The *Insert Title Here*-Series
[Editor Note: This is another incomplete series. I'm not quite sure if he actually did complete it and I never got it (due to me being away for a while) or if it's because he just stopped writing altogether. If anyone has copies of further installments of this series, I'd greatly appreciate it if you sent it my way! Thanks!]
Heeeeya all! It's great being back. Here's my returning-gift: the first chapter, or perhaps rather the prologue of my new series. It is meant as a sequel or something to the WtWST-series, starting just short after they ended. For your knowledge, I have even less of it planned this year than I had last year. This year, I don't have a title. But I thought I'd have a running Poll during it's writing, where y'all could vote on its name. For now it's called:
The *Insert Title Here*-series
Chapter 1: The Night After
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave its birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. A wind… anytime now. A wind rose… a wind… Wind!?
Wind: *removing sunglasses and looking up* “Yo man?”
NightShade: “What are you doing? You’re supposed to enter here.”
Wind: “Yo, but what’s the fuzz ‘bout, man? I’m only supposed to blow over that tiny lil’ village again, huh?”
NightShade: “Yeees…”
Wind: “Well, y’see, It’s only a village. Mean, had it been a big city or battlefield or sumthin’ it might have fitted me. But blowin’ over small villages is a waste of my talent, see?”
NightShade sighed. He knew he shouldn’t have let it play the role as The Storm in the last chapter of WtWsT. It had gotten itself the biggest megalomania east of Los Angeles after that. But what could he do now?
NightShade: “Ok, I’ll write the scene without you then. If I find any city or battlefield who needs a little wind, I’ll call you in. Happy?”
Wind: “Yo.”
NightShade: “Ok, folks. From the top.”
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and… *pauses to glare at person rolling his eyes* AND even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave its birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind did not rise in the Mountains of Mist. It did not blow down the barren slopes of the Mountains, nor did it play in the grass and branches, or follow the night-dark paths through the forest up to the village of Emond’s Field. But it could have…
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The night was warm and dark. No wind blew. A few crickets played, but only carefully and silently, well aware of what could happen should they play too loud in the night. It was the night after the day that was about to never come, but did at last. The sun would touch the horizon in less than an hour, and it would soon be the day after the night after the day that was about to never come but did at last. And time would march on, and it would become the night after the day after the night after the day that… yeah well, you get the picture.
But this was the night after the day, and it was a calm night. The village of Emond’s Field was fast asleep, bathing in the pale light of the moon. Almost all of it slept, at least. One single little mouse peaked out from a crack in the wall of the village mill and put its nose in the air. The warm summer night held many smells. It could feel the scent of several flowers and plants, some fresh air that must have come from the Winespring and over all the comfortable smell of the grass, wet from the morning dew. But one underlying scent meant more to it than any of the others: the lush smell of the forest.
The mouse looked around to ensure itself that it was alone, before it quickly crossed the road and dived behind a bucket that someone had left there. The forest was only a number of paces away. It could make it! A sting of satisfaction touched the tiny rodent as it allowed itself to relax a little. It had had enough of living in the village, always knowing how your life would end one day when that tyrant who ruled Emond’s Field decided it was time. No, the mouse would not tolerate it any longer. It was time it took matters in its own… claws.
A sound of a tiny wet twig that broke caught its attention, its pulse rushing. The air held no smell but those of the nature, and not a single sound was heard after that twig broke. The crickets had gone silent; they too had a feeling of what was out there. The mouse looked around in panic. It could not be her, could it? Light, it could not! It was then it saw how the moonlight reflected in a pair of green eyes, looking at it. It felt as if its blood had been replaced with adrenaline.
The mouse dashed into a run, scrambling for the forest as fast as it could. It had to make it! But suddenly a shadow freed itself of the others and slid soundlessly in front of the mouse, cutting off its escape route. The rodent’s claws skidded on the loose sand as it tried to stop and run back the other way. Too late. The shadow leaped at it, teeth glistering in the moonlight. The mouse squeaked in terror; a squeak that hung in the air as death took it.
