Another cry sounded as a Brother fell, though Trienne forced herself to block out all emotion that any normal person would feel. The line had to hold, those who stood would have to push back, else everything would be lost to the Shadow. Feet danced about beneath her small form, staff moving with deadly precision as she worked shoulder to shoulder with her Brothers and Sisters. The days had taken their toll, and even the strongest of the Gaidin and Gaidar of the Tower had begun to feel the exhaustion of battle. They were slipping, Trienne knew it, the day had finally come where the Light would be challenged and possibly falter. "No, this isn't how it's supposed to be! Fight!"

Gathering every bit of energy, she made a surge forward, trying to pull the line of warriors with her, making every attempt to deny the Shadow this grand victory, yet it was one step forward that led to two steps back. All cards had been played, and this hand did not favor the Black Tower, or the White. Yes, the time had finally come where the two had united, yet that time had come too late. The division of power had allowed the Shadow time to work on both sides individually, and now they were unable to work in true unison to defeat the wave of darkness. All around there were fallen Aes Sedai, and next to them, the Asha'man she was to protect. Every last channeler who could come to the front lines had, and many of them had fallen.

Then came the sting, a blade coming at her that passed beyond the staff of the Gaidar, causing her to flinch. One step back, then another, and a bright white light seemed to flood all about. "Is this how it ends?" Another step back, the blade pushing at her, barely deflected by the movements of her staff, the white light growing around her. The field began to blur, her own words fading before they broke into the air about her, though she tried to rally her Brothers and Sisters.

"No, hold on, hold the line!" The silence of night was broken, a muffled voice calling out to the darkness of night as her small form tossed about slightly in bed. Eyes opened, hands gripping at the sheets of her bed, a confirmation that it was once again just a nightmare. Those days were long gone in the past, the war, the other world where she had once come from. Her breathing slowly settled, arms moving to push her up, head swimming with images of that battle, of the white light and of the sudden shift, the one that led her to this place right here. Trienne glanced through the darkness, looking to her crumpled pillows, knowing she would find no peace in returning to them, and instead found herself dressing to go for a walk.

One hand placed gently against the door of her quarters, she peeked out, looking for any sign that there would be others out at this odd hour, but none were spotted. Like a shadow herself, she slipped off through the hallways, light footsteps carrying her in the direction of the mess hall. Once there, she set about warming some milk for what might be the most simplistic cure to a sleepless night.

There was more than one way to cure insomnia, and more than more nocturnal creature to prefer the cover of darkness and isolation of the night-mother's embrace to the sordid familiarity of day-time's socialising. One such beast was the man-child and former Baijin'M'Hael who had come to this world by way of a portal stone and Tarmon Gaidon. It had been a rather bumpy trip for the half-man, what with his losing an arm to a fade and a witch's incompetence, the unwelcome intercedence of yet another hag, and of course the fact that part of his psyche had been irreparably violated by the vitriol weave of a soul-blasted, pig-kissing, bloody-flaming, ash-faced, Pit-spawned forsaken. The redhead, with his wavy and ragged mop of unkept crimson curls, (now more closer to a rat's nest,) was hard at work at consuming his daily, or nightly one should say, ration of tobacco, from some shast-backwards community called Two-Rivers. Famous for spawning more than few legends in this world, the Baijin'M'Hael really couldn't be buggered to give a flaming ash over it. He just enjoyed the stuff, as he inhaled the intoxicating scent, and basked in the smothering ambiance of the soothing herb. As each smoking tendril curled inside him, delving into his deepest alchemical reaches, and satiating the hunger of his ingrained addiction, the edge was lifted from his features, though a certain haggardness hung around the rims of his blue/green eyes. One of each color, a tainted mark to commemorate the childhood disease that had stuck him in the half-matured body of being more than a child, but less than a man. He sneered at that thought, and shifted to more pleasant ones. Having brought about an end to the eras-old feud between Towers on his homeworld with resounding tactics, thus he was left with wearing a brutally smug grin etching across his visage, splitting his aspect nearly cleanly in half from ear to ear.

