( The truism, that those of the Two Rivers largely don't seem to realise they're part of Andor by the drawing of boundaries they have nothing to do with... holds true.
Nynaeve squints a touch, but more of it sources to the weight of the guard, then the hefting of him through. If she could simply bully an unconscious man through, she likely would, but as that's not practical, and it's not in the end in her nature to be entirely bereft of kindness when one poses no more threat to those she's watching over.
Which is to say, once he's through the door, she helps lower him to the floor and checks his breath and pulse, nodding grimly to herself, expression back to its mix of not quite worried and not quite irritated. It's efficient, before she looks back at the stacked grain, at the scent of the room. Still crouched, she says: )
He'll wake. This is a warehouse for grain?
( Graineries a bit different than she's used to, but the scent: something in it has the unpleasant taste of familiarity. Nynaeve rises, moving once more on quiet feet as she can make it on the wood plank flooring, reaching for the knife at her hip. There's something almost... damp, about the sacks of grain as she approaches. A pool of dark near her feet might even be shadow, but she stops before it, gesturing back in case the young woman from Caemlyn is following close behind. )
It's gone off. This scent, whatever is here on the ground... I've seen this before in this world. A deathly kind of magic.
( A small pause, before she adds: )
Nothing like the One Power. As far as I've learned, there's no weaving when it comes to the magics of this realm.
( Ignoring, willfully, that she has no skill or knowledge of weaving, only the word and the familiarity of it, once truly understood. )
no subject
( The truism, that those of the Two Rivers largely don't seem to realise they're part of Andor by the drawing of boundaries they have nothing to do with... holds true.
Nynaeve squints a touch, but more of it sources to the weight of the guard, then the hefting of him through. If she could simply bully an unconscious man through, she likely would, but as that's not practical, and it's not in the end in her nature to be entirely bereft of kindness when one poses no more threat to those she's watching over.
Which is to say, once he's through the door, she helps lower him to the floor and checks his breath and pulse, nodding grimly to herself, expression back to its mix of not quite worried and not quite irritated. It's efficient, before she looks back at the stacked grain, at the scent of the room. Still crouched, she says: )
He'll wake. This is a warehouse for grain?
( Graineries a bit different than she's used to, but the scent: something in it has the unpleasant taste of familiarity. Nynaeve rises, moving once more on quiet feet as she can make it on the wood plank flooring, reaching for the knife at her hip. There's something almost... damp, about the sacks of grain as she approaches. A pool of dark near her feet might even be shadow, but she stops before it, gesturing back in case the young woman from Caemlyn is following close behind. )
It's gone off. This scent, whatever is here on the ground... I've seen this before in this world. A deathly kind of magic.
( A small pause, before she adds: )
Nothing like the One Power. As far as I've learned, there's no weaving when it comes to the magics of this realm.
( Ignoring, willfully, that she has no skill or knowledge of weaving, only the word and the familiarity of it, once truly understood. )