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Averus' Return From the distance, one could see a figure on horseback approaching at a steady pace. The figure’s approach, though over the hilly country just outside of the Grey Tower, was even and unbroken; as if the rocks and holes sporadically located around the area were nothing to this person. As the figure drew closer, it would become increasingly evident to anyone watching that the rider was clad in all black, a black hat drawn low over the rider’s eyes. The gray stallion walked patiently with little prodding from his master, the man holding his cloak tight against the harsh wind that rose up across the hilly land. Averus al’Gant, heir to the House of Swords, of Andor, had been gone from the Grey Tower for quite some time. It had been long years since he had left this cold place behind, to return to his home in Camelyn. There, he had met with horrors he could only predict in his most garish of nightmares. He pulled Marcher to a stop at a small rise, and looked up at the Tower once again. His usually brightly laughing blue eyes were now quiet, listless. A scar ran along the left side of his face, a blow that had apparently only just missed his eye. He returned here, now, to this place that he had abandoned, because it was all that was left for him. He had never finished his education, never even obtained the title of Asha’man, before sneaking off in the night to bring his mother the sign of their house: Alitar, the Power-wrought sword that he now carried strapped to the side of his saddle, in case of attack while mounted. He had grown quite adept with the blade in his years away, but he did not yet deserve the heron-mark that had been placed on its hilt, long ago. His return home had been fruitless, in the end. He returned to find that the vision from the Arches had been quite accurate, in actuality. His mother… He ignored the stabs of pain, and assumed the Void without a thought, pushing the emotions away. If he was to survive through the memories, he would need to see only logic and reason. And emotions got in the way of logic, and were, therefore, useless. The blood that had stained Alitar’s blade barely a year ago was enough evidence to that fact. The Dark One’s reach was far too strong for this world to handle. But could one man; one foolish former Dedicated; do to counteract such a terrible force? He had returned here, to the Grey Tower, in hopes of finding a way to enhance his own power, in and of himself. Because it seemed that the Creator, in his infinitely ironic ways, had decided that the power he was to inherit was merely a front to the truly powerful in the world. With the death of Morgane Trankand, the House of Swords had lost considerable sway in the city, and after Fauline al’Gant’s death, Averus had little political power to muster. Thusly, the House of Swords was nothing more than a memory, now. Since he still lived, he was technically the Head of a minor House of Andor, but his power now was so small as to be nonexistent. Add to that pressure the fact that Aes Sedai from the White Tower had been coming and going from Camelyn for the last years, searching for and then accompanying Elayne to the Rose Palace, and Averus’ decision to leave was not misunderstood by the few attendants he had left from his mother’s inheritance. He had used the last of his power to find them jobs among Elayne’s servants, and then had gone on his way, leaving the memory of the House of Swords behind in the dust of his mother’s former library. He stood, once again, before the Grey Tower, but this time as nothing but a man. His name carried no weight any longer, he was barely more than a commoner to his former peers. Now, he had on him only what he had brought with him when he had first returned home. Marcher, of course, was still healthy and capable as the firs time Ave had ridden him. Alitar was in his possession, of course, but he would just as soon be rid of the sword than keep it around. That was another reason for him to return to the Tower, to turn the Power-wrought weapon over to those who would find a proper use for it. In his saddlebags were miscellaneous items from the Ganteran’s small trove: the small ring angreal he had discovered; the long dagger with the bejeweled sheath, whose purpose he had yet to unearth; the turtle statue, in a large box by itself. He had once been holding saidin and touched it, and been thrown against his far wall by some force, so he now was very wary of it, since it was obviously a ter’angreal. And lastly, the walking staff, which reminded him so much of Abi (and, by association, Elisa), was laid across all of his bags. He did not think the thing was a ter’angreal itself, but it was quite resilient, if not also Power-wrought. It seemed to be made of wood, possibly yew, but was far too heavy to be just that. He wished he had more of a Talent with items of the Power like that, but perhaps someone here would be able to answer his questions?
Of course, that hope assumed the belief that the Seat and M’Hael would be willing to accept him back among the ranks. He had, after all, run off. Of course, they hadn’t sent anyone after him, so perhaps they weren’t too concerned with his endangerment of others. He had progressed to the level of Dedicated, after all. But he was sure that his return would not be immediately accepted, if at all. But he was here to do what he could. And this was the only possibility he had left.
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