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*** Nearly a year Later ***

After that first night, Minerva, that was the Noble womans name, had entered him into training with the Death Watch. And he now stood guard, by her door every night. Just him, he had become her body guard. The armor wasn’t so bad really. You hardly noticed it was there. And he knew from experience that it could turn aside a shaft from a bow. He was not the last assassin to try to get into this room. But he was then only one still alive. The haft of the spear in his right hand had eight notches just below the blade. And he knew the other Guards downstairs had caught at least twice that many. Minerva made many enemies it seemed. One day however Minerva was called to a flyspeck village name Falme on Toman Head. Figuring that she would be surrounded by Damane there, she only took one ship, and only her Elite Guard. All Death Watch Guards, but marked with a small silver heart on the back of their shields. Sped by her own Damanes Channeling they reached Falme quickly, and spent a ! week planning a push inland. But then... It all fell apart. Two Patrols of Soldiers were attacked on one of the main streets, and the High Lord Turaks residence was invaded and he was killed. Fearing for her life, Minerva called her guard to their ship, but because some of them were taking part in a battle with Whitecloaks on the edge of the village less than half of the guard were on the ship. So she waited. Her guards were too expensive to loose.

It wasn’t long however before the Soldiers, Minervas Guard among them, were on the docks, fighting what appeared to be spirits. For the Damanes channeling did not effect them. And in the sky a struggle raged between man and shadow. Lightning tore the earth apart and sparks fell like rain. Finally realizing the danger to her life outweighed even the coin she had invested in her guard she ordered the anchor drawn, and the gangplank pushed off. One of the ships sails had been ruined by an errant bolt of lightning so the massive ship lumbered away under half sail. Suddenly, a figure of silver appeared from across the water, riding atop it! Termain called the archers attention, and they loosed in the specters direction, to no effect. Their attempts at slaying the apparition did not go unnoticed, for it returned fire. Literally. A bar of blinding silver light shot from it, and instantly the deck of the ship caught up in an intense conflagration. Termain raised a hand to cover his ! face, and staggered back... and over the railing. The last thing he remembered was the slap of his body hitting the water.

He was awakened sometime later, he wasn’t sure how long, by two dogs. Each was whining and lapping at him, one at his face, the other his hand. His consciousness returned slowly. He lay on the sand of an uninhabited stretch of beach. His armor gone, he remembered shedding it frantically in an attempt to reach the surface and air. His spear lay a small distance off, but the rest of his weapons were in place. Thanking the light he sat up unsteadily. Patting the dogs and looking around. There wasn’t anyone else in sight, or anything for that matter. Hastily he checked himself, nothing was broken, but he did have a nasty bruise across his ribs. The mail didn’t protect against everything after all. He had his breeches, boots, mail shirt, all of his daggers and knives, his spear, and two dogs. Both were massive dogs, probably almost as heavy as he was. Short brown fur strained of muscled chests, which blended softly into the white fur on their undersides. He patted each on the hea! d.

“Good boys.” he said. “Good boys.” He rose unsteadily and hefting his spear, started towards the East. Putting the sun at his back in a symbolic gesture. We was turning his back on being some one’s pet. A Death Watch Guard, even on being Altaran. He was of every Nation and of none. Of all people yet having none to call his own. He had not gone ten steps before the dogs that had awakened him barked and began to follow. He turned, to watch their approach, and to give them a quizzical look.

“Coming with me are you boys?” He asked them kneeling he lay his spear aside and cradled their heads in his hands by turn. “Are you?” The each barked as if to say, “Of course. You’d be lost without us.” He laughed softly. “Alright then.” He nodded. “You’ll need names.” The first and biggest, he named Nor. (Cutter) and the second, who was somewhat shorter if no less large, Nai (knife) “Fitting names.” He whispered. “For a man who must now make his living by that very tool.” Minerva had taught him a bit of the Old Tongue, for which he was glad. Patting his new friends head once more he stood, hefted his spear again and continued his march to the east. Whistling as he went. He knew he couldn’t go back to Ebou Dar. Nor could he ever return to the sea. The Seanchan ruled there, and any of them would recognize his tattoos. So he headed inland. Where no one knew his name. Where no one would know it unless he wanted them too. Tongues could be silenced. And that would be his way. Sil! ence. Myth. Legend.

