Post by Annasiel on May 25, 2021 21:29:23 GMT
There are many threads cast as the Wheel of Time turns, many strands in the Pattern it weaves. Some glimmer bright, some lay plain, and some are cast in shadow. A rare thread finds itself in the central fold, bringing all others to wind in the Pattern around it - fated to change the world as we know, at least for a short while, before - once more - the stories lost in the turning of the Wheel. This thread was not one of them. No, this was but a simple piece of the larger pattern, a fragment of the whole, a fraying edge on the tapestry of time. Yes, for as one wind rose in the Mountains of Mist, destined to lift the wings of the Dragon once more, another wind died at the Mountains of Dhoom, faltering in the acrid air beyond.
The Great Blight is full of dead things, of course. Dead men, dead kingdoms, dead stories and dead promises. It is there where the Pattern thins. It is where the Dark is strongest. It is there, at the place where many things end, where our story begins.
Lise Avarenda was used to travel, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. She was of the express opinion that there was no way to sit comfortably upon a horse. Some folk made it seem simple - some might even claim that she, from Tairen highblood, should know her way around a horse, if not by knowledge, then at least by birth. She would call such claims preposterous. She did have a horse as a child - Two, in fact - but that did not make her a seasoned rider anymore than the merchant ships that passed through her birthland made her a sailor. Besides, the Tower was her home, now, and had been for years, Tear little more than a fading memory. Shifting uncomfortably in her saddle, she glanced down at the rumpled map in her lap, finger tracing a line along it.
"We should be arriving within the hour. At least, I think as much - this map is quite old. Do let me know if you see a... crag that resembles a gnarled thumb?" She spread the wrinkled paper, eyes squinting. "I hope it hasn't been weathered much, over the years."
Her voice was low - she might be a touch reckless, coming to the edge of the Blight for so minimal a gain, but she wasn't a fool. She knew the risks. She chuckled, thin and flat, then gave her Warder a furtive glance.
"Have you spent much time this far north? Before you came to Tar Valon, that is. I must say, while I was expecting a dead expanse from the accounts and stories, it truly does live up to its name in a way I couldn't have forseen."
The lands here were barren, but it wasn't the sort of barren one might prescribe to a desert like the Aiel Waste. While the Waste's barrenness was a product of its being - a thing that was - the Blight gave the impression of a thing that was being, not barren by nature, but barren by affect. A sense of looming oppression hung in the air, here, from the smell, to the blood-red soil beneath their feet, almost as if some force willed the land to fester. She'd have to tell that to Sebyll when she returned to the Tower. A good friend of hers, the woman was a White through and through, fond of the sort of introspective musings and linguistic juggling that, while fun to play with, ultimately led to nowhere. A thing that was, a thing that was being - yes, she'd have to remember that.
The Great Blight is full of dead things, of course. Dead men, dead kingdoms, dead stories and dead promises. It is there where the Pattern thins. It is where the Dark is strongest. It is there, at the place where many things end, where our story begins.
Lise Avarenda was used to travel, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. She was of the express opinion that there was no way to sit comfortably upon a horse. Some folk made it seem simple - some might even claim that she, from Tairen highblood, should know her way around a horse, if not by knowledge, then at least by birth. She would call such claims preposterous. She did have a horse as a child - Two, in fact - but that did not make her a seasoned rider anymore than the merchant ships that passed through her birthland made her a sailor. Besides, the Tower was her home, now, and had been for years, Tear little more than a fading memory. Shifting uncomfortably in her saddle, she glanced down at the rumpled map in her lap, finger tracing a line along it.
"We should be arriving within the hour. At least, I think as much - this map is quite old. Do let me know if you see a... crag that resembles a gnarled thumb?" She spread the wrinkled paper, eyes squinting. "I hope it hasn't been weathered much, over the years."
Her voice was low - she might be a touch reckless, coming to the edge of the Blight for so minimal a gain, but she wasn't a fool. She knew the risks. She chuckled, thin and flat, then gave her Warder a furtive glance.
"Have you spent much time this far north? Before you came to Tar Valon, that is. I must say, while I was expecting a dead expanse from the accounts and stories, it truly does live up to its name in a way I couldn't have forseen."
The lands here were barren, but it wasn't the sort of barren one might prescribe to a desert like the Aiel Waste. While the Waste's barrenness was a product of its being - a thing that was - the Blight gave the impression of a thing that was being, not barren by nature, but barren by affect. A sense of looming oppression hung in the air, here, from the smell, to the blood-red soil beneath their feet, almost as if some force willed the land to fester. She'd have to tell that to Sebyll when she returned to the Tower. A good friend of hers, the woman was a White through and through, fond of the sort of introspective musings and linguistic juggling that, while fun to play with, ultimately led to nowhere. A thing that was, a thing that was being - yes, she'd have to remember that.
