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(OOC: Apologies both for the redonkulous delay and the awkward post. Trying to get my brain back in the game!))

Jarrick was polite enough to turn a bit away and allow the two their moment of intimacy with some semblance of privacy. As much as could be given with him standing in the room, after all. Jarrick was decidedly relieved that Traedon had lowered his blade; he was but a merchant's son, after all. No desire to try crossing blades with even a retired soldier. That was a decidedly fool idea after all.

Byron, also, was not terribly interested in crossing blades with Traedon. Not out of any particular fear of the man's potential skill. More so that the man didn't deserve the respect of a duel. Where Jarrick might not have had the eye for such things, Byron was well aware of the distant look in Merayin's eyes as she looked upon her 'loving husband.' His mind raced to decide just how to do away with the man.

Some small part of him found her surprise at his little façade pleasantly amusing. It was a good sign really; there had been a moment's doubt as if she were honestly unsure, at least for a moment, if he were really who she had first thought he was. Scenarios were played out and dismissed in his mind; he couldn't simply shank the man inside the house. That could create a mess that would be hard to clean up and hide. And of course, Merayin didn't need to be seeing that.

So outside then. And how to get the man outside without worries of a trap? And preferably without a sword in hand. To fetch things from his saddle bags, perhaps? Non-existent saddle bags, of course. Or perhaps to step out for a pipe? No, the man seemed the type to smoke indoors.

"Well, I've no wish to intrude longer then needed. If you wouldn't mind helping me a moment? I've two small lock boxes in my saddle bags and a satchel of papers that will need Lady Aloise's pen." He tapped the same pouch as he had indicated to before then gestured vaguely towards the door, "In case of horse thieves and bandits, I carried a pittance on my person. But, the Light shine's and the Creator blesses as there were no such problems. Just one wayward daughter, which in itself was quite the blessing aye?"

The poor man wouldn't be be making it more then five strides past the door before Byron would have to stick him. There was no horse outside, after all. A wound to the back simply wouldn't due, but the fellow would have little need to worry of Jarrick, who's sword still hung from a peg by the door. He would explain it all afterwards, and look for a way to set things right with Merayin afterwards. Construct a workable story, feign signs of a duel. Notching the man's blade would be a touch annoying, and a suitable pattern of scuffles...probably a bit excessive, but he hadn't made it so far by doing things half-minded.

( ^__________^ )

One wayward daughter? If those words were on purpose, his way of trying to tell her he knew, she didn't understand it, just like Outside?  Merayin’s inward question blinked big eyed fear morphing into curiosity so like her daughters constant wide eyed looks. She shared many sweet features with her babies. Chin and eyes, heart-shaped face and long hair.  But as fun and sweet as little-girl Mery had been, her daughters took their mothers face and made it exceptionally expressive and animated beyond her slightly more reasonable, down to earth emotions allowed (or used to allow).  It was with that doe-eyed anticipation that Mery watched the two men walk right out the front door and she had no idea why.  Did Byron, It is Byron, yes, she reassured herself it was him as confusion realized his sword waited on that peg, actually have a lockbox?  

She didn't follow herself of course. She stayed within.  Perhaps from intuition or perhaps because Elseen was still within in these walls, but she just had a feeling that she did not want to follow.  Although still practically a girl herself despite the lines around her eyes, she had to remember the twins were more than half way grown up themselves. Older in fact now than when she gave birth to them!  She couldn’t contemplate that, imagining Elsae or Elseen pregnant. Light forbid!  At least Elsae was in Tar Valon, she hoped.  Or somewhere between Jarra and Tar Valon, hopefully alive.  Josameen took her.  She has Josameen.  That was a reassuring thought.

She crossed to one of the windows, standing close to the hidden folds of a winter curtain and ever so slightly pulled back the edge. What she saw, if anything, only reminded her that if her girls fell so honestly in love as she herself had at their same age, still was, she would be happy for them.  Even if one ended up with a family of her own to raise.

It was then that she ghosted from the room in a flurry fast thoughts and stripping the apron as she went. In the back of her wardrobe she rummaged for a pair of bags, already packed, and settled into her warmest cloak faster than ever in her life.  Warm and good for a journey, she looked otherwise like any good village wife might.. Hair still up from before, she had only a woolen scarf and gloves to retrieve and she was transformed into a lady ready for a journey only so swiftly arranged because of prior planning. And the prepacked bags of course.

She waited for Byron in the hallway, bags at her feet, and anxiously smoothed her sleeves and coat over and over again. Right in the same spot where she first saw him and her heart stopped. It was clear Merayin’s plans did not include staying here.  Without Elseen, Elsae, Josameen, or her husband, she had no reason to stay.  Not even for a house she could not manage by herself, and didn’t care to try.  And she had quite the plan for the house also.  There was a reason she’d the kicked the cat out earlier afterall and why all the oil lamps were full to the brim throughout every room.

She held it together just enough that when he came back in, she somehow managed to not leap up for a neck-wrapping, breath-squeezing, nose-nuzzling hug.  She just stood there, blinking away some heat rimming red eyes.  It was obvious that she knew it was 'safe' now to speak freely given the spillage of words to come, but accorded some sense of decorum for the situation. And what a situation it was!  And no because of a stuffy-high born sort of way, but because she had no idea if it was okay..or maybe because she was afraid he wouldn't want her to, given what he knew now of her choices..or maybe because she had been so by herself for so long she forgot what it was like to have someone to lean on or someone who would want her to lean on him..or a thousand other reasons. She also never used to worry so much about what other people thought.

And maybe, just maybe what she saw behind that curtain made her just a little bit afraid. Her husband, she refused to think his name, should not have been easy to slump, yet he had, and Byron's sword had been far from reach. Who had this boy grown to become? The question of it filled her look just as did the realization soon after that she didn't care. The Dragon Reborn himself, she wouldn't care.

"..I...”, there was so much to say!  And no time to say it.  She smoothed her sleeves across her wrists and looked away in sudden bashful shame.  She never used to be bashful.  Certainly Elsae and Elseen were not shy.  ”I am so, so sorry. Will you ever forgive me?  I didn't have any other choice. ... Would never have. …” What he must think of her choices.  Her imagination flashed with the wish that she had not given into desperation and taken her chances with the road all those years ago instead of...instead of this.  

She looked up, a blossom of hope at the end of winter speaking toward the change of season to come.  ”I didn't want to believe when they said..you’d been executed...now here you are.". Her smile grew, as though saying it out loud somehow made it seem more real but it was clear she never thought she’d see him again.  Except of course every time one of the twins laughed in their clear, sing-song voices.

