[pfsb] the mirrors of the wheel

[blue_ajah]

The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and all things are part of the Pattern. There is little that she can do now but wait, guard against events worsening as best she can, and watch.

As a result, Moiraine is in the bar this evening, musing over her thoughts with a cup of tea at hand and a slender, leather-bound journal open to a blank page before her.

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[bialy_wilk]

When the door opens, it opens onto an empty, spartan hunter's cottage, an open chest just visible before the barrier swings shut again.

The witcher enters, weary, stinking of blood and silver. He limps a little from the gashes raked into his thigh by the werewolf's claws, his expression set and grim. No coin for him, after this. Only death, for his petitioner, for the wife, for the sister who'd plotted everything.

Wine sounds like a good start to his evening here. And plenty of it.

[blue_ajah]

She sets her pen in the crease between the journal's pages as the newcomer's arrival draws her attention. After so long, the Aes Sedai is well able to discern the difference between someone who has visited before and someone who has some level of familiarity with this place, whether she has met them or not.

This one does not appear surprised to find himself here at all, nor does he take the measure of the room itself other than the sort of unconscious assessment that one uses when evaluating a place for potential threat. Given the damage to his attire, what is clearly a wound of some sort, she can well imagine that it is a matter of some interest to him.

She tips her head back in a nod of greeting, letting the light catch and glint from the kesiera she wears, and waits to see his reaction.

[bialy_wilk]

Wonderful. The aristocracy.

The witcher limps her direction, an ignored waitrat scuttling after him, and folds his arms once he's standing before her. "Need something?"

[blue_ajah]

Moiraine arches an eyebrow. "Most people do," she observes. "Including yourself."

She nods toward his injured leg and meets his yellow eyes with no sign of surprise, although sudden interest sharpens her glance.

"I have something of a talent for healing, if you would wish assistance."

[bialy_wilk]

The witcher grunts, meeting that interested look with his own level one. "And what'll it cost me?"

He has Swallow, and he'll heal up, in time, but it wouldn't be such a bad thing if she can speed the process along.

[blue_ajah]

"We need not speak of debt now," she replies, unruffled. "But if you insist on some form of payment, information may suffice."

[bialy_wilk]

"Usually when I insist on payment, it's the other way around."

He doesn't move yet, studying her closely with his yellow cat's eyes. "What kind of information?"

[blue_ajah]

"You are not the first person I have known with golden eyes, as it happens," she murmurs. "I should be interested to hear more of yours."

[bialy_wilk]

"Hm." It's a low rumble in his chest, before he comes and drags out a seat at her table, carefully dropping down into it. His thigh is beginning to stiffen up.

"Bet you find some of that while you do your healing. But sure. It's a deal."

[blue_ajah]

"Perhaps," Moiraine allows. "The Wheel weaves. Remain still, if you would."

A golden corona springs into being around her as she opens herself to saidar. Without further warning, she leans forward and places both hands flat against his wounded leg.

Threads of silver-blue radiance streak from her fingertips, weaving together in strands of light tinged with red-gold.

[bialy_wilk]

He stays still, as requested, but takes in all the details of her strange magic. It's not like anything he's familiar with on the Continent, and it isn't like anything else he's seen here, either.

But it seems to be working. So that's a good sign.

[blue_ajah]

He is not unfamiliar with power, she notes, or else he has such command of himself as is rare among most men.

A surge of Air and Water pours through him like a torrent as his flesh knits itself back together under her command. She chases it with Sprit, Delving for further harm, and finds hints of an old injury to his knee - not unlike Thom Merrilin's, she realizes, and keeps even the faintest hint of wistfulness from her features. She cannot Heal it, not completely, but she can ease the ache for a time and so she does.

Finished, she releases the One Power and meets his eyes as the glow around her fades. "I have done what I might."

[bialy_wilk]

He nods to her, glances down at his leg. Moves it, experimental, before making a gruff sound of approval and relaxing.

"Quite a light show."

[blue_ajah]

"Such things are more visible here than in other Mirrors of the Wheel." She sits back in her chair and signals for a waitrat.

[bialy_wilk]

"Mirrors?" He signals for the waitrat, who scurries forward. "Wine, for me," he tells it. "Red. And – "

A nod to the woman. "Want something?"

[blue_ajah]

“I believe I shall have a glass of wine as well,” she tells the attentive rat. “My thanks.”

Moiraine returns her attention to the gold-eyed stranger with a slight nod. “Mirrors. You may think of them as parallel worlds.”

[bialy_wilk]

He makes a low, exasperated sound at that, dropping his chin to his chest as he looks down at his hands.

Parallel worlds. He can't escape them. What they mean. What people want. "I'm familiar."

Looking up once more, he studies her. "What's your name?"

[blue_ajah]

“You do not seem pleased at your familiarity,” she observes. “I am Moiraine. And you?”

[bialy_wilk]

"Geralt of Rivia," he says, ignoring the rest. "I'm a witcher."

One gloved hand gestures at his face. "You wanted to know about the eyes? They're an effect of the mutations it took to make me."

[blue_ajah]

Her own dark eyes narrow in consideration. “An intended effect or an accidental one?”

Almost as an afterthought, she continues, “Rivia. Where or what is Rivia?”

[bialy_wilk]

"Intended. All witchers have them. Makes it easier to see in the dark."

Their wine comes and he takes both goblets, then offers the first to Moiraine. "The white hair; that was an accidental effect. But some say it's striking."

[blue_ajah]

She makes a mental note of the evasion, intentional or not, as she accepts the glass with a smile of thanks.

“It is quite distinctive, certainly.”

[bialy_wilk]

"That's what I hear." He sips at his own wine, considering her.

"The yellow eyes aren't the only result of the mutagens. Just the most visible. Easiest way to tell a witcher. But I'm guessing that's not the case with the one you know."

[blue_ajah]

“Surely you are aware that is an encouragement to ask,” she murmurs, before taking a sip of her own wine.

“Is, perhaps, a connection with wolves one of the other effects?”

[bialy_wilk]

He shrugs at her statement, then again at her question. "Only in the sense that I'm a product of the School of the Wolf," he tells her. "Instead of Cat, Griffin. Any of the others."

There's a beat, before he adds: "And it's a nickname. White Wolf. Something they call me. Why?"