The Grey Tower

What had once been the guardhouse was now rubble, although the repairs were moving at a fair pace. Mordjen stared in slight irritation at his colleague, who was picking free stones in his boots quite openly in front of his colleague and the visitor. Not a great example of the Tower Guard by any stretch of the imagination. "Yere a real charmer sometimes, Heb. Very professional." The other guard - Heb - gave a mild shrug, then returned to the busy business of his shoes' souls. Mordjen grimaced apologetically. "The name's Mordjen, pleased ta meet you. I'll take you where you're needing to go. If yer'll come with me, please?"

Mordjen led the way, taking comfortable ground-eating strides down the long road that ended in the Grey Tower, the salvation of Hama Valon. It too was under repair, now segmented in eight as the Red Ajah finally got their time in the light. As they walked towards the looming glass and stone structure, Mordjen chattered amiably with the newcomer. Just before they got to the Tower proper, Mordjen veered off to the right, cutting across a field towards a large four- or five-story structure.

"I never tried being a Warder myself," Mordjen continued. "Me wife Liz, the Creator shelter 'er, well she'd greet herself to sleep every night if I told her I wanted to get myself bonded to some fancy lady Aes Sedai or mighty lordling Asha'man." The guard chuckled at that. "No, my duty's fine enough. Watching the front gate, helpful with the repairs, that's all more than enough o' a connection to the One Power for me, yesser."

Mordjen picked up the pace. They were walking into a hard-packed dirt yard, between four buildings spaced far apart. To their immediate right was a barn-sized building all of a single story, with a few people around it. The men and women practicing various forms of fighting styles were spread from there all the way across the Yard. At the opposite end were two newer structures, made of unweathered stone, although the purposes of either was not evident from the exterior. Immediately ahead was the large dormitory hall, and it was towards that and a large set of doors that Mordjen led them.

They entered a large foyer. Fireplaces roared in two alcoves set on opposite walls, around which tables and chairs were set. The reflection of the flames danced in the polished wooden panels, and off the large mosaic that dominated the floor. A circle divided by a sinuous line, half white and half black. The symbol of the Grey Tower. Beyond that was a large staircase that led up to the first floor.

"The Master a' Training's office is upstairs an' to the right. Master Darrow, he's a good man, but a hard man too. You've set yourself on a challenging course. Don't let his manner dissuade you none." Mordjen turned and clasped his hands behind his back. "If he's no in, you can wait here for him. He's easy enough to spot." The guard grinned broadly. "If is good to welcome you to the Grey Tower. Good luck!" With that, Mordjen patted the newcomer jovially on the shoulder, then retreated back along the way they had come.

Steel danced in the Warder's hands, as a dagger wove through fingers and spun around wrists. Ravak had never really pressed his combat skill with throwing daggers, but he could make them move in a display to match any gleeman's. The Shienaran's focus was barely on the blade, however. Muscle memory kept him from cutting anything off - he was already down half a finger - whilst his brain churned. Of the long litany of women that Ravak had previously angered, and thus found himself up against, the latest was his own sister. That irked him more than he wanted to admit, and he felt very hesitant to do anything about it.

The room's furnishings had been carefully set out and chosen by it's occupant. Everything was Shienaran in style, if not in manufacture. It was a lot easier to get imitations carved by the Tower's craftsmen than to import furniture from the Borderlands. Hard edges and clean lines were everywhere, all built from solid oak, darkly strained. The desk had solid sides as opposed to spindly legs, so the lower half of the Master of Training was concealed from view. Two newer chairs sat on a Taraboner rug for the Gaidin's visitors. A weapon rack in one corner held Ravak's weapons. His Tower-forged longsword was placed so that the Great Serpent on its crossguard was visible. Beside it rested a stout sword-breaker, a long quarterstaff made of silvery wood, and a simple longbow. There was a second table, covered in sheets of paper being weighed down by various throwing daggers. Lastly, a small stand held a teapot and cups.

Rav caught the dagger by the hilt deftly, then made the weapon vanish up one of his sleeves. He had to set some time aside to learn the longbow, especially now that he had a bondmate again. Irritation flashed briefly in his blue-grey eyes, The sounds of creaking on the floorboards outside of his room pulled Rav away from any further thoughts. He lifted up his iridescent quill from his desk, then pulled a ledger near. There was always an inordinate amount of paperwork to be done. The Master of Training sat up straight, carefully watching the doorway out from the corner of his eye, as he anticipated his latest visitor.

