(no subject)

[taishar_malkier]

One of Nynaeve's herb beds is dying; a complication, perhaps, of trying to grow Valdemaran plants in London Below soil. Nynaeve reacts to difficulties with any patient and any plant rather similarly: with braid-yanking, scowling, and deep irritation with the world at large.

Which means that Lan, despite being immune to most of this irritation, has elected to take the diplomatic course and leave her to stomp around the greenhouse in peace for a while. Instead, he went to practice swordwork by the lake, for his own benefit and that of either of his students who might come by, and has now settled down in the main bar with a cup of wine punch.

And, as ever, an impassive scrutiny of the room at large.

He's wearing his Warder's cloak today, and the magically shifting camouflage makes parts of his back and shoulders appear to blend briefly into the chair and wall behind him.

Comments

[seewhatyoumean.livejournal.com]

That very invisibility is rather attention-grabbing to people with the right training. When the girl clad entirely in black, peeling her mask off her sweaty face, walks in the back door her eyes sweep the room and fix on Lan curiously.