The Grey Tower

Ravak Darrow Ravak eyed the guards severely as he approached them, a scowl already present on his face. He ran his left hand through his beard to ensure its straightness, and the movement of his shoulder muscles reconfirmed the presence of his longsword and belongings on his back. He wondered if they would take the weapon from him, and add it to some common armoury. They'll not take this, he thought, as he tapped the pommel of his sword-breaker with his short finger. That weapon had been part of the gift he received when leaving Fal Dara, and we would stubbornly turn around if they tried to part him with it. His teeth clenched with the thought of that.

Closer to the guards now, Ravak tried to flatten his expression. He knew nothing would help with the sullen look everyone thought he was giving them, but he could smile and be acquiescent when need be. As he got within speaking distance, when the two guards began to give him more notice, his mind began to run through the same worries he had harboured from Shienar. You're about to put your head in a vice, one you're not sure you can get out of. This is really what you want for yourself? He wiggled the fingers of his right hand in frustration, then resolved it into a fist. No-one else will take me in, and make sure I come out well tempered. He wasn't sure when that thought, of himself as a tool or a weapon, had materialised. Yet somehow it felt apt. He had seen the ire in the eyes of his former instructors, and he knew there had to be another way to make him useful. Useful? What an odd thought. Are you a tool? In his head, he snorted at himself.

Something had passed between himself and the guards, a conversation he knew had happened but couldn't recall the fifth of. One of the guards began to briskly pace down the road, and Rav had to take a few quick steps to keep up. He hasn't been walking all day. He frowned at the man's back, then realised that the guard had been speaking again.

"Yes, from Shienar. Fal Dara, to be precise," he responded, hoping he had correctly guessed the guard's question. He thought he saw the man nod as he veered right into a field. Rav turned, and his eyes shifted from the guard to the large building ahead. He figured it to be about five stories high, but he only saw four rows of windows making its way up the structure. There were more two buildings, one of either side of the predominant one. Ravak began to watch the ground instead, focusing on the guard's words. He was saying something about fighting with his bare hands.

"Up north," Ravak replied, "if something gets that close to you, you better have your sword in it. I wouldn't try fighting a Fade or a Trolloc with my bare hands, given any other choice." He smiled at that, the thought of fighting Shadowspawn. Maybe when I return, I'll be good enough to fight in the army. The smile faded just as quick as it had appeared.

The guard, no, Mordjen, Mordjen led them through a large pair of doors as he spoke about a Mistress Bryne. Rav assumed this was the Mistress of Training he was meant to see. The vice, he mused. His fingers wiggled again, feathering the sword-breaker before he stopped himself. Foolish thing to think. Just a woman. A woman had partially caused him to leave Fal Dara. Another woman waiting for him meant that he had to return. Duty is heavier than a mountain.

Mordjen clapped him on the shoulder, and he left the way they had come. Ravak was standing in a spacious foyer, the floor tiles gleaming beneath his feet. There were a variety of tables with chairs, with the hubbub of people talking around them. He was now loitering next to some stairs, that Mordjen had gestured to. The Mistress of Training, Mistress Bryne, was presumably up those stairs. He straightened his beard again.

He did another mental check as he slowly ascended. He ran fingers backwards through his hair, shoulder length now, having grown since leaving the Borderlands. The beard was also a new addition, one that he hadn't resolved one way or another on about keeping. He made sure his sword-breaker was fully sheathed, no point looking reckless or foolhardy. There wasn't much to be done about the rest of his belongings and the longsword. As he took the final steps, he tried to smile softly, but doubted that made any difference to whatever expression would be picked up.

He was in a long corridor, with other corridors and doors breaking its length. He moved with trepidation, and looked down the first corridor he came to. There was a single open door at the end, revealing what may have been an office or study, he was unsure. He opted to explore further, and took a step round the corner. The floor had a little too much give, and squeaked as he moved. A ball of ice formed in his stomach and he paused mid-step. There was no-one to see him, but that was little relieve from the fear that suddenly gripped him. He took a further moment to think. Go forth, or turn back. Last chance. His back ached, his coin had dwindled, and he knew he'd need another pair of boots if he was going to march back home. None of that actually crossed his mind as he took another step forward. Duty.

He forced himself to maintain a steady pace as he approached the open doorway. A faint sense of moisture hit him as he approached, and he breathed through his nose to puzzle it out. He thought he may have smelt tea, but it could have easily been anything. Stepping close enough to see in, he saw a woman leaning over a desk. His eyes darted quickly from the woman, to the desk, to the floor. His brain was still processing everything when he put his hand to his chest, and made a slight bow. "Peace favour you. I'm new to the Tower, and looking for a Mistress Bryne." He glanced up at the woman's face for a moment, before looking back to the floor. "Would you happen to know where to find her?"

Ravak Darrow "Ravak," he said curtly, "Ravak Darrow." He straightened from the bow, and subconsciously tapped the pommel of his sword-breaker. Looking up, he took proper notice of the office's habitant. The woman was maybe only a couple of years his elder. I never was good at ages, but at least I know better than to ask. He noticed grey-blue eyes, much akin to his own, but there was a depth of knowledge and an inquisitiveness behind them. There was even something about the way she held herself. It spoke of self confidence, and self possession.