”Thank you...” A dry throat mouthed the words, unsure if she thanked him or the Light itself for this great, undeserved blessing.  She took half a step forward, but after those first words for the reunion with a boy long lost from her life, she was not sure if it was okay to leap exhaustion into his arms.  

"Oh my goodness. I have to tell you something.” She was surprised to find butterflies in her stomach, but looked briefly over her shoulder anyway toward the direction Elseen had taken earlier. Indication of what she would be saying next.  She'd tell the girls someday too, soon probably, but she didn't particularly want Elseen to find out at the same time as her father.  And there was no guarantee she would ever even find Elsae again let alone tell her the truth.  And how sorry she was.

True to Byron's thoughts, Traedon hardly made it five strides past the door before becoming acutely aware that there was indeed no horse outside. The night shadowed yard was devoid of life. But, Traedon was given no time to toss about accusations or reach for a blade; the moment the man spun to face the simple merchant's son Jarrick, he was greeted by a flash of pain in his chest and Jarrick's hand over his heart in a tell tale, and all-too-calm stabbing motion.

The the look in the man's eyes was memorable. Confusion slowly turned to a resigned understanding, and Byron had to give the man some credit. He did not struggle or scream or cry, but Byron's other hand had wedged two fingers against the man's throat and jaw, locking it shut and closing the windpipe in a vice-like grip just in case. The nail, procured from a seam in Byron's jacket, was plunged into the man's heart; the tool was perfect for such things. Blades had an annoying tendency of getting wedged between ribs if one were so careless as to hold it vertical rather then horizontal to the run of the bones. And with the sharpened tip, it could still just as easily dig into the bone rather then glance off and plunge deeper as was wanted. But a nail, with so small a tip, and not particularly sharp, could be driven through with little fuss. And one could discard a nail without much worry; they were a copper penny a dozen, where a good knife could run a silver mark or more.

Byron helped the man down rather then leaving him to fall, sharing his fading gaze all the way. His expression was calm and cold, without regret or remorse. What was done was done, and the bastard had deserved it. Deserved worse, honestly, but while Byron was willing to murder, there was no need to sink to the level of the one being killed. Once the light was gone from the man's eyes and his body limp, Byron ground the nail in the man's chest a bit, just to be sure, then pulled it free and calmly cleaned it off. Another advantage of so small a weapon was that the wound bleed little, so long as you kept it embedded until the heart had stilled of course. A firm hand to the wound for added pressure also helped, of course. The nail was calmly cleaned on Traedon's shirt, close to the wound, then returned to it's hiding place in the seam of his jacket.

Byron left Traedon where he lay for the moment and returned to the house. He would have to understand Merayin's plans before deciding what to do with the body. And upon entering and seeing her with bags packed and ready to go, he was glad he hadn't bothered making it seem a duel. He'd simply discard the body in the woods for the scavengers. The guise of Jarrick was gone for the moment, although he wasn't sure what to do around Elseen. The child could be a bit of a problem farther down the road, but Byron refused to tie up loose ends as he normally would. After all, he had done this for Merayin and her children.

For having just murdered a man, and her husband at that, he was decidedly relaxed as he regarded her with all her bubbling emotions and excitement. He offered a charming smile, so much like the one he wore all those years ago, only polished with time. "So that's what they said is it? Never stuck around to find out. Suppose they didn't want to be seen with egg on their face. Now then, enough of all this. Truthfully, I am in a bit of a hurry this night, and only found myself here through the Creator's will alone." His smile had a tinge of gratitude at that; after all, had he never run into Elseen in the woods he never would have come to visit. And things would have played out much differently in this household that night.

"If you are wanting to be off to Tar Valon, I shall make arrangements by morning. The body's remains will be gone by week's end, and all anyone will find here is an empty house burned to the ground." Had he time, and were it a city and not a quiet country side, he could easily have found some stand-ins to leave in the ashes to ward off any suspicion. But, finding three homeless folk in this neck of the woods, in one night, was simply wishful thinking. No, let the authorities think what they wanted, as they'd never find hide nor hair of the Merayin's family again.

He could not apologize for his so-sudden disappearance from her life all those years ago, nor for his long years of absence. Nor even for his hurried manner this night; he was but a simple piece in the game at large, and the Wheel weaved him as it willed after all. And his rather exact mention of Tar Valon was offered with a ghost of a knowing grin; he'd give no explanations this night though. Perhaps at a later date, after his work with his current patron was over and he was back to playing a much more preferred role. One not so unpleasant as his true self.

"Found yourself here?"  The light in Merayin's smile didn't fade at the softly spoken question.  She also wasn't sure what to ask after first.  The Creator, his being in a hurry, what arrangements, or how the body would be gone by the week's end, but it was the soft follow-up question that truly struck Merayin to stillness, "Tar Valon?"

His smile was charming and she almost let escape a most girlish sort of laugh of her own.  By the minute, Merayin was growing happier in her newfound freedom.  Byron’s ghost of a knowing grin emphasized the city so named as her destination but it only contributed to the confusion swirling behind such happy eyes blinking away ignorantly.  Make no mistake, Merayin Aloise's was a sharp and studied mind with some education of her own as a girl which she passed on to her twins.  She taught them to read and write, some about history and what she remembered about the lay of the land in Jehannah around the capital and the Queen.  But she was no woman weaned from ignorance at the hands of Aes Sedai to learn ways of the Great Game.  What she absorbed from her family's lifestyle before taking up a permanent country residence could hardly compare to the devious education children are spoonfed in the more sinister countries of the Cairhien courts or Domani merchants.  Merayin believed in the basic goodness of people and likely could forgive a Darkfriend their ways if they were truly repentant.  Perhaps that was how she managed to raise her daughters near to adulthood before truly understanding just the manner of man she had selected as a husband, although honestly she didn't have much of a choice.  Perhaps that was also why she was tempted to go and see him.

She thoughtfully looked at the door beyond his encouraging smile and almost went for another look out in the yard, just to make sure 'what was done was done' but looking back upon Byron's semi-stern suggestons mixed with his relaxed posture, she complied with his confident urgings instead.  Traedon had never so much as raised his voice at her nor gripped with too firm a hand on hers.  She had to bite her tongue to keep some of the glisten from her eyes.  How swiftly Merayin found herself comparing the two, Trey and Byron, and one wasn't even cold yet.  For how conflicting her emotions were about Trey, she never feared him.  Perhaps it was unease of knowing how easily Byron had slumped her husband, but Merayin distinctly did not want to cross him.

