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Asha'man Byran & Asha'man Iris: "Coming Away"

Asha'man Byran al'Korwyn
Moving Celebrations
Thu Jul 15, 2004 23:19

It was bloody Sunday. Worst of all, Poettre had told him that they were to host the festivities this holiday! Light help him, but he was actually hoping that he could have managed to sneak away from all that nonsense and go… Well, elsewhere. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going to go yet, but Byran had a decent idea; one he did not even want to contemplate. Instead, he was drug about the flaming complex all day by one person or another, who had no clue what Poettre had in store for him.

That wasn’t the worst of it! Byran had purposely avoided Iris, since a few days prior. Blood and ashes, the woman had tried to kill him, all before he knew what was actually happening! That was one of the worst parts of it, the one which got underneath his coat most of all. Sore from being thrown against the wall of the Infirmary’s private rooms, he had helped Iris in to bed so she could rest for the night. Then he had holed himself up, wondering if it was or wasn’t a good idea to find a strong bottle of liquor and not venturing out into the light of day for a good long while. Of course, there was this newest rank that no one knew about that was messing with his thoughts.

So many things were tugging his mind in different directions. It was almost with an absent-minded air that he managed through the day as well as he did. The clothing for Tahmelah had been delivered to her bunk, set there neatly by some other hand. Byran was not about to be the one to do such a thing. The Infirmary was yet another priority, and there were blessedly few injuries. So few that the man was actually bored for the first time in months. Trent offered such ‘enlightening’ conversation too! Well, they eventually ended up in a debate about the human body – which always seemed to be the topic between those two – which became rather heated. The pair even continued it over the heads of those they were Healing, it was that humdrum in the Infirmary.

But now Byran was eyeing the Traitor’s Tree and its ghastly glow, wondering whose bloody bright idea that was. Poettre had not been seen for a majority of the afternoon, which was hardly any surprise, all things considering. So it was that disapproving stare which graced the Tree for quite some time, seeing no visible weaves, which meant that they must have inverted it. Or females had constructed the lights. Thinking about that for a moment, Byran realized that he really did not care any longer. But now, the festivities were beginning, noted by the multitudes of Gateways being opened by Dedicated. Light, he had been that rank just weeks ago! Blood and ashes!

Then someone snagged his arm. Turning his glare on whomever it was, Byran caught sight of Poettre, and then the stairs to the dais erected for the festival. No, no! He cannot be dragging me up there! For that was what the man was doing at this point, literally dragging Byran along by the arm as if he were some errant child! Scowling at the man’s back, he mounted the dais along with Poettre, announcement ringing hollow in his ears.

“Welcome to the Black Tower! I am very glad to welcome all of you to our grounds and our Sunday festivities. I know you’re all dying to get to the alcohol—particularly you Soldiers and novices—so I will not delay your celebration for much longer. I would just like to announce that as always, the Tower has an ulterior motive for insisting on hosting the Sunday festival here instead of at its customary location, the White Tower—I would like you to congratulate the Black Tower’s new Tsorovan’m’hael, Asha’man Byran al’Korwyn, and more importantly, its new M’Hael, myself, Asha’man Poettre Valis.” With a proud flourish, he finished, “Enjoy your Sunday!” The obviously unprepared speech was delivered in a rushed tone, as if the man actually had important things to be on about. Well, Byran wasn’t all too sure where bedding Novices ranked on the M’Hael’s list of priorities.

But just like that, it was done. Byran hopped off of the dais as soon as possible, ignoring the salutes from… Asha’man. Now that was a disconcerting sight. He had always been taught to never partake in sins of the flesh, for they were weak. But right now the newly raised Tsorovan’m’hael was wishing for a strong alcoholic beverage. Preferably a bottle. But he would never do such a thing; he hadn’t since long before joining the Black Tower. So the man was stuck between a rock and a hard place, knowing that he was Tsorovan’m’hael, knowing that the Black Tower had charge of the festivities tonight, and knowing full well that Iris had likely just heard that bloody announcement the way Poettre had amplified his voice!

Byran knew he was being awfully negative tonight, but it couldn’t be helped. The man did not want to be here! He wanted to be far away, anywhere where there was not a channeler! Just to be the clueless idiot he had been before, knowing only a simple life. It was not even the death or destruction that bothered him, but he yearned to be normal again, if just for a short while. Let the bloody fools believe whatever they wanted when the newest Tsorovan’m’hael was not seen at the festivities. Byran was leaving! To Baerlon, he believed. A night of festivities, disappearing come morning. It sounded like a grand idea to this simple man. Stalking on the outskirts of the crowd, he decided that a Gateway could be formed where there were no people, so he could bloody leave! Or he would if he could have.

The Andoran gulped, eyeing the one person in the world that he could not say ‘no’ to. Strike that; this was the third person that Byran could not say ‘no’ to. The Dragon Reborn, Poettre Valis, and… Iris Lyingade. He had already moved well beyond the festivities, or at least the heavy crowds, a few persons running to and fro to be caught up in the night’s entertainment. And here our newest Tsorovan’m’hael was, stopped dead in his tracks by an Asha’man; a female one, at that, though that carried no weight with this soldier. Instead, Byran was wondering if he could get past her while leaving his hide whole. Before it had been just a small prick to his throat, enough to draw a few droplets of blood. This time how bad would it be?

To be honest, Byran did not want to find out. Which was exactly why he was shouldering past Iris with the intent to move as fast as possible. Too dignified to run, especially not with a sword at his side, the Asha’man felt the flesh between his shoulder blades prickle. But was it paranoia or Iris?

Asha'man Iris Lyingade
Hopefully Moving Proposition
Fri Jul 16, 2004 14:11

Tonight was Sunday, a night towards which almost everyone in the Black Tower looked forward – so rare were the occasions that the Dragon’s soldiers were afforded merriment, even those without a social bone in their body enjoyed the chance for revelry. Though the festivities were to be held in this tower instead of its counterpart, Iris could scarcely summon the energy to get out of bed, let alone leave her room.

Iris had remained in the Infirmary resting after Byran’s extensive Healing for a day and two nights. She had anticipated getting little to no sleep, so riled up she was about the…incident she’d had with Byran, but she had spent the majority of her stay awash with oblivion. Between bouts of sleep, she ate every morsel of sustenance the Asha’man on duty left beside her bed, and often, she could have eaten more. Her body was famished, both physically and psychologically – oddly enough, it seemed as if her body had finally realized it had to do something about its diminishing health. It was curious timing, considering all that had happened since the trip to Illian.

Byran’s Healing had not been as successful this time around as it had been the first – Iris had a scar labeling her from chin to collarbone. Her flat stomach had not a mark to signify that she had once sustained a large wound there. She thought nothing of the scar – she had others that were just as bad, if not worse, lining her from head to foot. Life in Arafel had not been easy, and her scars reflected that. She did not blame Byran for it, either. She now realized that he had been angry because she had hurt herself, not because she had disobeyed his instructions – and he’d had every right to be angry for that, too. Iris was a fool not to recognize when she hadn’t an ounce of reliable sense about her; she should have realized that she would probably injure herself. She should have waited to go with the main party instead of insisting that she was more than capable of be part of the reconnaissance and infiltration movement.