"That's me," she responded, "Come on in and have a seat if you like." Ravak took a couple of steps in before he realised what he was doing. He hesitated, and started to watch Mistress Bryne move around her desk. She walked around the desk awkwardly, but the cause of that became evident. She was with child. He was a little taken aback, but kept it from showing on his face. She gestured to a pair of chairs near a pitcher of tea. So it was tea. Maybe I'll be a thief-catcher yet. A rueful smile crossed his face, before he realised what he was doing. Fool boy. Duty, think of duty. He took the seat opposite the Mistress of Training, leaning forward to ensure that none of his belongings poked into upholstery. She offered Ravak a cup of tea. A verbal offer, he noted. I should be well practiced being the lowest rung on the ladder. She settled back in her chair, sipping her tea, and gave him a thorough inspection. He couldn't think beyond what his face may be looking like, scowling or frowning or grimacing. He thought he may already be grimacing.

She fired four questions at him. "Where are you from, Ravak? What brings you to the Grey Tower for training? Why not the White or an army? Do you wish to be a Warder, bonded to a channeller and all that would entail?" As he started to sort words in his head, she opened a book, some form of journal. He couldn't see what was the pages.

"Mistress," he started with a slight nod, "I'm from Shienar, from Fal Dara." That much was easy to say; it was the truth. "As you say, I come to the Grey Tower for training." His lip curled sourly. "As you may expect from the Borderlands, we are all trained hard. The Blight lies close, and it is our duty to guard that boundary."

He paused. From the faint sound of scratching, she was writing notes. Maybe it wasn't a journal. An inventory? Maybe this will be just the same. Walked half the world just to end up in the same place I had escaped. He thought her writing had stopped, and he took up a cup to cover the silence. Well, same place or not, I may as well be judged as a honest man.

"As was expected, I trained to join the army. Some of the finest soldiers, us Shienarans." He looked up from the cup, into those grey-blue eyes. They reminded him of- "I failed." He blurted it out, and spoke quickly to cover the abruptness. "I had the same training as my peers, but I wasn't taking to it. Maybe I'm slow, maybe I'm not the soldering type, but I wasn't taking to the training. I can swing a sword with some competence, and I likely could handle myself in a fight with another man." He stopped, and drunk more of the tea in the silence.

"Fighting another man may be one thing, but we are Shienarans. There may be Darkfriends, but it's Trollocs and Fades we're meant to fight against. At least, we should have a chance when we face them. But." He let the word trail off. His free hand had lingered to the pommel again, was gripping it. He couldn't find the mental fortitude to let it go. He repeated himself slowly, shaking his head. "But I cannot. The training in Fal Dara is regimented. You follow a set sequence of tasks and training, and you emerge a soldier. But when it came to me, that sequence of tasks produced this." He couldn't meet her eye now. He placed the empty cup down.

"I'm no fool. You ask if I will become a Warder? I have no answer for that. I come to be trained, properly. To be of use against the Shadow. I have no interest in being a merchant's guard or a sellsword. We say that duty is heavier than a mountain, up in the north. I feel that duty weighing upon me, and tempered as I am, I'm not strong enough yet to meet that challenge." He ended with a sigh, relieved that he had been able to get all of that out. It was hard to admit to failure, even if that very truth had marched him to the Tower.

He felt the silence linger, and realised he hadn't fully answered Mistress Bryne's questions. "I can't say why for certain why I didn't go to the White Tower. To think of it, that would have saved a lot of walking." He flashed a smile. "And another army, why could that be any better than Fal Dara's? I expect, for this training I'm looking for, that there will be a debt owed. If I have to pay this by becoming a Warder..." He nodded slowly. The answer had come to him only now. "I wouldn't say no. I don't know how the business of being a Warder, being paired, happens. But maybe, with the right woman." He glanced up, looking into those blue-grey eyes, then blushed. Light, I hope she didn't think I meant her! Light blinded fool, with child as well. He frantically looked for something else to settle his eyes on, and decided upon pouring another cup of tea and drinking quickly.

Ravak Darrow Ravak nodded in assent, surprised that there was no oath to take. Contrary to the point? He didn't understand what that meant. Surely oath-taking was an integral point of the Tower. Aes Sedai had to swear three oaths, and he supposed that Asha'man in this place also did. And Warders, well their oath became their duty. Clearly I have a lot to learn.

He listened and nodded appropriately as Mistress Bryne spoke. He was glad when she mentioned that this was not an army. That was exactly his hope, that the training here would be markedly different from his training in Fal Dara. Despite that, he still appreciated that there was a hierarchy. That meant that everything had a proper place, and he was oddly comforted knowing his place was at the bottom.

As they left the larger building, Ravak surveyed the training yards as Bryne did. He hadn't looked at the yards properly when he had come in. There was no mass training, with rows of soldiers practicing the same moves as one. They were dotted around in groups of two or three, or even alone. That sort of disorganisation was not what Rav was accustomed to. This was another sign of the difference in training. His mood lightened.