"No, please no."  Sweet as the honeybee hive she kept out back, Mery's full lipped enchantment beamed through the brave tears.  "Tonight.  Now.  Please, I can't stay here until morning.  I can't stay another hour.  I'll suffocate, Creator's good graces but the very air chokes me."  She toe-nudged one of the bags by her shoes.  "A ship waits for us.  Bound for Ebou Dar before dawn's first light."  If anyone had checked, he would have found their last remaining horse already saddled in the barn.  "And Mistress Hennah is coming tomorrow to mince up squash with me for canning."  All she would find, sadly, was the charred remains of their home (minus a few travel-sized trinkets for future bartering) and with the amount of oil she planned to bathe the poisoned Trey with, she would likely not even find so much his pile of ashes.  Of course, that wouldn’t happen with him out in the yard now.  He was suppose to die sipping on brandy.  At least the cow and goats and fowl could be adopted by what was arguably the most deserving family in the district when the wizened older lady arrived.  For someone without an inclination for the devious ways of the Great Game, Merayin was thorough (and generous).

So perhaps the only difference that Byron's presence made tonight, (other than filling a gaping hole filled in with mourning) was the fact that she would sleep better at night without having to bear listening to the drawn out gurgles of a poisoned throat yearning weakly for death to come quickly.  It was why she wanted Elseen far from here when such a thing transpired.  Her child should never be exposed to such a devastating sound as Merayin imagined would fill these walls with Trey's final, loathsome yowls.  She barely thought she would be able to stand it.

"From there.  I'll barter passage to Tear, somehow."  Ship was certainly the fastest and the least traceable, especially when she gave over a new name for herself when they traded tickets for a sea faring vessel, but something dawned on her when she continued.  "Then to Tar Valon.  That's what I have to tell you, we have another daughter.  Her name is Elsae and the sweetest, strangest girl to ever warm your heart.  She is suppose to be there, anyway.”  A nervous chew on her lower lip and she took solace in silently repeating the fast version of her daily prayers for Elsae's safe journey.  "Wait, did I already mention Tar Valon?"  Had she said it already?  He acted as if he knew all along where they were going.  Some of the confusion overtook her enthusiasm, slowly, like the realization had in her (late) husband's eyes minutes ago.  

She crossed closer.  "Wait, you aren’t coming with us?"  The Creator’s will alone?  She sighed at that thought and her smile darkened a little and something occurred to her that might explain a lot.  ”Do you have another way to get us there?  Its okay if you do, you can tell me.  If you can channel that is.”  Backcountry ladies pretty much knew nothing except rumor clouded by the influence of the Children’s and the Prophet’ presence when it came to this sort of thing.  By the encouraging and comforting look in her eye, she wouldn’t care if Byron was doomed to stir with the Dark One’s and fall into his cookpot of insanity with the rest of the poor men who could channel.  





Elseen reconstructed herself in the nightshade of the yard after scampering out her window for what must have been the hundredth time.  It'd taken her many long minutes sitting on Elsae's bed to work up the nerve to make another try at this.  If her father found out, he would be most displeased, and as she came around to the front of the house, she tried to not think about her mother's sad looks either.

Now the previous flight of the parakeet was not quite so whimisical this time around.  As she peered around the edge of the house to seek out the state of the front door, she was more like a cat padding up silently upon a doormouse.  And when she saw that the candles were still burning inside, the door was closed, and nothing seemed to be moving about she stepped out on drawn breath and scuttled toward the gate.  

But there was something there along the way some eight or so steps (her sized steps) from the doorstop and she stopped dead in her tracks to look at the man-sized lump in the darkness.  It drew a frown down her brows and pushed her lips together.  "Papa?"  She called out to it, unaware of the volume of her sweet voice, but checked the door eagerly in just case.  

She came to her knees in the dirt beside her father and brushed some of his hair from his forehead with the tip of one finger.  The skin on his forehead was still soft and when Elseen gently crossed her arm over him and rested her cheek on his chest, she tried not to cry as she realized he was as warm as he always was.  Just like all the winter nights she was cold and found herself scooped up in a blanket and cuddled down in his arms to go to sleep by the fire.

She stayed like that for a while until the oddness of resting her cheek on a chest that was not rising and falling like it should settled in.  It was then that she wiped away something cold from the side of her face with the back of one hand.  There wasn't much blood to find, but it still ended up on Elseen's cheek (and sleeve) anyway.  Plopping a cheek on a nail-hole would do that or maybe it was the Creator’s will also.

Now Elseen had never known what it was to hate someone before, but staring daggers the front door, it seemed she was a natural at it.  

The night was dragging on, tearing away valuable time from the tasks he had at hand. There was so much work to be done already...but, this was as the Wheel weaved, and he would see it through. He watched her with babble, a hint of the opening flood gates of emotion she must have kept barred and sealed all this years, and showed no signs of judging her poorly for it. She had had an unpleasant go of things, from what he could tell. The body cooling in the dirt was just the first step in letting her heal.

She had thought things through well enough, but did she really understand how expensive such things could be? To charter passage on a ship these days was a risky affair, and especially through the southern oceans. It was broaking on storm season, and who knew what sort of trouble those Seanchan bastards were stirring? And if Elsae could Channel, what of Merayin? Or Elseen? No, far too risky. He certainly could not bring the two with him though...no, far too dangerous both for them and for his task, and those that sought to employ him.

Just how could she think he could Channel? A ludicrous thought, that was. That was a gift for those meant to play the centre stage in the stories, or for the villains of course. He was neither, albeit only barely on the behalf of the latter. He quietly pulled his sword belt from the hook on the wall and latched it about his waist with practised ease, his head turned slightly to regard the closed door. Someone was out there, someone quiet. His mind raced a moment, pondered the possibilities, then another hint of sound painted the image for him. Elseen had found the body. An unpleasant turn of events, that was.

"I've other roads to walk, but I shall see to it that you reach Tar Valon safely. And no, dear girl, I cannot Channel." He cast her a ghost of a bemused grin, although there was a hint of discontent to it, due to the situation. "See to your daughter. Tell her whatever you must, but let her know she shall not see Jarrick again. She need not know who I really am." He indicated briefly to the door, for her to know what he meant by her daughter, and crossed towards the back hall. "Please, wait until morning. Just a few more hours." He'd be hard pressed to make such a time-table, but he hadn't much choice. Had things played out on his own schedule, the entire thing would have taken weeks of preparation.

He would exit the house through the back, and wait for Elseen to be properly under her mother's watch inside the house. Once it was clear, he would do away with the body, neatly stuffing the tiny wound with some cloth torn from the dead man's clothes then carrying the remains out into the nearby forest. It wasn't much in size, but there would be scavengers a-plenty within, and the body would be gone in days, the bones eventually scattered and tucked away in burrows and lairs for miles around. Nature was a wonderful ally when it came to such unpleasant deeds. A bit of added attention would see to it that there would be little difficulties for the animals.