She saw neither hide nor hair of Byran while she was in the Infirmary. When an Asha’man released her two days later, he was not waiting to wish her well. Unusually pensive and depressive, Iris tried to dismiss it, but she felt disconnected – it was like amputation to have Byran, who had been such an integral part of her life, suddenly disappear. She would have approached him and begged forgiveness, but she had already apologized. She couldn’t bear to try again when the man had thrown her apology – her sincere apology – in her face.

Besides, she didn’t know where he was. Iris had purposefully avoided him since they had been raised to Asha’man, at least until that fateful trip to the Infirmary. She’d had that pesky injury then, after all, and they were still angry with one another for all they’d said and done before the rescue mission. So Iris had never gotten the chance to ask Byran where he was staying, for now that he’d reached Asha’man, she had no doubt he’d moved out of the confining barracks. But where had he moved? If she’d had the temerity, Iris could have found him with relative ease if she scoured the Tower – she had committed Byran’s haunts to memory, considering he had all of one – the Infirmary. She could go there and inquire after his location, or she could hunt him throughout the Tower. It wasn’t so big that that wasn’t an option.

But for once in her life, Iris hadn’t the courage. She had frightened herself and Byran, no doubt, with what she’d done. Memory had managed to impede her as she got Byran mixed up with Derral – and she had tried to do the same thing all over again. Then…something…had happened. Her ability with the Power had increased manifold, just as it had done when she had killed Derral, to the point that Iris had been fully capable of shielding Byran. The shield had held for maybe a minute or two – long enough to throw him against a wall and almost kill him. But instead of her abilities returning to the mere trickle they had been before, she had broken the block, or whatever it had been. The Power was frightening, nowhere near the tame force it had once been. She no longer knew what to do with herself – suddenly she was able to do almost everything of which she had dreamed, but she was so scared she would burn herself out or injure someone around her. She hadn’t even dared embrace saidar but once since she’d left the Infirmary, and that had been towards no practical goal.

A blanket wrapped around her slim shoulders, the Asha’man hunched at her windowsill, elbows resting on the sill and holding her head up at the chin. Considering the time of year, the blanket was stifling, but Iris hadn’t the confidence to wander around nude as she normally preferred. The sun was just beginning to descend, a good signification that the festival was soon to begin. Iris had watched the festivities unfold throughout the day – the scurrying, the decorations, all of it. She had even seen Poettre, of all people, directing others on errands to get the Tower up to par for the White Tower’s arrival. Preparation complete, now all Iris witnessed was a steady flow of Soldiers, Dedicated, Asha’man, and their families heading towards the Tower’s main square, in which the Traitor’s Tree was located. Iris could see the dim glow of lights hanging from the Tree, of all things, from her room on the third floor of the boarding house.

She studied the crowd, hoping against hope that she would catch sight of Byran. But as the flow slowed to a trickle the closer the time got to the start of the festival, Iris did not see him at all. That decided her – she could not allow their relationship to end just like that. Much as she detested her own sex’s feminine antics, she was no different from the rest of them, in that she wanted closure. She could not have that unless she sought Byran. He was sure to attend the festival, for what else had he to do? And if he was not there, he would be easier to find, and Iris wouldn’t feel as humiliated searching the Tower for him.

She attired herself in her usual white silk shift, but this time, she spiced up her ensemble with a dress of finer cut. Once her wardrobe had been filled from end to end with colorful gowns of scant cover, all of them designed to attract the male eye – but with time, Iris’s tastes had become more demure and refined. Since coming to the Black Tower, she had rid herself of most of her clothes from her past life – besides, she doubted any of them would fit, anymore. Iris had gone to a tailor to get some nicer black gowns, the type that still adhered to the Tower’s strict dress code, but edged the line enough to satisfy her. She chose one of these, a dress cut in the typical Domani style, clinging from head to foot, but not indecently so. Once, she would have filled the dress neatly, to the point that the sway of her hips would have drawn all eyes, male or female – now, the only thing that filled it were her breasts, which were still as ridiculously large as they had been before. That would never change. She tied up her hair with a red ribbon and then put on a platinum necklace of garnets. Next, Iris used a bit of rouge to add color to her lifeless cheeks, then kohl to emphasize her dark eyes. Perhaps she had become too slender, but she would still be more stunning than just about anyone at the festival.

But would Byran appreciate it? She bit her lip, fingering the teardrop of garnet at the hollow of her throat pensively. Iris couldn’t see how he would not, but…he seemed the type of man disinclined to appreciate a woman’s beauty when her personality got in the way. Iris suspected this would be one of those times. As long as she did not appear distasteful to him, it would be all right. It had to be.

The final touch was the pins she attached at either side of the dress’s oval neckline. She could not help but feel a bit of pride at the fastening of the dragon pin in particular – it had taken her a long time, but she had succeeded after all. With a dash of perfume oil, Iris was out the door.

She was one of many in the crowd that gathered before the dais waiting for the start of the festivities – but she was likely the only one who was not looking towards it. Instead, her dark eyes scoured the crowd, searching for a sight of Byran. She could not find him. The start of the speech drew her attention to the dais, and – Light, there were Poettre and Byran. Eyes widening in confusion, she stepped forward, jostling her way through the crowds to get to a better vantage point. She heard Poettre’s speech all too clearly:

“Welcome to the Black Tower! I am very glad to welcome all of you to our grounds and our Sunday festivities. I know you’re all dying to get to the alcohol—particularly you Soldiers and novices—so I will not delay your celebration for much longer. I would just like to announce that as always, the Tower has an ulterior motive for insisting on hosting the Sunday festival here instead of at its customary location, the White Tower—I would like you to congratulate the Black Tower’s new Tsorovan’m’hael, Asha’man Byran al’Korwyn, and more importantly, its new M’Hael, myself, Asha’man Poettre Valis.” With a bow, he concluded, “Enjoy your Sunday!”

Iris was not the only one standing in the midst of the crowd, eyes wide with disbelief. Poettre as M’Hael? And… Oh blood and bloody ashes, Byran was Tsorovan’m’hael? She stood stock still for a few moments, but the rousing of the crowd brought her back to attention. She caught a flash of Byran’s eyes before he looked away, purposefully striding past her without a word in her direction. “Byran,” she called, her voice breaking before she could finish his name. She grabbed his arm before he could get too far away, hoping he would respond to her not out of obligation or fear, but because he wanted to. “Please,” she continued, her pain obvious because she never felt it enough to know how to disguise it. “Can we talk?”

Asha'man Byran al'Korwyn
Know When to Stand, and Know When to Run
Fri Jul 16, 2004 22:46

“Byran.” It was Iris, her voice cracking on the second syllable of his name. Then something grabbed the man’s arm, and he hoped for all that was good and blessed by the Light that it was the woman’s hand. It was. Blood and ashes, cease your paranoia! “Please. Can we talk?” His wide shoulders lost some of their tension, slumping slightly as he heard the pain in her voice. Byran’s resistance was crumbling, and he knew it. Sighing quietly, the man turned and faced the woman, looking at her fully for the first time tonight.

The dress that was her attire was absolutely… Stunning, Byran thought to himself. He had never seen her features accentuated just so, nor the woman in such garb! It clung to all the right areas, and gave hints of others, but was almost modest enough for a goodwife in the city, if not for the thinness of the dress. The necklace of deep crimson set in a silvery metal only drew attention to her pins; especially the oddity of the golden dragon. But it fit her, though he could not explain why. It also brought her scar to the forefront, which the man scowled at. Light, he had been able to Heal her before and leave no scar, why not this time?! It would fade, but that was not the point! It was the principle of the entire situation that irked the man so. But a glance to Iris’ features told a different story. It looked as if she believed he was scowling at her!