There were a variety of weapons on show that he would never have been able to train in Shienar. There were a few weapons he didn't even recognise, which included the pudao that Bryne mentioned. Rav already saw the longsword as his principal weapon. He looked around, trying to discern a weapon that interested him. As he scanned the training yards, his right hand was once again caressing the sword-breaker's pommel. He wasn't even aware he was doing it until he thought he had caught the Mistress of Training glancing at it. "I think I've decided on the sword-breaker as my second weapon," he stated with some confidence. Then, with diffidence, he added "I'm open to other weapons as well. Throwing daggers, or quarterstaffs, if you think a different style of weapon would be more suitable?"

He heard the uncertainty in his own voice. He looked away from the Mistress at some of the duels occurring around him. "Aside from weapon training, what else does the Tower teach?" He rubbed at his nose as another thought bubbled up. "We have thief-takers in Shienar, and their training isn't simply martial." He rubbed his nose again, musing in thought. There's a faint chance I may develop some skill in that regardless.

Ravak Darrow Ravak nodded thoughtfully as Mistress Bryne covered the different foci of the ajahs. He enjoyed settling into a chair, preferably in front of a warm hearth, with a book to read. That had allowed him to travel the world on the tales of heroes, before he had left on his own adventure to the Grey Tower. But do I really want to be bound to a bookworm? That may be stretching the idea of comfort a bit too far. Furthering his marshal training was of obvious interest, although a brief shudder ran through his spine when Bryne had mentioned bonding with a Red. Light preserve me from that! He couldn't disassociate himself with the White Tower's notion of what the Red Ajah stood for.

He turned his thoughts away from that, and back to the woman before him. "I would be open to academic study," he nodded. "Aside from my journey here, I haven't seen anything of the world outside the walls of Fal Dara. And I would presume I shall travel from this place in time, so learning something of the world would be..." He pursed his lips, feeling for the right world. "Pragmatic. It would be pragmatic." He saw the Mistress of Training's acknowledgement, and allowed himself a slight grin.

She led him around one of the yards into the Weaponry Hall. It dwarfed the armouries of Fal Dara with the assortment and variety of weapons, more so than he had seen from the bouts outside in the yard. He was a bit bewildered that there were so many weapons. I really do need some classes on the world. He shifted his shoulders, feeling the longsword strapped across his back, needing the reassurance of something familiar. He once again had a hand on his sword-breaker, although he wasn't aware of it.

Mistress Bryne saw the look of awe on his face, and she gave him a knowing smile. She began to regale how the training here would be challenging compared to any training he already had. That's good, Rav thought. He had to correct her on one point, however. "I actually have no formal training with the sword-breaker," he said with just a tinge of regret. "This is my father's blade, and it's just a memento without any training. If there is anyone who can train me, I'd be willing to learn." He had a look around the hall again, taking in the peculiarities of each armament. "Otherwise, I think the quarterstaff would be a good fit. Something with reach." It was also a pragmatic choice. Something akin to a quarterstaff could be easily made in a hurry, should the need arise. More so than one could improvise a longsword, or a sword-breaker.

The rapport between the drin'far'ji and the Mistress of Training was warmer than he had anticipated. Rav resolved to risk a little. "If you have the time, Mistress, I would appreciate learning the quarterstaff under your guidance."

Ravak Darrow Rav’s sense of warmness for Mistress Bryne was flourishing unbound. He was astounded how different the training and the mannerisms of the Grey Tower was compared to Shienar. The people, both Mistress Bryne and Mordjen, both had a good humour, but neither seemed soft. That sort of attitude wouldn’t be brooked in the Borderlands. He didn’t doubt that Mistress Bryne, burdened with motherhood or otherwise, would be able to put him on his back without much resistance.

As they left the Weaponry Hall and crossed the yard, Ravak watched the ground, but around him he could hear the sounds of combat. Wood struck against wood. Steel clashed with steel. He heard the thunks of arrows smacking into targets, and the distinctly different clunks of throwing daggers impacting against those same targets. It was a cacophony, but a welcoming one. I’m growing far too fond of this place far too quickly.

Ravak had a more muted reaction to stepping into the Armoury compared to the Weaponry Hall, having had some expectation of what was beyond the Armoury’s doors. Even though there had to be less suits of armour compared to the number of weapons, it was more impressive. He supposed it was that the armour took up more space, thus making the Armoury seem fuller.

He stepped deeper into the hall, having some idea of what he was looking for. His eyes glided over the plate and mail armour that was commonplace in Shienar; some of the pieces even looked Shienaran in design. Instead, he stopped in front of pieces of leather armour. He ran his right hand over one tunic, testing how supple it was. It reminded him of what his father sometimes wore, when inside the walls of Fal Dara. “I would be honoured if a piece such as this could be fitted for me, for when it is required.” He ran a hand through his hair. A custom set of armour, made for me. He felt a little blessed, and the sense of awe of this place continued to grow on him. Brushing dandruff absently from his chest and shoulders, he turned to the Mistress with a broad smile. It looked awkward on his face, like a painter had covered one person’s face with another’s mouth. “I guess a trip to the forge won’t be needed, for now.”