h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Today was a good day. Went out walking, then to a restaurant for dinner. Everyone in town seemed to have a garage sale what with spring cleaning and raising the money for DARE programs. It was fun.

Wrote quite a lot. Getting a computer tan already. Got frustrated at Collegeboard. Talked in brisk snappy sentences.

To pay, Amber thought, or not to pay homage. That is not the question. Her mouth twisted wryly, as she stepped into the grove. In tune with Nature: what is at peace with her being when she existed as a Healer? Amber dabbled in the profession where one defies sicknesses and death, the work of insuring longevity in glowing health, struggles against the ordinary wave of fate.
She stared intently at a sprig foxglove. Echoes flowed back, and silent tears willed up, threatening to raise the aching lump in her milky throat. Good for fever and swelling, if in poultice with feverfew. Grinding into a weak tea calms the mind and clears overwhelming vapours, could be utilised as a lightly scented perfume when dried into a powder. If the blooms are fresh, like the ones before me… Watch carefully dearest watch Mum’s fingers. The elfin girl, she who Amber was, committed the scene to memory.
The Yellow Sister pinched the buds the very same way with a sharp nail, moon-shaped and steady. It is not right – this terrible ignorance, she argued with an imagined adversary. It’s to leave a sapling crooked to disadvantage so it is doomed to decay. To shirk from vines limp and sans stake status, to grow heaps of weed as to choke out the feed. She straightened up from her crouch. And moved on farther into the vegetation, where the pretty colourful leaves awaited.
It is not to avoid Death, she told a bushy but semi-odourless purple Coleus mutely, and by all means I would scorn them. These so called Servants of the Dark, the “friends” whose cowardice spurred an easier but horrendous path, who would consent to the exchange of a false promise for the bargain of a disgraced soul. She shuddered, walking past some bane’s staff, a spiky plant for which she observed belatedly, wheeled about, doubled-back and collected two leaves into a drawstring bag. A pinch of the powdered staff placed in mull-wine increased the function of the lungs to greater capacity, offers miracles to a filled air sac, expelling tar and water with its powerful cleansing. Yet two pinches would result the same as a deep and unstitched dagger wound to the heart chambers, the patient would perish slowly in agony. The avenging and cruellest assassin’s greatest accomplice, Bane’s Staff is. Amber sighed.
What use is a slovenly life enslaved to cringe and glory in brutal notoriety? She wondered as a waft of mint spruce filled her senses. Amber laid her elbows on top of a huge flat-rock, and propped her head up, gazing into the blue and white paints of the sky. The sun was hiding behind a mass of summer clouds. The birds chirped and the wind shrieked. A squirrel ran by, rather close, its concentration entirely for the acorn alone. She smiled and knew in that moment why her parents loved to garden -as she stood as still as the steady rock, to the best of her abilities so not to scare off her companion. The wealth of the world is shared, she realised again and again, each discovery with newfound pleasantry. With a wave of its thinning tail, the tuft-eared creature vanished, rolling along with its critter of prey, the hapless acorn.
The epiphany came naturally as she meditated on her own inquiries. Though Saidar had faded into the prevailing winds of the pattern when she rode within a half-mile radius of the Stedding, she had rarely felt more alive in the tower libraries. This is my niche, she enthused as the majestic beeches and towering range sycamores. It is good to get away from the White Tower. “You cannot see the forest from the woods,” she quoted the common saying. Without the woods, we are nothing. We are offered ample choices: though Destiny decries an overall structure, the script is still determined by the individual’s free will. Experiences helped me shape myself, melding into the pattern and the Wheel. We are affected by influences all over, the zephyr from the North, the moss facing the sun, the stars that dictate humours, the caretaker guardians, the five senses, the lasting impressions, needs and satisfaction, the search that ultimately leads to the ancient and contemporary conflict between the Dark One and the Creator. The universe is parallel, and each breath I take is another opportunity to assist others, who may or may not require my influence.
This denial stops here. She avoided where the Ogiers congregated, for she felt sadness and guilty as if she had done the atrocity, responsible for erecting the cities and towers in place of the trees’ realm, in forced succession Ages ‘ere. But that is over with. One must learn to adapt to options, to progress. The threshold of nature is to compete in our journey on and upwards; in order to survive one must want to survive. If you care enough, willing to give up anything, sacrifice all, which is trueness to your reason and your life.