The caravan had dumped her unceremoniously off in front of a group of people that looked like they were tossing around hunks of stone. They were a solemn-eyed lot, Afanen regarding them with blank-faced indifference. She tried to look everywhere at everything at once; there were walls and buildings in varying stages of completion, the only real point of interest being the massive tower of glass that rose from ground to sky. That had to be the Grey Tower. But the city was nothing at all like the stories the merchants and guards had told. What did Hama Valon mean anyway? Her stomach rumbled loudly as the name reminded her of ham...

Burn it all, she was hungry. Well standing around wasn't going to get her anything to eat. Tucking her hands up into the ragged edges of her sleeves, the dark skinned woman picked her way forward down the long road that ended at the glass encased monstrosity. Nobody stopped her, which was odd. Was this normal then? It must have been, for she was soon intercepted by a pair of guards. They introduced themselves as Heb and Mordjen... or rather, Mordjen introduced the pair while Heb picked rocks out of his boots. That was unexpectedly refreshing.

Afanen didn't respond, but Mordjen didn't seem at all put out by her silence. He prattled on enough for the three of them. He spoke of channeling and power and Aes Sedai and Asha'man. They did not go into the glass tower; instead they went off to the side, and she could not help but glance around in mute surprise. There were men and women... fighting here. Training? She missed what Mordjen said next, something about bonded and a Warder. What did he think she was here for? What was she here for? Food, certainly... maybe a warm dry place to sleep. What would she have to do to get it?

She craned her neck back, but was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer size of the building they entered. There was so much space! With not one fireplace, but two! If she wanted to, she could stand with her arms straight out and not touch anything. And it didn't stink of garbage and sewage... A hand came down to pat at her shoulder, Afanen realizing belatedly that Mordjen and Heb were leaving. She glanced around, suddenly wary. She was to stay here? And do what? She shuffled her feet and nearly tripped as understanding finally dawned on her. The guards had thought she had come here to become... to train... to become whatever it was, like the men and women outside, a Warder or somesuch.

Her fingers worried at her ragged cuffs. Her stomach squealed in protest and she did her best not to wince, her steps taking her up that staircase and to the right. If they fed her... gave her a place to stay... well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to learn how to fight either. It could only help her, after all. Hama Valon. The floorboards creaked beneath her as she knocked on the door, quickly tucking her exposed hand back into her sleeve. Ham and veal... her mind whispered unhelpfully.

Struggling to squash all thoughts about food, Afanen entered the room, office? as told to, shutting the door behind her as told to. The first thing she noticed was a stand that held a small teapot and cups. The second, the grim looking man seated behind the sturdy desk. His hair was red. His eyes were blue-grey. He was pale skinned, with slightly ruddy cheeks. And he looked as if he could heft the desk he sat behind with little required effort. He regarded her impassively and she couldn't help the way she edged back a little, watchful, alert, and uncomfortable. "Mordjen told me to come here," she began quietly, fingers clamping around the edge of her sleeves. "I'm not exactly sure why."

All sorts had crossed the threshold of that doorway seeking to becoming Warders. He had seen noblemen and noblewomen, farmers, Seanchan, Aiel, even an Atha'an Miere. Some were young, some were old. Some were unsure, and others confident. Practically anyone and everyone could walk through that door, and with the guidance of the Tower and the Yards, be forged into a weapon against the Shadow.

But this girl was an exception.

Ravak had never seen someone so scared before. At least, not in his office and not intentionally. As he rose from his chair, the girl sunk back further into the closed door, in an attempt to distance herself. Rav forcefully softened his face, trying to make himself seem as human as possible. Too many people got hung up on the fact he was the Master of Training that they forgot he was flesh and blood. I'm a little too mortal, he thought, and there were two new scars to prove it.

"Would you like a seat?" Rav offered, gesturing to one of the two chairs that sat opposite the desk. He moved away from the girl, towards the door that led to his private study. Opening it, the willowy woman inside looked up from her writing desk. "Muireen, can you go to the kitchens and fetch a meal of whatever is going for our guest? Thank you."

Rav moved back into his office, towards the tea set. He hadn't missed the way this new girl had glanced at it. "Would you like some tea? I have some flatwort. It's good for clearing the mind, and relaxing sore muscles, apparently." He took it for granted what he'd been told, but it tasted fine enough. He made up two cups regardless - Muireen would drink it if the girl didn't.

