This moment, framed...

~'~'~'~'~'~'~'

…a gentle breeze, the flutter of leaves on an ancient street and I suddenly find myself counting cobblestones as the sun whispers down to its terminal arc... …the finding is all; the summons complete in its abstraction…he will come or he will not…I find I cannot care which…

The town of Tsora has stood much as it looks today for the better part of a thousand years. Nestled in the southern shadow of Kinslayer's Dagger as it is, it enjoys the erstwhile protection of the White Tower, and the fearsome reputation of the witches and golden warriors within, while retaining much of its autonomy from said edifice by its singular location. Out of sight, after all, does equal out of mind.

The town itself is nothing to speak of; a collection of desultory Inns, meager markets and ramshackle houses perched precariously on the edge of the wilderness with more shutters missing than can be accounted for. Its denizens are closemouthed and wary of strangers, a well-deserved predisposition given the state of affairs that so recently befell its grandiose neighbor. Many a traveler who has passed into the town's midst of late has come out muttering of the great misleading of northern hospitality. Wartime makes sullen neighbors of the most stalwart companions and Tsora, its fields and haywains only now making a slow recovery from the ravages of siege, is no exception.

Alone amongst the wretched refuse of human decay and the slow dereliction of time stands the steeple of the over-grand Inn of Five Thorns. Once a monument to a long-forgotten god, the ornate spire of this ancient building climbs high above the rooftops of the town, casting its shadow far across the tiny town square and drawing the curious eye of any who pass within sight. Beneath its gables men from all walks of life come together, as with every Inn the world over, to share the familiar warmth of the hearth, the roar of conversation and the pretense of camaraderie sown by a common dissent. The Thorns draws men (and some women) like a lodestone draws steel, pulled to the one place among the detritus of their lives where pain can be shared like water and man may, for a time, forget the past.

Tonight is like all those before it.

From my seat across the darkened common room, I watch the mismatched couple in the corner booth as my chilled wine slowly rises to room temperature in the untouched flagon before me. She, her diminutive frame and fiery red hair marking her, for all those with eyes, as uncommon in this common place. He, a statue of quiet and deadly resolve in a room filled with those long gone to the want of olden years and better days. Their conversation is carried out in hushed tones, though from the small woman's expansive gestures, one would think a grand soliloquy being played out upon their tiny stage. The stony and greatly detached reaction from her companion plays in perfect counterpoint to her frenzy; their discourse a perfect symphony of discord. He tires of her, and it shows.

Whitebridge had been a dead end; the apartments they used while the M'asha'din's scion healed from the heinous wounds suffered during his duel with the Aes Sedai's tame and all-too human wolf stood empty and abandoned. Only echoes of insurmountable pain and loss rang from that place, and it took all of my rage, all of my resolve to follow them north once more.

…I am hunted, friend Shadow, as are we all in this time…would that I had known him as you have…his son and heir…

Even at this distance, I can feel the palpable threat of the long, curved sword the youth wears so effortlessly at his side. That the blade is infamous is without question, yet the history that accompanies its pathway through time is lost on all save those of us with sight. With knowledge. With understanding. He wears it as a badge of courage, though some would argue that it cost him little to own. I know less about him than is warranted, more than is perhaps wise. Yet he is anathema to all I desire, and for that monumental sin, and that alone, will I see his head roll free of his shoulders.

Kiyosa Arandaille stands, her patience at its end. Strange that so great a power should be housed in such a frail and, dare I say it, withered form as she. There are few that can match her power, it is said. Some dare whisper that her power outstrips that of the Lord Asazi himself, though those are but shadows of a rumor. To see her here, alone among men who would gladly use her for pleasure (and perhaps worse) then cast her aside, almost spawns the seed of pity in my tainted heart.

Almost.

…ah, Memnoch. My Lord and my one love. That I must kill those whom you most prize to claim your place at His side.

In the end, sense is rendered mute. The cavalcade moves, and with it must I. Death rides the shadows this night, and I am nothing more if not her courtesan and dealer of choice and great chance. Jalel, he who so recently grew from the ashes of the Shadowstalker, must die. And with him, my Lord's bride.

The stars align. I slip from my table.