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I would only write about it if Kaladin or Adolin tell Shallan about it directly, which is kinda unlikely. At this point, Shallan thinks Kaladin is only a doctor and was never a soldier. He hid his gun from her and never showed her his references (in Part 1) she has no idea about his combat skills and XP. Kaladin saved Adolin's life, and Adolin saved him from a court martial, but Adolin still doesn't think it's enough to repay him. Adolin made Kaladin his personal physician to pull him out of the command chain so they can hang out more - they are best friends but everyone around them thinks they have a employer/retainer relationship. Kaladin thinks the girls are all annoying gold diggers - see his initial reaction to Shallan - but he understands that marriage is different for nobles than it is for commoners, and Adolin is lucky to have a choice. Being smacked with canes or switches is a traditional part of British boarding school life. It doesn't have to be for anything if a teacher decides he doesn't like the look of you, and you lack rich parents who can complain. Kaladin got smacked for being a smartchull to his teachers, and protecting younger students. From what I have read, most fanfic writers who write shipping fics don't even bother to keep to canon. And I can tell, because 70% of the SA fan community write Kadolin or Shallan x Adolin x Kaladin fics as their pairing of choice. NONE OF IT IS EVEN REMOTELY REALISTIC. :ph34r: :ph34r: There is no point reading them if you care about exact canon characterisation. You just read them for fun. Or laughs. I am really hesitant about seguing into writing Adolin "intimacy" scenes myself. I don't think I know his character well enough to be able to write his actions in a realistic way. To the other girls, he self-sabotages by ignoring them, or going after another girl, and then they dump him. I just cannot imagine Shallan letting him do that to her, since she could have dumped him at any point in Urithiru, but she didn't. How will he shoot himself in the foot like he always does, when it's balanced out by his equal "like like" of Shallan? He pretty much can't do "intimate" until he works through his problems, but since we are all guessing where the original problem came from in the first place (Dalinar? Missing mum? Lonely childhood? Self-esteem?) who knows how to write it. I can't even think of a way to get his uniform off without it being extremely contrived or mega OOC. I will include a shirtless sketchbook page as soon as I can figure out a way to fit it in context. Or Shallan will have to draw from imagination. :ph34r: :ph34r: I think Kaladin would be taller and leaner, but Adolin has more muscle. They're both pretty cut, and Kaladin has more "other hair". He would probably look a Korean pop star or something. :lol: Since Brandon did spend some time in Korea. If Shallan and Adolin had a kid, his hair would be like the MC of YuGiOh so I wouldn't surprised. How about a country where it's almost impossible to be pale? Where you will get a peeling sunburn if you spend 2 hours outside on a cloudy day without sunscreen? :ph34r: :ph34r: I can't wait until winter. Then I can wear coats with pockets instead of putting them into pants pockets and ending up stretching out the fabric so the pocket gets saggy when there's nothing in it. He does call Adolin a "good man" later on, which means he sees him as at least an equal in age, and an adult. The real question that everyone is wondering about - does Adolin know how old Kaladin is? I don't think Adolin ever thought about it in a PoV chapter. I imagine that Kaladin would look older than his age, and it would make Adolin feel weird to know he's asking girl advice from a guy who's years younger. Dalinar is addicted to authority so it makes sense he always puts himself in the "in charge" position in any interaction with other characters. If someone is too old to be a boy or a youth in his eyes, he will automatically gravitate to unquestioned leader-role and call them "Son" or "Soldier". He is only a sweater vest and tobacco pipe away from calling people "Sport" or "Champ". Most of the activities that are considered rebellious to today's kids are probably also illegal. Standards have changed, and that's why skating is mainstream now. What about being a pool shark or hustler? After reading that scene where Adolin dares Kaladin into riding Dreamstorm, he came out of it breaking his arm but fixing it with Stormlight, and thinking it was crazy fun. Is he an adrenaline junkie? Then it would mean AU Kaladin would probably like modern motocross. Man, it really sucks for Renarin that he was born in the wrong universe. If he was born on Earth, he'd have medicines for his seizures, and they wouldn't have the Vorin religion telling every man he's not a man unless he's a soldier. He could even have contact lenses if doesn't feel like hiding behind his glasses anymore. If Adolin is a duellist in SA, wouldn't he have an equivalent hobby in an Earth AU that people consider frivolous and a waste of his time when he is better off studying or "networking" or whatever? Adolin has some perfectionist tendencies, at least when it comes to stuff he actually likes doing. Right. Camouflage wasn't invented until guns were good enough so that hitting the enemy wasn't just a matter of lining up your men into ranks and volleys. And in Alethkar, sniping/headshotting would be considered dishonourable when the enemy can't see you. Still, from far away, people wouldn't be able to see the glyphpair - they wouldn't only see a blue coat, or a white blob on blue. Does Adolin have his own money (rent/taxes from the Kholin Princedom?), does he draw wages as a Kholin army officer, or does he rely on Dalinar giving him pocket money? Having that answer would clear up a lot of questions of his status/relationship with Dalinar. And Adolin is not above small indulgences - he goes on dates, he buys magazines, he has fancy upgrades to his regular uniform. I think WoK mentioned that he had small gold decorations or medallions welded onto his Shardplate. Even painting Shardplate is kind of wasteful when it would get scraped up in every duel and battle. Even if Dalinar doesn't approve, since he doesn't paint his own Plate, the money is still being spent on it.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 13

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART THIRTEEN “And the solicitor wrote to me,” said Adolin, recounting the story, “if the Ritter von Niedlich is asking for two thousand spheres sterling, then his wife would like to inquire for his current whereabouts – since she last saw him fifteen years ago in a casket!” Shallan laughed; it felt appropriate to do so. He was not the best of anecdotal storytellers – nothing at all like the sailors of The Wind’s Pleasure – but this was a story he seemed to have practised many times before; there was a certain animated earnestness to his manner when he told it. It was lively and pleasant, and his features lit up in a charming way at the close: one could not help but like his infectious good-humoured disposition. “Well,” she said, “did it turn out all right in the end? I should wonder if–“ The dining room door was opened by a footman. It was the same formal dining room as the one she and Jasnah had used that very first evening after arriving to Kholinar Court. The table settings were the same – larger chair at the head of the table, and two smaller ones to the left and right. Three settings: three sets of glass and plate. Oh. Of course. Doctor Kaladin. Who else. Kaladin was there, taking his place at a seat to the right of the central chair; it was the very spot he had chosen when she and Jasnah had dined. He acknowledged Adolin’s presence with a brief military salute of clenched fist to breast as he pulled his own chair out; he did not bow to Shallan or even present her with a polite nod. Kaladin was not wearing his dark charcoal-grey woollen suit with its threadbare elbows as she had seen him wear every day since she had arrived; he had on well-pressed dining whites with pristine starched shirtfront. Though his whites were – Shallan found it difficult to admit – smart and presentable, one could not say they were as nice as Adolin’s; he had simple knots of silk instead of cufflinks, and his neckcloth was not so elaborately tied. There was something about the man that looked scruffy: he could make formal dining suits look pedestrian and he seemed to exude an aura that would slowly but silently un-press pleats. Adolin pushed in her chair and found his own seat; he signalled to the footmen and dinner was begun with the pouring of wine – none for Kaladin, as usual – and the serving of the first course. It was a soup made of split and sieved