage, smashed into each other in dull thunderclaps, seeming able to bury palaces in their wake. No ship aside from the Sea Folk dared these waters, and even they had been ousted by the Seanchan. Perhaps the waters were not dark green, but black with innocent blood.

The waves continued on, currents that could drown armies, and she flew over them, untouched. Although time did not seem to pass in this place, she knew it to be only hours for her to cross the ocean, to a place she had never seen, a place she never knew existed till months before. Artur Hawkwing's old colonies, and perhaps the most powerful empire in the world, ten million troops and thousands of channelers, chained. Lightning, chained.

Below her were the docks that spanned a hundred leagues from north to south, a great launching place for the massive fleets of the Empress. Her master Lament, for all his power, would have no chance against such domination, for the strength that let him conquer kingdoms was merely the scout force of the awesome Seanchan. But he did not plan to fight.

She passed them in a blur, crossing vast cities and huge places of farming and mining, an industry that covered every inch of half the world, fueling Paendrag's power and wealth. Even at her speed, it took scores of minutes, and then another sea, although far smaller then the one she had crossed.

Alek'hander had maps of Seanchan, and had been all to willing to share with her. Tina knew where she was going. And there it was, the capital and heart of a giant - Seandar. Home of the Empress, with ten thousand fanatical Deathwatch Guards and hundreds of <i>damane</i>. One of the most beautiful cities in Seanchan, and to them, that meant the world.

She swooped downwards, into the silent streets, and the <i>raken</i> shifted. First it was one thing, then another. A cat like lizard, she forgot the name, with three eyes. It glared at her, then hunched down. She knew it was fast, and that, after all, was what mattered. Mounting it, she nudged it with her foot, and they were off again. The ornate buildings blurred, becoming palaces, as they approached the Empress' home.

It filled the skyline, the strongest fortress in the world, built and reinforced for five hundred years or more in the Blood's defense, by Ogier and by <i>damane.</i> The Stone of Tear was hailed for being such, built three thousand years ago, but this was far greater, enhanced again and again by the same means - mere masons alone did not work on this project.

It's gates were strong, and she expected they were watched by a thousand spying eyes, with a hundred arrows aimed, weaves of fire waiting, armies ready to be called. Of course, they did not exist to guard the sleeping place, and the gate lifted at her glance, and she walked in, looking for what she had been sent for, by Lament.

It was a vast place, and even if she had half a year, Tina doubted she would find what she searched for. And the Minister of Education was not a patient man. She did not think she would find the person, as such, either, unless her target slept in <i>Tel'Aran'Rhoid</i>. Instead, with all her being, she felt the need to find the person's sleeping quarters. The tortures that awaited delay were quite a strong motivation, and the world blurred.

She was there, a palace inside a fortress, with it's own gates and own gaurds. She passed them without effort, and was inside the Empress' own rooms, a suite bigger then the Darian Palace. She gestured slightly, weaving something she had thought of earlier, of spirit. Then she let <i>Tel'Aran'Rhoid</i> vanish like the mirage of the desert heat.

She was in a hallway beyond price, and guards looked warily about, stone faced and armed more heavily then some squads she had known. They looked at her, and past. The inverted weave of spirit acted the same way as a Gray Man's prescence did - not worth noticing. A variant of it hid channeling, which might be quite useful later. She didnt think anyone else alive knew this weave, but she expected it had been used during the War of Power.

One must always be wary of the Chosen.

Tina walked slowly, casually, stepping out of the way of the marching soldiers and patrolling <i>damane</i>. Smiling faintly, she wondered if Lament and the Empress were related. Their paranoia was about the same. Both demanded absolute loyalty, and kept impenetrable security anyway. Because you never knew.

It took time, but she found her, an older woman with all fingernails painted and head shaved. Not much to look at, actually, and certainly not worth the veneration of a continent. But Tina knew how compelling universal propaganda could be. She had seen what Lament had done to a skeptical Ebou Dar, now a place of bloodthirsty fanatics.

The Empress was lounging back on her padded chair, thinking of something or other. In the room with her were two pairs of <i>Damane</I> and half a dozen Ogier Gardeners. They kept a wary eye about, as if they were in the middle of enemy territory and not surronded by troops of their own regiment for a mile in every direction.

Tina tapped her lip, thinking. The Ogier wouldn't be too much trouble, just muscle bound with axes, and even as she thought she surrronded them with an inverted weave of air. They hadnt moved in hours, it looked like, and they would stay that way. The other channelers didnt appear to notice anything.

She walked over to the Empress, kneeling down, silent. Whispering next to her ear, compelling with an inverted weave; so useful, that! "You are expecting a visitor. Tell the <i>sul'dam</i> to leave. The Empress blinked, then nodded. Her voice was strong, with the absolute surety of absolute power. "I am expecting a visitor. I'll call when I need you."

The <i>sul'dam</i> nodded and walked out, and Tina walked to the entrance of the room, dropped her weaves, and walked in. The channelers kept a wary eye on her as they left. She smiled meaninglessly and bowed to the Empress. Compulsion oozed from her voice. "The heir of Hawkwing's first born has been found in Ebou Dar. Swear loyalty to Lament Micrav on this scepter."

And she held out the Oath Rod.