Scratch let the mouse drop back to the ground. She was not very hungry, but she could not have let it escape. To her, trying to run from her like that was about the same as attacking her. At least, it would have about the same outcome. She sat up straight with the mouse in front of her, her entire expression saying “let this be a warning” to anything that might be watching. And Scratch knew they were watching. Crickets, rodents, even birds, although she didn’t care too much about them. They all feared her, and fear was the ultimate form of respect. Scratch liked being respected.
After a couple of minutes she lost interest and picked up the mouse, carrying it off in her mouth. She supposed she had time for a late night snack before going to sleep again.
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Saying that the whole village was asleep might not be the best way of putting it. Most of it was indeed, but in many houses, people were lying awake in their beds. After all, Time had actually stood still for almost a day, but in people’s heads it had felt almost as usual. This had caused what psychologists might call “quite an interesting effect” on folk’s minds. They couldn’t really decide for themselves if it was day or night. They would adapt with time, of course. The mind is very good at adapting. But during this, the first night after it all happened, many a person lay in his or her bed wondering why in the Pit of Doom it wasn’t past noon already.
There were many ways of dealing with insomnia, Randlandians said. One of the most usual ways was counting Bezoons ((note: see When the Wheel Stopped, chapter 4, for information on them, cause I won’t go repeating myself)). Usually, that went rather fast. It was classed almost as a proof of status if you managed to keep count for more than two seconds. A few people on Randland had managed to keep count past seven seconds. These were looked upon like kings. In fact, various rulers had most of them executed so that they wouldn’t start an uprising against the throne. How a person whose mind could keep track of the number of felines that could pass in near-light-speed during seven seconds could possibly have enough time-space presence of thought to start a revolt, was never discussed.
Another way of dealing with insomnia was counting sheep. But those who preferred that method were considered simple-minded and/or perverted.
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Thom Merrilin sat alone in a corner of the main room of Winespring Inn. Like many others, he could not sleep. However understanding why, he had not bothered staying in his bed like the rest of those who were staying at the inn, but had gone back to the main room and lit a lantern, sitting down and reading the latest Gleeman Magazine. It was actually kinda comfortable, he thought. But it was also disturbing. Sometime around noon tomorrow, he’d be very tired, he guessed. Just at the time when people would want more songs and stories. There were some quite embarrassing mistakes a tired gleeman could make.
He sighed and flipped over to the next page. A big, flashy article took up most of it, putting forth its news in red & white in that way you can’t possibly see past. Thom muttered something. “Pel Howan composes new, extended versions of Gleeman’s Joy, Tinker in the Kitchen and other oldies,” it said. Below followed a fairly long interview with the young gleeman, concerning matters such as “Where did you get the inspiration?”, “Which were your visions when doing this?” and “What’s your favorite color?”. Thom shook his head slowly.
“That Howan-guy really thinks he is something, doesn’t he?” Thom had never liked the young man with his new style to everything. But he guessed he had to go and buy the C’D anyway, since a lot of people soon would be asking for the new stuff. And Howan would get another bag full of money, of course. He had made himself semi-famous through what resemblance of talent he had actually had, then he had started making new versions of songs, which people had liked and other gleemen had been forced to learn. And then he kept doing it. It was so simple but yet so effective that Thom, had he not known better, would have wished he had gotten the idea first.
Suddenly he didn’t hear a sound from the stairs. Thom lowered the paper and looked up at the man who was not making it.
“Ah hello, Lan,” he said. “Can’t sleep?”
Lan nodded, covering a yawn through simply not yawning.
“Thom, have you seen my copy of Monthly Gaidin? I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Haven’t found it yet?” He chuckled lightly. “You’ve been looking for it for quite long now.”
“I know,” Lan said dryly. “I swear that if they ever print the cover on fancloth again…” He made a gripping motion with his right hand instead of bothering to finish the sentence. Thom shuddered.