Audition Piece:

Silence. The air was pregnant with it. This was not a soothing silence. But the kind that made the skin prickle with anticipation. Termain hated silence, always had. Thats why he played his pipes so often. At least it was sound. But now there was nothing. Wait.. Off to the left there was a crunching. A boot fall through the sheet of ice that covered the snowfall. “The game is afoot.” A smile tugged at the edges of his lips. He had not been the best body guard in Ebou Dar and not learn some skills. Patting Nor and Nai soothingly, he slipped stealthily over the side of the wagon he was sleeping on, and onto its spokes, before coming to rest lightly on the snow pack. He was not used to snow, he had only seen it this once. And did not much care for it. He slipped a throwing dagger into his left palm and glanced around the edge of the wagon. A form emerged from around the side of the wagon back of his, eyeing its surroundings carefully. Flash Gurgle. The knife was a bit! low, but the wind pipe was severed, so all he shape could do was gasp hopelessly. And die.

Slipping back to the next wagon he glanced about hurriedly. Two more figures where coming this way, moving slowly. There was always a certain rush that came from these types of encounters. A thrill. His momentary concentration lapse almost got him spotted but he slipped under the wagon a moment before the two forms passed. Rolling back out he followed them for a distance, till one slipped off around the front of the wagon he had been in. He slide noiselessly up behind the remaining form and snapped its neck with an oddly satisfying crack, but then something cold settled against his neck. “Light.” He called himself seven types of foul creature in his mind, but nary a sound passed his lips.

“Your good whatever your name is.” Came a low murmur from behind him. “The Great Lord could have used you.” A low rumble started to one side, but his assailant seemed not to notice, until it was too late. Nor leapt over the side of the wagon, his weight freeing Termain from the threat of death, and his jaws alleviating the assailant of his hope of life. He patted his friend silently then slipped on into the night. He slide amongst the wagons, working his way to the head of the column, where the Merchants wagon was. Reminiscent of the wagons of Tinkers it was a box on wheels, with a small stove pipe sticking from the roof, and puffing smoke. “Greedy bastard,” Termain growled. “He’s warm and the rest of us are near to frozen. But that is an issue for another time.” Three of the bandits were huddled around the back of the wagon. And despite the fact that he would have liked nothing more than to see the man dead in his bed; he was awake. And sworn to protect, therefore, two thro! wing knives appeared, one in each of his palms. Two men died, not noiselessly for once. The man who had been working the lock of the wagons door turned to see Termain advancing on him, drawing the long daggers off his bandolier, the cold flash of a winter moon on years old steel was arctic.

“P..ple..please!” The man squealed, dropping to the ground on his back and beginning to crawl away. “D..do.. don’t kill me!” Silently he placed the daggers against the mans throat, one above the other, in an X shape.

“Don’t try to rob my employer.” The only sound was the gurgling of the man as he tried to scream. Wiping his daggers on the mans door he sheathed them, before knocking on his bosses door. The man threw it open, only half awake.

“You may go back to sleep now sir.” He bowed mockingly. “The bandits are dead, the cargo is safe. Goodnight.” He turned on his heel, and stopping to retrieve his throwing knives, walked off into the darkness. This was insanity. If Jehannah was two days ride along the road they were on now, he could make it himself, cause there had to be an easier way to get by in the world.

After retrieving his knives, his gear, and his dogs. Termain set straight out from the wagons. Not bothering to wait for daylight. A fool could follow a road in the dark. And that was one thing he was not. He had intended to follow the Merchants route, if ahead of him. Jehannah, Lugard, Caemlyn. He had it all planned out, or so he thought, for what happened next he had NOT anticipated...

The road had finally begun to slope down gently. The worst of these Light forsaken mountains must have been over. It had been nearly two days since he left the Merchants wagons, and he was slightly stiff from sleeping on stone, but at least he had not been assaulted by any bandits. He imagined that his former employer was cursing the day he had hired him. But he had never given a name, so that was not a concern. There would be not bounty hunters looking for him. Though there had been that one man... with Tattoos identical to Termains own. He had stuck a crossbow bolt into his upper leg. But in the end he had died, he knew now that there was absolutely no hope for him to ever return to the Sea. The man had been a Seeker.

Killing a Seeker was punishable by the Tower of Ravens, whatever that was. It meant death at any rate. And Termain had an extreme allergy to death. It could kill him. He cursed his own stupidity as he had left his spear in the wagon he had been sleeping on. So great had been his rush to be gone he had forgotten it. But it was for the best he supposed. The weapon had clearly been Seanchan make. And he was sure that could get him killed. There seemed to be a great many things that could get him killed, and he was positive that for everyone he knew there were two that he didn’t. He shook his head as he walked, the cowl of his robe shrouding his identity from prying eyes. Nor and Nai lopped along beside him silently. They had just entered the rolling foot hills when thy came upon a rather grisly sight. A human form hung from the top of an oak tree. Dead.

