Upon returning to his place on the range he took the time to muse upon what the teacher, Talaban, had had to tell them at the beginning of this part of the session. The arrows always skew, usually to the right and in a diagonal path – that, he had learned by himself. He presumed that it had something to do with the way the fletching pushed against the bow on their passage. Fortunately, there was a way to correct for what one knew. If it skewed a particular way then he could merely adjust by aiming slightly to the left and below where he wanted to hit with the arrow. A simple re-calculation of variables that could produce significantly improved results.

 He relaxed his muscles once again, placed his feet in the correct position and prepared to try firing real arrows for the first time in over a year, at least, in his memory. The target was an above average distance away, just enough to stretch the skills of a beginner, or in his case a person re-learning what had been all but forgotten. He gave a gruff grin and pulled an arrow from the hip quiver. Placing it upon the string and pulling back smoothly upon the string came next, almost natural now. He took aim, trying to adjust for skew, as well as the slight breeze brushing across his cheeks, and let fly the arrow. It soared through the air, arcing slowly but surely, until it buried itself into the straw target. It was a poor shot, barely hitting the bottom ring of the target, just left of centre.

Still, it means that hitting centre is easily repeated. The angle just needs to be changed, and the adjustment for skew and wind conditions put in place he told himself forcefully, willing it to happen instantaneously.

He took another arrow and set about letting them all fly, to bury themselves within the distant target, fletching vibrating as the force of the impact was pushed back through the shaft of the arrow itself. The drawing and firing became much easier as he continued, his mind adjusting to the weight of the arrows almost sub-consciously. It was not a perfect display, by anyone’s standards, but by the end he was hitting the inner rings every time, though he only managed a few, overall, in the very centre circle. It was satisfactory, however, and he had to been the last to finish either, but in the middle of the group – a testament, he interpreted, of his returning skills. He took to waiting stoically, in silence, and when everyone was finished he went to gather his arrows and deposited them in the quiver once more.

Then would come the clay discs, thrown in the air for him to shoot with a precision he was not sure he yet possessed. Still, it was expected, and the worst case scenario would be that he missed the majority of them and would be forced into more practice. Before trying to get the attention of the Aes Sedai – Alisse – he chose to limit himself to one shot per clay disc and get a few more practice shots to his total. He fired 5 of his arrows into the target, all in the centre ring and with a growl of satisfaction he awaited the final test of the day.

He waited deferentially for the throwing to begin, and unsurprisingly there was no warning, nor would it be prove to be that the height, locations and speeds of the targets would be constant. The test had obviously not been designed for easy success. He had to force his concentration to as sharp a point of focus as possible, not particularly easy for a man whom had spent the last several years eroding such faculties in a river of alcohol. But he tried his best.

Having left himself with a mere single arrow per disc thrown it was challenging in the least. He missed the first 5 without exception, and rather badly also he thought. He began to doubt whether it had been worth his time trying to revive his archery prowess. However, when he clipped the side of the sixth one, sending it spinning to the ground with a chunk missing from a part of it his confidence flowed back quickly. He went through the motions, pulling the string from his shoulder blades, using the correct hold and a smooth draw. His aim began to improve as he adapted to a moving target. To improve matters the wind also seemed to abate slightly also.

By the end he had missed only half, and hit the other. Of the 10 he had managed to hit only 3 lay shattered from a shot to their centres, the others only missing sections due to being hit along the edges. He was well satisfied with his performance, and he had managed to push through and finish the day’s session with some moderate success.

With a little practise I might be prettygood he thought to himself with the first bit of warmth in a long time.

Still, upon the signal he ran his hands across the bow he had chosen, feeling its silky smooth surface. There were a few blemishes that would threaten a splinter, but it was otherwise more than comfortably serviceable. He took a few moments to study the arrows he had been given, noting their clumsiness and weight distribution. As Talaban had noted, they would not go very far but would serve their purposes. He eyed the target a distance in front of him, a fair distance, and noted the space around him – as well as the other students of the class.

He took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly before beginning. Placing his feet, just over shoulder width apart, he shifted position until he was perpendicular to the target. His left foot was forwards, the bow held firmly within the grip of his left hand, his head facing towards the target, down the line of sight for his upcoming shots. His knees were not firmly locked out, but slightly bent so as to form a relatively stable base from which to fire his make-shift arrows. He loosened his muscles as far as was possible before fumbling an arrow towards the string with his right hand, encased within the leather glove as it was.

