When you were young staying up was the most wonderful thing that could happen. Everybody around you insisted that you were in want of sleep, but you never felt like sleeping, not really. Something about a child's timeclock must've wacked out on some crazy spree, for it kept ticking 'til it met an obstacle, and crrrash, there you drop to nap 'til you're all life and soul again. Around the wagons there were always music to be had, talk to rekindle, and laughter ringing over the crackle of their fires. A cook didn't sell her bacon, mother had once told him, she sold her sizzle. There must be a grain of truth behind that saying, for the pots of successful culinary legends usually retained an unspeakably greasy presence. Little did he know he’d never fix a pot again.

 

When you were young, you never seem to feel the cold weighing your limbs down, the wind could not touch your cloak of invincibility, never mind piercing right through you. Your head was lifted, your eyes equal to the lights above. He cast his gaze to the frost dabbled earth, knowing what it would find now. Scorched, the stars he once told stories about had changed the land, similar to how snuffing the lamps would alter the appearance of an evening room. Something about his grey, listless eyes suggested he wasn't looking for games. He wanted songs, and comfort, but out here, he was alone. Exile was a solitude he chose.

 

Before him was the monolith that blocked out the stars, revealing dank spaces between the few he could find appeared everywhere, but it was Ogier-made, and power-wrought. Unnatural; the strangeness of such a building swaying in the wind made him shiver. Was this to be home for the half century or so? It was hard to believe. As you grow older, more mature perhaps, you had less confidence in your own abilities. The wood carvings, the few you packed when you couldn't bare to leave the last remnants of home behind, those would stay, the tools and the knowledge of how to use 'em were in your head. You were certain still you'd never see the man who taught you those again, not after you had defied the Mahdi. No, you were lucky just to get away. Your family, the ones you cast out, may not have lived with violence, yet they represent the stubbornness in their blood. This cold land would harden you, make you strong. Blood is blood, Ashley. Do not seek sleep.

 

Morning mist was a tricky thing to paint. You see, there weren't colours enough in it, but at the same time, it played with you, sometime straying into the thinnest, most delicate highlights of pink and red, even tempting yellows that drew their inspiration from rays of light. For a person who considered art a passion and on less modest days, a talent, it was every inch as frustrating and challenging as it desired to be.  Especially when you had been rising early-earlier than most!-to catch it, and more importantly, the scenery it draped itself over.

 

There were small, barely noticeable circles beneath her eyes, but her eyes and face remained fresh. It had something to do with focus yes, even determination, but if there was one single force that you could pinpoint the strength behind, it would be the morning itself. The early zephyrs, the crisp air, the aroma of newly bloomed flowers. That was the beauty of early mornings, the treasure that she was willing to sacrifice pretty lashes and rosebud smiles for.

 

She had sat exactly so for the past hour. On occasion though, she would rise and move along, trying to in her artistic whim, capture the scene from another angle, and thus, another perception. There were people who would turn briefly to study the Aes Sedai, wondering what had come upon her, but for the most part, people let her be, and she did the same. Such principles had formed in her head very early in life.

 

Letting one be however, did not mean that her ability to observe or notice was hindered in any way. Even if most people passed by, giving only fleeting glances, sometimes the glances captured something worth remembering that on a later she would sketch into her book, pressing it in with all the other faces. Sometimes, an anxious looking young woman would walk past her, her steps faltering as she stared at the full weight of the Tower. Sometimes, it was convenient that she was right there and able to offer some words, even a quick description of Darienna Sedai's study.

 

Today though, the anxious human was no Novice to be, but a boy. And that was all that she could say of him, with his back turned as it was, titled backwards as he studied the Tower like so many before him. To the yards, she wondered, as she approached him quietly.

 

"Good Morning and Welcome, to the White Tower. Are you in need of some assistance?"

 

Whence the time he could not tell. By time he meant whether it was dark, or the dawn, that husk of day which would illuminate his road. It was perhaps the last night he could wander on his own before fully embracing what had hopefully awaited him, the strength he longed for so much. Not easy, walking blind. The indicators he relied upon had been left to the wayside a fortnight ago. A different sphere swathed him as he strode away from the gardens, where the flowers flourished. Like the land they were strong and survived despite the harsh elements. The yellows, the tantalizing pinks dotted the branches around him, standing out from the fog that had thickened around everything else. Grey like the mist rising over the seas.

