Participants: Jaice, Accepted at the White Tower, ex Atha'an Miere deckhand.
Celebril, Andoran Lord, Blademaster, and ex-Captain of the Golden Eagles.

Background: Cairhien was the last place Jaice thought to find herself, yet here she was, somehow freakishly transported by a Ter'angreal that -- so Coliena had claimed -- no Aes Sedai had been able to trigger in over one hundred years. But then, anything can happen when the city is plagued by bubbles of ill-fortune, and so when one coincided with Jaice's experimentation on the old object, she had found herself in an old storage room in Cairhien, opposite the same Ter'angreal -- or rather, its twin, only here, someone had actually mistaken it for a picture frame.

So for two days Jaice had been combing the Inns, searching for Maeve, who had told her she would be in Cairhien. Surely Maeve would be able to help her; without food, money or spare clothing, she stuck out like a storm on the horizon, and had no way to get herself back to the Tower.

Unfortunately, she'd had no luck finding her friend, and was getting tired and depressed. There were not many Inns left to check, and with the Feast of Lights going on it was difficult to get much sense out of anyone. But the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills... and Jaice was soon to find the pattern yanking her in a strange and unexpected direction.

Setting: North Warehouse District, Cairhien, Cairhien.

The sound of glass shattering against brick makes her spin around, her eyes wide in the darkness. Nothing to worry about, Jaice. Nothing here but rats and boxes. Still, she can feel her heart fluttering in her chest, and she can't get herself to stop breathing so fast. The darkness seems to close around her like a glove, and not for the first time Jaice finds herself wishing she hadn't wandered so far. Backing against the alley wall, she waits in silence; and when nothing happens, the slender Sea Folk woman lets out a long sigh of relief.

Another bottle shattering on the ground sends Jaice's heart right into her throat. It's not that she's a frightened sort; but two days alone in a strange city trying to find the one friend you know is here -- and failing -- can take its toll on a woman. And now, it is doing more than that.

"Lookie here, Tuz! We gots oursel' a plaything!" The harsh voice is laden with ale, and its owner swaggers into the alley, a bottle held limply in his left hand. "All to oursel', eh Tuz? Hey. Hey! You there. Missy. What's ya doin' wit yer shirt on? Yer -- 'hic! -- supposed ta be all nekkid fer' us ta enjoys ya better durin' t'feast!"

"Now Sol'zan," drawls the second, seeming only sightly more sober than his friend, "I's sure she didn'a mean to ferget t'proper attire for t'celebration!" He takes a few more weaving steps toward her, a greedy, possessive light coming to his dark eyes. "I suspect we c'n help her wit that. An' in return, she'll help -us-. Ain't that right, missy?" By that sickening leer on his drunken face, Jaice has no doubt as to what he means by 'help'. She could've sworn these two didn't look so large a moment ago, but now they loom over her, and she finds herself struggling to beat down the panic that's welling in her chest. The exhaustion of the past two days, coupled with the stress of her situation, all combines to a lack of focus on anything except fear -- and her attempts to grasp the Source end in failure, for the first time since her block was broken.

The sounds of glass shards breaking and harsh, drunken voices are the symphonies of nights in the warehouse districts; Cairhien, Tar Valon, Caemlyn... they are all the same. Yet the river is not far, and a man might wander down to a river to think; one man has. And where one goes, one must always return from--so it is that Celebril Girithlin finds himself walking back from the river through the shadows of the warehouse district, his innate sense of justice drawing him nearer the sounds of hooliganism.

And so it is, then, that Celebril appears--a grey ghost, cloaked shoulder to toe in spun wool like a stormcloud, golden hair brushed silver in the pale moonlight--at the front of the alley, a curious silhouette of silver and grey.

Jaice swallows as she tries to back further from the two drunken men, only to find the wall pressing against her spine. "Go away," she tells the one nearest, still half-distracted with her futile attempts at grasping the Source -- there! No, gone -- "Leave me alone."

"Ye's a purty one, eh missy? I'll bets you'll give us a good ol' time!" The one called Solizan -- almost as fat as he is tall -- grasps her arm, yanking her away from the wall so he can get a better look at her face. Jaice almost gags with the smell of his breath and clothing, but she wrenches one hand free to hit him hard in the nose with the heel of her hand. A sharp crack is followed by a squeel of pain from the ox, and he throws the white-robed girl to his friend. "Blood and ashes! She broke my bleedin' nose!"