Thoughts of Moiraine came to mind and would not leave. Legendary and fiercely devoted to her cause, the beautiful Blue Sister was renowned. Amber felt the furry leaves of the Elenour clover’s seven petals, rubbing the aromatic solvent (when in liquid state) softly, bleeding the flow of juices and sap into a durable flask she took from her leather pouch. The clover was a familiar reminder of all the properties of the Creator’s intricately woven balance.
Amber knew rhetorically, Moiraine was a warrior in her own path yet understood strategy of the soul: the brilliant distinction of when to choose the tide and the brave acceptance of the flows and eddies. She hoped to meet the courageous Aes Sedai for the first time in the after-life, perhaps in another Age.
She know now the world must help one another, and unite as it never had for Artur the High King. I shall heal every kind. Amber left the Ogier Haven with a burst of inspiration and determination and began her quest in Cairhien, the noble home to the dedicated woman who gave so much and yet left all the possibilities of her high heritage behind to face Martyrdom on a trail to heal the rift of the world.
...
Amber jumped sprightly down and petted her mare, which showed off for the little stable boys. They crowded around in wide-eyed contemplation as Blueberry reared in mock triumph, energetic and spirited even after a tiring day in the saddle. Leaving the gentle, though the pale martial appearances do deceive the slew of horse thieves that avoid the horse assiduously, filly in the capable hands of the oldest boy (what is your name, lad? Jon, ma’am, I thank you for the sweet); she banished all thoughts of the world for a bath drawn in the manor. The resident Lord, upon hearing the Aes Sedai’s request to visit the city in hopes of advancing a certain vital cure, offered his fife in courtesy and perhaps meddling in the Game as all Lords do, in hope of the Tower’s favourable presence.
She had climbed the inner wall for sport, instead of being announced at the Gate. Amber wanted to examine the beautiful gardens upon arrival. The gardeners were extremely diligent, she concluded with approval was she examined the spray of primroses and the panoply of buds spreading in artistically cultivated waves of eloquence. Like the envoy of the Lord, she reflected wryly, remembrance of the letter she received. All Lords fiddle with crossroads of risk, brave confrontation. She entered the grand premises of the manor, clad in garbs of plain yellow and indigo.
Upon which, the entrance that is, a plump serving woman jerked Amber by the arm and reeled her into the kitchen with a humongous platter of ham croissants. She, the name was Cook Tay to you, busied herself by scolding her for spotting her tunic with flecked mud and messing up her hair with filthy leaves. “Must have been when I scaled the garden wall,” the bemused Sister said, letting the agitated and hassled kitchen supervisor pull her along. Here was a new experience being mistaken for extra help, she reflected as she exploited her disguise by yawning and acting the insolent dullard. The kitchen was all ordered chaos, the heat from the furnace blasting, roaring and roasting the room. She was put to turn the metal stakes, which reminded her of the good times she had when assigned rare penances in Tar Valon, because work builds character. No one noticed despite the temperature the newly arrived woman sweat not; they were too rushed with keeping the party going. Out of pity, one scullery maid took over the spit and urged her to eat a slab of venison quickly. Amber disliked the grease, the shining substance on all viands, but was grateful for the deliciously hot repast. After filling her stomach and wiping her oil-laved mouth, she was hushed out the Dining Hall with a silver platter of chilled wine and tea. Amber blinked as she glided into the dimly lit ballroom and shook her locks out of her head. She smiled, putting on a simpering mask of servitude. If Lords kept up this style of celebration, practising such elaborate get-ups and overworking the servants while the common man strived to feed and clothe his family, the peasants and the misfits at the bottom of the hierarchy will talk. Riots had overrun the city after the King’s death, staining the streets with violence. History taught her that mobs create scenes of horror, and no one is to attest that the blood price was paid in full satisfaction yet. A change may be not a bad one; she remembered some of the stuck-up nobles.
“They will not revolt!” A clear bell-like voice, trained to ring above the harps, sounded in command. Amber angled her head slightly and saw, out of the corner of her right eye, two men.