peas boiled with salted ham hocks and leeks. Adolin started on his soup with relish, and Shallan noted that no-one had said a prayer to the Almighty in His aspect of the Light of Cultivation. Such piety was apparently not in fashion among the Anglethi gentry; it was gladly placed with most other superstitions into the domain of the lower classes. “I did not expect to see you in dining whites, Doctor,” she said. She did not want to re-tread the same tiresome steps on that first night, when Jasnah and Kaladin had all but ignored her in their debate about morality and politics. Kaladin’s spoon halted in its progress to his unpleasant scowling mouth – he had the ability to scowl while eating. “Your expectations of other people must leave you endlessly disappointed.” “That is only around you, and it is not only I.” “The same can be said for you, Miss Davar–“ “Adolin doesn’t–“ “With an exception for those who should know better,” he replied, and looked to Adolin. Adolin shrugged; his mouth was full and his attention was directed to his soup bowl. “But even those who hold the lowest of expectations for me would not expect that I should dine with a coat stained with a nameless person’s saliva, no?” “Kal,” spoke Adolin, as he signalled to the footmen to begin the second course, “if women are anything like hounds, a little spit means she likes you.” Shallan snorted. “Oh my. Adolin, two barbs tucked into a single consolation? There may be hope for you yet.” “But I like hounds! Wait, there were two?” “You imply that Doctor Kaladin can be likeable – you are learning our ways of ironic effect.” “Adolin,” Kaladin said; a footman took his soup bowl and replaced it with a dish of kidneys stewed with mushrooms and chestnuts. “Were you in the pursuit of a model for anything, Miss Davar should be the last person you might consider. In any case–,“ he paused, “–I spent the afternoon in the stillroom decanting ether. If I had worn my ether-soaked garments to-night, it would have put me in quite a position.” “And why is that, Doctor?” Shallan asked. The incident of the morning was still very uncomfortably recent. “Because your own position would be horizontal, and undignified.” Adolin laughed; Shallan could see the humour in it, but it certainly would not do to give Kaladin the impression that his conversational skills were engaging in the least. She said: “And are you too much a gentleman for that?” “It is not the idea of your being horizontal that is daunting, but rather that such an indignity would call for a, ah, traditional commitment.” “Is that really so undesirable?” said Adolin. “One may summon the fortitude to suffer a single night of drool dampened pillows, I admit, but…” “Yes?” “The prospect of a lifetime of Miss Davar I find to be rather objectionable.” The cheek of the man! thought Shallan. She knew that she had the flaw of wanting to be the last word in every conversation; if scores were kept for each clever jab, she felt it was her duty to take every point. Usually, it was quite easy to do so: most ladies with whom she was acquainted in the area around Loch Davar acknowledged her as their social superior, and allowed the familiarity of her conversational comedy. But Kaladin was one of the few who had both the wit and the inclination to turn a comment; he possessed the disregard for social decorum that allowed him to do so without hesitation. She supposed it was hypocritical of her to feel affronted, but she did feel it – and it was not that Kaladin was mocking her in company that was rankling, but rather that he might very well be her equal in wit. The thought of it was quite disconcerting, and she would have immediately responded brusquely – but there was something in her that discouraged such hastiness. He would hardly be disposed to aligning himself with her sentiments if she made herself a villain, would he? Because the fact of the matter was this: she desperately wanted to return home. There was no home to return to; it had died six years ago and could never come back. The home that it had become was a broken shadow of what it once was, and the only way she could return to its former state of blissful glory was through the dreaming of ether vapours. The vapours she had held inside her that morning had disintegrated into nothing; she could think with clarity and of strategy now, but all she thought of was returning – to a place where tartans and lavender were nothing but happy reminders of a happy childhood. Kaladin had his uses. He might not be a pleasant man, but the conversation with the housemaid earlier had convinced her that there was pity in him that could be found for wretches like herself. So perhaps she could not be courteous with him, but she could at least acquit herself in a fashion that would draw from him some sympathy. It wasn’t as if she had to like the man – and it definitely wasn’t as if she liked him now. “Well, I wouldn’t be a Miss Davar, would I?” she said, choosing her words with more care than she’d done in some time. “Perhaps you might find the form Mrs Doctor more palatable. However, I think I find the title Duchess Kholinar to be the least objectionable.” “No doubt you do,” said Kaladin, fork in hand. Shallan now noticed they were the aluminium set from the first dinner. “Why should I not? Small-mindedness is hardly becoming, Doctor.” “Please lecture me about my small-mindedness, I implore you.” “I shall take that as a sign of your humility; it could not possibly mean anything else,” Shallan said. “Anyway, I was in the village church today – as you remember – and I spoke to Brother Kadash. You may know of him.” Adolin nodded. “The head Ardent, yes. He was one of my tutors as a child.” “Well, we had a conversation about the ducal estate.” That was truth; it could not be denied. Kaladin had an uncanny awareness for separating truth from untruth – she would avoid them in his presence, but stringing together small truths that gave the impression of a larger, implied picture without saying so directly: that was not a lie, and that should not earn his ire. “I thought it a splendid idea if the church infirmary were to be expanded, with the Duke’s permission, of course. The war does produce a large number of wounded veterans, as the Doctor would know.” “A new wing for convalescence would not go amiss; it should be of great value to the village when – if – the war ends,” conceded Kaladin. He glanced over at her, his eyes searching her face with their darkly intelligent gaze; he was trying to discern the reason for her sudden generosity towards the church. He likely did not take her as a pious sort: in her dressed hair and lace gown, she would look no different in his eyes to the other girls of the Duke’s that he had deemed a nuisance from the very start. “A commendable idea, Shallan,” Adolin agreed. “I shall speak to the steward about it next I meet him.” “Thank you, sir.” Shallan inclined her head to him and smiled; Adolin smiled back. There was a man one did not have to force themselves to be agreeable with – if only all men could be as amiable in temperament as he. But if it were so, she was suddenly reminded, Balat would have been whole again, and Father would be alive, and she would never have met the wonderful Duke. She pushed the thoughts away; she reached for the friendly teasing Shallan that people liked. Not the sad girl with bloody hands and a mourning veil of ether fumes. No-one could like that Shallan. “If you were in the pursuit of a model for anything, Doctor, I should like to recommend myself as the first person you might consider a model of charitability.” “I had not thought such an unselfish person–,” here his eyes swept over her, “–would swan about in imported lace.” “It was a gift from Lady Jasnah, Doctor. It seems that charitable people are often rewarded with equal charity.” “It seems I find myself unacquainted with such charity.” “If it would prove the unselfishness of my character, I would tear this lace from my breast. But it, of course, would put you in an undignified position,” returned Shallan. “Me?” said Kaladin, one unpleasant eyebrow raised impudently. “What about Adolin?” “Um. If you are to be putting each other – and me – into undignified positions,” said Adolin, gesturing to the footmen to take their plates, “I think I would rather not do it on an empty stomach – and the pudding hasn’t yet arrived.” The pudding was brought in now, in a large silver bowl that was too much for three people, even if one of them had Adolin’s prodigious appetite. Brandy was poured atop, and a footman dipped a lit splint that set it afire. “You finished your dinner, and yet you have an empty stomach?” asked Shallan. “I find that one always has an empty stomach when awaiting the arrival of pudding,” Adolin said. Shallan wondered what happened to the food that was