| Profile(s) | Character & RPer details | Short summary of the character |
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Lord Captain Commander Apply now! AIM: ... ICQ: ... |
Strength had gone from Niall's legs now as well as his arms. He fell heavily against the gaming table, turning it over. Black and white stones scattered across the polished wooden floor around him; the silver pitcher bounced and splashed wine. The cold in his bones was leaching out into the rest of him. He was not entirely certain whether time had slowed for him or everything really did happen so quickly. Boots thudded across the floor, and he lifted his head wearily to see Omerna gaping and wideeye, backing away from Eamon Valda. Every bit as much the picture of a Lord Captain as Omerna in his white-and-gold tabard and white undercoat, Valda was not so tall, not plainly so commanding, but the dark man's face was hard, as ever, and he had a sword in his hands, the heron-mark he prized so highly. "Treason!" Valda bellowed, and drove the sword through Omerna's chest. Niall would have laughed if he could; breath came hard, and he could hear it bubbling in the blood in his throat. He had never liked Valda--in fact, he despised the man--but someone had to know. |
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High Inquisitor Apply now! AIM: ... ICQ: ... |
"Would you be Lord Captain now, my son?" Asunawa's emaciated face belonged on a martyr, yet his dark eyes burned with a fervor to unnerve even those who did not know who he was. "You may well be, after I attest that you killed Pedron Niall's assassin. But not if I must say you ripped open Niall's throat as well. Baring teeth in what could pass for a smile, Valda straightened. Asunawa had a love of truth, a strange love; he could tie it into knots, or hang it up and flay it while it screamed, but so far as Valda knew, he never actually lied. A look at Niall's glazed eyes, and the pool of blood spreading beneath him, satisfied Valda. The old man was dying. "May, Asunawa?" The High Inquisitor's gaze burned hotter as Asunawa stepped back, moving the snowy cloak away from Niall's blood. Even a Lord Captain was not supposed to be that familiar. "I said may, my son. You have been oddly reluctant to agree that the witch Morgase must be given to the Hand of the Light. Unless you give that assurance --" |
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Apply now! AIM: ... ICQ: ... |
"I thought it was you, Elayne, but the hair put me off at first." Nynaeve stared at Galad, Elayne's half-brother. Stared was the word, of course. Tall and steely slender, dark of hair and eye, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Handsome was not enough; he was gorgeous. She had seen women cluster around him in the Tower, even Aes Sedai, all of them smiling like fools. She wiped the smile from her own face. But she could do nothing about her racing heart, nor make herself breathe properly. She did not feet anything for him; it was just that he was that beautiful. Take hold of yourself, woman! "What are you doing here?" She was pleased that she did not sound strangled. It was not fair for a man to look like that. "And what are you doing here wearing that?" Elayne's voice was low, but it still held a snap. Nynaeve blinked, and realized that he wore a shirt of shining mail and a white cloak with two golden knots of rank beneath the flaring sun. She felt color rising in her cheeks. Staring at a man's face so hard that she had not noticed what he was wearing! She wanted to hide her own face from humiliation. He smiled, and Nynaeve had to take a deep breath. "I am here because I was one of the Children recalled from the north. I am a Child of the Light because it seemed the right thing to do." |
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Apply now! AIM: ... ICQ: ... |
The tent flap shifted aside, and a tall man stepped into the tent. His face was long and gaunt, with eyes so deeply set they seemed to look out from caves. There was no excess flesh on him, no fat at all; his skin was pulled tight over the muscle and bone beneath. Perrin had a glimpse of the night outside, and campfires, and two white-cloaked guards at the entrance of the tent, then the flap fell back into place. As soon as the newcomer was into the tent, he stopped, standing as rigid as an iron rod, staring straight ahead of him at the far wall of the tent. His plate-and-mail armor gleamed like silver against his snowy cloak and undercoat. "My Lord Captain." His voice was as hard as his posture, and grating, but somehow flat, without expression. |
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Apply now! AIM: ... ICQ: ... |
Two hundred paces or so from the stakes, the stern-faced man raised a hand, and the column halted with sharp orders from down the files. He came on with just a half a dozen Whitecloaks for company, running his eyes over the wagons and sharp stakes and the men behind. His manner would have named hima man of importance even without the knots of rank beneath the flaring sunburst on his cloak. Luc had appeared from somewhere, resplendent on his shiny black stallion in rich red wool and golden embroidery. Perhaps it was natural enough that the Whitecloak officer chose to address himself to Luc, though his dark eyes continued to probe. "I am Dain Bornhald," he announced, reining in, "Captain of the Children of the Light. You have done this for us? I have heard that Emond's Field is closed to the Children, yes? Truly a village of the Shadow if it is closed to the Children of the Light." Dain Bornhald, not Geofram. A son, perhaps. Not that it made any difference. Perrin supposed one would try to arrest him as soon as another. Sure enough, Bornhald's gaze swept past him, then jerked back. A convulsion seemed to sieze the man; one gauntleted hand darted to his sword, his lips peeled back in a silent snarl, and for a moment Perrin was sure the man was about to charge, fling his horse onto the spiky barrier, to reach him. The man looked as if he bore Perrin a personal hatred. Up close, that hard face had a touch of slackness to it, a shin in those eyes that Perrin was used to seeing in Bili Congar's. He thought he could smell brandy fumes. |
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Apply now! AIM: ... ICQ: ... |
Suddenly there was a square faced, black-haired Whitecloak clapping Galad on the shoulder and grinning widely. Older, he wore the same two knots of rank on his cloak. "Well, young Galad, you can't keep all the pretty women for yourself. Every girl in town sighs when you walk by, and most of their mothers as well. Introduce me." Galad scraped back his bench to stand. "I...thought I knew them when they came downstairs, Trom. But whatever charm you think I possess, it does not work on this lady. She does not like me, and I think she will not like any friend of mine. If you practice the sword with me this afternoon, perhaps you can attract one or two." "Never with you around," Trom grumped good-naturedly. "And I'd sooner let the farrier pound my head with his hammer than practice against you." But he let Galad start him for the door with only a regretful look back at the two women. |