One was bowing away, beating a hasty retreat as his Lord gazed sternly at him, judging and calculating in his cold eyes. She, surprised at thinking of the same topic, watched the Lord carefully, catching furtive glances. He seemed youthful at one minute yet wise beyond any age the next. Amber could not gauge his ageless face. Her thoughts raced quickly, who was he and what is his purpose here. Of a sudden, she regretted ruefully opting out on in-depth seminars the Grey Sisters offered on contemporary Lords. The noble heads were too numerously cumbersome to track now that the older ones fall victim to schemes amidst schemes more young and frequent.
“But the World is truly breaking,” the man enunciated sincerely to Lady Anne Fray, who batted her painted lashes at him. “The reborn is our salvation. We must band together.”
“O, mi’Lord,” fluttered the simpering woman, striped with many vivid ranks, in faint distress. “Have a care, you mustn’t spoil your lovely party.”
Amber’s brow rose. So this was the Lord of the House. Despite her impositions, the aura of confidence with which he carried his words and actions was impressive. The snobbery never seemed as it is, she reminded herself. Not in the Game, the puppeteers never go in the open unless they win; most do not guess that they cannot win the power they crave unless they are in the open. What a paradox, Amber served a woman carefully, then another man, with each patron hopping closer to the Lord as he spoke to his air-headed guest. Was Anne Fray pretending, or merely clever by pretending to change the subject? Maybe he is the type of man who will speak solely of the very thing you forbade. Amber could not decide whether the woman was a piece mover or a pawn in the game. She glanced at to see the Lord’s reaction.
He smiled beauteously at the woman. “My lovely party, as you called it, is the only way one could attract people, short of death, without dealing with pretentious excuses. I shall have to apologise to the servants for having wasted their efforts on such a rabble. As for care, have a charming time Mistress of Fray.”
The woman beamed back. Had she listened correctly, the correct response would be to promise to make a huge fuss about the implied insults to her rank and have the man in her rule. Anne was definitely thick, she thought not unkindly. Amber disliked the Game and yet found herself obviously contemptuous of others not making the moves. It occurred to her that she fond of Stones. I am a hypocrite, she supposed. Chagrined, she lowered her dark eyes and saw the silver-tipped boots in front of her. The hair on the nape of her neck tingled.
Amber set the platter on a nearby table. He bothered her first. Not that she would certainly have gone to him eventually, but even a Lord should wait his turn. Her chin jutted up. “Yes?” She said in cold lilting accent.
“You have eavesdropped enough to make judgements.” He pointed out, equally quiet. “Pronounce them, if you please.”
“I do not please.” Amber concluded and started walking briskly. She was more likely to give him a side of her tongue later, with more privacy and less eyes and ears around.
“Do Aes Sedai all dress like you?” He caught up and looped his arm into the crook of her waist. “Not the ones I’ve met.”
“Remove your hands.” She gritted her teeth to resist the temptation of binding him with the One Power.
“As soon as we get out of here without making a scene.” He kept his steely arm there, firmly escorting her out of the chamber. “You surely know that I’ve prepared and anticipated a welcoming party for a dignified and well-dressed Sister of the Yellow Ajah, not a servant, yes?”
“Where are we going?” She answered with her own questions. Scene or not, Lord needs manners. A liberal dose of ward-wort should do it.
“A room.” They rushed up the stairs. Amber yanked her hand, but his arm did not budge until they came to the second chamber.
“You may let the blood circulate in my arm now that the reason for your fear is gone.” She said tartly. Seriously, a physical slap will do fine for this stickler.
“You are my guest.” He let go and sighed. “I trust you have eaten in the kitchens, and after masquerading as a server you cannot expect me to introduce you this night. On the morrow they will have forgotten if they ever saw at all. Though servers are beneath the notice of most, I cannot afford the chance.”
Amber bared her teeth. The man was sensible.
“You are tired. We shall talk after you have rested, Aes Sedai.”
He closed the door, which clicked.
Something important slipped her mind. In the foggiest state of fatigue, Amber did not remember what. She simply created a ward around the door out of wind, water, and spirit. It would caution her if anyone tried to enter. Her hot face kissed the surface of the stone basin, cool water splashed out. The tingling of hair on her neck stopped… She had not noticed when the sensation had gone. Her bags were in the stable where she left them. She needed her books and a new set of clean garments. Amber exhaled gustily and made a note to ring for the servants later.
Slightly under the window’s elaborate ledge displayed a man’s retreating back under the shadowy eaves. A squint showed prominent Saldaean features. Stranger and stranger, she thought as her head hit the pillow. She slept.
...
A ringing startled her out of bed.
“What should I call you?”