left uneaten. The Duke’s meals were extravagant to her eyes, and the last remove of duck confit with sliced asparagus and minted carrots had been loaded onto plates at the sideboard before being delivered to their table. The half-full platters were still there, resting on iron stands, with naphtha lamps gently warming them underneath. Did the servants get to eat them? Back home in Loch Davar, she and her brothers ate the same food as the servants; it was all they could afford. The only difference being their eating off porcelain – chipped pieces that could not find a buyer – whilst the servants used local pottery. There was rarely enough for leftovers: that was considered a luxury. After the display, the pudding was taken to the sideboard, and an aluminium cake server was used to dish it onto their dessert plates; their used dinner forks and knives were removed. Their pudding was brought to the table – it was a very rich fig and plum pudding that tasted of treacle and imported spices; boiled cream was poured on top. Shallan could not finish it: adjusting to this variety and quantity of food would take some time – even while she travelled with Jasnah, she had not eaten like this. The Kharbranth hotels were prone to serving locally caught fishes and crab-things, which one eventually tired of; the inns on the journey, without exception, served various iterations of stew and bread for their guests. But Adolin seemed to enjoy pudding immensely, and though Kaladin was not as earnest in his enjoyment – he dissected his serving with clinical precision – even his plate was cleared before she had done away with half of hers. *** Afterwards, they were led to the retiring room – the very same retiring room that Shallan had fallen asleep in that first night. If it was to be a re-enactment then, Shallan thought, this second chance deserved not to approach the heights of humiliation that had been ascended in the first. It was exactly as it had been when she had first seen it. The stuffed heads of exotic game animals, the sidebar with the drinks cabinet – there was the yellow wine bottled with the wolf’s head stopper – the sofa with its wooden frame and silk-damask upholstery – the low table next to it. The tea tray was gone, but Shallan felt a twinge of remembrance when she saw that her book was still there on the table. It felt like a very long time ago, but in this room, nothing had changed at all. It was with a peculiar sense of reminiscence that Shallan settled into the leather armchair – the same one Adolin had used – and opened the book to the page marked by a ribbon. The gentlemen unfolded the wooden cover of a side table, revealing a billiards baize in blue rather than the ordinary green; there were racked cues by the sidebar. Why was it so strange? It struck Shallan that just a few days ago – when she was reading in this room – she had never courted a boy, nor kissed one, and she had never drifted on ether or stumbled her way through its waking-drift. She was infinitely more experienced than the Shallan of a week ago, but even now she lacked the wisdom to make sense of it all. She was mulling over its significance to the quiet clicking of wooden cues on ivory balls, when Adolin’s voice woke her out of her reverie. “Shallan, have you any plans for to-morrow?” “What is usually done hereabouts?” she replied. “The Court is a country house – those who guest here tend to espouse a hearty interest in country sporting. Otherwise, one could always venture to the City for a day of theatre and shopping.” “Well, I cannot say I am one particularly partial to country diversions. But I am an amateur naturalist and botanist, and I find the abundance of new scenery here quite stimulating.” Adolin turned around, swinging his cue about. Kaladin ducked as the pointed end neared his face; he did not look at all startled. “You would like to tour the estate grounds, then?” “I would like to visit the Kholinshire Forest, if it pleases you, sir.” “The Forest?” Adolin and Kaladin exchanged a glance; Shallan could not divine the meaning of it. “Adolin,” she began, slowly, thinking furiously about the many ways to justify an excursion – at least one of them had to be feasible, it must! “How familiar are you with absurd serials?” “They make for light entertainment now and then,” he replied. “Where are you going with this?” “Well,” continued Shallan, “what if there happened to be a lost treasure of the ancients, hidden in the forest? With a mysterious map marking the way?” “How very thrilling! But the absurd plots would say that there is a great curse involved also.” “Curses? Treasure?” scoffed Kaladin. “Bah! The two of you are following the gleam of non-existent gold like any two-chip mercenary.” “There was a survey made fifty years ago of the woodlands south of the House. There are – or were – some ancient structures to be found, apparently,” said Shallan, ignoring him. Kaladin looked sceptically at her; he set his cue on the edge of the table. “If there was anything there to be found, the villagers would have carried it away long ago.” Adolin shrugged. “I doubt it – the villagers have some superstitions about that area of the forest.” “And you believe in these country superstitions?” “My father did – he ceased logging operations there after a number of injuries to the workers. I trust his judgement.” “What’s in the forest?” Shallan asked. “The villagers report lights wandering in the night … and then there are the legends of the creature in the forest.” “The creature?” “The Sign of the White Boar wasn’t named for nothing, you know.” “It can’t be worse than any bog monster legend back home,” said Shallan thoughtfully, turning this information over in her mind. Adolin’s curiosity had been piqued; she needed an angle to secure a decision. “I should still like to see the Forest no matter what mysterious creature inhabits it – perhaps I could then make a study of it. Unless you are, of course, scared.” She paused, then added, “I’m sure Jasnah could take me when she comes back.” Kaladin sighed; he drew a weary hand over his eyes. “Miss Davar, there is one word you really must refrain from using around Ad–“ “I am not scared!” said Adolin, throwing his arms in the air. “Rouse yourselves early tomorrow! We go a-questing for lost treasure!” *** Adolin was the first to go up. Kaladin had finished the game with a series of lucky shots, and Adolin had stayed just long enough afterwards to finish his drink. “If we are to away for the Forest to-morrow, an early start would be best,” he said to Shallan, picking up his abandoned dinner jacket. He placed his empty glass on the sidebar; the servant who cleaned out the fireplace would pick it up in the morning. Shallan looked up from her book, and seeing that the Duke was on his feet, got to hers. “I should like to finish this chapter before I go. Thank you. For dinner. And everything else.” He took her hand, and kissed her very lightly on the cheek. She wanted more, and thought he might have wanted it too, but Kaladin was glaring at them in his usual unpleasant way, arms crossed. She got the impression that Adolin felt uncomfortable with emotional intimacy – and an innocent peck on the cheek counted as intimacy to him – in front of other people. Even if it was someone he trusted with his life. She did not know if this peculiarity afflicted all Anglethi nobles; she had observed that those of lower station in the common rooms of coaching inns had no such inhibitions. “I shall bid you good-night, then. Sleep well, Shallan.” Then he was gone, just like that very first night. And now she was alone with Kaladin in front of the fire. Jasnah always said history ran itself in cycles; if it could run in a loop of four thousand years, three days was not out of the realm of possibility, nor divine ability. “So the first part of the curse has already been unleashed. I had thought that being on leave in the country would mean sleeping through the morning, but now here we are, regrettably, stuck with early rising. Just as we are stuck with you,” said Kaladin, his back to her. He was pulling the billiard balls out of their pockets and folding down the cover over the baize. “You don’t have to come along,” Shallan pointed out. “How would you act out the absurd serial whose plot the both of you are so set on, if I were to absent myself? Besides, I cannot leave you with him alone. I am the chaperon.” “Your manners – or lack of them – will no doubt lead you to the life of the eternal chaperon,” Shallan huffed. “Do you really think Adolin would lose anything more than a biscuit if he were to spend an hour alone in my company?” Kaladin darkened; Shallan was sorely disappointed that his complexion prevented her from being able to tell if a flush coloured his cheeks. “I wouldn’t put anything past a bog frog like