He brought the butt of the arrow towards the string, managing to put it in place after a few jerky starts. He exhaled and pulled the string backwards, locking out his left arm, elbow facing away from the bow itself, his index finger above and the middle and ring fingers below the placed arrow. The string came slowly, not too hard to pull, but he was being cautious for now, sure to get it right. As the tips of his fingers brushed his cheekbone he let the string fly forwards, the unique sound of bowstring cutting through the air accompanying the flight of the arrow – a poor shot that fell short and a little wide of where he had been aiming.

Well, at least I managed to fire the damn thing after all this time. The rest will come with time, that is all that matters he thought to himself grimly.

He began again, and this time with some improvement and success. This time there was no fumbling, jerky movements. His body had begun to re-learn what it had forgotten, the fluid movements returning in increments so that after a few more arrows being shot the movement had become considerably smoother. He would win no prizes, he was sure, and he was far from the best archer to ever grace the pattern. however, it was a beginning, and a promising one at that. He continued to fire until he had consumed all of his arrows and he had satisfied the teacher enough to let him go, lesson having been learned.

Drystan was lost within the fuzzy inner world of his thoughts as his brown eyes lazily shifted from person to person, few that there were, assimilating what little knowledge he could garner in his current state. From experience he was aware that you could never tell when such trivial information might be of great import. One time you could notice the strange shifting of a cloak and know, before the fight, that if you couldn't bring a weapon against the one under the assaulter's cloak then it was time to retreat. But his attention was jarred back to present reality by the voice of a woman unknown to him. Shaking his head slightly he brought his gaze to bear upon the new interest of his free time, the first person to actually voluntarily approach him since his arrival at the White Tower.

Obviously a curious breed he amused himself privately, though no smile showed upon his lips. Few ever did.

Pale skin, politely curved build and copper colored hair were the most distinguishing characteristics of the woman, as well as the linen sling filled with books that was looped over her shoulder. Novice whites were generically boring, her hazel eyes pretty but merely slightly abnormal for what he surmised to be a girl of Andoran nationality. Pretty smile, though not used so much currently and a height that brought her several inches shorter than himself and suggested several years younger also. He supposed that she could grow to be a beautiful woman with luck, but she was not comparable to the strong stock of the Borderlands. However, few of the Southlanders were. Still, interaction was interaction, even if it was to ask for a book upon a ledge by his shoulder. He reached up casually and plucked it from its perch, taking a few moments to read the title cover and stroke his hands across its binding and covering.

"An Accounting of the Noble Lineages of Cairhien," he spoke softly, ponderously, "it would seem that someone likes to chase impossibilities. But, I suppose they need something to occupy their time. Interesting though" he finished, lifting the tome towards the girl whom had asked for it.

"You are carrying many books, so I presume that you either really love to read or that you are on a chore. Or both. It would seem that Novice's get fewer free periods of time then the Trainees do. But I am keeping you from your duties…." he trailed off, realizing he did not know her name but managing to turn the last few words towards a questioning tone.

OOC: No worries! Thanks for replying, and peopling the thread. It's nice to feel welcomed :) Feel free to do more than just people it should you desire, somehow. Throw mud at him accidentally or something :P

Those had been the general thoughts slinking around his tired mind when he had taken heed of the rumors whispering across the Training Grounds about new and upcoming classes. He was still unsure as to how new classes constituted as interesting enough to become a rumor, but he had shrugged that off as a pointless consideration. Whilst others lives may have become that tediously repetitive, he had managed to find a strange form of equilibrium. For the first time in a long while he was not descending further into the old madness that haunted his dreams, but neither was he getting better. He was, relatively, stable. A better state of affairs than he deserved and certainly more than he had asked for.

Now, however, surrounded by the others whom had decided to attend the classes advertised he was beginning to think it was a foolish decision. He disdained crowds, preferring the solitude of loneliness – or perhaps,upon occasion, a few others to watch and ponder over. He still had found few to talk to, which did not concern him so much as made things more mysterious. He was beginning to wonder whether some rumors had been circulated about him, which gave him something to chuckle over – his narcissistic episodes.