The road from the Aloise homestead would bring him towards the township of Jarra, and eventually the neatly aligned torches and fires of the Whitecloak camp came into view. Stopped on a high point in the road, he could clearly make out the village itself on the far side of the river, and next to it another large camp, clearly martial in nature. He cocked a smile, an idea already forming in his head, and continued on towards the bridge, the village, and the camp on the far side, easily avoiding the only patrol of Whitecloaks as they took to holding torches even from horseback. The twits.

His suspicions were easily confirmed with one very brief stop in the village; a band of mercenaries, employed to mirror the movement of the Whitecloaks through the region. A few more questions painted the band in surprisingly fond light, even though they had only been present a few days they had yet to cause any real trouble for the town other then heavier coin purses and emptier cellars. And soon enough, he was approaching the camp, hailing the sentries cheerfully and met with casual professionalism; they expected no trouble but weren't so foolish as to simply let him waltz through.

Within minutes of his arrival, he was standing outside a trio of mismatched pavilions circled around tarps and canvas to form a sort of command tent, and from within was the muffled sounds of conversation and the dim glow of lanterns. One of his escorts wrapped knuckles on a wooden plank sunk into the earth next to the entrance flaps then stepped within to announce a visitor, and soon enough Byron, still under the guise of Jarrick from somewhere in Andor, was ushered in.

Byron was greeted by a group of war-weary men and women. Most carried themselves with the air of professional soldiers, all straight backed and vaguely dour looking, although Byron was of the opinion it was mostly a show for his benefit. None wore armour nor carried weapons at their belt, although there seemed to be no shortage of blades and cudgels in easy reach doubling as paper weights or stored neatly around the tent.

The group was quiet as he entered, clearly waiting to see what cards he had to bring to the table. At such an hour, there were few well-to-do callers that weren’t up to no good, and while the company needed the extra coin these were usually the sorts of jobs they shied away from.

After letting the moment draw out to the verge of being awkward, a badly scared older man cleared his throat, the sound discomfortingly wet. His voice was a quiet rasp, drawing attention to the scar along the side of his neck, hinting to the wound that must have nearly robbed him of his life some time ago. “It’s late. Say your piece. We’ve no shortage of work with those silver spoons across the river.”

He stepped up to the table then, "I need to hire an escort for two people. I understand you have other issues, but some added coin is never a bad thing, aye?"

Another older man next to him, the skin around his eyes crinkled from old burn scars and the eyes themselves somewhat milky and vague, leaned heavily on the table while working a sizeable wad of tobac against his lip, before turning to spit into a battered tankard he kept at hand. His days of spittoon-spitting were long gone likely, thanks to poor eyesight. “Don’t much sound Andoran, does he?”

Some of the others, sergeants and other officers from the looks of them and all at least a few years younger and a few scars cleaner than the two that had spoken, glanced at the newcomer for a moment to size him up. Byron met their stares in return, although one eyebrow raised for the towering brute and an out-of-place Domani woman, surely a merchant from the look of her.

“Tarabon. Originally. My parents, anyways. There is a woman and her daughter, not too far from here. They need to be seen safely to Tar Valon. And has to leave tonight.” He was being decidedly candid, but again the time constraints were forcing his hand far too much for his own liking. Something like this would have normally taken him weeks to arrange…there were bribes and blackmail to be readied, stories to be constructed and distractions arranged. Women were so bloody complicated.

The heavy set man, more hulking brute then even most of the larger Warders, grunted and shook his head, “Why the rush, proper? Leaving her husband to run away with you?” A bit of common-soldier slang in reference to the rich or noble-born and their penchance for well starched collars and fine clothes. Although Byron’s clothes were a bit travel worn, they were still a far cry nicer than anything these mercenaries were wearing.

The throat-scarred man leveled a displeased gaze at the hulking brute, who sighed tiredly and nodded his apology to the older man, but they group seemed to expect him to answer the question anyways. So he did, more or less. “I killed her husband, actually. And she is running away to friends to start a new life. The man was…distasteful. A marriage of necessity, not love, and if I knew half of what I expected to be true, he would still be dying. Sooner they are away, the better.”

The group grew more dour at that, sharing glances but the sergeants and younger officers seemed intent to wait on the orders of the older two officers, while the Domani merchant woman drummed her fingers on the table in an attempt to hide her own interest in the situation. It was clear the elder officers were thinking it over.

“Sir, I’ve oft’n entertained the idea of bein’ off to Tar Valon, as ya well know. Let ‘em copy the company histories, what ones we still have that is. Figure it’s wise, seein’ as how much we lost, and this way there’ll always be a spare right Sir?" An older man, almost bookish save for the scars on his forearms from his younger years of soldiering.

The throat-scarred man, the Sir, and his burned compatriot both shot the speaker a comically similar glare…comical if not for the scars, of course. The sort of ‘you are an idiot’ glare when someone shows their cards far too soon. This would work out in Byron’s favor now for sure…if they had volunteers, or legitimate reasons for the trip, they would be funding and Byron investing for the added company. Likely saved him an entire digit from the end price.

“Thank you, Historian.” The whispered voice was dripping with sarcasm that the old story-keeper clearly picked up on. It only took the fellow a moment to realize where he went wrong and he studiously opted to remain quiet, sipping a cup of cold tea to occupy himself. “Quartermaster. Drum up an expense account. Colour Sergeant, volunteers. You say it is a woman and daughter? First Sister, you are squad leader.”

The only female soldier at the table, a woman of light build and a barely checked fire in her eyes at the announcement, rubbed at the bridge of her noes in obvious distaste for the order, but she said nothing, merely nodding and likely pondering all sorts of creative oaths and curses.

The Quartermaster was another man for whom years of soldiering had not been kind. The right sleeve of his tunic was neatly folded and pinned at the shoulder, being as there was no arm there to be needing it, and as he stepped away from the table to a writing bench against the wall of the tent, Byron noticed that the right leg was missing below the knee, replaced by a well-polished peg. “Aye, Sir. Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”

The out-of-place woman at the table, a Domani merchant-woman if he hadn’t missed his guess, circled the table to the Quartermaster, likely to offer a few tips on prices to be expected on the roads, although Byron did notice her watching him from the corner of her eye, studying and weighing. Luckily, he was fairly used to that sort of treatment from life around the Tower, but it still raised some warning flags in his mind. Just why was she doing it? An interesting tidbit to be filed away for later, perhaps. Much later, considering how busy he would be for the foreseeable future.