yourself. Why don’t you go to bed?” “Why don’t you?” “I said it first.” “I don’t want to!” “Why not!” Shallan closed her book; she gripped the edges of the leather-bound cover with suddenly shaky hands. She turned her face away. Why did arguing with Kaladin have to make her so upset? She didn’t like arguing; she was never fond of debating with Jasnah, to the Countess’s great dissatisfaction. She didn’t even like it when other people raised their voices, no matter that they were addressing others in the vicinity and not her. Arguing, loud voices; it seemed all too much like a prelude to fighting and breaking things, and memories now surfaced – memories whose existence she tried in vain to deny. “I don’t want–,” she began, then stopped. “Because I am afraid that I will have dreams. And those dreams will give me a taste of what I see in the drift, but they will only be a quarter as colourful and I will only be a quarter as lucid.” “Adolin really should know what he is getting himself into.” “But you won’t tell him.” Kaladin dropped the last section of folding cover over the baize, and flicked down the latch. He took a breath. “No.” “Thank you,” said Shallan. She pulled her legs up and tucked her knees under her chin. It was not very ladylike, but Kaladin did not care about social propriety, so why should she, when there was no one else to see? “Have you ever known what it’s like – to drift?” “When I was in school, they made us test our arithmetic progressionals on each other … as a practical exercise.” He grimaced, then looked down at the shiny stripes on his scarred palms, as if his school days held no happy recollections for him. Shallan did not know: girls didn’t go to school – they had governesses instead. “We were to find the line between a frolic and a true drift – if the progressionals were calculated correctly, then you would frolic the whole way through.” That was horrifying to Shallan. Ether use was not a game. The dandies in their parlours treated it as if it was one – but that was bravado: they were drawn to the danger of it, and they always had up-to-date progressionals for each session, as the pours changed depending on ambient temperature. “Did – did you like it?” She had to ask. “Doesn’t everyone?” said Kaladin. “The only difference between people is if they like it enough to want it again and again.” “So I am weak-willed and a wretch, then.” She rested her chin on her knees, picking at the lace hem of her under-dress. “No,” said Kaladin. “How long have you been a watcher for other people?” “Two years and more.” “Did you ever try it yourself?” “No.” “Did you want to?” “Every time.” “Then you are anything but weak.” Kaladin crossed over to his dinner jacket, which had been draped over the back of the sofa. He dug through the pocket, and drew out a small, white paper-wrapped lump. “Here, take this,” he said, offering it to Shallan. “What is it?” she asked, as she held out her hand. He dropped it into her palm. It was something black wrapped in waxed paper; she could smell a bitter, compost-like scent rising from it, like the dregs of over-brewed tea leaves. “It will help you sleep – it’s made from herbal extracts and tree bark. Chew it thoroughly, and follow it with two cups of water. Tell your maid to wake you in the morning or you won’t be able to,” he said. “Oh, and never use it if you’re expecting.” “Expecting what?” He looked at her. She waited for him to explain. He finally spoke: “Just go to bed, Miss Davar.” Shallan rose, and placed the book on the low table. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, uncharacteristically nervous. She was not used to being nervous talking to Kaladin, of all people. She also was not used to him being anything but unpleasant towards her. Was this the gentleman doctor that Finnie had spoken of? She could scarcely believe it to be truth when she’d heard about the ‘good Doctor Kaladin’ that afternoon. “I had wondered what Adolin saw in you. Perhaps my first impression of you was, um, regrettably hasty.” That wasn’t an apology, Shallan told herself. He did not say anything, nor did he seem inclined to. Shallan went to bed. It was after she had finished her two cups of water and snuggled into the warmed blankets did she realise what Kaladin had meant by ‘expecting’. Well, she supposed, now he could see what Adolin saw in her. Author's Notes: Just in case you haven't figured it out already, I should explain the origin of some of Shallan's insta-hate for Kaladin. It's not just him being a grump, it's also her. Shallan, for most of her life, has been the "most popular girl at school", where she's the highest ranking socially. When she's not, she is usually the funniest, cleverest person in the room that everyone ends up liking. Yeah I know, but this is based on her SA canon-personality. Kaladin, when she first meets him, doesn't care about her rank, which she finds confusing in a bad way. He can also snark as well as she can, which she finds threatening. Because her "social Shallan" is her public face that shes hides behind, without it - or when it doesn't work - she thinks she has nothing else other than "sad Shallan", which she pretends doesn't exist. And she doesn't want to confront her issues. She is trying to rationalise her dislike towards him when she thinks about how rude he is, or how ugly his eyebrows are. Shallan likes Adolin because she sees him as nice and normal, and what she could have been in another AU. Part of her thinks she doesn't deserve him because she is a gross person on the inside, because no one would like Sad Shallan, right? Her character development is about realising that just because your life sucked, doesn't mean you have to let it be sucky forever. The subtext: - Kaladin changes out of his daytime clothes and carries sleeping pills because he is starting to become less hostile towards Shallan. He makes a joke about her drooling on his coat, but he would really feel bad if he caused an instant relapse by walking in smelling like ether. Shallan just sees the joke. - Shallan and the church infirmary was supposed to mirror the pardons for Vathah and Gaz in WoR. Kaladin and Adolin don't know the real reason, Kaladin thought she was praying the whole time she visited the church. - "It seems that charitable people are often rewarded with equal charity.” - mirrors the conversation with Kadash. Shallan is trying to figure out what it takes to buy Kaladin's help. It doesn't work that way! You have to earn it! - "If you are to be putting each other – and me – into undignified positions" - Adolin pretends to be more obtuse than he is. He laughs along but the idea of "undignified positions" makes him uncomfortable so he changes the subject to dessert. Normally he would be fine with joking about it, but he really "like likes" Shallan at this point and the idea of being in an undignified position with her is actually possible enough to make him nervous. - "hidden treasure in the forest" - supposed to mirror Urithiru in the Shattered Plains. Adolin isn't really aware that he's being manipulated into it, but Kaladin knows. Adolin is, however, pretty genre savvy in thinking there's a curse with the treasure. He was the one who knew Amaram and Sadeas were jerkbags in WoR. - Kaladin won the game of pool. :-) Adolin is not a sore loser, though. - "no doubt lead you to the life of the eternal chaperon" - Shallan jokes on Kaladin being single forever. Chaperones were usually spinster relatives. - Kharbranth Academy is the worst boarding school ever. Imagine it run by Miss Minchin or Miss Trunchbull or Mr Brocklehurst. Hazing and caning all over the place. If you survive it, you get to join the alumni buddy club. A lot of the "exercises" have a purpose according to the administration, though. Dosing each other with ether is supposed to weed out the weak and desensitise the rest. - "Two years and more" - this is when it hits Kaladin that Shallan is around the same age, or younger than Tien. Tien in this AU died at age 16, when he volunteered with a fake name at 15. Shallan became her brothers' watcher at ~15. - "He did not say anything” - What he really wanted to say was “I had wondered what Adolin saw in you. Perhaps my first impression of you was regrettably hasty.” But Kaladin doesn't like apologising or being wrong either. Remember his earlier conversation with Shallan "You are ... right"/"I endeavour to make a habit of it." :-) - "now he could see what Adolin saw in her." - Kaladin can tell they're both noobs, if you know what I mean. TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF SHALLAN’S SENSE OF HUMOUR IN THIS AU. I don’t like her non-stop fart jokes in WoR, so I wrote something more subtle and fitting for a Regency setting and tried to make her sound clever. Let me know if it works or if she just sounds boring.