"My name is Ravak Darrow," he said over his shoulder as he made the tea. "I am the Master of Training here. You could think of me as a teacher of sorts. The men and women you passed outside are my students. If Mordjen brought you here, then he thought you were wishing to become one of my students too. But if there's been a misunderstanding..." He stopped, looking properly at the girl. "Are you here to petition one of the brothers or sisters? Sorry, I should have asked before sending Muireen off."

The stony face shifted. She watched him warily, hovering. He stood slowly and Afanen backpedaled so quickly she bumped into the door behind her. What was he doing? He didn’t approach her, however, instead turning to a second door and opening it, speaking through it. Food. He’d said something about food! Her stomach gave another high pitched squeal and she flushed.

Another girl soon came out, and the Altaran was forced to step further into the room as the door clicked shut again.

She was confused, glancing at the indicated chair uncertainly. The man said she could sit. Why? Nobody... nobody had done that before. Afanen felt the bite of her nails against palms that were suddenly cold and clammy. She looked around the room again, noting that there was a window. That wouldn’t work. Too far away for her to squeeze out of before she’d be caught. The other door? She craned her neck but found that it only lead to another room... not helpful. The only way out was behind her. Why hadn’t she checked before she had stepped inside?

Think! She shook her head, steeling herself. If... if this Ravak Darrow had wanted something, he’d have taken it already and there was nothing she could do about it. That knowledge was bitter. But he hadn’t. He... had offered food. And tea. That was worth something, right?

“I’ve never had tea before,” she said quietly as she eased into the chair. It wobbled for a moment and she nearly tipped over backwards in it. Afanen scrambled forward and the two front legs slammed down against the floor. “I’m not here to petition anybody. I... a caravan from Deachal Green dumped me off here.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to look up at him and dropped her gaze to the assorted things on the desk in front of her: daggers, papers covered with strange markings and squiggles... She stared at those funny markings blankly for a moment.

“You said you’re a teacher. And that those people I passed were your students. You’re... the Master of Training? What does that mean? What do you train? What do you teach?” She flinched back a little as a delicate cup was set down directly in her field of vision. Afanen eyed the steaming liquid, risking a glance up. “What is this going to taste like?”

Rav lifted the two cups up without the saucers - they just added to the clutter on his desk - and placed one of the desk near the girl. She looked concerned even then, which decided where Rav was going place himself. He had intended to sit in the other chair and speak face-to-face, but maybe the distance the desk provided would ease her tensions somewhat.

He moved slowly around the desk back to his seat as he spoke. "What does tea taste like?" Rav stared into his cup, the light brown mix of milk, leaves and water. "Well, it tastes like... um... tea? I'm not sure how else to describe it." He sunk into his chair. "There's milk and water. I guess it's a little bitter tasting. There's honey if you like." The girl seemed perplexed by everything that was going on.

Rav make sure to sit back in his chair. Not straight, slumped slightly, but as far away as he could manage in the shape between his stout desk and fireplace behind. "I am the Master of Training. That means I am responsibility for the training, education, discipline and well-being of the men and women you passed outside. The ones wearing grey are called Drin'far'ji or Ji'alantin or Ji'dar. They are all working towards becoming a Gaidin, what some stories call Warders." It was hard to read the girl's face. Not that it was as unreadably expressionless as the Aes Sedai of the Tower. It just seemed to be transfixed in worry and confusion and concern. The tea maybe didn't help matters. I should have sent for wine punch.

"We equip our people with the skills necessary to protect the Aes Sedai and Asha'man of the Grey Tower. That includes weapons training, but also survival skills - urban and wilderness, battle tactics, strategy, subterfuge, and focused training in other specialities. In return, they pledge their allegiance to the Tower, for the betterment of the world." No point mentioning the Shadow and watching all the blood drain from her face.

He scooted the chair back, which produced a soft grinding sound from the chair legs and a soft gasp for the girl. Light, she was something else. He reached for one of the books on his shelves, and opened it with familiarity to a double page with a detailed map across it. "I don't believe I know where Deachal Green is." He peered at the map, but it marked few places beyond the major cities. Fal Dara and Camron Caan were both missing from it. "Is that where you are from, Deachal Green, miss...?"