“I’m sure it will turn up soon,” he said hastily. Lan nodded again.
“Well, I’ll be heading back to my bed in case this darn insomnia suddenly decides to go in reverse. See you tomorrow.”
“G’night,” Thom said simply after Lan. He turned his attention back to the magazine.
“Prizes on harp-strings are going down,” he read, nodding. “Some good news, at least.”
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Lan groped over the shelves again in his hopeless search for the lost magazine. He was starting to believe he’d never find it again, and he had not read that article on how to reverse a Warder-bond over the night yet. He laid down in his bed under a muttered rain of curses for the publishers. Not long after, he had fallen asleep. And was dreaming.
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Yeeeees, people! What’s Lan dreaming of? Will we see another “When the Wheel Stopped-series”? And, what the heck is going on? Seeya around in the upcoming chapters of “ *Insert Title Here* ”.
/NightShade!
Bondholder of Dimmy
Gleeman of the PoL
He who comes with a Yawn!
The *Insert Title Here*-series
Chapter 2: Shadows awaken
Aviendha covered a yawn with the back of her hand, ignoring the feel against her back of the surprised girl’s gaze. Now she had obviously found out that even Aiel could be tired. Aviendha wasn’t sure what was worst; being sent down to the wine cellar to fetch a bunch of insomnia-stricken Wise Ones something to drink, or being charged with trying to teach the ways of Aiel to a girl who - even by the standards of the group of woolheaded, sword-wielding, wetlander “Ji’e’toh”-followers she belonged to - was not very bright. She didn’t like any of the alternatives, which was why she, the Creator obviously willing, had been assigned with both.
She spared a glance over her shoulder for the girl who was tirelessly following her every step, not much unlike some sort of stupid parasite. It was too dark for Aviendha to actually see the girl’s face clearly, but it wasn’t like if she had forgotten how it looked like anyway. The girl indeed had an appearance that quite simply suggested the same intelligence-potential as of a damp cork. Of course, it also suggested that, in a couple of years, the girl could come to cause reactions on the male side of the world similar to those caused by a pile of fresh dung to a colony of starving flies. It was all just so annoying that Aviendha simply could do nothing but hate it.
She sighed and continued probing her way in the gloom, searching for the door to the wine cellar. As if it all had been planned on forehand, she stubbed her toe against something and groaned angrily.
“Something wrong?” the girl asked her from behind her back, once again giving proof of her outstanding ability to come up with conclusions. The girl was actually quite good at that. If you gave her a map, a compass and a detailed step-by-step description of where to look for the clues, that was.
“I stubbed my toe,” Aviendha grumbled back, finding further explanations unnecessary.
“You stubbed it?” the girl asked in a confused way. “Didn’t know you could do that. Say, in what way does it affect your level of ji?”
“No,” Aviendha growled. “My toe. The thing connected to my foot, see?” That obviously made the girl even more confused.
“Your F’oeht? Must have missed that part of ji’e’toh. Oh, hang on…” The girl managed to look concentrated for a second. “It has something to do with Third-sisterhood, right?”
Aviendha closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer in case the Creator was actually listening. If her suspicions were true, though, the old bugger was probably rolling in laughter at the moment.
“I’ll explain another time,” she muttered and continued her search for the door.
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It probably wouldn’t have made Aviendha much happier had she known that the Creator was not laughing at her, nor had he any hand in any of it. The Creator never take any part in the lives of mortals. That would be changing the work of Destiny. And Destiny could be really prickly about people interfering with his stuff…
Funny enough, Moridin thought as he put down his cup of dices, Destiny itself was not very hard to control. You just had to know how to do it. Moridin knew from experience that Destiny, although very self-respecting, was pretty lazy. He gave it suggestions and showed it one possible way to take, and it most often followed. You could not actually take control of it though, he had learned. He had tried so once, in the battle at Shayol Ghul that most believed had been Tarmon Gai’don ((Author’s note: I’m talking about the last chapter of WtWsT here, see?)), and it had ripped itself free of him, taking its own way. A way that had led to the Dragon’s victory. But it had not been the last battle. As he had said to himself: Tomorrow is a new day. And that day was today.