He listened with interest, his brown eyes following the teacher as he moved. Fluid motions, purposeful and precise by their very natures. The man was obviously far more senior than himself, and had seen much more in the world. hardly a surprise though, for even if Drystan did look to be in his mid-thirties or so he was still early twenties. Plenty of life left yet - or not. his ears caught the soft chimes of bells, the ones in his own shoulder length hair moving in the gentle breeze, muted to softness by his hair. The last remnants of clues to his past in many ways, or at least where he had originally set out from. And then it came his time to speak, in rote like a child, which he supposed that in many ways he could be considered as one.

"Drystan Ihvaien," he spoke in a deep growl, hoping that none recognized the small house name, "from Altara originally, from everywhere now. I have had some hunting experience with the bow, as well as little combat experience. It has never been my preferred weapon, though it has been a useful one to know upon occasion" he finished, letting his voice trail off into the next person's.

Theon knew from the start that this wasn’t going to be fun.  He knew as soon as they took him out into the practice yards, and his stomach clenched as he was divided into a separate team.  His heart raced inside of his chest, galloping against his breastbone with the force of a dulcimer, and even though the sun did not hang overly high, nor was the heat overly unbearable, he began to mop his forehead.

 The Asha’man showed him the weave, stretching it out like a spiderweb that he could hold between two hands.  How in the name of the Stone was he supposed to play a game that required both hands!  He’d be disqualified in a heartbeat, perhaps less.  Without his cane, he could only hobble; walking at any great speed was difficult at best.  If his stump slipped out of his peg, it might bend into an impossible position!  It might break…

 Theon took in a deep breath, thinking about how quickly he would be disqualified.  The shame filled the void, and he reached out and took hold of saidin.  Using the same old mind trick, he found that he could hold the power almost indefinitely.  This was a good thing, because inside, he knew that the pattern did not have a conscious mind; it couldn’t be violated, no more than a stone could be violated.

 But it was also a terrible thing, because it made him largely unable to convince his mind of his own irrationality.  He had chosen to believe a thing, and insodoing, he had made that thing into a nightmarish reality.  As the mornings passed, he found that he had more and more trouble looking at his own face in the small mirror by the washstand.  He was beginning to despise himself, and slowly but surely, events were taking their toll on him.

 He had to tuck his cane under his arm, walking in to huddle with the other boys and girls; there was little bickering as to who should do what, or in what order, and less in the way of organization.

 “I think we should alternate.”  Said Theon.  “Strike at the weak ones first, or anyone who looks like they’re struggling.  I recall that Emilia didn’t seem to have too much trouble, and Medea is crafty; she’d be a threat even if it was her weakest element.”

 “What about the strong students?”  Asked one of the girls.  Lilith, that was her name.

 “When you shoot at the strong ones, make a point of making eye contact with another target.  Preferably a weaker target.  When you strike, try and strike quickly.”

 “Does anyone recall who was the strongest?”  Asked one of the boys.

 Some names were rattled off.  Theon nodded or shook his head, rarely offering a shrug.  He had a powerful mind; perfect, some said.  Near perfect, even when distracted by the power.

 “What about here?”  Asked Lilith.  “Are you strong with water..?”

 “Yes, but I have a bad leg.”  Said Theon.  “Teli was fairly strong, I think.”

 “I’ll ask.”  Said one of the boys.

 He looked to a young, but pretty novice and almost lost his tongue.  He scarcely noticed as several of the other novices broke off to practice.

 “She says she’s ready to act as bait.”  Said the boy.  “You should back her.”

Theon tried not to say anything about what he thought of that notion. 

“What about a spotter?”  Theon offered, looking to the others, who returned quizzical expressions.

 “Someone to watch for the Aes Sedai and the Asha’man, and maybe catch the balls.”

 “Nero.”  Said Lilith.  “Keep your eye open for the ball.”

 “I don’t think he heard you.”  Said Theon, knowing the look of a scholar who was lost in contemplation.

 “Time!”

 Chaos erupted into the field.

 Theon took to Teli’s side, figuring that the girls wouldn’t be able to see his weaves, but his cane was becoming a hindrance.  He couldn’t hold the net with both hands and keep the cane in his grasp; it had to be one or the other.

 Unless…

 He channeled, easily spinning a spiderweb of water with a hitch around the loop of his cane.  It stretched the web near to capacity, and he tried to channel earth, to make it more flexible.  That was his first mistake.

 The ball came hurtling toward him, and Teli smacked it out of the way with what might have been a fumbling hand.  The look on her face belied her confidence, but only a little.  Nero turned out to be one of their strongest players, and Theon released his attempts to channel earth, focusing instead on adding a little air.  His net was stretched, but the fractional amount of air that he braided with it made it strong.  He smiled.

