The Grey Tower

When her head slid off of her cupped hand, Velvaen jerked upright, her sleepy haze vanishing like snow in midsummer. She shot a hesitant glance at the Sister who lectured in front the assorted Novices, Soldiers, and Drin, letting out a small sigh of relief when the Brown remained oblivious to her blunder. Reaching up to dash away an embarrassing dribble of drool, Velvaen began scrambling to make up for her nap—hunching over her parchment and frantically scribbling down Oletta Sedai’s every word. Her enthusiasm began to dim, however, and Velvaen let out a tiny groan when she realized that she’d missed about three-hundred years of Shienaran history. The class dragged on, with the Brown sister’s droning monotone proving more harmful than helpful as Velvaen’s quill slowed.

Lost in thoughts of pottery and various glazes, being addressed by someone nearly gave her a start. “My name is Andraste,” the Novice said, and Velvaen turned quickly to take in the other woman. She was of a height with herself, with tan skin and dark hair. She was pretty, but nothing in particular caught Velvaen’s attention, aside from her age. She was unusually old for a Novice—Velvaen placed her as perhaps five years her senior, maybe more.

This introduction seemed a bit abrupt, but Velvaen did not fault her for it. In truth, she was rather glad the other woman had spoken up first—she herself rarely had the courage to do so. “Hello, Andraste.” She gave her a shy smile and made an effort to cut down her accent. “I’m Velvaen.”

“I’m glad to meet you, too. And yes,” Velvaen agreed in a low tone as she shot another watchful glance towards the Brown Sister. “I certainly wouldn’t call it thrilling. Especially with Oletta Sedai’s… erm…particular lecture style.” Dropping her voice to a whisper, Velvaen added “I think she’d keep on like that even if somebody dropped her into a fist of Trollocs—she never gets angry, or excited, or anything!” When Velvaen shot another look at their instructor, it was more one of fascinated apprehension than anything else.

“Not that I don’t like history,” she put in as she turned back to Andraste. “I do, but I see it as a story, and good stories need good delivery.” Picking through her stack of notes, Velvaen found the point when she began to nod off—her small scrawl lengthening her letters until one slid off the parchment altogether—and slipped it onto the top. “Did you catch the full line of Shienaran Kings?” she asked as she inked the tip of her pen. “I’m missing the ones between Nerasad IV in 322 a.b. and Togarin Doltar in 586 a.b.”

“Thank you,” she said as she looked the other woman’s notes. As Velvaen began transferring the relevant names to her own papers, she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Andraste’s perfect hand. She herself had only learned her letters after coming to the Grey Tower. Her people lived simple lives, and coupling that with their practice of teaching the Way almost exclusively by word of mouth—well, they never were much for writing. Velvaen thought she had done alright so far—penning ink wasn’t so different from painting glaze on porcelain—but it still irked her that she couldn’t make it down a page without a score of blots.

As she scribed, she listened to the other woman talk and murmured her agreement. Aes Sedai were supposed to be effective against Trollocs and the like, but there would be danger regardless. Certainly not worth a twitch or two on the Sister’s part.

After taking down the last name, she swirled her pen nib clean and held the other Novice’s notes out to her. Though not particularly wanting to call attention to her own sloppy hand, Velvaen did want to keep connecting with Andraste, so she added—perhaps a tiny bit begrudgingly—“You write well..”

Velvaen’s expression became one of concern. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d seen pain cross the dark-haired woman’s face, if just for a second. Did she say something wrong? Wait, Velvaen thought as she went back over Andraste’s words.
Her husband had terrible handwriting? Maybe his hand had spontaneously improved, but unless she’d completely misjudged the other woman’s expression, the more likely explanation was that Andraste's husband wouldn’t be writing again.

Concern became pity, and she opened her mouth to give condolences, or to say something that would make her feel better. But Velvaen quickly closed it and forced her face into a small smile. If her guess had been right, then she doubted the other Novice would wish to speak of her dead husband, so she latched onto the other bit of information like a barnacle onto the hull of an Atha’an Miere Raker. “So, uh, a merchant? That must’ve been exciting. What sort of things did you sell?”