Termain didn’t know the man, but he had a family somewhere, and he was a human being, so he endeavored to cut him down. Nor and Nai stood guard at the base of the tree while he struggled to climb the monstrosity. The closer he got to the man the more intrigued he came as to the reasons that the man was in the tree. He wore a suit of all black, with a high collared coat in the Shienaran Fashion. A long fur lined cape hung from his neck, and two pins adorned the mans collar. One in the shape of a sword, the other was some sort of serpent. They symbols meant nothing to him, but the fang scratched on his forehead in blood did. The Dragons Fang. So, Whitecloaks. Only they would hang a Lord like this. Slicing the rope with his dagger Termain struggled to get the man back down the tree, once he had him down, he searched him. The man was dead, and he might have something of use. There was some coins in the mans purse, aside from that, there was a cane. It was a polished cherry stick! , with a beautifully worked cap, a sphere, half smooth, half rough, divided by a sinuous line. It was pretty thing, if none to useful. Turning the item in his hands he was somewhat surprised to hear a soft snick, and see a foot and a half of sword blade appear from the end. He nearly dropped it in his surprise and immediately re evaluated it. Turning the sphere the opposite direction, there was a second snick, and the blade was gone. Termain and the unknown man were close in height, and the cane fit him. So... might as well keep it. As an after thought he took the cloak too, it was fur lined after all, and might prove to be a necessity later. Then he raised a funeral cairn over the mans body, leaving him at the base of the tree. Offering a quick prayer to the Light, Termain turned, and with the dogs in heel, continued on his journey. His coin purse a bit heavier, his saddle bags a bit fuller, and his right hand occupied by a beautiful weapon.

The day had worn on into early afternoon, it had taken him most of the morning to perform his good deed, though, some might have thought it besmirched by the fact that he had taken some of the mans former possessions, but, what use did the dead have for coin? He was walking along merrily, twirling the cane between the fingers of his right hand, when he heard what sounded like riders moving away at a fair clip, whistling and calling to one another over the thunder of hoof beats. He started off at a lite jog in that general direction to see what all the fuss was about. He stopped, as he came upon what looked like an extremely recently, and hastily vacated campsite, with what appeared to be a dress, torn in half and hanging from a tree branch.

“Oh.. Creators Mercy.” He breathed, brushing his hands across the dress.. “Kidnaping?” He pondered out loud, “Rape? Murder? All at once?” He growled in his throat. Those years with the Seanchan had taught him to fight and well, better than he had before, and he had been no slouch before thy caught him, but they had also trained him into a weapon, a shield for one of the Blood, and whomever this woman was, she needed his shielding now. He had managed to get about three paces from the tree when he heard a voice..

“Creator, why can’t I find a safe haven in this world?” The words were so soft, so timid that at first he wasn’t sure that he had heard them, but the echo off the surrounding hills assured him that he had. Then, there was a low creak of breaking wood, and a terrified scream. Termain spun on his heel, to see a woman falling from the upper branches of the tree that the dress hung on.

“Light above!” He called loudly as his feet were already moving, tearing at the ground madly, as he prayed that the Creator make him swift to save a life. The woman was growing ever closer, to him and the ground. Deciding he had to gamble he gave a small jump, planted his feet side by side and leapt forward, tucking his shoulders to roll through, and sliding a short distance on the ice, coming up directly under the mystery woman, who struck across his arms and chest, driving the air from him despite his shirt of mail. He simply lay there in the snow for a moment, recovering from the shock of such a weight impacting on his chest. Not that this woman weighed all that much but... any weight hitting you in the chest like that was too much.

“Excuse me kind sir.” The same voice queried. “I appreciate your catch but... might you put me down?” He WAS still holding her wasn’t he, with a hurried apology he helped her to her feet from a spot beneath her, then realized that she was in but her small clothes! His face flushed crimson, and he frantically dug into his bags for that fur lined cloak, offering it to he behind his back.

“Perhaps mi’ lady would find this useful?” he queried, not daring to glance in her direction. He felt her hands on his forearm, and they then trailed down across his wrist to where the cloak hung. He focused on the Creators snow, waiting for her to tell him she was appropriately attired, so introductions could be made, once a fire was built of course.

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