Master or Fool? [Attn: Talian]

[Sunny]

Dax

A life time ago, Ferran Carbern had ordered Dax to accompany a young Yellow to Tear against his wishes. The newly-raised Gaidin had shattered his knuckles against the wall in helpless rage at realizing he had no choice but to accept the man’s orders. The next day a Gateway closed, cutting him off from an Accepted he had no business being bonded to. Light, but he hated that memory!

There had been no Gaidin Captain to order the unbonded Gaidin about at that time, so Ferran had had the dubious honor of filling two roles at once. The position had been filled since then, however, and the last man on earth the Tairen wanted to see, let alone obey, and been chosen for the honor.

If Ravak Darrow felt glee or concern over his subordinate’s state, he did not show it. He simply tapped his fingers on his desk and waited for Dax to finish swearing. “Julian’s request is reasonable, Dax.” The Shienaran said calmly once the stream of offensive words had ceased. “Sometimes our Drin need special care. You of all people should know that.” Dax snarled a derogatory insult about the younger man’s mother through his teeth, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes. “I’m certain that’s physically impossible,” the Gaidin Captain responded dryly. "Shall we stay on topic?"

Calloused fingers curled open and closed, impotent fury and sharp confusion rolling through their owner. Those feelings had had colors once, Dax remembered vaguely. He had shared them with the only woman he had ever loved, and they had had color. Abruptly his legs could no longer hold his own weight; he collapsed backward, landing in the chair provided for him by the grace of the Creator alone. His palms rose to press against his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. Light, but his head hurt. “Ravak, who in the bloody Creator’s name thinks this is a good idea? There are three dozen other Gaidin who would do a better job.”

“It’s not about who would do a better job,” Ravak said, picking up the strange quill he always had on his desk. “You have been ordered, and therefore you will do as you are told.”

“And if I refuse?” Dax asked, his teeth grinding so hard they could have been heard in the corridor.

“Did you really like the Citadel that much? Malina was telling me they could use a Blademaster.”

Dax’s fist left a lasting impression on Ravak’s door as he departed the man’s office.

---

The man who sat in the corner of the rebuilt Blue Heron seemed nothing more than a common soldier save for the set of burly shoulders and a dangerous gleam to cold blue eyes. Some might have noted that for a man who carried a sword he wore remarkably little armor, but most in the establishment did not care. He visited frequently, he paid his tab, and if he started a fight, he finished it outside. What more could a dock district tavern ask for?

It had been two days since Ravak’s command, and through the haze of beer and smoke, Dax continued to contemplate leaving. Mando had written to him about an opportunity with a minor Lord in Andor; it would give him enough gold to find another position. There were many in the world who would pay quite well to have a pet Blademaster. Then again...road life could be rough, and he did not fancy the long hours of nothing to think about.

With a half frown, Dax pushed himself up to join an ongoing game of dice. Soon enough a barmaid had found her way over to lean against him suggestively, and he had forgotten his worries in the raucous laughter and ritual insults of the game. Whether or not he mentored Talian Edamame-whatsit or left the Tower for good could be decided another day.

Or perhaps not.

[Storm]

Surely, this was some part of a test. Some trial of patience and will.

Talian stood in the center of the Warder Yards, freshly dressed in his new uniform – a silver-grey pair of jacket and trousers with an austerity the Malkier could respect. Thumbs hooked at his belt, furtive glances were cast from one side of the yards to the other, waiting for someone to call his name. After a while, Talian's feet began to ache with a dull soreness and his stomach rumbled for something to eat. No, he would show them just how much he belonged here, odd looks and masked sniggering aside.

Shadows grew longer and Talian's discomfort sank deeper as the sun had crested towards its resting place. When the first stars became visible, Talian Edamsarellin took to the Grey Tower and its many halls and offices, looking for this "Dakson" he was supposed to be meeting. The Drin only then noticed the biting cold that hat numbed his toes and fingers. He wanted to curse and howl, but instead set his jaw so tightly his eyes hurt. Stalking every room and cavernous hallway permitted, Talian found himself at a complete loss. Frustrated and crestfallen, the somber-browed Borderlander dragged his feet to the Drin's dormitories and slumped onto his stiff mattress. Despite being tired from his ride and waiting in the Yards like some Light-blinded buffoon, sleep eluded Talian. He lay on his back, steely blue eyes boring into the shaped stone of the dormitories, his rough fingers fiddling with the braided leather bands wound over and over his left wrist.