 

On the smooth pavement, his footing became uneasy, though the isolation of his steps became less pronounced. Sun-darkened hawkers crowed, propelling him onwards in short bursts of stumbles. That spurt of thirteen’s awkwardness plagued him anew at fifteen, making the figure gangly and full of angles. Even the call of the marketplace could not wake his emotions, and the tinges and wisps in the fog courted his eyes like a coy mistress, framing the window of his freedom as Ashley started. Turning at the gate, he threw a hurried look over his shoulder. Eyeing the coltish woman in green, he gave a grudging nod at her style of dress. Simplicity improved her beauty.

 

The face of the White Tower proved a warm, friendly one. A fresh face that was alive. He marvelled, struck by delight at her merry presence, and for the first time, glimpsed why a man or woman would dedicate one’s life to training and safeguarding. In marble, an Aes Sedai was poised with grace, but the elegance of its subject in flesh stole his breath away. He felt buoyed, as if he had a good night’s rest under his belt. Was that a spell the Aes Sedai had cast on him? Her agelessness was obvious, and yet, it was smooth, not unlike the colours in the fog. Bright, grey eyes belied the truth, and the smile twisting the corners of her mouth was knowing and kind. A smile that softened and tugged at him too, good feelings roused in response. Perhaps it was only natural to want to reciprocate what others brought to the world. ‘Twas so easy just to trust the woman it terrified him later on.

 

For the moment, her lilt possessed the crisp, intelligent speech of the Cairheinin, city of the eternal sun. He wondered which faction her loyalties belonged to, amongst the Ajahs. Whichever it was, he liked their representative. Morning dew wetted his chapped lips, cracking them into a grin, eager to please. Bent, he greeted her under the guise of a bow. “Good morning, Aes Sedai. I’m dreadfully lost, to be honest. Forgot my Tar Valon map, you see. Where can a recruit join up if he’s interested in a trainee’s life?” Another, rather familiar scene caught his attention, quickened his expression. From there he could not tell the face, but it turned upward as if a heliotrope to the heavens, and was so near what he had been thinking he blurted, “oh I say, what’s that you’re painting?” As soon as the words tumbled out he wanted to recall them. Perhaps he should have just not wasted the Sister’s time and asked somebody else, there were others crossing into the walkway now. Refusing would certainly be better than being in her debt. What mother would think of him treading on an Aes Sedai's toes, he dared not venture. What happens in Tar Valon, stays in the city.

 

Verra & Lashley

Definitely just a boy, then? Slight amusement touched the corners of her mouth, making them curve upward in a more dominant fashion than before. The open appraisal that she was receiving was something that had made faint red blushes rouge her cheeks as an Accepted, and as a Novice, simply look back, since she had never encountered such a thing before. Discovery and Etiquette rarely mixed in her opinion, which was why when his eyes strayed to the canvas not so far behind them, Vera did not mind. Had she been a newer Sister, she might’ve indulged in the opportunity that was being presented. Taken it with pleasure that would unfold by giving her chance enough to look closely at the boy, examined his face and smile and in turn, even his nature.

 

Lucky then that this one didn’t need any more deliberation than a fleeting glance at his eyes. Grey like the mist, grey like her own, but different. When you were young, there was a spark in your eyes that kept you spirited, making you the envy of other, less youthful creatures that could recognise it for what it was. The spark defined everything that was curious, so that when something-or someone-different came into view during the journey, wonder spilled out of the eyes. And as the boy had risen from his bow, you could tell that his eyes held the same. Once the eyes had it, so did the face and Vera acknowledged the returned smile with a polite nod.

 

Now that the first pleasantries were cast aside, more cloaked truths piqued her interest.  His origin, for one. There was no curling in his tongue, no clip to his accent that would give away any one nation, because to Vera it sounded like a fabric woven of many. A traveller? Not just any explorer, surely. There was something quaintly mellifluous to him that she could sense clearly, albeit it was a skill taken from a meeting with another. Her first such encounter had been a man named Gillie Cole. She had not recognised music’s mark on him until much later in their time together, but in the precious moments she had heard him and seen him, a little of that music was left within her, so that she could use it today, to tell between one face and another.

