( It is sky's blue and the cut of her high cheek — that is what alerts him, stays him in step. The wispy, fragile silhouette of her body, an extension of her magic made flesh. Moiraine, the sorceress, wise and child-loving and known.

He stills, the stirrings of near dawns raining pale light on the marketplace. A light breeze snags on his silks, billowing and blooming. He waits to feel the cool calm of her magic pulsing, of her attention landing upon him. Waits, as nothing is born of nothing. Waits, as she waves him by, in the dismissal of a feral dog.

The curve of his shadow, fissuring on cracked ground stone, is like a tree growth, shapeless and powerful and organic. He is better without himself.

Then, unbidden, unwanted, unanticipated, he drifts closer, taking the knee to loom large by the box, palm hovered above it to catch and sweep away any tangles of corrupted energies that might disrupt her work. No. None here.

Whatever her hindrance, it is not born of these lands. Their energies do not suggest it. )

...what is it you attempt to do?