Damn those witches, every last one of them, to a cold-watery-mired grave. The half-man thought to himself contentedly, taking another long inhale off the physical manifestation of his vice. The ash fell off the sweet stick, as he balanced it between digits of his still functioning right hand. His other arm, he still bore, keeping it with himself at all times, secured to a loop on his belt. Those stupid hags had healed him before he had had a chance to reattach the limb, so his stump had healed over, thus leaving him royally doomed. Zakriid had laid a Keeping weave upon his arm while still freshly parted, and every other possible weave he could think of to preserve it since then. It was warded more heavily than many a subterranean vault in any given Tower. What messed up world this place was, the child-man had set himself up quite nicely by enthralling himself into the confidence of more than one noble lady suffering from heavy pockets and an empty bed. Zakriid still got queer stares now and then from others for his grandiose and superior behaviours, or maybe it was the fact that his Spirit Elementalism was the tops bar none, at least as far as the half-man considered. Yes, even in this crazy parody of the world proper, he still knew himself to be the Creator's favourite son. The idea of allying with the witches in war times had been bizarre enough, but necessary, with Zakriid exploiting it in the end for the Black Tower's ultimate benefit; but to have it as the norm, it was simply insane. Still he reminded himself that these women were not the witches from back home, and thus had not yet garnered any reasons for his enmity or ire. Still grinning dastardly, he gave a subtly mellow bellowing after the appearance of a familiar figure. "Hail! Trienne. Blessed be thine eyes to see me, as the saying goes, and how are you? Because as always, as is my birthrite, I am great."

For a short period of time, the silence had allowed the gaidar time to sit and think about that which had disturbed her sleep, though as she sipped on the warm milk she realized she had no interest in those thoughts. If only there was a way in which she could completely banish the memory of that war, of those who did not come to this new world, the fallen. A chill fell freshly over her, prompting her to bring the mug of warm milk to her lips for a sip once more, as if that simple bit of warmth would chase away every nightmare. No, these memories were hers, and they were most likely here to stay, no matter how much the gaidar worked to make herself part of the future, rather than part of a past that was long since gone.

It was only when her ears caught the sound of footsteps that she pulled herself from her own thoughts, allowing her eyes to look about, Suddenly she found herself sitting up a bit straighter, the self absorbed look that had surely settled over her features fading as she found herself in the company of another like herself.

"Hail! Trienne. Blessed be thine eyes to see me, as the saying goes, and how are you? Because as always, as is my birthrite, I am great." It was Zakriid, once the Baijin'M'Hael of the Tower she served, and in many ways still did, if only in the fact that she felt loyal to a system which did not continue on into this new world.

The young woman gave a slight tip of her head, an informal gesture of respect to a man who still commanded it in her eyes. "A pleasure to see you, Zakriid, though I give my apologies that you too are awake at this ever so strange hour. I do hope that you are well rested. Care to sit and talk a bit?" After a brief gesture towards the space before her, Trienne took one final sip of her milk, which had sadly lost its warmth and was now simply another bit of something to drink. Reaching beside her, she set the mug down, then drew her legs up onto the bench to where she could wrap an arm around them and prop her chin upon her knees.