Kaladin saved Adolin and Dalinar's life in Ireland first, and Renarin later. The first instance involved Helaran's terrorist group, lots of bombs and gunpowder, and a bridge. In this AU, Sadeas is a Duke and a dirtbag but he hasn't done the Tower incident, but it's not really that important or plot relevant since this is Shallan's "growing up" story. Kaladin has lots of scars on his hands for a reason. The ones on his fingers are from scalpels, the back of his hand from battle wounds, the palm from when he was whipped by the headmaster in school. :ph34r: What does Kaladin think of Shallan? Mixed feelings, really. He is now starting to see her as physically attractive, and that her humour isn't just annoying. When she asked him to be her watcher, he was really disturbed by that, in both good and bad ways. He knows she could have just gone off the deep end on her own, but the fact she wanted him to help means something. Adolin siring babies left and right? The idea of it is so ridiculous that it makes me laugh. :lol: :lol: HOW. He says his dad will kill him if he "hangs out" with a courtesan. Adolin is fine with talking about non-romantic subjects, but he can also do flirty banter with girls no problem. It's only when touchy-feely and what really he thinks (rather than what he expects other people want to hear him say) get involved that he wants to abandon ship. But once he's over that first barrier, he's still a young guy with "frustrations". Notice when Shallan is sitting on his lap in the restaurant and she moves around - he starts coughing and can't look her in the eye. These are things that I think are in-character but Brandon would never write. Adolin is somewhere between Buff and Sand then? He is in Shardplate when he goes on the Plains, but when he is hanging around the Warcamps in his regular uniform, his face and hands can still get more tanned than the rest of him. I think he is multiple colours on multiple parts of his body. But no one will ever be able to check his tanlines for sure. In Australia, there are not only pink and yellow undertone foundation, but everyone is so tanned that there are orange ones too. It is a sucky place for the naturally fair-skinned. Male puberty on Earth is usually ages 14-21. Boys in the early years tend to grow into tall beanpoles. And Alethi are usually tall people... How much of his youthful appearance is Dalinar thinking of Adolin is a little kid versus how youthful he actually looks? I am under the impression Adolin thinks of himself as a man and an adult rather than a boy. Kaladin thinks of Adolin as a man. It's kind of ambiguous if Dalinar thinks it. Dalinar also goes around calling Elhokar and Kaladin "Son" and Shallan "Child". It's kind of hard to pin down a solid description of his appearance when you have all these PoV narrators going in different directions around you. Oh, and contacts that looked fake - the yellow eyes in the Twilight movie. If your actors have naturally dark eyes and you want them to have bright green or blue or purple eyes, they will look really fake and plasticky in close ups. Kaladin in a rock band? The aesthetic fits him, but I never saw him as someone who is artistic and creative enough to be a musician. Sure he could probably learn to read music like he learns glyphs, and learn to play the piano through rote, but I can't see him as someone who could write his own music. Maybe I'm too judgy, but I think it takes a certain type of mindset (which you can train yourself to think in, but most people don't have any inclination) to create artistic things. He finds other outlets like skating and parkour. Maybe he even goes bungee jumping for laughs. Rock owns a hole in the wall greasy spoon restaurant, and Leyten the armourer bridgeman is a mechanic. They all hang out and drink beer and eat stew around an oil drum fire like hobos. Lirin as second nahn would be middle class in Earth terms. I don't think Kaladin would be poor poor even in a modern Earth AU. Everyone would just think he is, based on what he wears and how he acts around rich people, but if they visit his house it's just a boring normal house in the suburbs. If Renarin's AU dream job is computer engineer or software developer, what is Adolin's AU dream job? The humourous answer I would give is "Fashion magazine editor" or "street style blogger". Maybe even theatrical choreographer or stunt team. :ph34r: Well, I think in-universe that Nightwatcher is known to give out pretty weird curses for her boons, and you have around a 70% chance of your curse being bad, 25% chance of it being really weird and random, and 5% being sort of good, like Lift's. If people know this information, I would still say it's selfish for Dalinar to even risk it. Because it's not only him it will affect if it goes badly - he is also Highprince of a few hundred thousand people, and has two young children. IMO, the Nightwatcher is only worth it if you're doing it for other people, like Taravangian's "capacity to save the world" and that dude's "money to feed my family". To do it for yourself instead of getting over your problems like normal people is destination before journey. If he starts to go on self-sabotage mode around Shallan I will feel like smacking him. If you check timelines, he goes through a girl every 2 weeks to a month, and Shallan is probably pushing a month now. It will be coming any day. If we ever get a canon "Shallan's Sketchbook" with shirtless bridgemen, or sailors, or Kaladin or anyone I will cry tears of perverse joy. Until then, I have to create my own. :ph34r: Kholin blue should be enough to pick Kholin army soldiers out of a group in the Outer Market. No one else has those colours. It's like sports team jerseys. They are plastered with company logos and sponsors, but you are still supposed to be able to tell which team is which on first glance, because of their colours. Dalinar ruins everything with his no compromise mentality. If Adolin's current uniforms are perfectly tailored, it must mean that he still goes to the tailor, at least once a year. Because he has probably grown since he came to the Plains at age ~17. It's not impossible that he has ordered fashionable jackets made to his size with his regular uniform order. But considering that current fashion for lighteyed men is scarves around the neck and the wrist ( ) I think in his current state of character development, he would never go runway-level fancy like the Fashion Folio page. :ph34r: :ph34r:

Wow, a super duper huge long post. Thanks heaps for writing this, it means a lot to know that people are not only reading, but thinking about what I write. And congrats on the baby. :ph34r: :ph34r: Celebratory ninja party! :ph34r: :ph34r: Let's answer some questions now. It makes me feel weird there are no questions, because I know my writing isn't perfect and I'm not always clear explaining things, but when no one says anything, I can't pick out where I've been sloppy. The boar - it's something from Shallan's post-hallucination mind. She sees soft impressions of things, the restaurant was called "The Sign of the White Boar" and combined with her fear and angst from ether-crashing, she is not in a healthy mental state when she drew it. Not everything she draws reflects real life 1:1, sometimes she draws from imagination or memory. See Sketchbook pages "AK+SD", "Loch Davar" and "Adolin McValam". Compare to other pieces and you see it is very rough and lacks polish. Ether drifting - I thought there were pretty dark themes around it, and wanted to make a dark version of Stormlight. Since there is no Stormlight in this AU, and it was always described as comforting and addicting - Kaladin in the real SA stays up for a week at a time because he can't stop sucking it in. However, it's historically accurate for medicines with weird side effects to be abused relatively socially acceptably. In later times, laudanum/opium would be used, and even tobacco was thought to be "healthy" in the 1930's. Of course I'm taking artistic license with the effects for plot drama. Example being the the "drift", or hallucinations, which is a moderate amount inhaled, more than a "frolic" but less than surgical unconsciousness, and the following "waking-drift", or severely impaired judgment and inhibitions. OMG did I just invent a magic system on accident. The art - I still consider myself more of an artist than a writer. The concept of SA as a romance novel came from some parody book covers I made (check my 17th Shard gallery by going to my profile sidebar thingy). I liked Shallan as a character because she was an artist, and I think it makes it a cool second layer of subtext. Remember in WoR when she did the sketches of Shardplate, and there was Adolin's face in the corner with "*sigh*" written next to it? The only bad thing is that I don't want to convert people to my physical image of the characters, but Shallan is such a visual person that she does draw faces. And now clarifying things in author's notes:

:ph34r: :ph34r: You have to shop early if you want to get something before it's sold out!! Instead of the last 2 weeks before Halloween. Many cosplayers start 6 months before conventions...and often they are still working in a hotel room the night before, with hot glue guns and sewing kits. You could even start now and order online if you know you're going to a party for sure. Adolin - Bare buff? Undertones are important for skin matching, not just lightness. Yellow/warm undertones are common for Asians, and pink/neutral/cool undertones are the type white people have. I have no idea! It's so much easier for Kaladin because dark skin makes undertones less important. Shallan - Bare natural. No clue on this one either. Vedens aren't "white people" but Shallan is compared to Shin people and her skin has to be light enough for it to freckle. Otherwise it would just tan. I think he's around 15. He has skinny kid shoulders and neck and can't grow facial hair. And yes, that is how a lot of kids look at that age. If everyone thought he was ridiculously young looking, then it would be easier for him to win a Shardblade, wouldn't it? There is no single actor who screams "THIS IS ADOLIN" out there. Which is a shame, but then again SA will never be made into a live action movie in my lifetime. If the face is the right shape, then sometimes the hair is wrong, and the eyes are usually too white. I've seen cosplay SA pictures - they have to wear wigs and contacts and it looks good, but it's really obvious that it's fake. In my modern AU version, I drew Kaladin as a skater. With Syl painted on the deck of his skateboard. :ph34r: Maybe he would be a rockstar or star athlete, but he doesn't like attention and fame that much. He would prefer to skip the Prom and meet with his much older friends (who can't go to the Prom because they aren't students) to eat stew. Jeez, Adolin's home life is just kind of sad now. It's not as bad as Shallan's, but it's equal and opposite to Kaladin's. Lirin wanted Kaladin to be a surgeon, not a soldier. Dalinar wants Adolin to be a soldier, not a duellist. Why can't they show their love to their sons????? Are they all Asian dads at heart???? And I think it's kind of selfish for Dalinar to mindwipe himself. He's not the only one who misses her, and he had a life before he met Shshshsh. She was the only mother Adolin and Renarin ever knew. She died when Renarin was ~9 years old!!! What the chull man. Not cool. ...The bridgemen, maybe? I think only Lopen from Bridge Four likes it, and only because the vest had no sleeves that had to be pinned up without flapping around. And you could put it on with one hand. How does he do up those buttons on the new uniform? I want to see Shallan ogling shirtless Adolin as well. But I think in-universe, he would be really really shy about, so it would have to have a good reason to justify. Even if someone stabbed him in the chest, he would want Shallan to turn around when she tries to help. But he would feel more comfortable shirtless with Kaladin more than Shallan. I wonder what Shallan would make of shirtless Kaladin. He never even offered her his coat in the chasm scene, when she tore up her dress to bandage his leg. It paints a target on your back ... literally. I thought that if all the Kholin officers really did have gigantic neon signs painted on their back, people from other armies would take advantage of it. When you are drinking wine at a wine lounge on a balcony at the Outer Market and you see a Kholin officer walking by underneath, wouldn't you feel tempted to pour your glass or throw some rubbish at him? Since no one likes Dalinar for being goody-goody and all in the beginning of WoK. That is one of many reasons why I don't like the glyphpair on coats. All the rich people wear silk in SA. Do they even have silk moths? Apparently they don't have bees, and beeswax comes from weevils. Because you need flowers to feed bees, and Roshar plants are rockbuds. Adolin has a lot of nice clothes that aren't uniform. It's such a shame that no one will ever see them. Maybe he tries on his fancy party clothes at night in front of the mirror, then sighs and puts them back because he will never be able to wear them. When I was in school, there were compulsory uniforms, and waiting for the weekend to wear non-uniform clothes was something I looked forward to. But there are no weekends in the Shattered Plains. Sorry for late reply, was busy. going to reply to other posts now. :ph34r:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 11

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWELVE Shallan only became truly aware of her state of disorientation once the carriage had started moving. It had occurred to her that her earlier behaviour – and improper was the most delicate way to describe it – was not normal for her; if it was her, it was the very worst part of her: the part she hid away from sight and pretended didn’t exist. Even now she knew she was still addled; she knew enough to recognise impropriety if it happened, but not quite enough to prevent it before it did. She sat next to Adolin on the upholstered bench seat this time, with Kaladin sitting opposite. The crate of ether bottles had been tied to the back of the carriage, on the folding step that footmen used on sunny day driving. Part of her still yearned for the mindless comfort of the drift – that part of her that had been raised out of its dormancy by nostalgia and now squatted malevolently in her mind, polluting it with unwanted thoughts of home. She could not even draw. She had tried, but her hands trembled holding the pencil – to Kaladin’s curious gaze – and she had roughly scratched out a sketch of a white boar. Her fingers lacked precision; there was a pronounced disconnect behind the swirling pictures in her mind and control over her limbs. She was suddenly reminded of the last hard winter in Loch Davar. They could not afford as much wood or coal that year, and had been rationing their fuel, supplemented with chunks of peat collected from the estate grounds by her brothers. The Davars had spent most of their evenings in one small parlour with the windows covered in tartan lap rugs, but still it was bitterly cold. Trying to draw through the numbing paralysis of cold-stiffened fingers had felt much the same way – but in this case it was her own body betraying her. She snapped the sketchbook shut and pulled her tartan over her head; she closed her eyes, wearying of homesickness. Fatigue and the slowly swaying carriage lulled her into the greyness of half-sleep. “Are you returning to the front with the Prince?” she heard dully. She did not bother to divine the meaning of the words; she heard them without focus or consideration. “No. At least not when he does.” “I thought giving Renarin his new position meant you could stop watching over his shoulder.” “It’s not Renarin; there’s something else Father told me at the Ministry, before I left the City.” – a grunt – “He wants me to stay in case we have to split the Home Regiments on short notice. The King couldn’t – wouldn’t – do it so I must stay.” “Blasted Heralds, it’s not the indentured uprising business is it? That is nothing but fearmongering nonsense.” “No. Something from the south, the Continent. Father says he had new information – apparently it’s so secretive he can’t tell me how he got it – that something’s going on with their new government, worse than their ideological demagoguery…” There followed a flood of esoteric information that Shallan did not particularly care about; she drifted into a refreshing true sleep that perhaps was not as comforting as ether-sleep – but it did allow one to arise fully functional, even if one did not want to. *** There was a tap on her shoulder and the tartan over her head was tugged down. The carriage was slowing; they were approaching the final curve of the drive to Kholinar Court. Shallan opened her eyes. Adolin was in front of her, his face not far from her own. She had slept through the drive back from the village, and although she still felt the dull tinge of weariness gathered in the edges of her mind, she felt she was much more herself. “Are you all right, Shallan? Can you walk up, or would it be best if I carried you in?” he asked, looking at her with concern. The carriage crunched to a halt; Kaladin opened the door and stepped out. It had stopped raining, but the clouds above still lingered with ominous darkness; the decorative hedges and topiary glistened and dripped. “You do know that carrying a woman over the threshold of your house means something, don’t you?” remarked Kaladin. “Kholinar Court may be less than a day’s ride from the City but country beliefs still hold their sway here.” Adolin stepped out of the carriage, then turned to unfold the steps. “Ah, well, I can summon the butler for a bath chair; I think we still have an old one somewhere…” Shallan caught the strap of her satchel, and slid to the door. Adolin’s overcoat was draped over her shoulders; she pulled it around herself and took Adolin’s guiding arm. “I can walk,” she said. “There, see! And Doctor, when I lived in the Scottish countryside, there was a tradition that a man who caught an unwed woman alone in an undignified situation was obliged to marry her.” She gripped Adolin’s arm tightly; there was still a trembling unsteadiness to her limbs. He smiled down at her affectionately – was that an unsteady trembling she felt in her breast? “A cursed fate indeed,” returned Kaladin. “And if he refused?” “Then I suppose he was never a man at