He felt like such a callous bastard at that moment. Her eyes were moist, which they hardly ever were, as if the woman wanted to cry. Hah! That was laughable. He had only ever been witness to the momentous event of the mighty Iris Lyingade shedding a tear or more; once when she had bothered him in the middle of the night to talk, and just a few days ago when he had Healed her of the most recent injury. Of course, that was not the reason for her sobs, but because of what she had done—to him! Light, the woman had even apologized, but he had been too dazed to realize it at the time. Training and instinct had taken over, for he had carried Iris to one of the Infirmary beds, and dressed her in a gown behind an opaque shield for privacy, before absolutely fleeing from the place without word or reason. Strike that, there had been a very good reason at the time.

She tried to bloody kill me!

The prick upon his throat had been only slightly worse than what a man could give himself during a morning shave, but to be pinned against a wall by flows of Air he could not see – only feel – had been worse. Not just that, but she had shielded him, with contemptuous ease! That was the part which not only rankled, but was extremely shaming and humiliating. He had been caught off guard, feeling that Iris could do nothing in her weakened state. How wrong he had been! The light glinting from the obviously precious gems set in Iris’ necklace brought his attention back to her, and took on a whole new meaning.

The color of blood. That was what they looked to be, droplets of blood magically gathered by a silvery netting, and draped about the woman’s slim throat. It was as if someone had sliced her pale flesh open, affording an inside view of the human anatomy that few ever saw, and fewer by choice. A shudder ran through Byran’s frame, jolting his wide shoulders, jarring him back to reality. Couldn’t he ever think of the woman without remembering blood or gore? Murder or acts committed? Byran was beginning to wonder about that particular fact, and why he associated death with the woman he had lain with. Light, that had been ages ago, or so it seemed! Finally showing some signs of life, the Black Tower’s newest Tsorovan’m’hael scrubbed a hand through his short brown hair, unintentionally spiking it as it always had a habit of doing.

“Light Iris…” It speaks! The dead sang a harmonious chorus, the Creator gasped, and the Dark One damned them all to eternal hell. But, I digress. Not only did the man seem frustrated, but jittery as well. He wasn’t all too sure if it was because of what had happened with Iris, or the fact that it felt like Poettre was using him as a bloody puppet! If that was the case, the newest M’Hael was going to be sorely surprised. He may be a military man by choice and trade, but he was no bloody push over! Tamping down his uncharacteristic rage, Byran returned his gaze to Iris’ face, which was open and obviously trying to understand him. That seemed all the more absurd, enough that he barked a sudden nervous laugh.

“It’s just…” Gritting his teeth, the Asha’man plowed onward. “I can’t deal with this right now. I really can’t!” He was laughing, but the normally jovial sound, which was so rare coming from Byran, held no mirth. It almost appeared as if he wished to sob quietly. Perhaps in the darker corners of his mind, Byran al’Korwyn desired to do just that. Could he even cry? Light knew he wasn’t certain. “I’m going now. I just need to get away from all of… of this!” His hands shot up in a grand gesture, indicating everything about them, but not including Iris. It likely would have been far worse if he had been indicative of only the pair of them. Perhaps it was the White Tower, or merely the Aes Sedai. Maybe Poettre as well and his new position of authority at the Black Tower. Come on, Poettre as M’Hael?! That was absurd!

“I need to get away. I just…” Drawing a deep, shaky breath, he shot Iris a sympathetic look. Was he taking pity on her now? “I have to go.” With no more preamble, though that was a large enough one as it was – and he had rambled, at that! – Byran was attempting to leave again, but making a beeline to his instead of attempting to side step groups of people now. Blood and ashes, he was just about to plow through a group of Aes Sedai! Where was the woolbrained fool going?

Where else? The Traveling Yards.

Asha'man Iris
Knowing When to Follow
Sat Jul 17, 2004 18:48

Iris was beginning to think that the man would shirk her grip and continue on his way, so reluctant was he to respond. But at her continuation, his determination dissolved, if only a little bit, to the point that he turned to face her. He was slow about phrasing words to her own – his eyes searched hers, even darting downwards for a glimpse of her attire. If Iris had been any other woman, she probably would have blushed; as it was, she straightened her spine and lifted her head perforce, determined to make the most of his perusal. She was sure he approved, until his eyes found the garnets about her neck – at that, his expression tightened, though Iris could not fathom why. He shuddered, returning his eyes to his face and saying her name. She reached a hand up to cover the garnets, childishly reverting to the thought that if she hid them, it would erase the fact that Byran had ever seen them.

“It’s just…” The Asha’man hesitated once more, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists at his sides. “I can’t deal with this right now. I really can’t!” He laughed almost maniacally, completely mirthlessly. “I’m going now. I just need to get away from all of…of this!” He threw his hands up in the air, gesturing to the Tower as a whole. Iris assumed that included her. To think that he threw her in with the Tower like some pile of baggage, like she was worth no more to him than that… “I need to get away,” he repeated. “I just…” He shot her a sympathetic glance which she resolutely ignored. “I have to go.”

With that, he turned heel, heading in the same direction in which he had been headed before Iris had intercepted him. She kept her expression schooled to solemnity. She hoped that by forcing herself to look calm, she would begin to feel it, in turn. But no – tears still welled up at the corner of each eye, leaving her stone-faced and blinking, like some warrior lost in consternation, right there amidst the hubbub of the Black Tower’s Sunday festival.

What to do now? Iris had no idea where Byran was going – as she had noted earlier, she didn’t know where he lived, so he could have been going there or elsewhere, for all she knew. She was tempted to follow him, as she had yet to receive her prized closure. Part of her stubbornly suggested Iris stay put right where she was and let Byran wallow in his guilt – he deserved it. She had apologized, and it was his fault for not believing her and accepting it. She never took kindly to people who distrusted her when she was being sincere. It was downright cruel for Byran to do so, especially after all they had been through.

But then…what would happen if she didn’t follow him? She would likely never receive her closure, for one – how could she, when she didn’t know where he lived? He would probably avoid her from now on, too. Besides, she wasn’t ready to give up on him just yet. Iris had never been the type to imagine tying herself down to anyone permanently, and she was not about to – but she was accustomed to seeing a relationship through to its logical conclusion, and this was not it. Its logical conclusion would not be until Iris tired of Byran, certainly not the opposite.

She felt nowhere close to decided, but action was necessary, given that Byran had retreated some time ago. So Iris headed in the direction to which he had been going. It had looked like he was making a beeline for his destination, so surely it would be the first place she came across. Sure enough, the first place she reached was the Traveling Yards. Iris had never imagined Byran to be the type to run away – let alone Travel – but there he was, hesitating before the yards as if he could not decide whether this was the right thing to do or not.

