Ataline sat in a back corner, cowl tucked over her head, ensuring the blood red sea of hair she sported would remain under wraps. It had been a long and troubled time on the roads from here, and the tales she had heard were none fairer. Her bow laid against the wall, as did the hunting spear she was so used to wielding. Compared to the rest of the rabble, she might have seemed a hunter of the horn, which wasn't entirely far off. She had little to do now, in the days since her home was left behind, the ghost of her father clung to her like a chill in her bones. She could only hope that the fires of wanderlust might one day free her from such a thing. For now, with a handful of stale bread and cold lamb stew, she watched the gleeman, and was reminded of the days when she had been the mistress of her own Tavern. Of course, it was never truly her own, but rather her fathers and mothers; yet she had been in charge of it. 

Her idle ears caught the talk of White Cloaks and the Dragon Reborn, and suddenly the thought of finishing her meal no longer appealed to her. Thoughts which soon turned to the fact she had no shelter for the night. She had thought that perhaps a warm meal might be enough to shelter against the cold, but such a meal had gone luke-warm but an hour ago. A bit of a foolish move on her part, but so it was. With talk of Whitecloaks, and Dragons, she pushed back a loose lock of hair, setting off a small chorus of bells that rattled under her cowl. It was a custom unique to Arafel. One that she didn't quite understand, but as a girl she had always woven bells into her hair. Even with her family slain, she would continue to do so. It was perhaps, the few fragments she could carry with her. What good were these saviors of the realm if they were so caught in their own world that the tragedies of others were largely unknown. For two weeks she had traveled now, and not one person spoke of the Trollics that had attacked Tifan's Well, of those brave defenders who had died, and the Aes Sedai that had been slain as they road forth. At least, she was certain the mother had died. It wasn't something she would expect to be repeated, the death of an Aes Sedai was trouble enough, one slain by Trollics? Well, that was one way to end up being on the sour side of the White Tower. Far as they would know, the woman known as Ataline was just as dead as the Brown Sister they had sent with her. Pushing her bowl aside, she clutched at her remnants of bread, and decided to take her mind off such affairs, she would speak with the Gleeman.

Her eyes had lingered upon him, and he had shown some level of discomfort at the talks; not that she blamed him. In the recent days talk of the Dragon or any hint of where one's allegiance set could set forth any matter of mayhem. No, she would speak to the Gleeman of plain things, and the tales that had humored her in simpler times. Nothing of Dragons, White Cloaks, or bloody Aes Sedai. Collecting what was hers, she left the way she had come in, the warmth of the common room vanished quickly, though the voices from within lingered. Regardless, her course was set, moving towards the stables, bow across her shoulder, spear poking out of her quiver; she must have seemed quite a sight to some. She had only hope the Gleeman not take her appearance for something less than friendly. 

[@MightyHorus]