MORIDIN.
Moridin straightened as he felt the voice inside his head.
COME.
Hesitating only to put the lid on the cup of dices, Moridin walked off towards the Pit of Doom. It wasn’t a long walk; his room was indeed located strangely close to the Bore itself. He simply entered the Pit of Doom without using any actual entrance. Other people, he supposed, would find it strange, but Moridin didn’t. He was used to it by now.
HAS IT STOPPED YET?
The question, muffled by the brick wall now covering the Bore from the inside, confused Moridin a bit.
“Has what stopped, Great Lord?” He asked. “The Wheel? I don’t think it will stop again soon.”
NOT THE WHEEL, MORON, the Dark One grumbled. THAT BLOODY NOISE.
Moridin thought for a second.
“The Song, you mean? It…” he cleared his throat, quite sure that the Great Lord wouldn’t approve of him actually finding it quite catchy. “Yes, that awful tune has stopped playing.”
IS IT SAFE FOR ME TO TAKE THIS PILLOW OFF MY HEAD, THEN?
“I suppose so, Great Lord…”
GOOD. NOW, LET’S GO INTO THE WORLD AGAIN.
There were a few moments of silence as the Dark One inspected the brick wall he had built.
ER… MORIDIN?
“Yes, Great Lord?”
YOU DON’T HAVE A SLEDGEHAMMER I CAN BORROW, DO YOU?
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Dawn slowly crept over Randland, chasing the night away. The sun glistered in fresh spiders’ webs and painted gold in drops of dew. It marked a return to everyday life for the Randlandians, as the midsummer-party was over and a restarting of the Wheel was already celebrated. Now, farmers had to go back to farming, rulers to ruling, Aes Sedai to sniffing, gleemen to gleeing and shepherds to sheeping (or whatever).
But still, a nice dawn was always welcome. Poets and artists could find an unending source of inspiration in watching the dawn over, for example, the Caralain Grass; how it played in the new day’s mist, broken only by rainbow-colored streaks where passing Bezoon had given the air a sense of personal crisis. Usual people could have a reason for getting out of bed and doing something useful, when dawn came around. Aiel could - up until recently, anyway - look at it, in case someone would happen to come with it. And morning-tired persons could get something to direct their hate at (Let’s face it everybody: What would a good “sleep-as-long-as-you-want-to”-morning be if there wasn’t a bunch of “smash-the-clock-and-try-to-sleep-another-minute-before-getting-up”-mornings? A good thing, dawn *nods*).
The dawn slowly descended upon the village of Emond’s Field. Sounds and sights of the morning came forth, but only carefully, warned once again by tonight’s event. A chirp of a bird here and there, a butterfly flapping its wings as gently as possible, a bee buzzing so slowly it risked falling to the ground should it loose concentration for a second. The Ruler of Emond’s Field was indeed respected. The sunlight continued into the village and soon fell in through the windows of Winespring Inn.
With a muffled gasp, held back only through years’ training of not gasping, Lan sat up straight in his bed, worried for the first time he could remember. Had it been? Could it have been? Whether or not, he knew he had no choice. Blinking at the morning light, he left his bed and got dressed. Then, while still strapping his sword on, he walked out in the corridor and over to the room occupied by Rand. Not bothering to knock, he threw the door open.
“You can’t imagine the dream I just had, shepherd,” he said.
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So, starting to wonder what he dreamed of yet? *g* You’ll see, in the next chapter of *Insert Name Here* I may even start revealing it. Oh, and by the way, I think I’m going to write a special info-post about the Bezoons, for those interested to know. Just wait around folks, because I’ve barely gotten started yet! ;)
Remember to vote a Humor-Wottie for me now *g*
/NightShade
Bondholder of Dimmy
Gleeman of the PoL
Vice President of the HPG
“He who comes with a yawn”