Iris was sure it was not, so she told him so: “You’re doing the wrong thing, Byran,” she said icily, twisting her arms behind her back and entwining her fingers. “Don’t make me follow you. You know – ” She coughed then, a shuddering gasp. It took all her will power not to bend over with the pain of it, a remnant from her injury – it still hurt to talk, and whenever she did, she paid for it with this cough. Byran seemed worried when she glanced back at him, and well he should – it was his fault for not Healing her completely! “Well?” she prompted, her exasperation and hurt clear. “I apologized, Byran! I did! I don’t know what I can say or do to make it up to you, but…” She would not say she would do anything to repair the damage, though that was the logical continuation to the promise. Instead, she burst into tears – more accurately, she allowed a few to spill as she grimaced in embarrassment. “What can I do?” she finished, regaining some of her composure. Light blast him; Iris would follow him through the bloody gateway if she had to – she wasn’t finished with him!

Asha'man Byran al'Korwyn
Following Those Sensations
Sun Jul 18, 2004 17:45

He received few glares, but several cool looks from girls in white attempting to copy their betters, and girls in satin and silk so close to the shawl. Ageless faces stared back at his own, knowing very well that he did not appear to be his age, despite hardened and lined features. Ignoring the stares and disapproving glances, Byran shouldered his way through the crowds assembled to celebrate Sunday at the Black Tower. Faces blurred, clothing blended together, all in a myriad of shades nauseating to the senses. With little to no regard of these fools, Byran finally plowed his way out of the huddling masses, drawing a deep breath. He had never felt surrounded, crushed in like that before; not even on the battlefield with enemies all about. But what he just experienced felt far different.

Standing before the roped off entrance of the Traveling Yards, Byran silently considered his options at this point. It was obvious that he would not return to the festivities of his own free will at the moment. But should he even Travel? Ever since the lesson concerning survival that Canin had taken the trainees on, it had been tickling at the back of his mind. That mysterious Aes Sedai that had been so friendly with the former M’Hael had stepped out of a Gateway here to accompany them. The view that they had been able to glimpse was a familiar one to Byran, which tugged at him, bringing about a longing that he had never experienced before. Absolutely certain that the landscape had been just outside Baerlon, one of the many farms with curing sheds for tabac; it could have been anywhere in Andor, but he knew it to be what he had called home for so many years. It pulled at him, just one night of normalcy…

“You’re doing the wrong thing, Byran.” It was Iris’ voice, causing him to spin about face as she stood there, a disapproving expression painting her features. “Don’t make me follow you. You know – ” Normally, a cough would be dismissed as a dry throat, or perhaps a chest cold. But the fashion that Iris grimaces, her face twisting in pain, Byran found himself taking a step forward to aid her before realizing it. “Well? I apologized, Byran! I did! I don’t know what I can say or do to make it up to you, but…” It was something that he hadn’t expected. The normally stolid and composed woman began to cry. A stifled outburst wrenched from her raw throat, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “What can I do?” The question seemed pitiful and pleading, though he knew it was not. Sighing, his shoulders slumped, resigned to a fate he did not want.

“Do you not understand, Iris?” Byran queried gently, taking another step closer to her. “It is not you. If it were, we would be having a completely different discussion.” The one that she always attempted to begin, but he never rose to the bait. That was not what bothered the Asha’man. “Do you remember the survival lesson in Shienar? And not that, Iris,” he hastily added, forcing the blush to cease its infusing of his cheeks. “Just before we left, the Aes Sedai arrived. What you saw through the Gateway…” Gnawing on his lower lip in an uncustomary gesture of nervousness, he plowed forward. “It brought about memories. A longing… Even if it is for one night, it would be enough.” Byran’s tones were quiet, subdued, and blatantly honest. Even when speaking, he normally had a way of dodging the truth. But now he was open and unprotected, displaying his desire for this vehemently.

Stepping to Iris, he seized the Source, calloused fingertips brushing against the woman’s throat lightly. “I am sorry that I left you in the Infirmary, Iris,” the man finally admitted, apologizing with a certain tinge of sadness in his tones. “After everything that has happened, I am not ashamed to admit that what you did frightened me.” Cupping her cheek, Byran eventually caught her eyes with his. “It was not your fault though, I do not blame you. I could not believe that you shielded me so easily…” An off-handed comment, amazement filtering through undertones that was always muddied and uncertain. But they were no longer. “I am sorry for leaving you like that. Not longer after, Poettre called me to his office, and…” Grimacing, he jerked his head toward the revelers over her shoulder. “You see the product of it, now.

“But tonight is full of joy and merriment,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across Iris’ lips in a fond gesture. For long moments, it seemed as if the former Whitecloak was going to lean in for a kiss; but the sensation was gone in an instant as he continued. “I don’t think I can find that here, even having you with me, Iris.” It was the first time he had ever said anything of that nature to the woman. But did he mean it as a comrade, a friend, or lover?

“First, let’s rid you of this cough.” Drawing deeply on the Source, which had held his voice emotionless for so long, the caresses along Iris’ throat took on a new meaning. Forcing himself to accomplish the task gingerly, his delving found that his Healing had been hasty and incomplete. He truly was a flaming idiot! Inwardly cursing and calling himself ten kinds a fool, Byran directed the flows of Water, Air, and Spirit about her throat in a gentle manner. There was only a slight shiver as he repaired the damage as best he could. The rasp in her voice would likely remain; the infection had affected her vocal chords badly before she had come to the Infirmary for Healing. But only time could tell on that matter as the last of the flows were immersed through Iris’ slender throat, knitting together miniscule tissues and fibers, easing away the rawness and pain she felt.

“Is… is that better?” Byran tentatively asked once he was finished, surprised to find that he had wrapped an arm about Iris’ waist, drawing the pair close in an intimate fashion. Iris nodded her head slowly, studying him as the tears dried against her pale flesh. He did not want to draw away from her, doing so reluctantly as he cast a glance toward the roped off area once more. The thought of returning to Baerlon for a night was far too tempting, ideas skittering across the Void as saidin continued to rage through him. It was faint surprise that triggered his slight smile, realizing that he wanted to go, more than anything at the moment. Tomorrow he could rightfully be Tsorovan’m’hael; but tonight, all he wanted to be was a man. Was that so much to ask?

Drawing deeply on the Power, Byran formed the intricate weave that involved all Five Powers, twisting and turning before the pinpoint of light came into existence, rotating in an eye wrenching fashion to form a horizontal slash, and then opening vertically to reveal rolling landscape in a darkened fashion. A road stood not too far away, dusty and well worn by many boots and wheels. Absently, his arm tightened about Iris’ waist at the second sight of a place he had called home, one he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. At the woman’s questioning glance, he permitted a small smile while holding the upkeep of the weave, nodding toward the landscape that looked so reminiscent of what was just outside the Black Tower’s walls.

“It’s just beyond Baerlon,” he murmured, motioning toward the twinkling lights through the opening in the air where the city obviously resided. During festival, the gates would be wide open, welcoming visitors from wherever they traveled. “This is what I called home,” Byran whispered in a voice that was barely audible, awe somehow creeping into those quiet tones.

“Just for tonight…” He would not shirk his duties at the Black Tower, or to the Lord Dragon. But for a simple night, no one would notice him gone. Or Iris. “Come with me? There’s precious little to worry of there, if unless you count being refused drink for already being intoxicated,” Byran quipped, an infinitesimal smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Only for a night,” he reiterated, drawing Iris forward. “Will you?” Come with me…

Asha'man Iris
Coming Away
Sun Jul 25, 2004 20:40

Despite herself, Iris melted. Her eyes were torn between glaring at Byran and surveying this mysterious Baerlon of which he spoke – she wasn’t sure she knew either of them. She knew for a fact that she didn’t know Baerlon – she had thought she knew Byran, but then he threw her through loops like this one. The man was appallingly boring, by and large…until the rare occasion that he did something like this. It seemed designed to keep Iris on her toes, and she wasn’t sure what she thought of that.

