[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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[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?"

[blue_ajah]

She makes an intrigued sound and takes another sip of wine. “In the world where I was born, those who manifest the golden eyes are often called Wolfbrothers.”

[bialy_wilk]

"Manifest?" He sets his goblet down, but keeps hold of it.

All of this is feeling especially strange after the job he'd just completed. "Not made?"

[blue_ajah]

She shakes her head, very slightly. “It is an old gift, an old power. Inborn, from what is known of it, which is not much.”

[bialy_wilk]

He shakes his head right back at her. "We have witchers. Werewolves. Never heard of anything like that."

[blue_ajah]

“I am familiar with werewolves from this place,” Moiraine tells him. “But I have not met a witcher, until you.”

[bialy_wilk]

"Probably for the best. Even the world that made us doesn't generally like having us around."

He lifts his wine for another swallow. "So your wolfbrothers aren't werewolvbes?"

[blue_ajah]

She tilts her head a little to the side, considering him. “Why is that?”

“And it is difficult to say, exactly.” More than he may yet realize. “There are certain similarities, and it is not unknown for the man to lose himself in the wildness of the wolf. But the physical transformation that seems to be characteristic of those I have encountered here is not known in that way in the world where I was born.”

[bialy_wilk]

He hums, low in his chest, at her answer, and sips long and slowly at his wine before setting it back down.

"I'm a mutant," he says, blunt. "All witchers are. They made monsters to fight monsters. No surprise they wind up hating us, too."

[blue_ajah]

“People often hate and fear what they do not understand,” the Aes Sedai murmurs. “Or what is different.”

She taps one finger absently against the side of her glass. “To fight monsters?” Her glance flicks to the sword hilt visible over his shoulder, then to the shivering amulet of a wolf’s-head at his throat. “With weapons, Power, or both?”

[bialy_wilk]

"If you can call what we use power, sure. Both."

He studies her a moment later, then leans forward to unbuckle his swords, sliding both from his back to rest against the table. It's a little more comfortable to sit that way. "Parlor tricks compared to a real magician."

[blue_ajah]

“It is not always how much power one wields, but how skilled they are in the weaving of it,” she counters.