oooh

lol, wrote more
A shrill ringing startled her out of the covers. “I am Ron, the Lord of the Shirael Manor.” The intolerable man barged in, as if it were his right to stare at her in her unkempt attire: she had worn the mud-trekked tunic abed. “Of course, there is no requirement for you to address me ‘mi’Lord’.” He chuckled. “What should I call you?”

Ron Shirael was dressed impeccably in white velvet laced by ebony trimming. Golden and silver embroideries gleamed all along the trailing sleeves and slim chest, which accentuated his nimble hands and narrow waist. Like all nobleman, he moved with graces that endear the ordinary beholders to the adept performer. This Aes Sedai was less than impressed, however. She had seen Lords before, the lofty and arrogant pigs. This one had a suitable taste for colours though, the Sister admitted grudgingly. She maintained a proper demeanour, which should pressure the other person to leave. I will not be embarrassed, Amber determined.

Neither spoke for almost companionable while. The moonflower designs on his sleeve became more prominent as he drew nearer. A familiar jangling chimed by his side. The intricate shapes of his heraldry there looked the kind to have consumed days for a professional to create. He stood there, exhaling a long heave. She eyed Ron coldly, then the keys.

“There is an issue of privacy.” Amber hissed as she flew at him and snatched at the lovely keys to the room, being deliberately rude. That was the plan. The articles were unfortunately attached to his belt, and merely served to tug slightly down at his hose. His expression changed, amazement replaced by humour at the absurdity of her wit. Amber let go, her fingers burning as if a touched scorching potato. Luckily for his health, Ron handed her the keys. Glaring at him like a hawk and making certain of his sincere intent, she tucked the room keys safely into her pouch.

“What should I call you?” He repeated his inquiry.

The sister changed her stratagem. “Amber Tigraine Mantle Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, at your service, Lord Shirael.” She lilted and excused her evocation. It was not lying per se to claim latter half, skirting the issue of when just a tad. If he chooses to believe the service is in the future, more power to him, for had she not already been at Ron’s service at the party? Aes Sedai always keeps her Oaths, she grimaced slightly at the idiocy of folkways such as polite conversation.

“Well, Amber Sedai,” Ron kept his expression blank. “I do not suppose that you’ve told me exactly what you are here to research?”

one thing you should do is put this in a guide entry and put a (c) sign - even in your nickname by it - then no-one can take it!!!!!

Nah, people can if they want, it's only for a role playing game on the wheel of time books.
I'm writing a novel about Orkney though.

wheel of time books? are the publishers/game makers?

It's by Robert Jordan all about Dragon Reborns, Aes Sedai and Wolfbrothers...
Thanks for the advice though, maybe if I write enough I'll start an entry.

your choice - my latest project is making graphics for a CGI animation programme AND writing scripts for it too!!

Awesome, one of my friend's writing his gamescript... It's great, switching from scene to scene, almost like a play.

But I write long stories and turn them into novellas!

Go to www.mirrorsofthewheel.com to join the new rpg though

i'll take a look!