Meanwhile, at the mouth of the alley, a hand strays to a scabbard, and feels for a sword that is not there. Behind the eclipse of the silhouette, a fair face sets in a grim mask of acceptance, and then determination; it is from this man that a clear, ringing voice calls out, "Let the girl go, and that's all you'll have broken, friend."

Taz, who had been torn between laughing at his friend and roughly pulling at the woman's blouse, peers down the alleyway to see who's come to join the party. "Eh! You want a piece of her too, friend? T'wench just injured my comrade here, so I's thought to take my time of her; but you're welcome to her when we're done."

It's impossible to say, in the starlight, who the 'girl' is, save that she's dark of skin and evidently frightened to death. The three are mostly hidden in the clinging shadows.

"I don't think you understand," the grey-cloaked man says. As he advances down the alley, his voice changes; where it began conversationally, a hard, stern note has crept into it--steel, the tone of command long-known and well-practiced. "Let the girl go."

"She's ours," the fat one says roughly. Blood is now obscuring the bottom half of his face, and he stands brusquely in the middle of the alley to bar the newcomer's way. "We's found her, an' after what she jus' did to my face, I's intend to make her pay. No wench does that to me! You just walk on, stranger."

As though to mark his words, the fat one turns back to the girl, who responds by curling one hand into a tight fist. It's easy to tell though, even in the dim light, that she's shaking.

"She's hers, and no-one else's," the golden-haired interloper says. No longer in the mouth of the alley, the shadows obscure him now as much as the others, but his voice stays clear and confident. His movements are loose, and his stance is relaxed as he comes to a stop... some five feet or so from the fat man.

"This is your last chance, friend," the newcomer says into the darkness.

"Go jump off the pier!" the fat one tosses back, now intent on his prey. Oh, that woman would pay dearly, for what she did to his nose. That she would. The thinner man, still too drunk to pay much attention to anything, merely nods at the newcomer with an echoing, "Yeah. Pier."

The next sound made by the fat man is not from his mouth, but rather the deadened thump of a balled fist collapsing his gut; this is followed quickly by a groan as he doubles over from the newcomer's unlooked-for punch! The left to the middle is followed by a right uppercut, snapping the fat man's chin back. The recipient of these sudden blows bellows in pain.

Stepping back as quickly as he stepped in, the lightning-fast man in the cloak cocks his head, daring the thugs to come forward. "I told you," he whispers, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "Leave the girl go."

"Oh Light," the woman can be heard to whisper as the large man starts coming up on her in the darkness. She's still being held by the thinner drunkard, though that's remedied fast enough; as his friend is unexpectedly put down for the count, he's off and running.

And Solizan thought his face was messed up before! He staggers, falls to one knee, and spits out a tooth. "Aye, an' you'll pay for that!" His drunken bellows are muffled with the blood he sprays, and he staggers to his feet, leaving the woman to crouch behind the crates as he lunges roughly for Celebril.

Celebril, like his punches, is light and quick; no brute force here, but only speed and intelligence while his beloved blade is left in the loving care of Cairhien's finest. Sidestepping Solizan, he snakes an ankle out to trip the tough, sending his lunging form sprawling into a stack of crates that crack and tumble atop his quivering mass of flesh.

Yet even as Solizan is sprawling, Celebril is touching the clasp of his cloak, releasing it to float down from his shoulders into his hands as Taz darts past. Turning to eye the crate-topped obesity grimly, the Andorman turns his gaze in the direction of the shadow-swathed girl.

"You can come out now," he says quietly, "...and you can have this." As he tosses the greatcloak in her direction, he adds, "Come on, now. We should get you to a safe inn before the small one comes back with more of his ilk."

Still the woman does not move, her arms clasped around her as she tries to control the shaking of her shoulders. Finally she stands, cautious, her pale eyes going immediately to the large man face down in the crates. "I... I thank you," she manages, somehow keeping the quavvering out of her voice. Somehow, even as she approaches, she seems unable to tear her gaze from the large facedown shape, but now you can make out her dress, dirty as it may be, and the seven bands of an Accepted. The young woman picks up the cloak where it had fallen and adds, "I am afraid I have no money for an Inn. I came here under... unusual circumstances."