She wasn’t sure what she thought of Byran as a whole, at that moment. Iris remained immobile in his grasp, uncertain whether she should reciprocate his embrace or pull away. The Arafellin could not deny that she was still angry; she would not deny it if the other Asha’man were to ask, either. It baffled her that any man could be so quick to toss her into a pile, as if she were no more to him than any other menial contribution to the group. And then he had the audacity to tell her that all he really needed was to get away from the Tower, to go bloody home – it wasn’t Iris that was at fault! Never mind the fact that the bloody arsehole had purposefully ignored her apology, left her stranded when she needed him most, made her beg…

But even so, she could not resist Byran’s pleading eyes and tongue. For all that Iris insisted that she would have nothing of romance, her relationship with the man was nearing frighteningly close to the unnerving phenomenon. She wasn’t falling in love with the man – she had made an oath never to do such a foolish thing again, and she wasn’t about to break it – but what was this if not love? What else could coerce her to prune herself into a flaming hussy once more, all to earn a few laudatory words from her special someone? What else could reduce her to this…this…wool-headed female, begging him to accept her apology?

The woman rolled her eyes skyward, making frustrated little noises with the smack of her tongue and lips. Byran frowned and started to say something, which only caused Iris to roll her eyes again. She wasn’t angry at him – she was angry at herself for being such a bloody woman. Forcing herself to remain calm – as for all intents and purposes, Byran was treating her like chattel sans emotion – she shook her head as if to dismiss the pervasive anger, turning her attention to the matter at hand. She couldn’t leave the poor man waiting forever, after all.

Only for a night, he had said. The proposition was more than tempting, Iris had to admit. She had never been…well, anywhere. She had never even strayed beyond the walls of Shol Arbela through her childhood and burgeoning adulthood – it wasn’t until an Aes Sedai discovered she could channel that Iris had dared the outside world. Even then, all she had seen was Tar Valon. That was hardly a paltry sight to see, but when compared to the rest of the world, Iris found it lacking. Oh, she had been impressed enough initially, but the White Tower, for all its supposed purity, had tainted the experience for her. Then she had gone straight from the White Tower to the Black via gateway, which hadn’t allowed her even to view the sparse countryside between the two places. Some might say that Iris had seen much of the world – but all in all, Iris begged to differ.

She peered through the gateway, wondering at what she saw beyond. The climate was cooler; she could tell that much from the tendrils of air creeping between one place and the other. Beyond that, Iris couldn’t discern much of anything, considering the time of night. She crept closer to her companion, eyeing him and his proposed destination dubiously. The idea of leaving for the Tower – even for a night – seemed such a forbidden pleasure after all the time she’d spent poring over dreams of becoming first Aes Sedai, then Asha’man. Given that neither Tower allowed their initiates leave, it was startling to realize that she was now her own woman, mostly – she still had to follow the M’Hael (Light burn him) and the Dragon’s bidding, but beyond that, she could do what she pleased. That included jaunting off to Baerlon with her lover, if she so pleased.

“Fine, then,” she finally said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Just for a night, mind you.” Iris couldn’t resist the catty addition. “I’ll not have you thinking you can drag me off wherever you please whenever you please.” The last bit was more teasing than the other two statements, Iris’s attempt at lightening the mood. She wanted to forget what a fool she’d been. “We’re going to scare the locals.” She grinned, shaking her head ruefully. “Does this mean I get to meet your parents?” Thinking better of the statement – hadn’t Byran said something about one or both of his parents being deceased? – Iris amended, “Or what family you have? Friends, even?” Could it be that she was fishing for people to whom he could show off his pretty girl…?

Asha'man Byran al'Korwyn
Travels Abound
Sun Aug 1, 2004 16:48

Iris had not even brought up the issue of Byran suddenly becoming Tsorovan’m’hael, much to the man’s relief. His reasoning to ‘accepting’ the position would be absurd to anyone but the staunchest of soldiers; Iris was far from that. Still, he was beginning to wonder if she was even going to accept his offer of joining him. Light, he may as well just drag the woman through the Gateway he had created! Byran belatedly noticed that Iris had not returned the embrace, his arm still wrapped about her small waist, but it was not as if they had been particularly affection before. Chalking it up to the odd circumstances taking place tonight, he waited with bated breath to hear her response. Thankfully, he did not have to wait long.

“Fine, then. Just for a night, mind you. I’ll not have you thinking you can drag me off wherever you please whenever you please.” He couldn’t help but blink. Was Iris teasing him? “We’re going to scare the locals. Does this mean I get to meet your parents?” Before he could even reply, the woman had amended her statement. “Or what family you have? Friends, even?” Byran did not frown precisely, instead adopting a pensive expression as he led her toward the Gateway by the hand. It appeared he was not going to be letting go of her tonight.

“I suppose there may be a few people about that I still know,” he grudgingly admitted once they were through the Gateway, allowing it to snap shut behind them. There was no going back now! Well, not immediately anyhow; not that Iris was protesting, she merely let him lead on in the darkness. “But it’s been nearly a decade since I have last seen Baerlon, considering I left the spring after father died.” Shrugging his shoulders encase in that typical fitted black coat. With saidin still firmly in his grasp, he was able to pick out an easy path for them through the darkness, neglecting to create a light at first. But after Iris’ second stumble, despite his good intentions to weave a clear course for them, he brought a flame to light, hovering above his palm. Its flickering light washed out the surrounding area, but it did offer enough illumination so that his companion would not land on her rear.

With the lights of the festival, torches hung upon the tall log wall that surrounded Baerlon, a few watchtowers dotted along its length as far as they could see. The gates that were typically closed after sundown stood open, a frayed rope held off to one side which was obviously used to signal the gate guards when the entryway was closed. Roofs dark in the night, tile and slate tops gleaming in the wane light that the moon offered. Plumes of smoke drifted toward the sky, noting exactly the abundance of persons awake at this early hour, celebrating Sunday. Willing the flame above his palm to vanish once they had neared the gates, Byran critically eyed the few men milling about, who returned his gaze for a few moments before glancing away. The sword at his hip likely helped this matter, but with Iris’ cool and composed features, along with his hard and chiseled, none dared allow their gaze to linger for very long. But he walked with purpose, revelers laughing and dancing through the streets, though nothing as explosive as the Feast of Lights, all still had a good time on Sunday.

Flagstone beneath their feet, shops dotted the thoroughfare, but few were still open for business. The carts and hawkers normally out were instead celebrating the holiday with their patrons. They passed a few inns, but Byran obviously sought out one in particular. Sure enough, after meandering through the streets, and lingering in a few places, he led Iris to one of the inns. A slightly weathered sign hung on an iron wrought post, jutting out from the eves to title this place as simply The Light Bless. “Try not to scare the locals, hmm?” he murmured with a slight smile, using the woman’s own words from earlier. Opening the door for her, the pair stepped from bedlam to serenity in one pace.

