Lease this WebApp and get rid of the ads.
The Book of Letters
Wed Oct 4, 2006 12:33
209.213.238.160 (XFF: 192.168.1.3)

Dear Warly,

As I’m writing this, I know that I’m little more than a few hundred paces from the Black Tower. Believe me when I say that it sounds worse than it is. Since leaving Caemlyn, I’ve been counting my every step, and I’ve padded much further than that. Oh, heavens, much, much further. You wouldn’t think calves were made for this sort of use, but, well, there you have it.

I can already see the battlements of the Tower poking up over the horizon and the topmost bowers of the trees. It doesn’t look the most inviting, but I’m not here waiting for an invitation. I’m not expecting everything to be placed on a silver platter for me. I’m here to learn about the Power, Warly. I’m here because I know I can.

I met a friendly merchant, though I think I scared the Light out of her. Amusing encounter, though. Greatly.

Anyway, I’d best be hurrying along. I was only stopping long enough to eat an apple, and it’s been five minutes since finishing it. Time waits on no woman, I suppose? I await seeing you, and I’m afraid that by the time you read this, I already will have.

Your daughter,
Evie


It was cold, and it was bright.

The glare of the sun haloed her, soaking the book and the words she wrote in purely wrought golden light. What radiance the sun gave off was only a parody of a summer day, demonstrating the delusions of grandeur that would trick nobody into thinking it was anything but autumn. Goodness, no. All along the narrow, dusty path, colourful flecks of crumbly, dried leaves danced in dizzy circles, traipsing without pattern around the hems of her cloak. She pulled the thing closer to herself, ignoring the chill the day had taken on. Still. At least it was bright.

The smoky scent of dying leaves followed her as Evie closed the book in her hands, pocketing it artfully. It was her Book of Letters. Her father, Warler Holinshed (how long had it been since she’d adopted the practice of addressing him by the pet name of Warly?), had bestowed the book upon her as she departed from Paedrig Rill some number of days ago. It was a handsome-looking thing, lined with blue velvet and adorned with a golden ribbon, and she did not doubt that she would keep it for the entirety of her life.

Who knew what would come about if the men and women of her town discovered she could channel? No, no–it was much easier to simply avoid sending letters to Warly, anyway, for fear they would fall into the wrong hands, jeopardizing his career. He was the magistrate, after all. Instead, every time she had the temptation to write him–or anyone, for that matter–she would pen it carefully in the Book of Letters.

Who knows? Lesser things have been published. Now, wasn’t that just the truth. . . .

Brushing her straw-blonde hair from her eyes, Evie continued down the path, winding her way from Caemlyn. Her hair was cut boyishly short all over save for the front, where the smallest twist of femininity graced her longer, styled bangs. She could still see the city in the distance; though it had been hours since she’d departed from it, it still held a certain venerableness even from so far off. Having grown up in a town all her life, Evie decided that it had made an impressive sojourn on her journey. Still, where Caemlyn had impressed, the Black Tower would . . . would not deign itself to her description, as feeble as it would be as she described it in her letter.

Crunch, crunch, and the sights wove themselves past her, and crunch, crunch, what little could be seen of the Tower grew ever larger, ever more significant in the autumn horizon. The leaves crumbled continuously. It would be nothing like home. Paedrig Rill, built on the bank of some nondescript stream–hence its name–was quaint, she supposed. She had always been the magistrate’s daughter. Her mother had died while she was very young, having slipped on a rogue patch of ice. Evie had little recollection of her at best, and certainly no recollection of the hanging veil of bleakness that might have clouded her death. She didn’t remember.

Still, it was funny how the world cleaved and shaped a person so, and it was funnier yet how these things caused a person to be what they would. Perhaps she wouldn’t have grown so close to her father? To Warly? Had her mother still been around, perhaps Badge and Emberlinn, her fraternal twin siblings, wouldn’t have been so eager to leave for Caemlyn, starting lives of their own so long before Evie had had such a chance. It might have been nice to have visited them when she was in the city, but the Tower’s swang song sung to her even from such a distance. It did.

What did the Black Tower hold for her? Oh, Light, she didn’t wholly know, and it was part of the entailed excitement of the suspended mystery that had her so excited. She knew one thing: it would hold an outlet for her ability to channel. Oh, she had used that thing to which stories merely alluded. Saidar. She had. She knew it. And the excitement inside of her made her wonder if she would burst; she would channel, and she would learn to master the One Power.

That blue-eyed gaze of hers watched the path ahead, where the slimmest procession was slowly diffusing through the gates. She peered up, folding her arms; oh, Light, it was large. Maybe it was not the size of the White Tower, for the stories of that transcended legend, but it looked to be wide enough to hold several villages comfortably. Maybe even a town or two.

A gentle undercurrent flapped around the hems of the orange cloak and her cream-coloured skirts, and she waited patiently after some horse-drawn wagon. The queue slowly diminished, and a few folk even showed up behind her–average, normal looking people. Odd. She had heard such sterile things of the Black Tower. Had she been led astray?

Hardly. As that wagon was granted leave to tumble its way through the black walls, she saw the man who was apparently handling entrances. He was handsome in a regal way, for he could be no younger than forty, but that was the last thing she noticed. He looked hard, and those grey eyes staring at her could be no less grey–could be no less lifeless, imitative, bloodless. Heartless. He was cold. Oh, autumn’s chills were getting to her, but the coldness of this man had naught to do with weather. Sun, leaves, trees, books–these were for nothing as she peered upon his face. It drew her attention, every last whit of it.

“Business in the Tower?” he said gruffly, arms folded as he gazed up and down a leather-bound dossier.

Evie spoke in confidence of herself. “I’m looking to enroll in the Black Tower. I’m wanting to be a Soldier. I can channel,” she added demonstratively. In a quicksilver instant, she presented her hand to shake with his, but he only watched her. No smiles curved across his cheeks.

“Very well.” He said nothing else, and her proffered hand was left ignored.



OOC: *grins* This will be a solo entrance string for her, so it'd be greatly preferred if nobody hopped on and replied. Thanks!

    • Such a Hard, Hard ManSoldier Evie Holinshed, Fri Oct 6 20:27
      Dear Warly, It’s shocking how much they know–and, too, it ends not only with quantity. Rapidity. I told them that I had used the Power before, and they wanted to verify this, so they called another... more
      • It's the LifeSoldier Evie Holinshed, Mon Oct 9 11:36
        Warly– I watch. I watch, and I look, and I act almost as a figurative fly on some figurative wall, and I have to wonder. How is it possible? How under the bloody Light is any of this possible? How... more
        • What's Tangled in Seaweed?Soldier Evie Holinshed, Mon Oct 9 15:56
          Warly– The Black Tower has a lake. Light, it does. –Evie The earth sounded afire. Crepitations befitting any candle, any hearth, rose from the steady blanket of leaves that paved their way through... more
          • To Drown a Viper (Fin!)Soldier Evie Holinshed, Tue Oct 10 15:31
            Dear Warly, I am able to write this if only by the flickering illumination of a tiny wax candle. Night has descended, and my first day in the Black Tower is no longer. If never before, I am ripe with ... more
  • Click here to receive daily updates