The Empress nodded, and clasped the rod, speaking the words. Tina enforced in with <i>saidar</I>, and the Empress shuddered as the oath took hold. Then she shuddered again as the next two were enforced, loyalty to the Shadow, and death before loss of loyalty. Tina's eyes glittered as she smiled.

"And now, my dear, we are going to the coasts. Have these guards killed, they shouldnt have seen this, and then tell of your trip." The Empress gave the command, and other Deathwatch Guard brought them out of the Palace, to be executed in the courtyard. Quite convenient, really. The Empres gave her other command, and they went looking for some things, at Tina's direction. <i>Damane</i>, first.

Walking <I>Tel'Aran'Rhoid</I> was first taught, and a score weaved the entrance as Deathwatch Guards filed through. Time, as Tina suggested, to visit the coasts. It took minutes, and they taught all the <i>Damane</i> there, who melted into the stone at being in the Empress' prescence and hearing her voice.

And then far greater holes to Tel'Aran'Rhoid were formed, and Seanchan armies began filing through, moving to Tarabon, and Arad Doman, and Saldea. Best to keep the iniative, as Lament had said. They had a brief stop over in Ebou Dar, where the Empress named Arryk in front of the crowds as Emperor, and he named her as Empress over the Seanchan continent in his abscence.

The Borderlands surrendered publicly to Seanchan, letting news of it out, and Seanchan fell to Ebou Dar.

Lament smiled.

post

Shayol Ghul, inarguably the most evil place in the world. The center of evil, really - all the little misdeeds in the kingdoms had their source from him, their worst atrocities his day dreams. He had been sealed away, once, and the Age of Legends occured, perfect utopia. Of course, man wasn't really meant for paradise - he liked power and pain far too much for that.

No, a hell was better for him. And Lament, the architect of the current dark paradise that spanned half the world and more, a regime of blood and genocide, directed it's construction. A viscous place that flayed the conscience from a million slaves, darkness coming from blackened stars to overflow the earth. The gates were broken, and the barbarians were spilling in.

He walked slowly, confidentally, up it's slopes, a nonchanneler who came to the dark heart of the universe at his own will, not dragged screaming for a myrdraal blade, not to be tortured and turned to the dark. He was already there, his soul bathed in horror, and his dreams became cast in steel, a nightmare for humanity, though they knew it not.

He dressed in dark shades of blue, like a bruised body, truly deserving his name of Lament as he approached the one being he truly named Master. It was at His discretion he swore to Arryk, though it was his dreams that made Arryk what he was. And what Lament himself was. A smiling ex Tinker, serial killer and laughing murderer, who wiped out entire races and gave their souls to the dark with a grin.

The entrance to Shayol Ghul gaped wide, like a raped hole into the earth, and Lament strode inside with all the arrogance in the world. Quite possibly the most powerful man in the world, even if he could not weild a sword or axe or the One Power. Through the razor sharpness of his mind, he brought continents under his banner, and thus to the Dark.

The rocks and jagged pillars of the dark tunnel inside seemed to bend out of his way, and it was such that he deserved. Truly, the earth itself would obey his voice, mountains bow, seas roar. He claimed all that for Arryk, but it was true in his case. The rocks that curled in on the Chosen and peirced bloody the disfavored let him pass without hindrance.

And then he was there, before the Dark One, the Great Lord, Shepherd of the Night and Father of Lies. Did they see each other perhaps as kindred? Perhaps. Lament was his master's servant to the last, and would burn the world for power. He gave a deep bow, deeper then he did for Kings and Empress', deeper then any mortal, but only a bow. He did indeed hold an arrogance.

The Great Lord laughed slowly, an echoing boom that seemed to shred the Pattern itself. Few indeed showed this audacity, and far less survived it. Lament, for the moment, survived. "WOULD YOU DESTROY YOUR SOUL FOR ARROGANCE, LAMENT?"

Lament smiled faintly, darkly, one that didn't meet his eyes. "You hold my soul already, Master. I have come to talk of the bargain made between you and I. Immortality to aid you in your gaining freedom. I have done so; no one better then I." He sweated from the ecstacy of the voice, but held his mind. For the moment.

And then his eyes widened, and he shuddered, as vitality flowed through him. The wound on his neck, earned so long ago, vanished, and his muscles seemed to burn with a posionous life. He smiled wide, a gash in face. Immortality, for him.

"And now, Master. You set one or another above the rest, named Nae'blis, for one minor victory, forgotten almost as soon as it was made. Some during the Age of Legends, and some now, I'm sure. I have done far more they ever accomplished, and I have readied your return better in a year then all the Chosen did in a century. I want to be named heir; Mor'in'Koth."

There was a silence then, deeper then the oceans between stars, a darkness that seemed to blacken the stars themselves. Would Lament finally die for his arrogance? He did not know. But you only gained if you risked.

"VERY WELL. YOU ARE MY HEIR, MOR'IN'KOTH. BUT YOU EARNED IT WITH ACTS BEYOND THE REST. TO KEEP IT, YOU MUST CONTINUE SUCH VICTORIES."

Lament smiled slowly, so slowly. "As a sign of this, I want access to the True Power. A Nae'blis is cast aside in a day or hour; for the time I hold your favor, I want your power."

And a new posionous vitality flowed through him. . .

Haven't read through it *yet,* but being the WoT fanboy I am (lol) I am sure I will like it.

yeah, it's pretty cool. gives you something to do when not sleeping. heh.