Weyland Condred's page

The Inn was like more than a few in Tar Valon save for the low cut of the barmaid dresses and the scent of spiced food. Wood worn with old booze and sweaty patrons stretched out and he could see the years in different amounts on each surface. Some newer than another, some old enough it might have belonged to an Aes Sedai when she was still a girl. Not that he supposed Manwhen reflected on her girlhood much these days. Too many people to lash with her tongue and that gaze of hers.

It would have been a calm type of entrance if he wasn't hauling almost the entirety of his packhorse's saddle across one shoulder casually. His left shoulder bearing the weight of the packs and their contents, his right was left free as he'd been taught. Never letting his instant reach for his sword be obstructed, he calmly crossed the distance, aware that he probably looked like a pack mule on two long legs himself.

The key from the Aes Sedai was a welcome respite. A room with a place to rest his aching back had been something he'd hoped for longer than he cared to talk about. Though no sooner had he entered the modest room and dropped the heavy pack of gear than he turned and locked up, intent on not resting immediately. Many hours of the day left and he didn't intend to waste them lazing about like a Novice skulking in the cellars.

Instead he pulled aside the thick green cloak he'd wrapped himself in and found a place to sit and watch the nearly empty Inn. His sword propped on the table in front of him for ease of access, he glanced about as he waited one of the barmaids and watched the rest of the members of the caravan move to and fro with a keen interest in their comings and goings.

There was a simplicity in the life of the Tower that he missed. There was always more to do than they had time for, never enough hours in the day to complete it all, and through it all a watchful eye on their backs ready to discipline far more than praise. Yet for all the hard work, the drills, the training and the long hours combing over books it at least had something over their current situation.

It wasn't boring.

That's exactly what he thought as he road astride his horse with the lead to his pack horse tied to the saddle. Traveling so great a distance he'd packed for everything. Warm and cold weather, emergency food, supplies, tools, everything he and his sister could think of. While she'd remained behind at the tower, he had set off with expectations of at least a few good tales to bring home.

Instead the broad shouldered man had very little in the way of stories, other than an outbreak of saddle soars and having to help push a tree from a road in the midst of a downpour. Grand stories of an adventure they were not. But as they crossed into the town in what he supposed was still Arad Domani despite current situations, he began to understand a few things.

The tower had it's fair share of Domani women, usually of the Green Ajah, who wore rather immodest dresses and were very 'friendly' to the Warders in training when they would practice without their shirts on in the summer heat. Now he rode his horse along streets lined with Domani women of all shapes and sizes and found the same style of dress every direction he turned. Enough that he'd considered unbinding his long pale hair to keep his head from swiveling, but long hours being reminded of how bad loose hair was in a fight kept him from doing so.

Instead he looked down at the misfortune of Jair's predicament and drew his reigns in, "Neither, actually. Just some muddy water. Or, I hope that's mud..." He shook his head after a moment and waved him up with a smile on his bearded face, "Come on. You don't look Aiel enough to drown in that puddle, so you might as well come along before you absorb most of the water in your boots."

I get stuck in Golarion because of how intricate it is. I'd say WoT fills that bill. Though I have to admit I'll be doing some refreshing over the next few days to get back up to speed. And using wiki. Like a lot.