Talaban Morenae
Written By: Song
Created: May 2010
Curriculum Vitae
- Gender: M
- Hometown: Shol Arbela, Arafel
- Rank: Daishar’Tar
Weaponry Focus
Dual blades
Physical Description
Just shy of six feet, with a thinly muscular physique, Talaban exhibits a slender grace and economy of movement. Possessing a remarkably one dimensional wardrobe, he is often seen completely decked out in black silks with soft leather shoes, with the only notable accessories being plain leather sword belt and hadori. Twin blades, long, curved and thin, hang from either hip on a low-riding sword belt. Thin brows and murky eyes of jade, set above defined cheekbones, lend a morose air to an already long face. The angular nature of his profile is further accentuated by a prominent hawk’s beak nose. A clean shaven, narrow chin and bound shoulder length hair the pale colour of sun-dried hay, round off Talaban’s craggy visage. Fond of solitude, Talaban makes for relatively silent company. While not known for any love of small talk, he does, on occasion, exhibit a sharp, dry wit. This is particularly evident in the presence of free flowing dark ale. Given to spur of the moment decision making, his flexibility of thought (some would say rashness) has often led him both to the brink of disaster and back. Exuding a quiet, unshakeable confidence, Talaban has an unobtrusive but iron presence akin to silk swathed steel. Noted for being both a fast friend and implacable enemy, Talaban values the concepts of loyalty and duty dearly and would not hesitate to lay his life on the line where necessary. Though he cools down quickly, an explosive temper and propensity for “doing the job my way”, has added to his reputation of being a somewhat irreverent, sometimes difficult maverick.
Biography
Cold water rushed downward, an icy sheet, a silken curtain caressing naked skin. Droplets splashed, ricocheting off angled muscle before disappearing into the swirling trails of the forest stream. Wet hair plastered angular cheeks, their dangling tips heavy with streaming pearls as the waterfall washed over him.
Peace. Thoughts drifted backward. Another place, another time.
The aroma of fresh roast wafted past, triggering a rush of sensations. Rumbling echoed in the depths of his tummy, reminding the scrawny boy that it was time for dinner. Talaban skipped across the camp, darting between caravans in the half light, headed unerringly toward the fire and supper.
Shadows flickered, fighting an endless war with the dancing flames. Laughter rang around the campfire as merchants and guards alike gathered to enjoy the warmth, ale, food and music that would wash away the fatigue of the day’s journey.
Well cooked meat crumbled like jelly in his mouth, the burst of flavourful juice assaulting his senses as the boy devoured his evening meal, seated comfortably on his father’s knee.
The harsh clang of brass echoed through the silent night, cutting through the reverie with the edge of well-honed knife. Time froze for a moment, the camp eerily still before reality rushed back in with the next clang. A large hand pushed the boy off his perch. Talaban looked up, his father nodded at him, the hard planes of his face breaking into a grim smile as he gestured for the boy to hide.
Another trolloc raid. It had seemed just like any other. But this one was different, would be different. He would always remember the piercing wintry blue gaze, seeing he was safe under the nearest wagon, the sure nod as the hefty warrior turned, making play with his heavy sword as he passed beyond to the outer line of wagons. Talaban would never see those eyes again.
Calm.
Jade eyes peered from shadow, watching intently as the mid-morning crowd passed by. Tradesmen, merchants and goodwives weaved down the thoroughfare on their way to the market on a bright, sunny day. It was a perfect day for business, business of all sorts.
Talaban inhaled deeply. Through the thin soles of his shoes, toes felt the soft ground of the dank alley. Thighs tensed as the crowd swirled, thinning out momentarily, as if for a breath of fresh air. Vision narrowed as he focused on the opposite end.
Thin and gaunt with age and looking somewhat preoccupied, the man walked slowly along the side of the street. His thin coat flapped weakly, catching the wafting breeze within its folds. A belt sheath peeked out beneath the fabric, betraying the presence of a dagger. Talaban hesitated momentarily. He had watched this man for days yet, today was the first time he had been armed.
Instinct took over. The young thief sprang from cover, darting silently across the wide path, keeping the old man in view. He wove swiftly through the crowd, gaining on his quarry. The window of opportunity was small, so small that not many would have tried it at all. Talaban palmed his own blade, the small razor honed to slice clean through the leather loops which fastened money pouches with nary a twitch.
The pouch was there, he knew exactly where it hung. Just a touch and he could disappear into the next, fast approaching, alley, enough coin for at least another week. His right arm snaked forward.
The old man spun even before the razor was halfway to its destination, storm grey eyes meeting panicked jade as he swung hard, knocking the blade flying from Talaban’s stinging hand. A palm slammed into his chest, knocking the slight lad back and spinning him into the very alley he had meant to use for his escape. Strong arms lifted the struggling boy as a gag was stuffed between his teeth. Whistling shrilly, the old man strode down the alley, package underarm as the next goodwife ambled past the alleyway, grocery basket in hand.
Serenity.
Rich dark ale slid down his throat, the young man savouring the aroma, as the barracks mess shook with merry laughter of off-duty soldiers. Pipers played distantly in the background as the tracker sipped absently. It still felt strange to be here, even though he had been with the city guard two years to the day.
Six years he had spent training as a thief, honing his skill under the watchful eye of his old mentor, the man who had bundled him off the street instead during that one botched attempt. So long ago. Talaban smiled wistfully. He had left the Thieves Guild the same day his mentor retired, with the old man’s blessing, to take a new challenge.