The common room of the inn was well lit and rather subdued when compared to the outside world. A number of tables were ordered precisely upon the well-worn wooden planks of the floor, looking to be freshly swept. Byran’s dark gaze traversed the interior with a certain amount of familiarity, mingling with anxiety that he suppressed. Iris would likely notice it, but he doubted if anyone else would. A few heads swiveled toward the door as the bell chimed above it, signaling that someone had just entered. Surprised expressions, for more than one reason, recognition lighting the eyes of a few men scattered through the patrons. Light, even Sneidel! He couldn’t help but shake his head, eyeing the man obviously drunk off in a corner table, a permanent fixture here at The Light. Off in the adjacent corner was a small stage, raised a height above the floor, where a woman sat playing the bittern to a half-interested crowd. The newcomers held most of the attention now.

“Welcome to The Light Bless!” a man suddenly declared, meandering over with a rolling gait toward Iris and Byran. He was the typical innkeeper in any city, with a shockingly white apron wrapped about his girth, and the receding hairline that caused tufts of graying hair to stick up wildly behind his ears. “The friendliest inn here in Baerlon! Now what can I do for you Master—” The innkeeper stopped his spiel, eyeing them curiously. Iris he dismissed for a moment, but it was he who held the man’s attention. Dark eyes flickered down to their collars, then back to their faces, slight disbelief painting his own. “Byran? Byran al’Korwyn?” He nodded, ever so slightly, glancing over to Iris as if asking for reassurance. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a grand idea as he thought. Without much warning, the innkeeper was embracing Byran in a friendly gesture, but it led to a prancing about that the Asha’man was obviously not partaking in.

“Light, boy! You haven’t aged a day. We never thought you’d come back after your father’s accident. Yet here you are!” The chatter continued, much to Byran’s dismay, standing beside Iris as if she were going to protect him from the onslaught. Hah! “With those pins, even! I supposed that means you are—Well, no matter. You’re here, and that’s cause enough for a drink!” Dismayed at this turn of events, he watched the innkeeper waddle away, calling for the cook and some celebratory alcohol.

“Light help me!” Byran murmured in astonishment, leaning down slightly so that his lips brushed against the shell of Iris’ ear. “I’ve known Master Cuthner ever since he opened the inn, nearly twenty summers past.” Pausing, he eyed the man a bit warily before explaining further. “Most of the men here are miners by trade, and will be until they die.” He took a very fatalistic and accepting view of this, for he had shared in the same career for quite a few years during his youth. It was not only that; a few of the men had flashed him quick grins, ones appraising Iris, most ignoring the pins overall. It was a strange occurrence, at least to him. But now Master Cuthner was waddling his return, motioning the pair toward a table near the bar that stretched along one wall.

“Sit, sit!” the man urged the pair, already setting down a tankard of ale that was obviously for Byran, and a glass of wine that was proclaimed ‘the finest Baerlon has to offer’ for Iris. He could only shake his head still, mind-boggling at the events that tugged at his memories. Light, he had left this place, returning for a visit to find normalcy; yet there was nothing of the sort! It figured that the Creator would toss that in his face. Everything changed, including him. Holding a chair out for Iris as she sat, he settled in beside her with his back to the wall.

“Master Cuthner, this is Iris Lyingade,” Byran offered cordially, smirking at the woman briefly for he knew what was about to happen. Hefting the tankard of ale that had been offered, the Asha’man took his first drink in a number of years – willingly, anyhow. Iris spiking his tea on a bloody trip to the Borderlands did not count! Between gulps of ale, he tried desperately to hide an amused grin behind the tankard near his lips as the innkeeper set his chattering ways on Iris.

Byran knew he would likely be in trouble for doing that with Iris later, but at the moment he didn’t care. It felt like home, here. A comfortable setting that he had left behind so long ago. He knew he was unable to stay, but he was determined to enjoy the night with Iris, no matter what took place.

Asha'man Iris
Spurring the Moment
Mon Aug 2, 2004 20:48

Iris hadn’t much experience when it came to locale, considering she had lived in all of three places – Shol Arbela, Tar Valon, and the Black Tower. As she had Traveled by gateway each transition, the Arafellin hadn’t even been able to view the world by journeying from one place to another. No doubt due to this, she didn’t know what to expect from Baerlon, so she told herself not to expect anything, beyond the typical suppositions. It would surely be just another city – she doubted it would be as barricaded as Shol Arbela had been, and undoubtedly it was not anywhere near as fine as Tar Valon. It would be normal…whatever that was. Iris wasn’t sure she knew.

Byran guided her through the gateway, one hand splayed over the small of her back. A foreigner to courtship, she wasn’t sure what to expect from Byran or this relationship – if it even was a relationship. She allowed herself a frown, given the fact that her companion could not see her due to the darkness. What was this? What was she doing? It defied her reasoning that a woman such as she – detached and happy because of it – would wrap herself around any man, let alone one as boring as Byran. He was ten years her junior if he was a day, for one, and Iris had always looked to her elders for companionship. She didn’t want to have to guide him around on a leash, after all – unless that’s what she wanted at the moment in question. He was not her type, if Iris could be said to have one. He wasn’t gorgeous – and Iris was used to her men competing with her in the looks department. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if she would call him handsome. He was no bumbling fool, but he was a stoic and a soldier to the end, when Iris was accustomed to passion and all that came with it. She was a passionate woman herself, so what was she doing tied to a man who was better off on apron strings than attempting to think for himself?

The Asha’man shifted beneath Byran’s hand. He took the hint and removed it, using the darkness as an excuse – a flame alit from the palm of the same hand that had previously been upon the woman. That lessened Iris’s stumbles, though she had not once stumbled from the terrain – her thoughts had been the hindrance. Baerlon loomed before them, a sea of lights in a black field. It had not the extensive barricades that Iris had come to expect, given the three cities in which she had dwelled, but it was not unprotected. But given the holiday, the gates stood open in welcome to travelers and country folk alike. Nonetheless, neither Byran nor Iris escaped a studious examination from the guards standing watch at the gates. Because they were open didn’t mean that the town welcomed just anyone.

The town was…small. By rights, it couldn’t be titled a city, though Iris kept her thoughts to herself. Byran did the same, his face as solid and emotionless as usual. Blood and ashes, that man could rival an Aes Sedai with that stony face, Iris observed. But then, so could mine.

He directed her to an inn with, in Iris’s opinion, an unusual name: The Light Bless. Iris eyed the sign dubiously – she almost protested, but Byran insistently steered her forward. Rolling her eyes skyward at the male sex in general, Iris allowed him the control, though nothing was stopping her from slapping his hands off her and going off on her own. What kept her with him, she would likely never know. He was so bloody useless. She smirked at him in a look askance, wondering after the thoughts going through his head. Light, he’d bloody shit himself if he knew what she was thinking.

The inn was…Light, it looked like the Traveler’s Haven before Iris’s practices had elevated it in the social scheme. Then again, Iris decided after a second glance of the common room, this place was probably finer. Her expectations had once been very easy to meet, considering the years she had lived on the street – the Traveler’s Haven had looked like heaven. Then she went to the White Tower, and from then on, she grew accustomed to having her own room and her amenities provided for her. It was interesting to note how much more easily disgusted she was now when placed in a location to which she was unaccustomed – once, she would likely not have been allowed entrance to a place like this, and then only because she was obviously a…well, whore.

