The entire morning has been going so well, that you decide to entertain yourself by having some of your best trophies engage in some gymnastic activies in the middle of the floor. While sipping some spiced cider, you lean back, and allow your mind to go over all the preparations you've made and the likely reward.

What a fool that Moridin is. To assume you were still in Arad Doman ready to be sacrificed like Semirhage! If there was one game you knew how to play, it was survival. And surviving the whims of a madman, while noxious in the extreme, could be done. After all, you have a lot of experience treating insanity. There was a fine line there, after all, and no two people were the same. Consciousness was such a delicate thing. The reports your agents at court, in the city and the countryside suggested that the Al'Thor boy was quite volatile now, and was lashing out at those cement-faced infants calling themselves Aes Sedai who surrounded him. If all went according to plan, he would balefire them, Arad Doman, the Seanchan, and eventually his friends. If the reports were fully accurate, he had not only had his saddle changed to accommodate the male Access Key, but also had ordered some belts and jackets modified to the handle the same. Now, if only you could figure out where the female Access Key was! But there were too many channelers around him, and any savage was dangerous even if clumsy. No way to find out for sure.

Moridin was insane, but he was Nae'blis. For now. What was most important was that the reality must be dealt with: Al'Thor would not turn of his free will. But if he could be made to confuse his will with the will of the Pattern, then he might very well do the Dark One's work for you. Anyway, after a few rounds of assassinations were quickly carried out, there would be no way for the Al'Thor child to rebuild the nation. It was as simple as knowing who was in line for an elective position, who had leadership potential and who was needed, and snipping their lives as efficiently as pruning a rose bush. Al'Thor had been floundering about, trying to find a new solution for some time now, but the months of preparation plunging Arad Doman into chaos had made carrying out the first order quite easy. In fact, receiving those orders had made you tap your chin thoughtfully with the knowledge that Moridin was trying to get you eliminated just as surely as he was trying to manipulate you. What would be the best way to eliminate him...THAT was the true question. You ponder this for a few moments.

A chime rang out, of such a tone that while a visitor would think it merely keeping track of the time of day, you knew it for what it truly was. One of the wards surrounding the palace at Arad Doman suddenly triggered - someone channeled very close to it. There was another chime - someone, a non-channeler, had entered the grounds unannounced. The ramifications are enough to make you smile in cold anger. So the pup was arrogant enough to try and outpace you, was he? You were more than five steps ahead of him, and he was too focused on punching unseen targets around him that he didn't even see it. Very well. Time to play the game. In anger, you order your trophies to ply their tricks with wanton lust and abandon, before standing up and placing your goblet on the ground.

Not even bothering to wear your robe or any clothing for that matter, you embrace Saidar. Resuming the illusion of an old, Domani noblewoman was habitual at this point, as was opening a gate to the palace. The random nobleman reacted as expected upon meeting Lady Basene. Immediately, you brush his mind with Compulsion, and start questioning him. As the answers reveal themselves, pieces of the game clink into place, but with cracks between them.

The Al'Thor boy was further along than you thought! It was urgent that you get out of this place alive, as soon as possible. It was good thinking to take your most prized trophies to your other palace in Shara, but there were some worth salvaging still here!

Your thoughts become crystallized into one absolute fact: The victor of this exchange would be the one who vanished before a blow could be delivered.

The time for subtlety over with, you brush the nobles' thoughts aside, and tie off a basic net of Compulsion in his mind - if the man was touched by the Power by anyone suspicious, the weave would unravel in minutes - a basic means of keeping sure that some of the nastier elements of the net of Compulsion could not be used against you at some later date. You send him on his way, not even bothering to wait until he's left the palace grounds to opening a gateway to your other palace, and order your trophies to follow you.

Upon your return, you keep the gateway open, studying the palace carefully while monitoring the ward hidden in the rough threads of the net in the noble's mind. Some blond and brown haired pretties start entering the gate, carrying various articles they had been ordered to bring.

Then the first tied ward burst in alarm. You sit up in your throne. THAT was saidar. A few moments later, the second tied ward, more subtly woven than the first seemed to explode, just as silvery light seemed to form in the sky over the palace, casting eery shadows throughout the throne room.

Not bothering to wait and see, you allow the gateway to close, it's edges dissecting two muscular beauties who were crossing at the same time just as the silver flame seemed to devour the palace one inch every moment. The gateway closed, you nod at some of the brainwiped trophies to mop up the blood and limbs littering the spot the gateway had closed at. Oh, well. They can be replaced. All of the ones remaining back there could be replaced.

The only one that needed to remain, in the end, was you. Graendal. And perhaps some of your pretties. But that Al'Thor boy was much too ugly to even consider keeping as a pet, especially now with one hand hacked off.

You lean back into your throne, and turn your head, to admire the view. The only bad thing about Shara, thus far, were the horrible tattoos those that could channel wore! Those barbarians always seemed to find some way to ruin their faces - whether it be from jumping about with swords, playing with binding rods, or worse, these things were truly the bottom of the barrel.

But, eternal life will be so sweet. Much sweeter than this wine.