 Next time, the ball came hurtling toward Teli and he caught it, tossing it up in the air; Teli hesitantly smacked the ball, and he cast a fierce glance at Medea.

 One of the other novices shrieked as the ball exploded.  Nero caught the next ball, and the tides quickly turned in their favor.  As the game progressed Theon found that he became quite surprised at the havoc he could wreak, fixed in one position behind a pretty girl.  He tried to forget that she was pretty, but she was wearing breaches.

 The ball came careening back at him, Medea returning his feint with a pair of cold eyes.  His challenge was accepted, then.  Nothing to do about it but make good on his word.

 But Medea was no easy meat, and the ball didn’t always find its way into her hands.  As the game progressed, Theon discovered that his eyes were blurred with sweat and it was difficult just to stand.  He was slouching, and it was easy to spot.  No matter.  He crouched in front of Teli, dropping to one knee and tossing the ball back into the crowd with as much force as he could muster.  His eyes seemed to call a challenge to one of the Saldean women.

 But the ball found Medea. 

 He tried to smile at her as she graciously accepted defeat, but the game continued.  On and on, the ball bouncing backward and forward.  Before he knew it, Nero, Teli and he were among the only ones on the field.  He kept his spot on the ground, defending Teli with as much gallantry as he could muster, fixed on one knee.

 Suddenly, one of the waterballs came lurching just above his head, and he lurched upward.  Teli couldn’t react in time, and his weave was stretched too thin.  He realized this a little too late as it burst drenching him with water.  But when he released saidin and clumsily made his way to his feet, some of the other novices were looking at him with mixed emotions.

 Mostly, they were impressed.

Swiping at a sweaty brow with the back of his arm, Bennon sat back on his heels to stuff down the pile of weeds he'd collected in his potato sack.  He glanced over at Leina down the line and was not surprised to see her sack was half as full as his, if that.  At the moment, she was examining one of the lionsteeth she'd plucked, gloved hands clumsily extracting one feathered seed from the puffball, and subsequently bursting the whole thing in the process.  Little white parasols danced away from her through the air in all directions, and she smiled at their choreographed chaos.  

We'll be plucking those too in a few months as well, Bennon thought, dismally, retuning to his own work.  Actually, with the chill in the air, he knew those seeds wouldn't take before the first frost killed them.  Removing them now was merely an aesthetic choice by the Aes Sedai, in this case by one of the Yellows, who apparently had a soft spot for the purity of the gardens. 

"… said that Ely said that she heard one of the Asha'man talking about it," Leina continued, obviously to herself, since Bennon hadn't responded to more than her first question asking his name after they'd been assigned this task together.  Light but he detested idle prattle.  He wondered if he would be punished severely for gagging Leina with a sackful of lionsteeth.

As he plucked, Bennon took in the other occupants of this corner of the grounds.  He and Leina hadn't moved far, but he noticed now there were trainees where there were only novices in the last section.  He could tell they were trainees only by their general uniform and the look of apprehensive relaxation in their eyes – as though they knew a Warder might pop out of the ground at any moment to put them back to work.  Bennon wondered what it must be like to live in their boots, training and practicing and toiling all day.  He wondered if they had to take any history lessons or literary lessons or political lessons or, most asinine of all, mathematical lessons.  Light, Bennon hadn't even seized saidin yet, and yet he was already on his second book in one prolific Brown's class.  He doubted the trainees had to suffer through such classes, or weed their precious grounds.  

Two trainees were sitting against a low wall nearby, talking about one of their instructors.  Bennon slowly crawled a little closer to listen.  Closer still, a familiar face – Corva? Corvinne? – was approaching a third trainee.  She seemed to be performing a chore of her own, with that sling of books wrapped round her chest.  Maybe she was tasked with getting the trainees to read in their spare time.  By the look on that trainee's face, she had a real challenge ahead of her if that was the case. 

"… think Asha'man Ferle would make a fine choice, don't you?" Lein asked and, when Bennon didn't answer, turned to look at him.  He was too busy not watching the trainees and Corvin to notice.  "Babe, are you listening?"  Bennon did look over at that, and she smiled – some of the girls had taken to calling him Babe, due to his shortly-shaved, almost bald head.  "Don't you think Asha'man Ferle would make a fine Warder for The Amyrlin Seat?"  She hadn't moved from her previous position, he noticed, and now she was wearing a half-broken lionstooth behind one ear, several of its loosed parasols decorating her almost black brown hair down to her white dress, where he lost sight of any others. 