Now, he spent the days riding the Blightborder with his new colleagues, sometimes delving far into the Blight, looking out for sign, sight and smell of trolloc activity. The trackers were the first screen of attack, watching the border unseen, chosen as much for their skill as for their speed of thought.
There was a slight ruckus as an old man stumbled through the door. The dancing crowd parted slightly, allowing him to make his slow, unsteady way to the bar. Terenil staggered by, plopping himself down at Talaban’s side. The former thief looked at him curiously. Terenil grinned back, displaying two more freshly missing teeth, “Ahh youngling, ye’ve got that look in yer eyes that saes ye wants’ta know what appened to old Terenil don’tcha?” Talaban nodded, curious despite himself.
“Aye, there be a Gaidin downstairs, the stuff of legends. E comes mebbe once every twelve tae fifteen yers with that old Sister of ee’s. She comes to see the lord, e spars wi us, fer practice e says but I bain’t seen no one gif eem a real fight yet. It do be interesting tho, watching them young pups get smacked into their place. Come in ere and behave like they be’s the best swerd in dae world. Well, this shows em they ain’t…” Terenil tapered off, chugging noisily at his own mug of ale. Curiosity aroused, Talaban excused himself, descending to the stables where he saw that Terenil, for once, had not exaggerated.
An armoured man stood alone within a circle of six. He moved easily, the apparent ease of motion belying the weight of his plate. Twin blades flowed, independently yet as one. The Warder dismantled the guardsmen without hesitation.
“Anyone else fancies a try? That session was the best so far,” amusement laced his deep voice, the Gaidin observing the audience intently. The crowd was silent until Diarmid opened his big mouth, “Try this one,” finger pointed straight at Talaban. A ragged cheer greeted his entry to the ring.
The fight had been short, though it lasted an age, the old Warder finally deigning to disarm him, sending both blades spinning into the wooden posts among the audience. Talaban knew then, that this was the excellence he craved.
Tranquility.
Talaban rode into the clearing slowly, his horse making silent progress across the dewy ground. Dawn rays touched the white marble of the crypt, making the edifice glisten in the half light. He dismounted, leaving the stallion to graze as he pushed open the heavy double doors.
Two sheaths lay on the dusty floor, twin pommels shaped as snarling wolves stared back, their jewelled eyes glinting faintly. As he had for the last forty days, the trainee snapped them on, feeling the familiar weight settle on his hips. Talaban stepped through the eerily silent hall. Something was wrong. The crypt felt… different… he strode faster.
Talaban passed through into the rear hall, almost at a run, before the abrupt sight stopped him dead in his tracks. A stand stood between him and the dais which held the coffin. The armour of black steel sat neatly arranged, as one would wear it, an invisible barrier to the dais. The same armour Rahien had stripped off in the Tower before he had begun to Talaban’s final training.
He approached slowly, the trainee still watchful. Ambush was, after all, part of the training exercise. “Always be aware” the old Gaidin’s harsh voice played over, another training mantra.
This time, however, there was no test. On the coffin lay a parcel, parchment tucked beneath. Eyes misted slightly as he read but the trainee blinked and continued.
“Talaban Morenae, you have passed. You were a fine student, certainly better than I was under Erevan Gaidin. Time and luck willing, you will live to be my superior. There is little more for you to learn and none left for me to teach. All that I ask is the same vow from you my master asked from me. Take at least one student before you give yourself eternal rest. I gift my blades to you. You will not hear from me again.”
The old man had ridden for the Blight, the death ride of a Gaidin, his final strike against the Shadow, revenge for the death of his Bondmate. Tears stung as Talaban stared at the burnished blades, the mark of Tar Valon etched deep in steel. There was no way back now. He passed the point of no return. The journey was complete and he belonged to the Tower now.
Repose.
Wolves howled in the distance, their cries a symphony welcoming him home. Home. Talaban almost spat at the thought. An icy gust swept past, pummelling the oiled cloak he wore, trying to penetrate the heavy wool. Breath misted as he sighed heavily, the plume drifting through his vision as the former thief guided his stallion with knee.
His charge. This icy wasteland high in the crags of the Mountains of Mist. All his, to patrol and watch, from the northern reaches of Amador to the southern end of Saldaea. Talaban laughed mirthlessly. His skill with sign was perfectly suited to the assignment, so much so that it almost made sense. Almost. Far more likely though, the Master of Arms had jumped at the chance to get Tal out of his hair. Not everyone valued expediency the way he did, substance before form, results before convention. He shrugged, though no one was watching, an easy gesture of nonchalance.
A surge of warmth brought his attention to the ter’angreal on his wrist, a summons to return to his outpost. Someone was here to see him. “Probably just another Sister here for the regular report,” he muttered to himself. Just as well he was not far. Talaban shook the reins, sending his stallion into a canter.
His eyebrows rose at the sight which greeted him through the gentle snowfall. Alisse Sedai. He had not seen her in years, even before his exile. Rumour had it that more than two-thirds of her lifetime had slipped by on the Blightborder. Her green garments stood out like a sore thumb in the wintry landscape, though nearly everything else fit, icy blue eyes and billowing silver hair, framing a face streaked with lines of age.
“Talaban, my child,” warmth crept into her melodic voice, crisp despite age. “The Tower has need of your services somewhere else. The Amyrlin has bid you return with me to Tar Valon.”
“Someone else will come,” the aged Sister answered when Talaban pointed at the little outpost he had lived in for the last three years, the silver disc of her Gateway already spinning open.
Rebirth. Serenity, though reality intruded.
Talaban sprang from beneath the water, pearls scattering from his stretching form. It had been good to visit this stream again. He felt at peace, more so then he had been for a long time. Now to meet the new Master of Arms.
