Field Exercises

Ramaes Gavron, Written by Renee
Posted on Fri, Aug 20, 2010 01:18 am

It was to his credit that Ramaes didn’t squeak in shock when Tahmelah mentioned doing anything to the Mistress of Novices. The Asha’man, though …. Ramaes eyed the man speculatively, wondering if it was worth the amazing amount of trouble he would get into to do something to one of the Black Tower’s delegates. Very likely, it wasn’t, but the idea that he might be able to get away with it, whatever it was, intrigued him.

Thankfully, his newfound conspirator spared him the catastrophe that would have immediately resulted from trying to mess with anyone in the crowd of people that had gathered in the Great Hall for the night. With her green eyes wide in an expression Ramaes would one day realize was a precursor to a particularly wild tale or outright lie, the novice Tahmelah directed his thoughts immediately away from whatever might have been brewing in his youthful brain.

“Let’s go exploring!”

Alright, that didn’t exactly sound like a diabolical plan, but Ramaes was fairly sure that he wouldn’t have a better chance than now to properly explore the White Tower. Immediately, his mind gravitated towards the idea of sneaking into one of the Ajah’s sections of the Tower, which were currently emptied of nearly everyone but a handful of servants. Belatedly, though, the novice realized that there would probably be some Gaidin floating around, at least in the Green Ajah’s section, and dismissed the idea out of hand. There was no way Tahmelah could mean the Ajah quarters, after all.

Even if it did sound a little exciting.

Nervously, Ramaes glanced at the crowd, half-wondering what kind of penance occurred when two novices were caught beyond the boundaries of the Great Hall during a festival. We’ll probably get stuck washing all the pots and pans it took to make this food if we get caught wandering around. But that punishment didn’t seem so bad to him – it was nothing in comparison to some of the things he had suffered on the docks of Tear following some of his childhood pranks.

Now those were some memories he would rather not revisit.

Finally, he realized that Tahmelah was staring at him, obviously waiting for a response of some sort. He had barely uttered a grunt of agreement before she had grabbed the sleeve of his white tunic, practically dragging him away from the entrance to the Great Hall and into the muted light of the Tower beyond.

“All right, here’s a perfect spot.” She stopped, after nearly ten minutes of ‘exploring’, which had somehow magically led them to a balcony overlooking the entirety of the Great Hall. From this distance, Ramaes could barely pick out individual faces – mostly, it was a blur of color dotted with specks of white and black, Black Tower delegates and novices.

He eyed Tahmelah sideways, lifting a single brow in question.

It seemed like she had more of a diabolical plan than he had.

Too bad he hadn’t thought to bring anything to eat with them. He had a feeling that her diabolical plan might have something to do with observing some unleashed form of chaos onto the heads below.

Man, it's hard to write Ramaes when he's not being moody!!

In reply to Body Count in Battle[show]/[hide]

He took her hand without asking.  Bristling like some impossibly tangerine cat, Tahmelah drew herself up to her full height, but he paid her no mind.  Conversely, this served to contain her temper.  She should be furious, and he should be apologetic, but it was such a large group and they'd be whisked apart in the crowd if they didn't stand against it.  And, of course, she was curious.  Who was this crazy green-eyed man, and what did he want?  He said nothing as he steered her through the patch of dancers, and she took her chance to study him while he was too busy to notice. 

He had thick hair, dark as ink and shining, but too long and unkempt for a nobleman.  Noblemen cared for their hair: some (although not the Saldaean variety) went so far as to oil, curl and powder their hair! The sight never failed to make the corners of Tahmelah's lips twitch.  His body was lean, his shoulders broad, his chest hidden by the blousy tunic all the male Novices wore.  A farmer, if she had to guess: the hand in her own was scarred and callused, strong and yet, somehow very gentle. It was easy to imagine him coaxing some flower into bloom, if that required hands.  He did not squeeze her fingers, but instead held her forearm in his palm, a gesture that she should not allow but felt little threat from.  As they edged out of the dancers, she had decided that he must have some sort of masochistic streak, a desire to pick the worst possible outcome in a given set.

If he'd wanted a pretty armful, there had been the willowy Domani beside her.  The Tuatha'an girl likely wouldn't have turned him away, for that matter.  But he'd picked her, and he still hadn't explained why.  She looked like a scarecrow on fire, and that was on a good day.  Jerking her hand back as if his was the voice whispering insults in her ears, she glared at him, narrowing already strongly-slanted green eyes at him.  Weighing him as one did any opponent, she stored his name away for safe-keeping.  It was amazing what one could learn with a name on her tongue and her ear to the ground: rumor seemed to be the grease on the White Tower's wheels.  There would be something on a wagging tongue somewhere about him.  She considered what it could be, calmly ignoring the opening he gave her to share her own name.

Victim?  Oh, they'd see about that.  The uncontested queen of the midden pits and back alleys would not be on the "victim" side of any list.  She won her fights, albeit she often wished she hadn't tried so hard to come out on top.  He laughed, finding himself funny, no doubt, and she stared at him with all the derision she could muster.  However, it's hard to look put out with a face so lovingly crafted for sheer comedy, and the glance he gave her wasn't at all put off - in fact, he seemed even more interested than he had been a moment before.

It was going, Tahmelah realized, to be a very long night.

"The only thing diabolical here," she said, struggling to hide the laughter bubbling up inside her at the sight of him, rhapsodizing about all the trouble he intended to get into, "is your determination to keep shoving your foot down your throat.  I assure that boot leather is not as tasty as one would think, and bootblack is a terrible sauce."  She tossed her hair, an innately feminine gesture, and eyed him, giving him the kind of scrutiny one usually saved for particularly stinking offal.  Then, she stuck out her hand: it was small, pale, and covered with small scars, but still degrees more tender than his rough digits.

"Tahmelah," she said, willing him not to remember the story the name came from.  Nothing was more embarrassing than being reminded of some mythical warrior queen who had apparently taken a fancy to riding sans the top half of her armor.  To her relief, the name did not spark any recognition in his face, and she relaxed, a little.  Was it possible that they didn't tell that story where he was from?  And where would that be, anyway?  She pushed her questions down as automatically as she did her talkative hands: they had risen to her chest. 

"So, which one of them is it," she asked, her voice dropping in register and volume, as she stepped back, standing close enough to whisper in the man's ear.  "Candance Sedai?  That crazed Asha'man what'shisname?"  Probing bluntly, the delicacies of secret-keeping being beyond her ken, she nodded toward the crowd of luminaries.  "I mean, your "diabolical plan," she hissed, resisting the urge to tack on "numbskull."

"Which one of them are you going to target?"

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Replies to Field Exercises

  • Reconnaisance — Tahmelah Keiake, Fri, Aug 20, 2010 11:44 am