“Afanen. Vallen. No need for the miss.” She shifted in the chair a little, settling herself more firmly against the seat. “I’m not from Deachal Green.” No, not from that little quaint bit of boringness in northern Andor. She gave her hair a self-conscious pat and hesitated, pausing to sniff suspiciously at the tea. It... didn’t smell bad. Different, but not bad. “I was born in Altara.”

The cup was on the tolerable side of hot as she brought it up to her lips, taking a cautious sip. Her tongue immediately curled and it was all she could do not to spit it out. Ravak probably wouldn’t take kindly to that. Exhaling through her nose, she pushed the liquid through her teeth and back into the cup. When her eyes had cleared, she found the Master of Training watching her. She hastily set it back down. “It is bitter.”

Dark eyes went to the smaller table where the honey was situated. Her gaze darted back to the unsmiling man and she swallowed before pushing herself up to her feet, hands automatically trying to shrinking back up into her sleeves even as she took hold of the cup full of steaming liquid and brought it over next to the pot of honey. “Do... do you think you could teach me?”

She was in the process of reaching for it when the faintest whisper of touch brushed against the back of her neck. It was probably nothing more than a passing breeze, a slight movement of air dislodged by her passing. But it startled her. Afanen let out a squeak, jumping, knocking into the table. The cup of tea tipped over onto the pot of honey, splashing leaves and milk and liquid. The pot of honey tottered in time with the rocking table and with an almost casual indifference, pitched over the side. It hit the floor, the sound of shattering earthenware oddly dulled by the sticky, viscous substance.

She gasped and stared at the mess for a moment. Then she made a sharp little noise of dismay before darting through the only open doorway she saw, shoving aside the chair and crawling into the enclosed little box of space beneath the desk. When she was safely tucked away, she buried her face into her knees, her harsh breathing echoing back at her.

Anger rose up within the Master of Training. He was surprisingly tolerant of many things, even if his outwards appearance made it seem like the very world offended him by existing. He could handle runaways and paramours, ex-murderers and thieves, people who liked to cause mischief just for the sake of it. He'd even dealt with the attempted and very foolish theft of his huskies, back when he had them.

What Ravak did not tolerate was a breach of his private sanctuary.

The chair screeched against the floor, the back legs hitting off the edge of the raised hearthstone as Rav rose quickly. It only took a couple of steps to get to the doorway of his study, wherein he found Afanen curled up underneath Muireen's desk like a scared child. That gave him pause. Fury was flooding his emotions, but enough logic seeped through that he saw the danger of giving into it.

Ravak pulled the familiar calm of the ko'di around him. The ko'di also allowed him to drive away pain - this was principally a discipline reserved for combat - but it also drove away his emotions, placing them to one side as if they were another person's. His face fell flat, as did his voice. Anger still flickered outside the shell of the ko'di like rain hitting against a window, but it was outside of him now. Rav sunk down onto one knee near to Muireen's desk, and he perched his neck to be in line with Afanen's concealed head. He recognised that she was panicking, but with emotions in the distance, it was impossible to empathise.

"There's no need to hide," he said in a dull monotone. "I am not annoyed. Jars of honey can be replaced." A thought skittered on the bubble of calm. "I am not going to punish you." He had mentioned discipline, and the weapon racks showed he was a man of violence. Ravak knew some things about Altara; not a pleasant place as he recalled. It had helped to forge the M'Hael, and he was hard in all the right places at times.

He let the ko'di slide away, and felt the palpitations of adrenaline still moving through his body. He forced down his urge to act out of emotion, but he needed to sound... human. The Shienaran extended an offering hand out, palm up. "Please, let's start again. My name is Rav, and I am... here to help, if I can."

Her back twinged from where it was forcefully mashed back against the small square space beneath the desk. The Master of Training was speaking. His lips were moving and words were coming out of his mouth, but Afanen couldn’t quite seem to believe what was being said. His hand appeared nononono and she flinched back, burying her face into her knees with another soft squeak as she braced herself for....

Nothing?

Her eyes darted aimlessly behind her eyeslids for a moment, confused. That... wasn’t right. Cautiously, she peered up, biting through her gasp as she came face to face with Ravak. He was watching her impassively, his hand held palm out scant inches from her own. Afanen stared blankly at him, then his hand, then back up at him, before looking down at his hand again.