Zakriid met the nod with one of equal-measure, save for just a hair less, not having given up the sense of hierarchy. Yet not just hierarchy out of command; for even if he wore his egocentrism as a second skin, even as he smiled as if 'all the world were made for just him, and the rest of it's occupants destined to be secondary; he felt a responsibility to those he had commanded, whom he, on the most baseborn level, still considered to command. This foreign world might not afford his kind hierarchy officially, but things were still observed, as they were, carried over from the real world instinctively. This parallel existence was just that, an alternate world to the main one, from which he and his ilk had come. This world may be a very strong reflection indeed, (enough that he considered the indigenous people real, not like some of the hazier and murkier realms within the Portal Stone network,) but Zakriid detested those of the fold who had gone native, as the saying went, nonetheless. The difference with the worlds was almost in their diametric opposite occurrences of Tarmon Gai'don. Where the real world had choked on the Last Battle, this place hadn't really been touched, not as far as the redhead could discern. Zakriid would give this world one thing though, it had excellent tobacco, and so he took off another long inhalation of the manifestation of his intoxicating addiction. "A pleasure to see you, Zakriid, though I give my apologies that you too are awake at this ever so strange hour. I do hope that you are well rested. Care to sit and talk a bit?" Trienne replied, drawing herself up into a more comfortable position. "Love to." Zakriid preened at the word pleasure, almost purred, as much as the red-headed human could be said to approximate ailuranthropic behaviours. Where one could pet a cat, one could also stroke Zakriid's ego, if they chose, and he might act much un the same way. With the words his smug grin split nigh ear to ear, and then his face shifted into one of serious visage. His voice became austere and reverent, even a hint of preaching, "Why of course you are forgiven, Daughter." Zakriid offered deadpan, appearing sage even as he looked to see if he had garnered a rise from Trienne, out of the corner of his eye. Those who did not know the child-man might mistake his off sense of humour for severity, or not realize the fact that it was an act of endearment to those he felt responsible to fend; if he didn't care, he wouldn't bother with humour.

Just as he had fended in times passed for the Black Tower; Zakriid made a habit of being brutally effective in fending. For in war, nothing should be done by halves, and to try otherwise is to commit needless sacrifice. Zakriid had earned himself a spot as one of the Bloody Four, for his actions. He was a Machiavellian tactician, who rarely lost a person in battle because he never gave the enemy the chance to fight that battle. Preemptive annihilation. Still, those were darker times, and Zakriid pushed the thoughts of them from his mind. He allowed his smile to return, and said with a tone of wry contemplation; "Yes it seems pleasure is all I'm good for these days. No use for a Baijin M'Hael in this world, of my caliber, no. Would turn too many people's stomachs I think, would that I ever to commit to total war again. Better off I occupy my time with the lonely Nobility." Zakriid didn't need to wink; he was not one for making use of excessive tact unless he was trying to manipulate someone, and he had more respect for Trienne than to waste her time with blunted words. "What about you, yourself; what have you been occupying your time with, Trienne?" Running his fingers through his crimson mop, he took another puff thereafter of the sweet cumulous nectar, and then deftly used the same hand to withdraw a flask from his pocket. Nimble fingers of late by necessity, Zakriid engineered the container open for a quick draft of the good stuff, before replacing back into the black coat. Another difference between worlds, albeit a subtle one, Zakriid observed, just in how the Asha'man cut their uniforms. Zakriid stilled favoured the more casual ones from back home, the ones without high collars; collars that irritated him to no end in wearing. The ones of this world were too tight for his preferences, and chafed the hairs on the back of his neck when he walked. Come to think of it, their pin designs, while still sword and dragon, were not even exactly the same either as ours; they do it wrong. "Pray tell, I ask, why are you up so late, Trienne? I know that I chose not to engage these foreigners in the light of day, while their too off-putting. Why I'd starve to death if I did, for their alien features make me lose my appetite. It's like looking at a reflection from a Tent of Mirrors at a menagerie. Everything here seems like the real world is at cursory glance, yet not truly so under scrutiny. Half the time I think I've died, and been reborn in the next cycle of the Wheel. Or maybe someone has cracked open Tar'Ghenjei and released the Finn into the normal world, distorting it." Zakriid allowed himself a shudder at the thought, stupid Snakes and Foxes. Zakriid hated the Finn and their game; for all his tactical prowess, he never won at it. Better to play a saner game like Stones or Tiles. Zakriid loved a good game of Tiles. One of the few worth while pursuits in life, it be.