The situation did not call for small talk, and Byron, or Jarrick really, was in no situation to start any. This was a simple business transaction, and he had to let them think he had done his homework…everything to this point had been bluff and conjecture; he couldn’t have been sure they would be willing to accept such a small job as this, after all, but some of these smaller mercenary bands were known to do it. Helped bring in some extra coin and spread their name and reputation a bit.

The other sergeants and officers around the table broke off and left after a few words in regards to volunteers. Like any military unit, even mercenaries, the term ‘volunteer’ was perhaps better put as ‘voluntold.’ Some soldiers around the camp would soon be kicked out of bedrolls or pulled away from camp fires with orders to get their kit together. The one named ‘First Sister’ seemed to have collected herself enough that when she left she managed a proper salute for the Sir and Colour Sergeant. The Historian bowed out as well to collect his own things, clearly keeping his eagerness in check, barely hiding a smile.

At the Colour Sergeant’s signal, Byron poured himself a cup of tea and stepped up to the table the group had been surrounding. Crude maps of the area, with various rocks and other paperweights used to mark important locations along what he assumed to be the adjacent river. Fords and bridges, perhaps?

The Quartermaster finally turned away from his collaboration with the Merchant and returned to the table; he’d been without the and arm for years, if Byron was on the mark, moving with practiced ease almost on par with someone with all their limbs. “Colour Sergeant. Estimation of expenses broken for pay of troops, maintenance and feed of horses and equipment, and an allowance for unforeseen expenses.”

The Colour Sergeant growled in annoyance as he tried to read the paper handed to him, holding it far from his face and tilting his head down, peering up almost across his eyebrows as if trying to see over the cataracts on his eyes, then sighed quietly and handed it to the Sir to peruse instead, grumbling something about bad lighting in the tent.

The Merchant finally spoke up, retrieving her tea cup from her earlier place at the table, “There should be no trouble finding a boat between Arifel and Tar Valon, but one that can carry so many mounts is questionable. They will either have to split up and leave the horses and some men in the town while the others press on, or continue by land. Roads should be fine this time of year, but it would still be three weeks by horse over one by boat. So, we erred on the side of caution and assumed travel over-land. This of course will cost you more, sir, but I’m sure you understand.”

He nodded quietly and sipped his tea, letting them pour over their numbers. He already had a pretty good idea of what the end total would be, and was glad he had emptied that last supply cache in Andor. Jarrick made a point of having a tidy sum on him, being of influential birth, after all.

The Sir nodded quietly and handed the paper to Byron, who accepted it with a nod and glanced it over. It was all rather concisely laid out. Pay of the various soldiers by specialty and rank, number of mounts and fees for feed and upkeep. Travel expenses for inn or supplies for hard camp, and a hefty number at the bottom for river ship fees, broken down over the expenses and added time for over-land travel. The boats were expenses, but one week by boat was about the same as three weeks of inn fees. The final number wasn’t much more then he expected, allowing a profit for the company. There were also notations, deductions due to the Historian’s slip. 250 gold crowns for him to fund the whole thing became only 125 gold crowns due to the company’s own interests in the destination. He let out a mental sigh of relief; he hadn’t much more coin then that.

“Acceptable. Draft me a copy of this.” He produced a leather wallet from within his tunic and held it to the Quartermaster, “Writs. Draft up a notice of transaction for the issuing money lenders and I will sign and stamp.” The Quartermaster eyed the satchel with a hint of worry, then glanced questioningly at the Merchant, who just smiled and nodded, joining him at the writing desk again.

He then produced his coin purse, tugging the knot open and upending the contents on the table. Fat gold coins and heavy silver rained down into a tidy pile thanks to his guarding other hand, and he quickly flicked the coins about into two three piles. All the gold coins were left where they were. Most of the silver went back into the coin pouch, and the coppers and remaining small silver pennies and pieces went into another pouch he produced from a different pocket. “The gold for the First Sister, for incidental expenses for her and her men. This, for Mistress Merayin, and this for her daughter, Elseen.”

The Sir and Quartermaster glanced at the Merchant and Quartermaster. The woman had already given the writs a very careful examination and nodded her approval; they seemed legit, and were as the escorts would find out when they arrived at Tar Valon to cash them in. A bit old, but the accounts were still good. After this transaction, Jarrick of the Two Rivers was going to be quite thoroughly broke.

Byron tapped a finger on the map, “They live here. And must be away before sun rise. The daughter shall be problematic, I fear. She did not take well to me killing her father, but it was for the best for all involved." The Sir and Quartermaster nodded, and it didn’t take long for Byron to write up detailed directions.

Within the hour Byron was walking away from the camp, coin pouch gone, but he was glad to see that the escort was nearly assembled, the camp in all the organized chaos that marked a well functioning military force. And then he was gone into the night, off to find a change of clothes and identity and start planning his visit with the local Inquisitor.

Hardly an hour before sunrise, two wagons and near thirty horses were coming to a rest infront of Merayin’s home. Five people dismounted and approached the front door, the First Sister, the Historian, and three soldiers of the company. One wore what seemed to be a Tearan breastplate, the guilding plucked away and sold and the crest neatly etched away and smoothed, and the other two were the wagon drivers, a strange pair of men wearing scavenged bits and pieces of armour. Despite their armour and weapons, none seemed particularly threatening; that wasn’t the point of this visit, after all.

The First Sister knocked loudly. She wasn’t a large woman by any stretch of the imagination; short of stature and light of built, perfectly suited to the task of Outrider. She wore simple leather armours and had only a long knife at her belt, her other weapons stashed with her horse. Close cropped brown hair was neatly kept back from her eyes with a simple headband, and for all her displeasure with the apparent reasoning of her choice as leader for this little expedition, she had decided to accept it without further complaint. She likely wasn’t much past her 25th summer.

The Historian was an old man compared to the rest; likely into his fifties, greying hair and neatly kept beard, he wore an age-worn steel breastplate and chain sleeves, and still had a sword belted at his hip, although how well he could wield it was questionable. His left forearm had been broken many years ago and never healed properly, and such the hand seemed…wrong, somehow. It still worked, but couldn’t manage anything heavier than a tankard.

One of the soldiers wore a simple chain shirt and skirt, a wooden shied still slung over his shoulder and a blade at his hip. Young, likely not past his 20th summer, he had left his helmet with his mount, and his hair was cut short at the front and sides and kept in a neat pony tail at the back.

The other two were the wagon drivers, and seemed a little off. Not necessarily in a bad way, just that they seemed…strange. They never quite seemed to focus on one thing for long, always scanning their surroundings and seeming to focus on things in the distance or the foreground at random intervals as if watching for something. Their armour was mismatched brigandine, scavenged from battlefields over the years. Both had short, heavy bladed swords at their hips. They were both into their thirties.