The innkeeper’s reaction to their coming surprised Iris as much as it did Byran. She watched him enviously, feeling like an interloper, as the round man hugged the Asha’man’s muscular frame. The innkeeper released Iris’s companion eventually, much to her satisfaction. She didn’t like the idea of Byran having other friends, irrational as the thought was. He was hers, and these men from his past were trying to claim him. Looking forbidding, she ignored the way the other men looked at her when Byran introduced her – here the pins at her collar didn’t matter, the pins for which she had strove for years. Though these men’s intentions were not dishonorable, Iris couldn’t help but feel a pang of disgust with herself and her surroundings as she realized that they would just as easily take her as a whore as for Byran’s…companion. They would probably cheer him on just as avidly if she were a whore as if she were his wife.

Wife? Iris started, inadvertently pushing herself nearer to Byran. He took that as an opportunity to nuzzle her ear and share some nostalgic information, an emotion Iris was not equipped to experience. She didn’t have the chance to contemplate her thought more, as the innkeeper had them steered in the direction of an empty table. He plopped down a tankard of ale and a glass of wine – of all things – before Iris, proclaiming that the wine was better suited for a lady. Well aware of the pinched, irritated look to her face, the Asha’man did her best to appear as gracious and friendly as possible as Byran introduced her to his large friend.

Then the man decided that Iris was his new best friend – her obvious irritation was apparently not enough to keep attempts at gaining her friendship at bay. Or her favors. Pursing her lips, Iris downed the wine in a few gulps, determined to enjoy her evening, for all its pitfalls. The innkeeper babbled on about how wonderful it was to see Byran here at home – and with such lovely companionship, too. Aggravated, Iris interrupted him mid-sentence, her tone saccharin sweet: “Would you mind getting me a tankard of ale, sir?” He blinked once and obeyed. No doubt Iris would hear from Byran later about her curtness. Light, the man probably hadn’t the propriety to save his remonstration for later, for that matter.

Stalling the inevitable, Iris awaited the arrival of her tankard. “I’m going to drink you under the table,” she stated gravely, drumming her nails on the smooth surface of the table. Byran sipped at his ale dubiously, wordless. She had probably drank more than him in a month in Arafel than he would drink in his entire bloody lifetime. The Asha’man proved it to him by taking the ale, once delivered, just as quickly as she had the wine and feeling none of the effects.

“Well?” she prompted as Byran continued to sit there watching her, speechless. “You’re supposed to try to prove me wrong, aren’t you?” A small smile curving her lips, Iris raised her tankard in a gesture for a refill, turning to Byran and reclining backwards in her seat. What she wouldn’t give for a good competition.

Asha'man Byran al'Korwyn
Moments Out the Door
Fri Aug 6, 2004 14:30

Ale! That dark, perfect concoction of foam, hops, barley, which he had forgotten all about through the years. It was obvious that Byran did enjoy the tankard he had, nursing it gently. He knew his propensity to become a lush, or something worse, which was exactly why the man’s rigid disciplines rarely offered relaxation of this nature. Determined to enjoy it, the Asha’man hid his mirth behind the solid tanker as Iris meandered the fine line between rudeness and curtness. But Master Cuthner wobbled off quickly in acquiesce to the woman’s wishes, returning with the tankard of ale.

“I’m going to drink you under the table.” It was the first that she had spoken to him since they arrived in Baerlon, and that was hardly the statement he had expected. Sipping amiably upon his drink, and still hiding behind the tankard, Byran quirked a brow as Iris demolished the liquid contents of her own tankard as quickly as she had the wine. “Well? You’re supposed to try to prove me wrong, aren’t you?” Oh, now she was trying to bait him! Normally, he would never even consider it, and judging by the slight shake of his head it seemed that would be the continuing trend. Yet… Lo and behold! Byran lifted his tankard and tilted it toward his mouth, pouring the contents down his throat in one long draw. It really was not that difficult if you were accustomed to the flavor.

“Fine.” Mug set down with a bit more force than necessary, a smirk tugging at the man’s lips. One may even think that he had imbibed enough alcohol already, for he rarely ever allowed facial expressions to shine through a surly countenance. The innkeeper had already been fetching Iris’ drink, so Byran merely raised his voice. “Master Cuthner! Another tankard and a pitcher, if you please.” The rotund man appeared startled, shooting a disapproving look in his direction, but said nothing. It was this inn he had frequented most often, when down from the mines, and obviously Master Cuthner remembered how Byran had left Baerlon; with a belly full of ale. Well, whatever the man believed, he was still bringing over the alcohol. Rooting about in the money pouch at his belt, the Asha’man came up with a small stack of gold; mostly Andoran weight. Clinking out ten pieces, Cuthner’s brows rose as if expecting this was for their drinks through the night! Light, people could be dense.

“For the drinks,” he said, adding by way of explanation, “and a room, Master Cuthner.” The man attempted to refuse, but one stern look from Byran and the innkeeper resorted to stating that it was only five gold for everything they wanted, meals included. “Master Cuthner, take the bloody coins already and be done with!” While still retaining his placid nature, for the most part, none here had ever heard words of those nature come from Byran’s lips. Unfortunately, the innkeeper offered a stiff bow and stalked off behind the bar with the coins. “Just bloody wonderful,” he muttered to himself, suddenly eyeing Iris across the table. It was not as if she was at fault for the situation, but he couldn’t help eyeing her at current. The woman still looked absolutely stunning, even through their short journey via Gateway to Baerlon. If Byran had been less of a gentleman and more of a lecher, he would’ve done some rather uncharacteristic things. As it was, he had begun to wonder if he should even bother being a gentleman! Shaking his head clear of those thoughts, the mischievous grin returned, directed in the woman’s direction.

“My three gold to your one that you’ll be unable to keep up, Iris,” Byran taunted quietly, acting completely out of character for himself. But, damn the Light, he was determined to have just a bit of normalcy. Vaguely, he remembered being a happy man at one point in his life, but that was an Age ago; something he could never fully return to. But this was just one night, and he had already decided his fate for the evening. Speaking of which! More gold on the table, a stack of three Andoran coins and he gave her a smirk. “Well? Think you can manage it?” He had no idea that Iris had been able to hold her liquor in the past. At the moment, he was judging it from his body size compared to hers. The woman was still as thin as a waif, though beginning to flesh out slightly, much to his pleasure. But he was taller, heavily muscled, and weighed far more. The odds were obviously in his favor, as he saw it. Of course, Iris’ answer to his challenge was to knock back her tankard, swallowing the contents in a few long gulps.

Let the challenge begin!

Light help him; he couldn’t remember what number drink he was on. All Byran knew was that four pitchers now stood empty upon the table – Light only knows how many had already been cleared away – and gauging how much liquid they held, the pair had consumed at least a dozen tankards. Blinking the haze away from his thoughts, he was openly smirking across the table at Iris. She swayed little, but after that many drinks Byran was probably swaying slightly in his seat as well. Laughter bubbled within his barrel chest, raising a hand to point at Iris.

