The Tower and the Pin (Basaar Taarol's Arrival)

Basaar Taarol had settled in for the night in the Dedicated barracks, his coat hanging on a peg beside his bed. As he lay back, he closed his eyes and though back over the past two months he had been enrolled as a soldier and then a Dedicated at the Black Tower.

Basaar remembered his first day at the Tower quite clearly. When he, his father, and two sisters arrived at Caemlyn, he told his father that if he wasn't able to help combat those who had taken his home in some meaningful way, he would never be able to live with himself. Leaving his family, he managed to convince the fellow who led the supply caravan to take him to the Tower.

Upon arriving at the Tower he told of himself, how he was a skilled blacksmith, and sought work here. The Asha'man at the gate looked at him queerly and directed him to where he could find quarters. He was told that all men seeking to live at the Tower were required to be tested for the ability to channel.

It had been incredibly boring, staring at the flame the blackcoat channeled, until, about a quarter of an hour, he felt something inside him quiver in time to the flame. Flabergasted he looked to the man's face. "Well, my new brother. Welcome to the Black Tower"

He had had barely enough time to  set his scant belongings down before he had been tested, and was taken to the barrack where the soldiers were housed.

For the next month, he saw the Power, spoke the Power, ate with the Power and slept with the Power. He had been told of the washout rate, by burnout, injury, or death, and now he realized why.

Time flew by and just barely a week ago, he had been awarded the silver Sword pin. Basaar had though he had been fit before, but between the near constant channelling of saidin, and his training with his warhammer, he went to bed more than exhausted every night.

His warhammer was propped up by the head of his bed, a forty pound monstrosity of a weapon. One head was flat for crushing, the other a wicked spike, sticking out eight inches long, with both edges sharpened. It was completely devoid of any symbol or device, like his new life here. The moment he spied it in the aarmory, he knoew it was his. Most of the men training here could barely lift it, but he could sling it about with ease, if not skill. It was less raw strength that allowed this, but an intimate knowledge of balance and interplaying forces.

Basaar had managed to crush his own knee two weeks ago, and had been told to keep fighting my the weaponmaster. Basaar hobbled into the infimary three hours later, and had it healed, nearly to how it had been before he nailed it. It barely twinged now.

Basaar rolled over, closing his eyes, knowing that he only had a couple of hours to rest before roll call was called the nest morning.

OOC: blarg. This took me forever, and it still sucks. Thats what I get for being a perfectionist i suppose...

I tried to be as general as possible, as I really don't know much about the inner workings of the Tower yet

For whoever posts next, just do whatever, waking me up, havinng me show up somewhere, i dont really care :)