 

I would name you Tinker boy, but that you wish to bear a sword. A smile dimpled her cheeks as she responded, and the brief seconds of nostalgia that had taken a hold of her while remembering her old friend, faded. “You ask many questions, but you’ll learn if you stay in the Warders’ Yard, that most will consider this a good thing.” Cairma certainly never minded when Vera found herself puzzling and even stuck, but then again, Vera might’ve been lucky and gotten one of the most patient mentors around. Either way, she reflected, if the boy wished to succeed, he would have to fend for himself. Even as she firmed these thoughts into her head, she put a little note aside that adopted the role of a reminder- the next time she was training, she would check on her new acquaintance.

“As for what I’m painting, see for yourself.” She stepped away from the unfinished canvas, yielding to the young boy’s curiousity as she too, gave the work a critical eye, letting it roam up and down to see where adjustments were needed the most. She had chosen the scene because of the depth it held, the potential it had to hold a meaning for every pair of eyes that looked upon it. It was simple, but in her opinion, not too simple. Newly added bushes gleamed in bright greens, making Vera wonder what would happen if she was to add more yellow. The boy himself had stepped closer to the painting, which she wouldn’t have advised him to do unless he cared for the smell of fresh paint.

 

It was as he turned, so that his posture was exactly that of the person in the painting itself, that her thoughts scattered and shaped into a new focus. The meaning behind the unknown face and person had been that he or she would represent the feeling that the Tower impressed on all. As the boy leaned ever so slightly, so that the light splashed on his face, endowing it with gentle warmth. You pair that with the boy’s own personality, and you had the face. The face she’d been looking for.

“What do you think of it? It’s nowhere near done, though.”

 

Vera Cadsanome

Gray Sister

 

OOC: In true spirit of the original Morning Glory thread. Though I reckon she'd lead Ashley to the Yard first, and ask him for a free day when she can umm, paint him? xD

Dusty old road, down the way, leaving the memories behind me

 

The canvas was a landscape of green and white, emulating the ground they stood on. Upon closer scrutiny, and encouraged by the Aes Sedai's smile he took one, followed by a few more steps nearer until his nose almost pressed the surface, which protruded in flakes and pebbles of pastel. He decided the painting was meant to be observed farther away, so one did not have the image of a midgefly getting stuck in its fields. The smell of paint repelled at his senses, and he gave way to the violent touch of nausea.

 

True to his curious nature, Ashley turned back to consider the Aes Sedai. Her eyes were arresting and grey, but like different tints in a pearl, almost translucent. A faraway look had possessed them, filling him with appreciation. He attended her with patience, the uneasiness fading from his centre. Perhaps she was a brown, but she seemed neither absentminded nor a recluse, only deep in the verses of thought or maybe a tune. Bookkeepers rarely had that sun-kissed complexion, compounded by a lithe muscle tone. Preoccupied or no she had kept in shape, something he couldn’t say much for himself, but training would change this, and build a sort of presence.

 

From a faraway stance, he marveled at her eye for detail, how the verve green curl of a blade, the wisp of a cloud, those could bring the audience forth, their gaze affix to the figure drawn in the painting. It was a lad those invisible lines delineated, and instead of a face he had fuzziness, as if the artist had assayed many drafts, none of which fulfilled that particular vision. There was no blankness in the boy’s countenance, in the suggestive form of the jaw, the lift of his head he somehow conveyed a vitality that warmed Ashley’s face. To those in the Yards, the Tower was so important that one would train so to protect and die for the Aes Sedai, if need be. His heart sheltered the selfish desire to live his life without bonds, the ties that meant obligations and difficult choices not to his liking. Yet next to the dying embers was a cherry red coal, one that determined to learn, to consume this opportunity as the sands of time streamed through his fingertips. He knew one fact already, that the streets of Tar Valon weren’t paved with gold, unless one counted the hawkers’ wares. And somehow the bile-inducing smell of paint had dissipated when he regarded the Tower and compared it to its replica.

 

Approaching the Aes Sedai in several strides, he stopped short and thanked her for showing him her work, introducing himself only as Ashley. Then he decided to venture another question, inquiring as to what she had been thinking when she painted the boy. In the wagons, the answers were fascinating when the craftspeople step back and explain the germ of an idea, or the inspirations that seized them in bouts of creativity. Besides, she approved of questions, and he had always been more friendly than smart.