Celebril's sharp intake of breath betrays his surprise, for surely in his curiosity to see just whom and what he has saved from an ugly fate, he cannot fail to miss the seven bands. "You should be in Tar Valon, at the Tower," he quietly comments after a moment of silence.

"I know," the young woman says, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "As I said, I came under unusual circumstances. I am not supposed to be here." A swift, fluid motion drapes the cloak about her shoulders, and finally the darkly tanned woman steps forward into the moonlight, away from the shadows of the crates. "I cannot see you there in the darkness. Who are you, that I may know who helped me tonight?"

The answer to her question, at first, is only a strangled gasp, depe in the throat. An uncomfortable, pregnant pause ensues until finally--split seconds later, yet seeming like hours, a voice suddenly fraught with worry and concern asks, "Jaice? Dear Light, Jaice, it's you!!"

That voice did sound oddly familiar -- but now, hearing it say her name, it's easily recognisable. "Cel?" Relief and tears can be heard in her voice, and Jaice steps forward to find you in the darkness. "Cel -- I -- What are you doing here?" Suddenly you find her slender form pressed against your chest, her familiar scent filling your nostrils. Her next words are muffled. "Light Cel, I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you."

Strong arms fold around you, and something in Celebril's embrace speaks of relief, of shock, of fear for what could have been, had he not arrived by some strange circumstance--yet most of all, there is a sudden fierce feeling, almost palpable, of surprise and worry. "I should ask you the same question," he breathes, excited and amazed, and places several kisses on your brow before resting his head against yours. "But don't say anything now."

Jaice doesn't. You can still feel her shaking slightly, curled in your arms; whatever happened to bring her here, it must have taken a lot out of the strong-willed woman to so easily want to hide in your embrace. But then, considering her circumstances, and considering what almost just happened to her, it well may be understandable. "I was so scared," she murmurs, finally, into your chest. "I couldn't... I couldn't reach the Source."

Celebril holds you close, all steel and leather and horse--the scent of the road--serving almost as an affirmation for you. It's truly him, somehow, some way. The voice works the same way, even though it cannot mask the small, suppressed note of curiosity at finding you when he whispers, "Shush now, starfish... they're gone. It's over." His right hand strokes soothingly between your shoulderblades, seeking to drive the tension away.

It's another several long minutes before Jaice seems to relax completely in your arms, before she stops shaking with the aftershock of the evening. Finally she lifts her head, and now you can see the smear of dirt across her cheek, the smudge down the front of her dress, the tear on her sleeve where the fat man had pulled her roughly. She looks a mess. All that seems to wash away though when she smiles up at you, one hand scrubbing one eye and then the other. "I feel better now," she announces, more herself. With a glance at the man still lying peacefully in the crates she asks, "Will he wake up?"

"Probably," Celebril answers without glancing at the man, instead staring down into your eyes while actually holding you in his arms; an unusual position for him. As his eyes slowly adjust and take in the smudges and tears, something changes in him, and the sheer joy he knew to hold you becomes shifts into a sudden, zealous look as he swears, "By the Creator's own name, Jaice, if I see a man... if I see a man touch you like that again, he'll die." His embrace, slackened earlier, tightens as if in fear of losing it.

"Perhaps it's good you didn't know it was me then," Jaice says cautiously, sparing the downed man another glance. "I would much rather he spend some time in a cell." Then, in a small voice she asks, "Can we go?"

Celebril tears his eyes from yours, forcing himself to look at the splayed-out fat man snoring beneath a pile of crates. "Yes," he whispers, "And better I didn't have my sword." It is as if something about the thought sobers him, and he adds, "Yes. Let's go." As he releases the embrace, though, his hands seek your smaller ones.

Jaice's slender fingers wrap about yours, and she walks with you toward the street, her eyes unconciously, warily, searching the shadows as she goes. It is a strange comfort somehow, and an unusual feeling, to have her warm grasp in yours; and as you both walk slowly toward the light of the center city streets, you get the sense that your friendship will never be quite the same again.