Clawing cold ripped Talian from a sleep he never remembered falling into, soaking from crown to shoulder. Jolting up with a stream of uncouth oaths tearing from clenched teeth, Talian's aching eyes found a pair of boys in their Drin greys with an empty pale. They ran as Talian threw his boots after them.

Again, Talian stood in the Yards. His uniform rumpled and slept-in, dust and dirt clinging to the damp wool. A pair of Gaidin passed in their color-shifting cloaks, one smirking wryly while another looked completely incapable of humor.

"Your uniform is far from regulation, Drin," said the mirthless Gaidin. Talian ground his teeth and nodded.

"Where is your mentor?"

Talian shrugged, not meeting the Gaidin's eyes, "I was hoping someone could tell me, Gaidin."

"Their name?" The weight of the Warder's scrutiny pressed on Talian's shoulders.

"Dakson Gaidin." Talian muttered, and the smirking Warder barked a laugh.

"Try the brothels and taverns, lad." They departed, then, leaving the Drin to gawk and seethe.

* * *

Talian knew he likely looked like some vagabond or wash-out as he wandered the cobbled streets of Hama Valon. An unfamiliar lad in an unfamiliar city, crossing from tavern, to inn shouting the name "Dakson Gaidin" with all the venom he could muster. After his second handful of ill-reputed dens, Talian's voice had started growing hoarse. Coat half-undone and boots caked in mud, Talian shouldered his way into the Blue Heron, nearly throwing the door off its hinges.

"I am looking... for Dakson," Talian panted, trying his hardest to look dignified. It wasn't enough. By the look of him, he'd stumbled into a handful of scuffles and been tossed into just as many gutters. "He has a job to do..."

[Sunny]

One game turned to two, two turned to three. The Gaidin looked down at the pile of gold between his hands and contemplated whether he wanted to push his luck a fourth time. The pretty girl - Medina, he thought- brought him another beer while he considered his options. “You look tired, handsome,” she said, looking up at him with lowered eyelids. “How can you fight if you’re exhausted?”

His teeth flashed in a broad smile as his arm snaked out, yanking the golden-haired woman into his lap. “I manage it somehow. I plan to be a good deal more tired before I close my eyes tonight, love,” he murmured in her ear. She wiggled against him and he hastily reached for his beer. Before their flirtation or the dice game could continue, he became vaguely aware of a scuffle at the door. “...Dakson,” a voice was saying. “He has a job to do.”

Dax held Medina in his lap with one arm as he twisted to look at the speaker. A big man stood near the door, surrounded by other occupants of the common room. The hadori in his sandy hair presented an oddity; although the stranger’s face had seen better days, he was still quite young. What’s this?

“My aged grandmother called me Dakson,” the Tairen called over the clamor of dishes and the rising hum of voices. “If you have business, then I suggest you move your rump and make it quick.” He turned back to the table and tossed a silver penny with the others. “I’m in.” As an older man scooped the dice into a cup, Dax pressed his lips against the side of Medina’s neck, his eyes no less intent as he watched the game proceed.

Too soon, he felt a presence behind him that radiated damp chill. Growling a curse, the sellsword lifted his head, looking up at the odd intruder with flat blue eyes. “What do you want?” he asked sharply. A moment later he realized that although the man was oddly disheveled, his clothes were flat gray, and he held himself with an all too familiar rigidity. “You have got to be joking,” Dax groaned.

The player to his left passed him the dice cup, and he handed it to Medina. “Give me some luck, love,” he told her. As she shook it between her hands, Dax let his chin rest on her shoulder, unabashedly fascinated by the motion of her breasts. She did not, unfortunately, give him good luck, and a bellow from the bar pulled her away as if she had not existed a moment later.

Distraction gone, the Gaidin looked up at his somber companion. “Either your name is Talian, or you’ve been sent to deliver me to the Citadel,” he drawled. “Whichever it is, two things are true: I am not moving, and Julian Taavo hates you.” He clapped the boy on the arm companionably. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get me another drink?”