Post by The Creator on Sept 28, 2020 23:34:02 GMT
After nearly two years we are proud to announce that A Turning of the Wheel is now officially open! We have so many wonderful members already who have been posting in our soft open and we are so excited to see what the wheel weaves for all of those fascinating characters in our prologue! Thank you all for helping us create this community, it has been a labor of love which always brings a little heartache. Speaking of which, we hope that you enjoy the beginning of our tale, our summary of 'The Assassination of M'Hael al'Vyron' in the style of
"a wind rose..."
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Fourth Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in Tar Valon. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
The wind circled the White Tower, drawn into its orbit as the world had been for more than an Age. It rustled papers atop the Amyrlin’s desk, filled with plans and hope and purpose. It rushed past Aes Sedai, so sure of themselves and their preparations and undisturbed by the breeze. It followed the road west toward Caralain, a thread to unite the White Tower and the Black, heavy with the scents of summer and promise.
Ahead another wind, sharp as a blade, thrown off by the clashing of storms barely ruffled the tent flap it encountered while shattering the heart of the Black Tower.
The sweet breeze blew across a scene of battle, betrayal, and assassination on the Caralain Grass, to find a boy watching a dying man. The wind sputtered and died there with that good man, as Jadin al'Vyron, M'Hael of the Black Tower, gave his last trying to save his killer.
From his final breath, a new wind rose, and the sky grew dark and the whole Westlands trembled from its thunder. It did not follow the boy as he slipped away.
One man heard the rising wind, as it moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as it flew, carrying the scent of death. He heaved his legs against the gale, against the pressure building on his chest, hitting his face like it intended to go right through, but he made little progress against it.
The wind tore through the Black Tower, scattering all its plans as if they were the leaves of fall, swelling with the howls of those cursed to endure. It roared through the streets, rocking the buildings to their foundations. It created invisible cracks and fissures, in those unbreakable walls.
On it went, the grass outside flattening with its force and waves cresting on rivers as if they were open water. Steamships were tossed about like toys, and still the wind raged on.
It whipped through the nations, displacing the hopes of the people everywhere, raising the fur of a mouse and the hair of a king all the same. Great gusts threatening to extinguish the scanty lantern flames that struggle against the darkness…
Those that hold the Border never cease their vigil against the wind, but the dark clouds scudding across the sky, rained down upon them, heavy with what the wind had stolen.
The wind flew to the very end of the world, turning south. Beneath lightning-grasping talons, a few quietly rejoiced. They did so in whispers and continued to watch the sky for omens.
Across the ocean, the storm enraged the Spider, whose carefully laid web was torn asunder. She chased the wind away with her venom and it took to the waves once more, rolling the tide across the ocean. Giving little care for boughs creaking, waves crashing, and wild sea spray, the wind broke the waves, pounding them into the shore, but it could not break the people who made their lives upon the water.
The wind kissed a pirate’s dice as it flew by, with the Dark One’s own luck. It wafted by Children playing at war, full of hate, and circled the Stone that stood against it so long. It lingered in Lugard, but couldn’t stay. It ruffled the Lion’s mane and blew through the Houses at their Game with powerful passion, banging doors to its chaotic drumbeat - a band of one without fingers or hands.
The wind flew past peaks of Dhoom, bending and bursting tree limbs swollen with rot, picking up the putrid stench of decay. It lifts the banners atop a dark Fortress, whispering of triumph to those within.
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass. In this Age, called the Fourth Age by some, the world once more stands on the brink of war, beset by Shadow and confusion. This was not the beginning, for there are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it is our beginning. A new Turning of the Wheel, and in this Turning, all are welcome to share their stories.
Written by The Lace of Ages and The Dark One , edited by The Creator