"I do no know Asha'man Ferle," Bennon said, honestly enough.  He knew of the Asha'man, had seen him once and had him pointed out by Hahn, but that hardly made him qualified to judge the man.  

"Oh, you're no fun," Fain waved him off, then, only now noticing Corvin, waved to her instead, " Hi, Corvin!" she called, by way of greeting and nothing more.  She finally went back to her weeding, and so did Bennon, eager to be done and free of Lein's tongue as soon as possible.  

—–

((OOC: Hi, hope you don't mind, but I figured I'd help populate your thread.  No need to include my guy, obviously, he's just pullin' weeds.))

She liked working with the sisters of the Brown Ajah, and loved her time in the Tower libraries.  If there was anywhere in the world that she could find out something about the song, then surely it was in one of those books, ranging back to dates impossibly far in the past.  There were a surprising number on music, and songs.  If she could just have her harp and flute back she could learn those songs.  Corvin was sure she would recognize the song if she heard it.

It was startling how little care people took of the Tower’s treasure trove of books.  In her whole life they had only had a few books to share among the caravan. They traded them now and again for different titles when they met a peddler.  To leave a book lying around in the grass where it could get rained on or torn was just shameful.

The Brown sisters seemed to appreciate that she didn’t shirk from work that was hard or physical.  She climbed stacks and carried loads of books around the Tower grounds. They even let her re-shelve some of them now and again.  On a lucky day she might even help a Sister organize notes or specimens.

They just saw her tasks as simple chores, menial tasks befitting a novice, but to Corvin each instruction was a meaningful contribution to her training and a worthy use of her time.

Her regular round of the gardens was the most peaceful part of her week.  Sometimes she even walked barefoot, feeling the slick tickling fingers of grass on the bottom of her feet.

For now her slippers were snugly on her feet, since there seemed to be an abundance of novices, trainees and accepted populating the gardens today.
She came to a small nook, hidden from the normal path, but popular among novice and trainees who wished to hide from authority, or those who wished to read in relative silence.  In the past month she had rescued 15 tomes from this part of the gardens.  Shameful.

She liked doing real work; it reminded her of home.  Since they were kids Corvin had challenged Alrick that she could do the same chores as he, carry as much firewood or mend a cartwheel the same.  And as they grew the challenges remained, but their relationship changed.  Alrick always seemed to carry more of the firewood, not because she couldn’t of course, but just because.  They were the best of friends and never more, but confronted daily with girls her age who seemed concerned with nothing more than what the trainees thought of them, Corvin began to wonder if she could have swooned over Alrick the way they did over the young warders-to-be.
Still, that life, her vibrant, simple life in the caravans was as impossibly far in the past as many of the stories and accounts she read in the Tower library.

In the concealed garden there were a few novices and trainees, none occupied with reading, but almost immediately she spied a book lying open on a small ledge, almost hidden by a lonely trainee.  He was somewhat disheveled, with brown eyes set deeply into his gaunt face.  If his body wasn’t so muscular and clearly healthy, Corvin would have assumed he was ill.

“Excuse me,” she began, adjusting the heavy satchel at her hip.  “May I?” Corvin gestured to the book sitting on the ledge just above his shoulder.

  "Yes, quite."

  "I apologize for that, you just… startled me."  Locke let out a low whistle and set the parasol to spinning.  Kipcha laughed outright at this, tucking her arms under her chest in mirth. "Light, but you're  a sight.  You look…"she stopped talking. Not at all scary? Go ahead, say it, if you wish it.  "I'm sorry, Asha'man, I was out of line."  She frowned.  "If you wish it, I will practice the hundred weaves in front of you."  Aw.