The First Sister knocked again after only a few seconds, clearly intent to be on their way on schedule.

It was funny how people just instinctively trusted another person when really they should have no reason to.  Merayin’s big heart had shrunk somewhat over the years, but betrayals and heart-break would do that sort of thing.  But despite not having seen Byron for half of her lifetime, never once did the thought occur to her that she would not do just as he suggested.  Not for fear as a girl to her father nor as a doting place as a wife for the head of the household.  It was more because he was a friend, and that’s how good people treated good friends.  They trusted them (and didn’t question them.)  

She nodded along, absorbing all the last few things he had to say in the way she had always wished she had when they were younger.  He said he’d see to their travels as if such arrangements were so quick and easy to make, but spoke as though he had no foreknowledge of them until now.  How could someone make such fast arrangements?  Merayin could not fathom it.  There was something bubbling under the surface of his still waters, but try as she might, she couldn’t see it.  

He crossed toward the back hall.  And with every step that widened the distance, she couldn’t help but become emotional.  So much angst piled up, the release of so much stress, her own conflict for being part and partial toward murder.  Grief followed by joy followed by hope and now confusion all washing over one little lady in just a few minutes span of time.  It was a lot for one little lady who only a short time ago her worst stress was keeping the rabbits out of her cabbage garden.  Then one daughter nearly died of fever.  Now the other chased away because she could channel, then all...... this!  

Byron wanted to help, she could tell.  But as much she understood he must have other responsibilities in life than to a friend he’d known for a few weeks when they were still but children, she just did not have it in her to be selfish and wish he’d stay.  Merayin was just too kind-hearted.  But for her girls, she wished they would know a better sort of man than Traedon had been, just as an example for how they deserved to be treated.  Like the one who was leaving now.  ”Fare well, then.”  Her throat ached with the emotion she withheld, but it was already hard enough and she did have a daughter who needed a mother’s steady manner.  

Only after redirection toward the front door did she realize then that Elseen was out there rather than in her room.  It added to the further mystery surrounding Byron.  How had he known?  

The cool air helped wash some of the emotion from her flushed cheeks and for the first time her chin quivered at the scene there.  ”Elseen.  I am so sorry.  Come inside, please.  It seems your father’s heart gave out at last.”  She wrapped her little girl in her arms consolingly.  They were only a few inches different in height.  Elseen was growing up.  She only hoped she would believe all the lies she would now begin to explain and be someday forgiven for it.  Then they went back inside.  Just the two of them.  

The rest of the evening passed at a slug’s pace.  Merayin paced the entire house and looked at every belonging in every room as if she wanted to memorize it all.  She’d done much the same over the past month.  Only this time, she’d pick up something small from this or that to take in one additional bag.  Such as the throw-quilts she and Josameen had sewn when the girls were infants.  Elseen was quiet much of the evening, but every time she did speak, it was her usual upbeat voice that responded.  Merayin guessed her daughter was hiding her feelings far away from the surface, as she saw the look of sadness when she first saw her sitting by Traedon’s quiet shape.  ”We can go to Tar Valon together now,” she reassured Elseen early in the night that they could be together as a family again.  She told her stories of what Tar Valon was rumored to be like to try and inspire some of Elseen’s perkiness again.  But none of it really seemed to permeate and Merayin worried for her in the way mothers always sense.  To the rest of the world, Elseen was rosy cheeked and smiling.  She slept in her father’s chair by the heart, though.  At least Merayin knew she didn’t run away again, she’d been awake all night with the anticipation of what was to come.  

Just before the stars began to dim with the coming of sunrise, she made her last pot of tea that she would ever make in this little country manor outside Jarra.  And when the knock came on the door, although she was sipping her third cup of the strong brew, heavy lids widened at the visitors.  

First, the Sister, as she was front and center.  Merayin had to look up at her a little, but other than their near ages, everything else was about as different as could be between the two women beyond their occupation.  She held herself with cool confidence that could only come from proving oneself.  Everything about the lady, down to her hair, was for function and labors of which Merayin could only imagine.  This was not a woman who bunned back her hair to keep beneath a straw gardening hat.  She was as hard-looking as the stretched leathers protecting her body, and Merayin suddenly felt vulnerable in comparison, and her wools did nothing to ease the tension.  She held a teacup in one hand, balanced on the crook of a finger gracefully.  Despite the tanning of labor under the sun, lower class of clothes, and simple style of her hair it was apparent Merayin was raised as more than just to answer to ‘Mistress’.  And her propriety shone through those storms clouds a little bit more once she wrapped up her rude show of surprise.  ”Greetings?”  There was reservation in the question with the edge of someone who’d recently begun questioning much in life.  She trusted Byron absolutely, but looking past the armored soldier-woman, she realized he was not in the party beyond.

There were interesting looking folk, though.  More soldiers, but none of them wore the brandings that a younger Traedon once sported.  That eased her anxiety a little, as if his long-lost comrades had suddenly sensed his demise and had come to exact their revenge.  In fact, as she looked from man to man, not a one of them seemed to have matching emblems.  One was clearly Tairen, at least in armor though she doubted his skin was the right color for that country, at least from what she’d been taught about them.  Another seemed to have a piecemeal set of protective gear and the last looked more like a scribe than a hardened soldier.  Or maybe a little bit of both.

”Umm... What may I do for you?”  She asked any of them who were looking her way.  A touch of nerves cradled the gentle question.  

It was about that time that a younger version of Merayin, added to with some extremely expressive eyes, peered out the door.  Roused by the knocking, Elseen came to stand next to her mother with much the same wide-eyed look, but for entirely different reasons.  Quiet as she was, Elseen was clearly a young teenager (which are just taller children as some grown-ups liked to say).  Her hair was down her back now but unbrushed and just as apparent from the unruly way her clothes sat just slightly off kilter that her sleep had been not ideal either.  ”Hello.”  She added without beckoning and not a hint at all of any resistance as had been described about her.  

After the odd greeting, Elseen disappeared inside again.  She’d gone to throw her stuff over her shoulder.  

The First Sister looked down at the two women, gaze flicking between the pair with a sour thought in the back of her mind; she would have to keep a close eye on the men for the next few months else one were to get a foul idea in their head about these two. The daughter didn't seem all that much younger then her mother, a sure sign of a promiscuous nature on the part of the mother. But, they were being well paid, from what she understood of the contract, and there was no point starting off on the wrong foot with the pair. She glanced at the few men that had followed her to the door, giving the two wagon drivers a pointed gaze. Their lot were strange, and while she'd never had any trouble with them herself, there were always rumours of them being up to no good.

