Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Saban 15, 998 NE

I...spoke with a Whitecloak today.  They've started coming through the inns in town, checking for vice, as they say, and today they came to the Stag & Lion.  And I--well, I wasn't paying too much attention.  I should have realized something was amiss when Min stomped by all in a taking, but it didn't shift me from my spot next to the rain-barrel where I was writing away, and so...this young Whitecloak comes by, and before I quite knew what was what, he'd snatched my tablet away from me.

He had a wild cast to his eyes, and a mite bloodshot they were, but he was sneering down at me, and he said--

He said it's a ter'angreal.  A thing of the Power.

But that--it's not possible!  I'd never touch such a thing, and there's no reason it should work for me.  No, it can't be that.  And surely it isn't.  The Whitecloak, he said he'd tell his commander about it, but he tossed my tablet back at me and stalked away, wiping his hand on his tabard.  Nothing came of it, and it's been hours.  Surely he told his commander, who must have said there was nothing to it.  He was young, like I say, probably not many months off a farm somewhere, and ready to scrawl the Dragon's Fang as soon as blink.

It put the fear of the Light into me, I'll say that.  But I do walk in the Light, I always have and will, and this--it's just a tool!  Nothing dangerous, nothing dirty.  I'll tell it to anybody.  But still, I think I ought best to...leave it on the shelf for a few days.  It's distracting me from the horses, it is.


  1. Or, moar.

    My word verifications hereabouts have been
    "goylogy" and "talinge."

    I love words-that-could-be.