  The hair on Locke's arms set to standing, tingling. She had taken saidar. The first weaves came easily, Air and Earth being made to behave with little effort, if some concentration. Fire, though, seemed to be her speciality. Strange for a woman to be so strong, here. You might have the talent for Spinning Earthfire, as I do. Water, though, came last, and it came hardest. She struggled – sweat beaded on her forehead, both from the effort of steeling her resolve in front of a strangely behaving superior, and her weakness in the element at hand. "What class were you teaching, Asha'man? Before I interrupted you, I mean. Oh, I think I've got thi – "

  Locke lowered the parasol before the squeak. Rivulets shivered down its top, leveled in front of him like an infantryman's shield. Peeking, Locke saw that Kipcha was once again soaked. I think you do not have it quite yet, Accepted. Locke smiled, his face hidden by the umbrella, before swinging it back over his shoulder, the need for it having ben deposited mostly with his unofficial charge. "Also, if I might ask your name."

  "Well, certainly. I was teaching a small class on tactics and strategy to aspirants to the Green, Blue, and Gray Ajahs. Some of your compatriots were in attendance. It is the second of a series of lectures I will be giving on the subject. This particular segment was on the nature of perceived advantage versus understood advantage – created advantage. 'Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.' The job of the brain behind the army. The next will be assessments and measurements; tactical disposition, as it were. I am Asha'man Locke Lemain. We could change the course of discussion to conjecture; say that you and are opposing forces. Have I not achieved the goal of supreme excellence? I said only explain, and you keeled over. Such is the nature of a well orchestrated army. Enemies fall to our will, not to our swords."

  Kipcha took a moment and seemed to be thinking; it was plain in her eyes and on her face.

  "That's neither here nor there, though. As it stands, I do apologize for frightening you so. Understand me; I thought perhaps I was the victim of some poorly thought out attempt at humor. That you were practicing – well, imperfection is to be expected. It is why we practice. Again, if you please." She seemed genuinely shocked that he was not angered, but did not object to being prodded onward in her studies. The conversation was minimal, but present, as she formed and reformed the lost balls of liquid, frowning, biting her lip – and cursing, just once. She had quickly slapped a hand to her mouth and looked at him apologetically.

  "Yes, do please mind my virgin ears. It's not as though I've ever been afield with ruffians and soldiers before. What does that turn of phrase you used even mean, Accepted?"

  "…you're funny. For an Asha'man."

  "You're bold, for an Accepted." Pride, for a moment. I see you. "Again."

  And there it was – the sphere hovered, and shimmered, and held. She left it aloft, head cocked to one side, observing it. She was quietly happy.

  "Good." Locke laid a hand on her shoulder, a congratulatory tap. "Good."

_______________________

I intentionally left parts of their conversation implied, so you can fill them in however you want.

Kiani knelt down on the floor beside the Novice, ignoring the startled gasps from the Brown sisters and other Novices and Accepted present.  "Let me help you with those," she insisted, picking up her share of the books and putting them on the table.  "I didn't mean to startle you into dropping them, I'm just frustrated with a subject I'm working on."  Without her ageless face, Kiani knew she looked more like a dressed up Accepted than an Aes Sedai, but Aes Sedai she was, though she sometimes forgot it.  

Looking at the pile of books on the table, Kiani couldn't help but notice that the books she and the Novice had were similar, both about the different Ajahs.  She looked at the Novice with an interested look now, a contemplative smile on her face.  "Maybe you can be of use after all," she murmured. "Have a seat."  She kept the books in the pile on the table, pursing her fingers beneath her lips as the Novice sat down across from her. 

"Before we begin anything, we must introduce ourselves.  I am Kiani al'Jaqhar, an Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah.  Now, you would think that an Aes Sedai would know anything and everything about the Ajahs, having picked one for herself, but there are inner workings of each Ajah that confound even Aes Sedai.  Now.  As a Novice, you are not sure which Ajah you wish to aspire to, or at least you shouldn't be.  When you get raised to Accepted, the different Ajahs will start vying for which one will get you, and they will tell you anything within our Oaths to get you to choose their particular one."  She stared at the books for a few seconds.

"Now, what I am attempting to do is figure out what role each will have when the Last Battle comes.  This will also be an opportunity for me to teach you a thing or two, and to educate you about the different Ajahs.  This is not an attempt to sway you to join the Green Ajah, by any means.  This is an exploration into what each Ajah stands for, and what makes each special."

The girl was nodding her head, though she still looked a little lost.  "Let's do it this way; there are seven Ajahs, the Blue, Yellow, Red, Green, Gray, White, and Brown."  She raised a slim eyebrow, the raven's feathers falling around her face.  "Which would you like to know more about, and what do you know about them so far?"  Kiani pursed her lips, the scar on the right side of her face puckering.  Maybe this Novice could be of use, after all.