all.” Her thoughts must be clearer now, if she could find sarcastic things to say automatically and instinctively. “How very barbaric, these Scottish customs. You must thank the Heralds every day that you are now in civilised lands.” “These lands are civilised, yes; the people are, admittedly, somewhat lacking.” “Your words – they wound us! – both Adolin and myself.” “Well,” said Shallan, “are you still a doctor since the last time you checked? I trust you can manage your own wounds. And Adolin: if being uncivilised meant he could eat his meals without having to change his clothes, he would embrace it with all eagerness.” Adolin chuckled, and said, “Of course I would! How does it make any sense that dining whites must be worn to dine?” Kaladin’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at Shallan, then at Adolin, and shook his head. “And you’re agreeing with this Scottish frog? Here I thought that we menfolk were meant to stand together in solidarity. That being the sole purpose of gentlemen’s clubs and, presumably, the Admiralty.” “That only works when there are no women present,” Shallan answered. “Send some skirts into a gentlemen’s club and see how it unfolds. You may be due for a disappointment.” “Feminine tyranny is not such a bad thing, Kal,” Adolin said. They had reached the portico of the House and he was now holding the front door open for Shallan. “There are things women can teach us ignorant men, you know.” “You are lovesick.” “That sounds awfully like a diagnosis, Doctor,” noted Shallan. “So what, dare I ask, is the cure?” “Well, there is one very old, and shall we say –“ Kaladin paused, “– traditional – method of curing lovesickness in foolish young men.” “And what is it?” “Marriage.” Adolin burst into loud laughter at this, wiping his eyes. “Sickness or cure – I do not think I should mind having either.” “Bah!” Kaladin threw his arms in the air and stalked off. Shallan now found herself in the foyer with Adolin. She released his arm, and dragged the overcoat off her shoulders. It was very heavy, with fine wool woven thickly – imported, she assumed, since the local wools she was used to itched, and were better suited for carpets or rugs than clothing; there was a jaunty bright blue silk lining on the interior. “Ah–,” she said, holding it out to him. “Your coat, before I forget. I must thank you for that – wonderful – luncheon. And I should apologise for the inconvenience the, um … incident … caused for you.” “It was not such an inconvenience that I could not be secretly pleased if it happened again.” Shallan reddened. She could feel it; her ears went warm first, and then colour would spread across her cheeks and meet at her nose. She almost regretted that the indifference of emotion in the waking-drift had now left her; if he had said that to her earlier, she doubted she would make such a show of herself as she was sure she was making now. She looked down at her muddied underskirts peeping out from the hem of her dress. Then she looked up at Adolin’s good-humoured smile, and his blue eyes which were an ordinary, mundane shade of blue. But they looked at her with a gentle fondness – and that was when she slowly came to realise that, in all her life, such sentiments from another could be considered neither ordinary nor mundane. “If it happened again, I should find myself pleased also. But I am afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret,” she said softly. They were bold words, intimate words of the like that she had never said to anyone before, and Adolin blushed at them. His bashfulness was truly a delight. He took her hand, then he leaned forward for a peck on the cheek. Shallan turned her head at the last moment, and his lips brushed against hers very briefly. He pulled back, face coloured to match hers. He took a deep breath. “Join us for dinner at eight, please, Shallan.” “Of course.” They stood in the foyer for a while – Shallan could not guess how much time had passed – with hands linked together; his thumb traced idle patterns over her knuckles. Someone cleared his throat in the background; Adolin dropped her hands and straightened. Shallan returned to herself. There was a footman and a maidservant at the door, looking expectantly at them. “I shall look forward to seeing you then,” whispered Adolin, and then he was swept up by servants who took his coat and umbrella and ushered him away to be refreshed in his own quarters. The maidservant led Shallan up the stairs to the bathing chamber. She supposed there was a subtle criticism of her appearance in that, but she could not find it in herself to be anything more than appreciative. She was undressed; her muddy clothes were taken away and replaced by a clean white shift and dressing robe; she soaked herself in the warm water until her fingers took on the appearance of walnut hulls. The embarrassing things that had happened to-day: the humiliating knowledge that this shameful vice of hers had been revealed to Kaladin, of all people. She was ashamed of how she had presented herself, and ashamed still that everything she had told Kaladin had been – worst of all – completely true. He must think her weak-minded now; she had admitted to indulging multiple others, and was now bent on indulging herself. It must truly grate on him that such a wretch was attaching herself to his patron; he might one day find himself under her authority, second-hand though it might be. These unpleasant thoughts roiled through her mind as she sat in the lukewarm bath-water. She lay back and let the water rise to her shoulders, then her throat, until it closed over her head. Bubbles of air frothed to the surface; Shallan let them rise as the ceiling of the chamber wavered back and forth through the water, as if she were peering through a mystical veil to another world... A thought occurred to her. She sat up. Why, by the Ten Heralds and the Ten Fools, did Kaladin’s opinion matter to her? She did not want to puzzle out the answer. Was she afraid of what she might conclude? She pushed the thoughts away, but they still lingered while she put on the shift and tied the dressing robe around her waist. She returned to her own bedchamber, contemplative and unresisting, as the maid settled her in front of the vanity, draped a towel over her shoulders, and began to tease at her hair with brushes and combs. She did not tug at the hair, but used a scented oil to slowly work out the tangles. It was relaxing to Shallan, who had not had a woman arrange her hair in years, and it drew a sense of easy contentedness over her. Perhaps a lady’s maid had its benefits – she herself would have given up in impatience if the task had been assigned to her. “Why is Doctor Kaladin such an insufferable creature?” The words burst from her lips. There was a silence. The maid’s hands stilled. In the looking glass, Shallan saw her glance from side to side, as if she were searching for someone in the room that Shallan must have been addressing. The room was empty but for the two of them. “Doctor Kaladin is a real gentleman to us who stay downstairs,” she said shyly. “Erm. Begging your pardon. My lady.” She looked down at her hands, then Shallan’s face in the mirror, and continued dressing her hair. “Really,” began Shallan. “Kaladin and gentleman in the same sentence? That, I cannot possibly imagine.” The maid hesitated, then spoke again. “He’s only s’posed to be physicking for His Lordship and the Family, but he comes down whenever one of us takes ill. He goes round the village too, and never charges for the trouble.” “That is … interesting.” “He’s a very good sort,” said the maid, who seemed to be gathering her courage now that Shallan hadn’t reprimanded her: housemaids – which this one was, as there was no lady’s maid in the House – were ideally to be rarely seen and never heard. “He takes care of those issues as well, without the lectures you get from the church medic in the village.” “Those issues?” “Er, you know, my lady?” The maid seemed rather sheepish now. She could not meet Shallan’s eyes in the looking glass. “Um. Not really, I’m afraid.” “Well, you being a Lady and all, you’ll be proper wed when time comes to worry about such things. Us maids have to leave service if we were to be, ah, married.” There was another silence while Shallan tried to figure out what had just transpired. The only other woman Shallan had had conversations with in recent times was Jasnah, and Jasnah tended be so direct in her speech as to almost approach tactlessness. But Jasnah possessed such poise and natural authority in her manner that if one felt affront in her company, one thought it was a fault in themselves rather than her. The maid mistook the silence for something else. “You needn’t worry so much, my lady. His Lordship’s a kind and generous man; he’ll take good care of you like he makes sure to take care of all of us.” “I don’t want to be taken care of,” said Shallan, rather shortly. “My lady, and I know it’s never my place to say – but it means a great deal for us below stairs to see he has taken a liking to you. All of us look forward to a new Duchess in the House.” “Why is that?” “Well, this is speaking out of turn here, and I won’t say it’s my own opinion, but many people here and in Courtlea would much prefer His Lordship over his brother. If something were to happen to him in war, it’d be best for all of us if he had an heir,” the maid replied, nervously. She turned the hairbrush over in her hands. It was silver with a design of blue enamelled forget-me-nots on the back, twining around a central monogram of ‘S.K.’