Crash-Bang!

Tahmelah Keiake, Written by Misty
Posted on Fri, Sep 10, 2010 08:14 am

Things you had been studiously ignoring had a terrible habit of catching up to you at the worst of times.

This was a particularly odd time to have any Zen revelations in life, as she was gasping for her lost breath, sprawled over on the White Tower's multicolored floor, her white dress rucked up over one knee.  Determining there was nothing damaged save her pride, Tahmelah pulled herself up to sitting and twitched her skirt down.  To be fair, she almost hadn't recognized him with that mass of hair pared down and peeled off his face.  It was the eyes, she decided, heaving herself to her feet.  That, and the voice.  She was never going to forget his breathless exhortations to stop, was she insane, did she want to be skinned alive by Candance Sedai?  She'd just been so drunk that hearing someone else ask for freedom had spurred her to act: he, after all, could join the Black Tower if he told an Asha'man so!

Assaulting the Soldier, however, had been a bad idea.  She still didn't know what had possessed her, other than most of a very fine bottle of wine and the vengeful temper she'd wanted to use on every Aes Sedai in attendance.  How could they sweep about when they were little better than…baby snatchers?  And then to sit on her and dictate her every moment?  Irritation flashed through Tahmelah Keiake, knitting her brows together over her slanted eyes, and she didn't spare the hapless man before her his fair share of her sudden rage.  He could get free, as Sunday had proven, if he wanted to.  She was the White Tower's fat bird in hand, and there wasn't a force on the face of the planet that would, or could, save her.  As they were taught in the dry and boring history classes, the White Tower was unbending, unconquered even by Artur Hawkwing and the Children of the Light. 

Regaining her feet, she planted her fists on her boyish hips.  "And where were you going?  Off to tell the closest gaggle of girls that you've got eyes under that mop you called hair?"  He did, of course, have eyes, and it was a bit easier to see that they were a rich and distinctive emerald, a prettier shade than her own.  And his hair, on closer inspection, was flattering in cut, but he was still a male Novice – she had seen that saidin at work, although it had not satisfied her curiosity in the least.  What she suspected she had done with saidar still lingered in the back of her mind, making her feel guilty.  What had she wanted him to want, anyway?  Alcohol muddled what she had felt, and what she remembered of it, but she had to have wanted something when she'd woven.  The Aes Sedai, no doubt, had considered that knowledge beaten out of her on the way to Tar Valon, when she had been exhorted never to use it, and paddled until her eyes stung, but it still lingered.  When she wanted something, instinct took over, and while she knew she was channeling, she did not know the weave she made.  To be fair, as she was still stumbling in the traces of practicing weaves and losing simple knots made of Air, she did not know many weaves at all. 

It didn't take a wunderkind, however, to guess that this one was inappropriate and forbidden.  Secrets irritated Tahmelah, and so, she lashed out at the one creature who had the power to reveal hers. 

"There are some girls around the corner a few corridors back who might not run away at the sight of your face," she challenged, her nose tilted upward haughtily, her palm itching with the slap hiding inside it.  "Going to run right along and see if you can't get caught canoodling with one of them?"  She paused, tipped her head, those slanted eyes settling on his with unashamed frankness.  "Ah, no, I remember," she taunted, "you're the Novice who's afraid of women.  Can't be moved to speak up for yourself, lest Candance Sedai find you and strap you!"  She rolled her eyes in derision, stepped to the side with an exaggerated, bobbing curtsy, (which he wasn't due) and prepared to stalk off, disgusted with men.  Something drew her up short, though, and she cast a glance sidelong over her shoulder. 

"You could always impress them by using those flaming eyes to keep from knocking them over," Tahmelah added, with a sniff.  Spoiling the toss of her head, which was only ruined because her long braids were neatly pinned to her scalp, she wondered just what this capricious madman was going to do.  Perhaps she ought to tag along and watch….or maybe, she ought to run before that thunderstorm he called a face broke.

In reply to Ambushed!!! -Tahmelah!![show]/[hide]

Perched in a hard wooden chair, Ramaes tried very hard not to squirm in misery. This morning, shortly after one of his daily lessons, Ramaes had had the misfortune of drawing the notice of one of the many high-and-mighty Accepted that roamed through the hallways for no apparent reason. She had made a noise that anyone else would have called an indignant squawk – but smart novice boys called ‘surprise’ – and had promptly informed him that he was not only a clumsy fool, but also in need of a haircut.

So, here he was, trapped under the steely eye of one of the Tower’s many servants, who seemed bent on making his mop of hair more ‘manageable’, whatever that meant. Strangely, servants in the White Tower, despite the fact that novices could channel and set them on fire (not that he would ever do such a thing!), regarded the young students in almost the same fashion as a farmwife regarded children: sometimes worth a smile and a pat on the head, but mostly underfoot at completely the wrong time. It didn’t seem to matter one whit that Ramaes was nearing his seventeenth nameday, the servants still treated him, and every other novice, like they were six years old.

“Quit your squirming, boy, I’m almost done. Do you want shorter ears to go with this mop you call hair? No? Then be still.” Grimacing, Ramaes tried to do as he was told, despite the fact that he hadn’t had a proper haircut in at least two years – not since Valerie had decided the very same thing that Miss Accepted Know-It-All had. The snipping blades moved around his head, guided by an obviously expert hand – did the female novices have to put up with this? – for another five minutes before Ramaes was released to look at his own reflection.

Light, his hair was short. In comparison, at least. Now he reminded himself of one of the Gaidin, and based on the wide grin that the middle-aged servant woman was giving him, that effect had been the precise one she’d had in mind when she started cutting.

“Now, off with you! I am sure you have some chores to do.” Ramaes scrambled off the chair, almost upending it in his haste to flee the nameless servant who wielded scissors as if they were shears for sheep, half-running down the corridors, fully intent on hiding himself in his room until his hair grew back out. Cutting it as short as one of those Gaidin-in-Training! Light! All it did was make his head look big – or so he thought.

Too bad, so sad, Ramaes-the-hairless-novice ran full-tilt into another novice, who would likely do something particularly violent if anyone mentioned her fiery red hair, let alone cut it off. Or maybe she’d enjoy short hair, who knew?

The words that flew to his lips almost choked him before he managed to avoid saying them. There were a lot of curses that shouldn’t be uttered in the pristine halls of the White Tower, and Ramaes knew most of them. Instead, he settled for a strangled version of the word ‘hello’, and tried to make it appear as if he hadn’t just lost all of his hair and nearly trampled an innocent bystander.

Y hallo thar. I thought we could start with a crash-bang. =D

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Replies to Crash-Bang!

  • Maelstrom — Ramaes Gavron, Tue, Sep 14, 2010 02:47 am