Markus Flenbraik had been in Barsine only three times before. On Cauldigan street, he had broken up a fight with a woman and her pot-belly husband before daggers were drawn. On his second trip, he had won the favor of the gate captain by beating his honor-guard at dice, though he felt he had nearly lost his head from the exchange. Twice he had ascended the overbright golden towers the city was famous for, and no matter how often he trekked through the vast hill-country, he always loathed going up those spiral stairs. The walls were foreboding and he felt someone was going to offer him a southern drink with a pithy comment on his manner before he reached the top. 

So far, he had not had to endure something troublesome as he rode through the multitudes of the city. The men and women wore the typical fashion of urban Jaramide, with loose breeches and earrings that threatened to be ostentatious, if not overtly so. The women were keen eyed and hard working and the bearded men had a knack for mercantilism, if the stories were true. Markus had seen enough interactions to testify the stereotypes had merit.

The light shined on him, as he needn't go up four thousand winding steps or butt heads with anyone unaccustomed to a member of the Dh'aeir'whod, known as the Stormbearers to some, and Outriders to others. Jaradine's light cavalry division did not see much action these days beyond the occasional trolloc raid or banditry. Trained to fight with the sword and the lance, and even the bow and the knife in some regard, though the latter two were less specialized now that the need for wilderness scouting less needed than it had been closer to the breaking. Most patrols stayed closer to the their garrisons and the townlets they shielded from ruffians and the like. Only twice a year did the Outriders stray further than a score of miles beyond the northern-most city, Barsine, and that was merely a tradition nowadays some did not even heed enough to attend. Yes, the light shined on Markus. Today, he would see an Aes Sedai.  

He would rather be assaulted again by drunken street toughs or say, ascending one of the towers and then being thrown out of the top of one. 

He did not think they were witches or true dangers as some folk did. Mostly because they did not have time to be dangerous, with their noses in the books and their cares in the stars above. Markus, through some form of contemptuous irony, had found the one thing he knew an Aes Sedai would be good at: knowledge. And so he went to the biggest and closest city he could, and true enough, he found one lounging in the Library of Kelcis. Word of an Aes Sedai traveled far, and it hadn't taken him long to learn of her whereabouts. He awaited her to admit him in, and thankfully he needn't wait long. The man Ynild approached him awaiting in the foyer, urging him to follow. 

"You're lucky. She seems to have the time for you," He told Markus, who looked at the pretentiously dressed man and decided not to comment on his remark. Instead, the soldier thought it better to ask: "What is her name?" 

"Lady Lysabel of the White Ajah. She has many titles but I don't think you'll need to know them all." Ynild said, and both of them knew Ynild did not know them all himself. The two walked for another dozen strides, and then he opened the grey-white door for Markus to step into the courtyard. 

Had he been a different man, he might have been caught by the beauty of the scene. Cherry trees and blossoms shined in the sunlight, well cut and soft grass tickling the ankles as the lady in white sat on a long chair, looking up from her book to regard him. But he was not that sort of man. 

Markus and her could not look more different. He could sort of tell she was a slim, pretty woman with blonde hair that shined like the sun and a white shawl with small aesthetic trimmings he couldn't see from the glare. Markus felt dirty in comparison, though he was cleaner now than he had been in some weeks. His travel clothes were dark shades of green and brown, and his thick, dark hair was unkempt, save for a rough knot tied at the center behind his head, making a small ponytail in the midst of the rest of his mane. Under his leather he was garbed in scaled armor of well-made steel. He was unshaven, a coarse goatee darkening his perhaps-handsome features. Though he looked almost like a bandit himself, bore weapons, and carried a bag of something unknown, she didn't look intimidated. 

A few seconds of waiting, and Markus walked forward. He had the gait of someone used to crouching in silence and contrasting it with explosions of movement, like a large cat or some terror from far within blight.

"Lady Lysabel, I am Markus. One of the Jaradime Outriders." He explained, unused to formality to anyone but his commander. It felt strange on his tongue, but if he insulted her she might not give him what he sought. He sometimes paused in the story, never having been much of an orator. "Three days ago, four comrades and I came upon a small hunting party of Trollocs. We get them from time to time. If we catch them by surprise, we can usually route them without much problem. These ones seemed...different than the others. More sure of themselves... Only I survived." 

Markus began to unwind the grey fabric he had brought. Something heavy tumbled inside as he dropped it to the ground and pulled on the weave. "When the last of my party was dead and I butchered the last monster, I saw something on its arm. Something I could not read, but felt was foul. On the hill above, I thought I saw a rider watching. Someone swathed in black, but when I looked again they were gone. I rode two nights to get here and ask for you to tell me what exactly this says." 

Sure enough, the fabric was pulled away and a putrid, hairy arm that nearly matched Lysabel in size lay on the soft grass of the opulent courtyard. Its hands so human-like, but bent and clawed. On its arm were etchings that turned the stomach, and Markus could not begin to guess their meaning, save only it was a dark message.