The two glanced at her briefly, awareness seeming to focus on her briefly before they became uncomfortable and started acting innocent. One even started whistling quietly and tending to his fingernails as if they were trying to make it seem they hadn't just been plotting something sinister or foolish. Not that they had, they just secretly revelled in their reputation of oddness.

Satisfied that none of her comrades were likely to do anything off putting that very moment, she returned her gaze to the pair, nodding to the younger before the girl vanished back inside the home. An odd one, to just disinterestedly wander off like that with a troop of armed men at her door. "We have been engaged to take you to Tar Valon." She would have kept it at that, and was less then pleased with the overly polished statement she'd been given to deliver, but the Historian cleared his throat in an innocent enough manner and she cast him a brief scowl. She was no grovelling officer to be expected to bow and scrape...but, the look the older man cast her from under one eyebrow caved her, "My lady." She even sounded a bit apologetic over the hesitation; there really was no need to be difficult, after all. Besides, the amount of coin levied over this contract hinted at connections to influential circles, the exact circles the company would be benefited to be known in.

The Historian smiled softly and offered his hand, the calluses on his palm fading from a few years away from working a sword, "Urevin Paetooral, m'lady, company Historian. Keep the records an' what not. This is Bennilain, First Sister of the company. Corporal Volin, light infantry. And sappers Dayn and Hidwan." The young man offered the sort of youthful smile lost to seasoned soldiers, while the two sappers both seemed to snap back to the present at mention of their names and comically tried to lean around the Corporal to offer hands to shake. Hands that, as soon as their owners realized they were dirty, were quickly tucked back and studiously cleaned against pant legs and by rubbing palms together vigorously. Neither seemed to notice the disapproving glare of the First Sister.

The woman rubbed at her brow briefly before calming down, "Yes well, you two can ride the wagons or horse. If we make good time today, we might not have to camp under the stars tonight. These louts can see to your things." She jerked a thumb at the two sappers who both gave up on cleaning their hands and seemed to grow a bit more focused now that there was the potential of a task at hand.

Mery's eyes woke right up! Then they blinked their surprise at the rest of the group in the background. There were so many horses! All for us? Had Byron done all this? Where was he now? Why so many? Where did all these people come from? The flurry of questions fluttering behind her surprise cut short when the First Sister added that little something extra. My Lady? That time her lips outright parted their surprise. Not a soul alive in Jarra called Merayin Aloise a Lady of any sort. It really wasn't necessary, truly."Ummm...." She cut off when the next round began, suddenly finding her palm encapsulated in the kindly looking Historian. "Its a pleasure to meet you, sir." Bewilderment quieted down her volume to be barely above a whisper, but she took his hand none the less, and flushed with embarrassment at the rough state of her own skin. Hands like hers didnt belong on Ladies. The greetings continued, and with each one her astonishment slowly began to wane and her voice gained some footing. Volin smiled reassuringly, but the Sappers' behavior seemed to break some of the ice. Mery found a little smile of her own when they leaned around comically.

She gathered the soldier lady in charge but had zero idea just what all the ranks meant. First Sister? Corporal? Perhaps some of that daze fed questioningly over into her reply. "Umm, well, the wagons I suppose would suit us fine. So long that it's not an imposition?" She and Elseen had never seen a saddle for such a magnitude as this trip in their lives. Yet she was wise enough to know the consequences of such a breaking in. Perhaps whoever drove it would provide some good company as it was harder to find by horseback.

Elseen's sudden popping up oh-so-helpfully eased the burden from her mother. "What things would you like to be shown?" She waved the two 'louts' inside and quite apparently studied them in every sort of manner. They didn't look awkward or ill-mannered, but she shrugged it off as there was no point judging someone until you get to know them. Elseen decided she'd keep a look out just in case they revealed their boorish and oafy sides, though. But before she made it far, Merayin's hand somehow managed to pause Elseen on the shoulder. "There's not much, but it's all right here." There were no more bags as could be tied to a pair of horses and nothing was particularly heavy. Otherwise, they were not the sort to need much fanfare in the ways of departing for grand journeys might assume. Elseen just stood aside and watched her mother settle a cloak on her shoulders, but she didn't quite understand why Merayin glanced so long at the empty peg on the wall.

Initially, Merayin gravitated toward staying close to the Historian. Likely due to his kindly introductions, but also because he seemed the least 'soldierish' and something about all the swords around made her just a little nervous. Boundaries, however, seemed to instantly dissolve around Elseen. She was gabbering on about something with the three young men. Bugging them about where they were from and if in all their travels they'd ever seen Garen's Wall or the Forest of Shadows. Merayin just smiled to herself and let the girl get it out of her system. A chatty Elseen was far less unsettling than a quiet one.

It was only a few minutes before the two were swept away. Elseen stepped across the last place she saw her father and never looked back without so much as a hint at her thoughts. Merayin, perhaps surprisingly, cast the manor (and the dirt a few steps in front of their door) one final, sad look only to gather herself abruptly when she thought someone noticed.

The loading process didn't take long. Between the three soldiers doing the loading and that Merayin and Elseen were light packers, everything was neatly tucked away into the two wagons within a few scant minutes. Even with the two wagon drivers being constantly side tracked chatting with Elseen. The pair would recount stories and opinions to every question the girl asked, although occasionally they would pause mid-sentence, when they realized whatever they were about to say was not well suited to a young girl's ears. It also helped that the young soldier, more then a few years their junior, would clear his throat or shoot them a warning glance.

While things were loaded, some of the other riders had positioned themselves around the house, making use of natural high features or obscuring bushes to award a good view of the area or else hide themselves from prying eyes, depending on what was better suited to their arch. None seemed particularly worried about an imminent attack, but equally so none were willing to just sit around and wait like bumps on a log.

The Historian didn't seem to mind letting her hide in his shadow, so to speak, and the First Sister gave him an eye rolling glance when she noticed the older man standing a bit taller. The man was too old for crushes, but he still didn't mind drawing the attention of a lovely young woman, even if she were young enough to be his daughter. "Urevin or Historian, please. Never was fond of officers or noble-borns, with a few exceptions of course."

Once everything was loaded and secured, the two sappers returned to their seats to drive the wagons and riders started to return to the convoy, each pausing briefly to talk to the First Sister, delivering reports of nothing seen and no signs of trouble. She singled out a pair to ride ahead along their planned route, and two others to hang back, the rear pair with spare horses, and soon enough the two young women were being shown to the wagons, with one riding on either unless they put up a fuss to ride together.

The day would draw on for many long hours with only brief pauses for a light lunch and the occasional stint of walking the horses, with the lead and rear riders being switched out every few hours. The wagon drivers were only as talkative as their passengers, and both the Historian and First Sister rode alongside the wagons as well, the First Sister in case of questions and the Historian simply for conversation and to get to know their guests.

