Zeen
Zeen was in no mood for company, blatantly ignoring the Dedicated that hovered nearby at Jaryd's... urging. He ran his hand through his hair, rolling his shoulders back. He exhaled slowly through his nose. He tossed the black coat that he carried with him everywhere onto the nearest fence post. It was with him at all times, as was required as part of his uniform. It did not mean that he actually had to wear the Light blasted thing.
He should be grateful, he supposed, that the M'Hael trusted him enough to channel with minimal supervision. The Amadician felt his mouth twitch. The Altaran had been the Keeper of the Archives upon their first meeting that fateful day in the Warder Yards. And I had no idea. Now the Asha'man was the Fang of Hama Valon, one of the most powerful men in the world... and for reasons that hurt Zeen's head to contemplate, was personally interested in his personal fortune and training.
The Creator certainly did have odd sense of humour.
He shook his head abruptly. He was not here to think. He was here to control saidin. He carefully disguised the cautious look he cast around. There were some Novices about, pinned beneath the watchful eyes of nearby Aes Sedai and an Accepted that seemed as if she was looking off into the distance. None of them seemed particularly interested in him. Good. He nodded inwardly, relieved. What he wanted was space and so long as they gave him such, he was more than content to be ignored.
Zeen seized a fraction of what he was able to hold, bringing the small trickle of Power to heel. He looped together flows of Earth, forming a tightly knit mat roughly the same space and span of a small rug. He directed weave into the ground, lightly 'shaking' the mat back and forth. A short-lived grin of delight came to his face as dirt fountained up, spraying up against his boots and trousers.