“You… You are shooo bloody drunk!” A slight slur to his words, nothing too horrible, but it was painfully obvious that the stolid and rather grumpy soldier Byran had become had disappeared, drowned out by those tankards of ale. That was absolutely fine by him, come to think of it. He was tired of being so bloody responsible! Rising to wobbling legs, the Asha’man steadied himself upon the edge of the table, before meandering over to Iris’ side. Towering over her, his stern countenance vanished as he grinned mischievously. “Come oooon!” he managed with laughter that sounded suspiciously close to a giggle. “I wanna show yah shome of Baaaerlon!” All right. Off in a corner of his mind, Byran clearly saw that he was drunk, unable to walk a straight line, and slurring as if he had drank a keg. He was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t!

Tug. Tug-tug. Tuuuuug!

Byran was lifting Iris out of her seat, pointing conspiratorially toward the doorway. “Baerlon!” he whispered, followed by a short laugh. “Let’sh go!” Even with his inner-sense of competence squashed away by the alcohol, the Asha’man knew fully well he was making a fool of himself, and cared not a wit. All he wanted was to see Iris smile, judging by the fond stroke of her cheek and his own happy visage. But then, the moment was gone, and he was tugging upon her hand, leading them toward the doorway.

Sight-seeing in Baerlon!

Asha'man Iris Lyingade
Unraveling Fantasy
Sun Aug 8, 2004 21:55

OOC: Not for virgin eyes / minds / hearts! Seriously! XD

Iris lost track of time, just as she did pitchers. Both she and Byran were spending exorbitant amounts of coin on ale, no doubt; but neither of them had the power of mind to discern how much the innkeeper was taking advantage of them. If Iris had not been drunker than she had ever been in years, then she might have told herself that the man knew Byran from long ago, so he was not about to take advantage of him when it would be so bloody easy to do so. But Iris was not sober, and so her emotions were taking control.

It was an odd transition the Asha’man made from sober to intoxicated. With her mind under control, the Arafellin could ignore everything. She had spent years on the streets and then only steps away from the same fate; Iris had had to keep her sense about her in order to keep herself from submerging. The only way she had been able to do that was to suspect everyone of everything, from the man who provided the roof over her head to the women that waited on tables and men alike alongside her. No one could best Iris, mentally or physically, and she made sure that they knew that. There was no such thing as a favor in Iris’s life – she would never have gotten anywhere if she had had to repay others time and again for supposed kindness they had done for her in the past.

That constantly wary mindframe had faded over the years. Admittedly, the White Tower had kept her on her toes; but she had not had the same worries there as she had in Shol Arbela. The past novice had never had to worry about keeping a roof over her head and food in her belly, as such amenities the Aes Sedai provided for the ability chance planted within her. The Great Game had kept her wits razor sharp, honing her even more into the conniving killing machine she knew she was destined to become. Though time had found her occupation elsewhere – the Black Tower, to be precise – she had kept her suspicion about her, a close companion when friends were not to be trusted.

But with a mug in her hand and empty pitchers beside her, Iris realized that habits died hard. It had been years since she had felt that alcohol was the only solution to her problem, and though she was not about to revert to that dependence, the substance causing her to sway in her seat reminded her that while almost nothing could inflict oblivion…this could. She downed another mug with that thought in mind, her stomach rebelling against the ingestion of more of the foul fluid. The next morning would be a most unpleasant one – but the night was young and the atmosphere sweet, and Iris was not about to let this slip through her fingers like everything else had.

“You,” Byran panted, giggling, “are shoooo bloody drunk!” Iris giggled in return, spewing residual ale from her mouth in the process. It was true. She grinned and glanced about her, but the world was hazy. The inn was busy with men taking a rare break from the mines on the night of a festival. Light, it was frightening to note that once, Iris had been the one with the duty of keeping their interest piqued and currency flowing. In this new life, she could feel herself instinctually returning to the only way of life she had known for twenty years. This all seemed a dream to her…and it seemed time to awake.

Byran’s continuation flowed into her ears and out just as quickly. She had not the sanctity of mind to understand what he was saying. Iris could barely feel the miniscule tug on the sleeve of her dress, but it was impossible to ignore his figure, suddenly hulking above her. It was a bloody wonder that he could stand, and she said as much. But his intention was clear; Iris was to join the same fate as he. Without the sobriety to curse herself for her stupidity and lack of dignity, the woman obeyed, staggering to her feet and struggling to keep up with him. Her stomach surged in an effort to cleanse itself of defilation, an effort Iris valiantly strove to ignore.

Then they were out the door and into the city. The silence was jarring in comparison to the din from which they had emerged; Iris had to pause and situate herself before her mind would stop spinning from the abrupt transition. Byran grabbed her hand and led her off in some direction or another; Iris had no idea where, but she did know that it was away from the inn. She gazed around her, wondering that such a man had emerged from a place like this. It made sense – all of the people here seemed jovial but distant, as if they took this as no more than a single vacation before they returned to real life. This was the first vacation from the norm Iris had ever seen Byran take.

“Not so fast,” she whispered, pulling his hand in response. They paused in the shadow of one of the many inns, this one brightly lit and decorated festively in the summer colors that symbolized Sunday. Iris pulled her towards him by the collar, sealing their lips together solidly. Or so she thought, considering her mouth had little in the way of feeling at the moment. Fortunately, Byran would not have the ability to differentiate and thus complain.

She submerged the pair of them deeper into the shadow, retreating into the alleyway adjacent to the inn for privacy. Truthfully, Iris wanted to preserve whatever dignity she still maintained, and jumping a man in the middle of Baerlon’s common hardly suited that appeal. With a furious, irrational need for urgency, Iris clawed Byran’s jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall uselessly to the ground. She reached back and tugged at the laces at the back of her dress until they tore apart, freeing her breasts from the tight confinement. She kept the dress about her – she was not so intoxicated that she would allow any wandering man to catch sight of her nude form – but there was room enough for Byran and his meandering digits, which was more than enough for Iris.

The Asha’man pressed herself against her companion, her mouth set in a rictus snarl. Byran flattened her against as wall every bit as avidly – perhaps even more so – as she, determined to out-do her in even this. His hands reached none too gingerly into the blouse of her dress, cupping and caressing her more audaciously than he had ever dared in their dalliances in the past. Iris sunk her teeth into his neck, her fingers clawing into his back; it was a rough love that Byran eagerly reciprocated. The efforts of both pairs of hands hiked Iris’s skirts up slowly but surely. Though they both had trouble so much as standing, when given a tangible goal, they could combine wits and bodies towards achieving that end.

Legs bared, Iris pulled Byran’s belt loose. Hands reached into his trousers and caressed their prize, baring it to the midnight air. The male Asha’man lifted Iris with physical strength alone, wrapping his arms around her waist and cupping her bottom in his large hands; Iris aided him by wrapping her legs tightly about his waist, supporting herself and increasing the friction at the same time. Licking a hand, the woman snaked it between her legs, gently coaxing Byran to his full strength. He licked his lips and pulled Iris’s dress down at the bodice, covering one nipple with his hand and the other with his mouth. They gasped simultaneously as Byran sealed their union in a quick thrust, but Iris’s gasp had words, quiet but ferocious: “Light, I love you, Byran al’Korwyn…” And then all thoughts were lost in mindless pursuit of passion.

Asha'man Byran al'Korwyn
Giving Chase
Thu Aug 12, 2004 04:27

OOC: Oh, this definitely is not for those of you with easily offended, or not so easily, senses. Huge warning! Don't read!