But, eventually, some ten hours of ride later, and with no noteworthy issues to slow them down, the group arrived in a small road-side village, the two lead riders waiting at the wagon yard of the local inn alongside a pair of barn hands, and the group wheeled in. The sun was still high on the horizon, but there was little point in pushing on further during the day when there was a perfectly good inn right there.

As the two women dismounted, the First Sister and Historian, as well as the young soldier who had first met them at their door, approached the mother and daughter, "The man who signed the contract left these for the both of you." Two coin purses were held out, one decidedly heavier then the other but neither with a particularly negligible sum within. The pouch for Merayin certainly held more coin then a common man would see at any time in his life, but it was still not so much gold as to afford a long and comfortable retirement. Simply more then enough for a comfortable journey to Tar Valon with some left over if one kept a careful mind to it. And for Elseen was certainly more then the girl would need for the trip.

The Historian of course offered some clarification as the two pouches were handed over, "All your expens's fer the trip were paid. Food, inns, an'ferry fees. This coin is fer the two of ye'to use as you will. He was quite point'd the two of you'd want for nothing during the trip. There's also a writ'a'tender for ye'on our arrival at Tar Valon for a hundred gold crown. 'nough ta start a new life round about anywhere ya want, I'd say."

The pair of sappers were already unloading whatever luggage the two women might have indicated they'd want during the evenings, neatly and intentionally stored for easy access on the wagons, and with the guidance of a very happy inn keeper were seeing the bags to the mother and daughter's room. The rest of the troop were dismounting and seeing to horses, and the inn keeper stood aside and waited for Bennilain to settle the bill.

Much of the goings ons was overlooked by Merayin's dulled eyes as they bumped down the road. Some of the adrenaline from the last day was leaving her blood already and they weren't half a mile down the road yet. She was too polite to not smile when good Master Urevin replied. The road was well laid, once. A long, long time ago anyway, but a particularly uneven stone jarred her back to her senses. "Historian? Do you write histories? I'd love to hear some." She smiled gently and briefly wondered just exactly what he meant about not liking noble borns. She hadn't thought of herself as one since she was a child, but her cheeks briefly flushed pink hoping that he hadn't meant her.

After a few nibbles for lunch, Mery managed to curl up with her cloak wadded just under her head for a little nap. With the ever-increasing density of trees, she knew they were putting the leagues behind them. That helped her relax, but the Historian's pleasant voice seemed to do the trick, even with all the bumps and cramped space.

She woke in time for another meal, but unlike before, this time she felt like she could quite unlady likely devour anything she saw like she hadn't eaten since yesterday. In fact, she hadn't! And thirsty too! But she ignored the gut-chewing rumbles and swept the area for sight of Elseen.



From the very first moment Elseen plopped herself down in the bumbling wagon until she scrambled back out of it, it seemed she had set the goal of literally making the ears of her wagonmates fall right off. Or at least they might jump off and run for cover! It all started with a happy sigh, "I wonder what the trees look like in Tar Valon. I hear there are Ogier trees there. Ohh! Have you ever seen an Ogier!? They say one came through Jarra before I was born. He stayed at the inn and was so big he used the rugs as blankets!" And with that, it all went down hill fast. There wasn't a soul in fifty leagues of Jarra who hadn't heard tale of Ogiers and wolves and men who everything they touched turned to pure gold... Farther upriver some folk say it was everything the man looked at turned to pure gold, but Elseen knew better than to believe such nonsense. Touching things into gold made far greater sense.

Her own grayish blues (absolutely not golden) roamed the trees as they bumped along as she tried to think about the trees in Tar Valon. Would they be short and squat? Tall and slender? Lithe and strong? "I hear there's trees that live in the swamps of far off rivers where the leaves could hide a horse they're so big! Or so sturdy that cutting down the stalk of them you could hold the leaf overhead and not get wet when it rains!" She smiled at that odd idea. Most people would just pull up their hood and not get wet that way. Holding a giant leaf stalk would surely be cumbersome.

"Have you ever been there? No, not Tar Valon. The swamps! I bet its just fascinating!" She ended up sitting her chin on her palm and staring off to the side for a long while after that, soaking up everything she could of Ghealdan.

A little smile parted her lips when she saw her mom curl up for a nap. She could tell her mom had been tired, and she could understand why. Many a theory was circling her mind as to what kept her mom up and so stressed lately not to mention just what was going on last night. It had been a rather strange turn of events. To go from getting in trouble for running out all the time to actually being encouraged to do it to being corraled inside after the brigand Jerrick escorted her back to now mom coming. By the time thoughts turned to the memory of her father's final place, Elseen was decidedly tight lipped.

When finally a little village rolled into sight, Elseen was her normal self again. This time chatting on about a pair of frogs she captured on a creek bank. But she only smiled and waved her goodbye's when the two wagon driver gentlemen (who she thought were the best wagon drivers she'd ever met) said they needed to tend to the horses and what not and quickly found herself scooped up by her mother. Mothers had a way of sneaking up like that.

While Elseen curiously padded the pouch that was given to her, Merayin seemed if possible more bewildered than ever. The man who signed the contract? Her blinking gave her away, but she wisely didn't ask anything else. It was Byron's final reminders ringing between her ears as motivation. But unluckily, Elseen was ignorant of their secrets. "And which man was that?" She looked between the two women: her mother and the First Sister with a completely innocent curiosity. Merayin, however, knew better than to mistake her daughter's cute eyed blinks as the dense incapacity to figure things out. Elseen heard the list of expenses too, and she spent coin in town for cloth and feed. Wordly values weren't lost on her happy expressions. Nor was the number mentioned waiting for them in Tar Valon. "Was it Sir Jerrick?" Her question accompanied a swift disappearance of the pouch tied off to the belt wrapping her dress at the waist. Even with the cinching in, it did nothing to help her figure. Like her mother, she'd never be described as particularly sensual. Elseen was fifteen now so she was more young lady than she was little girl. A trait that her mother seemed to finally see upon witnessing the competence of placing the pouch out of sight while resisting the temptation to rummage through the coins. Merayin was certainly curious to know how much was in there.

Instead, she nodded quietly and tucked her own pouch away. Questions circled her mind meanwhile, did the First Sister had access to a strong box for the remainder of their journey? How did Byron have so much money?! And finally, just how much did Elseen know??? Her throat went dry wondering. Drier when Elseen left one last casual question hanging on the air before ducking inside. "Now why would Sir Jerrick pay for all that?"

Mery glanced worriedly at the Historian and First Sister then hastened inside herself.