The seconds dragged out into what had to be minutes, the ruddy-cheeked man watching her calmly as she considered him warily. He could have hurt already her if he truly wanted to. He could have hit her for spilling the tea and breaking the honey jar, but didn’t. Her bottom jaw jutted out as her bottom row of teeth worried at her upper lip. Help. He was offering to help her... with what? She didn’t know, but... well maybe he did. She couldn't really stay wedged under the desk anymore... even though the thought of leaving it made her tremble.

Afanen looked uncertain as she tentatively reached out and placed her left hand in Ravak’s, her dark skin causing the twisting scars and the slightly crooked middle finger to somehow stand out in stark contrast against his pink-pale skin. She blinked, fingers curling inward as she tried to make her hand as small and as unnoticeable as possible. She did not make another sound as she was helped back to her feet and brought back out into the room with the broken earthenware oozing honey and the frightening array of pointy sharp looking weapons arranged on the rack.

“How are you going to help me?” she finally asked softly, doing her best not to fidget or shift her weight from foot to foot.

Ravak pulled the door shut with an audible click, keeping the girl from bolting into his study once again, before retaking his seat. He settled back into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he steadied his thoughts. Curiosity from Elia prickled across the bond that made him scratch at his shoulder scar irritably.

"Right." The Shienaran felt like he was going into battle, shoulders squaring even as he felt his features mild. "As I said, we train people here to become Gaidin. We offer this opportunity to anyone who is willing, regardless of age or gender or nationality or anything, just about. In exchange for the Tower's protection as you learn, for your food and accommodations, and the training and education you will receive that is second to none, we ask that you pledge yourself to the Tower."

The girl - woman? - was soft, but even at this stage she had to have something of a backbone if he was going to accept her. So instead of coddling her with more reassurances, he moved to the other side of the bargain.

"Some people have tried to use the Yards as a free pass to learn how to become a merchant's guard." He pulled at the corner of his lip in anger of a memory. "Some people think we're a little soft in the head, offering our protection to those with a violent or criminal past, and that we will 'deal' with their histories. If you join, then yes, you would have that protection. But I do not tolerate runaways, and so there's only two ways to leave the ranks of the Drin once you have signed on: to become a Gaidin, or for me to fail you personally."

He waited expectantly for her to baulk at the offer and say no. She hadn't come into his office looking to becoming a Drin, so he didn't expect her to leave as a Drin. She could have the meal, once Muireen returned, but then he'd send her on her way. As much as he empathised with the refugees from Hama Valon, he didn't have the time to handle each one of them individually. There were actual Drin to train, and the Light knew the Grey Tower needed them, now more than ever.

Dark eyes stared at Ravak blankly, something hard rising up as she listened to him speak down at her. Afanen recognized the inflection; the words and the voice were different, but the tone... the tone, she knew. It was always the same. She would’ve been happy to leave, after the food he promised. She would’ve been happy to clean up the mess she had made, pick up the things she had broken.

Not anymore.

The Altaran glanced over to the spilled honey and barely stopped herself from stomping her feet into the sticky puddle and tramping it all over the fancy rug. He had no right to address her as if she was trash. Not when he had things like warmth, and meals, and clothes... all things that he took for granted. Her hands crowded up into her sleeves again, forming into small fists. The edge of her cuffs cut into her palms.

Why did he think she would ever want to become a merchant’s guard? She wouldn’t have had to leave Altara at all, or Tear, or Illian... she wouldn’t have made her way up to Andor, where it was cold with its pale sullen people. He looked pale and sullen. He would’ve fit right in. And what was he insinuating? That she was going to run away? Finding somewhere safe to hide wasn’t running away. It was the smart thing to do. And she didn’t have a violent past. And as for criminal... well, let’s see what he would be willing to do when his belly ached so badly from hunger that it woke him up from sleep and kept him from doing anything but shake and groan.

She didn’t know what this training people to become Gaidin meant. Or what it would take. But she wasn’t going to give Ravak the satisfaction of watching her leave. Oh no. She didn’t particularly want to become Gaidin or wear the strange uniform... but she wasn’t going to make it comfortable for him. No. She was going to eat their food, wear their clothes, and sleep... where ever they let her. And she was going to make him eat his words, every last one of them.

Afanen wasn’t a runaway. Or trash. She wasn’t a murderer. She was a survivor. She had made it this far with nobody to rely on. He didn’t get to talk down to her for it. She looked up at him, defiance ghosting along the depths of dark eyes. “I want to sign on to become a Gaidin,” she said as clearly as she could, her bottom lip jutting out just a little.