. So it seemed it wasn’t just Jasnah, or her brothers, who wanted her to secure an alliance. But she had asked. “Thank you for your honesty.” “If there’s anything at all, my lady?” asked the maid. She stood, finished brushing out Shallan’s hair, and slid the combs and brushes into a cloth roll that closed with a button and a loop of string. The roll was placed into the side drawer of the vanity. It occurred to Shallan that she did not know the maid’s name. She did not, in fact, know the names of any servant at the House, though by now she had come to recognise some of them, such as the butler or the first footman and to-day’s carriage driver, by their faces. Although she had doubts she could manage it if they were not wearing their livery. “Please–,” she said cautiously, “–what is your name? In case I need to send for you, of course.” “Second chambermaid Finnie, my lady.” The maid ducked into a respectful curtsey. It was not very good; her elbows stuck out in an ungainly fashion. She presumably had little contact with the Family in her regular duties – that would be the reserve of the upper household staff. “Thank you, Finnie,” said Shallan, trying on Jasnah’s gracious tone that managed to tuck in a politely unsaid dismissal at the end. Finnie left, and the door closed behind her. Shallan was left staring at her reflection in the looking glass. She looked tired and she felt tired, but there was work to be done. Shallan spent the rest of the afternoon going over the maps taken from the church’s surveys, making two copies of each. It was tedious, but she had such an exciting – if the word could be stretched so – morning; busywork like this was a relief in comparison. The maps were a series of pages with rough outlines drawn on a grid, marking out the boundaries of the estate grounds. There was one larger, polished looking map at the back of the envelope, depicting the shape of the whole of Kholinshire, with the City in the centre and all the various estates of the Family and the lower gentry circled in different colours. The other maps were closer views of the Kholin estates. Shallan noticed that there was no map for Jasnah’s house, Ivory Lane, and the lands that belonged to the Marquess Kholinshire, Adolin’s brother, were shown as just another part of the Kholinar Court ducal estate. She flicked through and found the maps for the ducal woodlands, the hunting preserve that Brother Kadash had mentioned that morning. It was a forest, Kholinshire Forest, situated in between Kholinar Court and what would be the present-day Kholinshire Park. These were the maps she wanted. She copied them out painstakingly, using set squares and rulers to mark out the grids exactly, before tracing the contours of the land features. Shallan was not certain that the measured distances would be correct – the maps of the forest were made by a groundskeeper and a huntmaster rather than a trained cartographer. In any case, the regions of woodland would have moved on the edges as villagers cut the trees down as per their ancient citizens’ right to a certain amount of cordage every year. One of the maps had the information she was looking for. There was Kholinar Court in the top corner for reference; it was woodland to the south of the estate. There was a dashed line through the forest, marked “Logging trail”, a creek running across, and near that a few clustered X marks with the label “ruins here, may seek shelter”. So this is where the crofters or charcoal burners or hermits … or Heralds, whomever they were, lived in the years before the House had been built and the area around the City was all woodland. It was becoming harder to see now, and when Shallan looked up, she saw that the diffused grey sunlight had begun to fade into evening. She rose from her seat and found the clockwork fire starter on the nightstand; she was fiddling with it, trying to light the glass chimney lamps on the walls, when there came a knock on the door. “Come in!” she called, her back to the door still. “My lady, it’s Finnie,” said a voice, and Shallan turned around. The maid who had done her hair bobbed a curtsey, arms full of folded fabric. “Lady Jasnah ordered the housekeeper – before she left – to have these pressed and set out for you, when you join His Lordship for formal dining.” The bundle of fabric was laid out on the bed, and the fire starter was taken from her hands. The curtains were pulled closed – one could not undress at night with the lamps on, as the view might surely be seen from the drive – while Shallan picked up the blue silk dress and the matching white under-dress. The under-dress was made from fine thin cotton, with lace at the neckline, wrists and hem. It was not a little girl’s simple tatting that Shallan was capable of, but the complex and symmetrically detailed lacework that well-practiced grannies made when they sat by the fire and told their grand-daughters that such work could land them a good match. “Lady Jasnah said she bought it in Kharbranth for you,” said Finnie, holding out the dress. Of course, Jasnah: Jasnah could still manage Shallan’s affairs even when she was absent; Shallan idly imagined that if Jasnah died, people would still be coming to her years later bearing messages that ordered her to do this or that. She undid the tie of her dressing gown, stepped out of her shift, and allowed Finnie to dress her. “How do I look?” asked Shallan, as Finnie tugged out the draping on the skirt’s back. “You pull it off better than the other girls did, if you don’t mind me saying,” replied Finnie. “They had themselves laced up tight in the front, to better catch His Lordship’s eye. But you haven’t got much to lace there.” She gestured at Shallan’s dress, which, though it did not show much, revealed more shoulder than chest. “Other girls? How many other girls were there?” “Er, I think the butler once mentioned he went through one a month when he was in the City, but when we had entertaining here, His Lordship’s dinner companions usually lasted one night before they left; they were never invited back.” “Three days. Ha, I must be setting a record here,” remarked Shallan. “The men downstairs are running a book, but I wouldn’t know about it.” The lamp by the vanity was lit, and Shallan’s hair was braided up and pinned into place. One girl a month? Girls who lasted one night? Was this really Adolin, her Adolin? Storms, she was calling him hers now? What was coming over her? Shallan wondered what she was doing so right that those nameless, countless other girls had gotten wrong. She had not acted much differently than her normal self; she rebelled against Jasnah’s instructions and advice at almost every turn. What she had presented to Adolin was the ideal of herself – the person she wanted to be, whom she could have been in actuality rather than act, if life had chosen a different path and the trail of death and destruction in her childhood had never started with her mother. How much of this was dishonesty? She mused on this – this act was part of her, she was perfectly comfortable with it because it was her – yet wasn’t truly her, at the very same time. Kaladin, Heralds curse the man: he must have seen through it immediately. Did every man and woman have different sides to them? When Kaladin spoke of his dead brother, or helped unfortunate servants with their – mysterious – personal issues, was that his gentle side, the side that made chambermaids sigh over his gentlemanliness? And possibly his deeply perceptive eyes, and his breadth of physique, and– “Ouch!” yelped Shallan. And his ugly unpleasant eyebrows. And one cannot forget his ugly unpleasant scowl. “Begging your pardon, my lady. Is that pin too tight?” said Finnie, timidly. “No, it’s quite all right. Please, just leave it out,” said Shallan. “Is there anything else?” “Erm. No? Unless you have any jewels I should help you with?” “No, I don’t. Thank you, Finnie. Have a nice evening,” said Shallan, feeling irritable for unknown reason. Perhaps it was being stuck by a pin. Finnie seemed to perceive that Shallan didn’t want to be disturbed in this instance; she curtseyed and backed away and then left, taking Shallan’s worn shift with her. Was it the pin? Maybe it was not having any jewels – the Davar family had sold theirs long ago; even her brothers’ silver tartan brooches had been melted down and replaced with cheap pot-metal pins. Shallan cleared up the pile of copied pages, and folded the maps. It was always very strange how one could unfold a map in seconds, but refolding it so the creases lined up took minutes. But it was finished, and Shallan slid them back into their envelope – and after looking around the room – she slipped them underneath the roll of brushes in the vanity’s drawer. It was half-past-seven when Shallan, growing restless in her room, wandered downstairs. Footmen were lighting the lamps – bright naphtha chimney lamps in regular intervals down the halls, what extravagance! They were also refilling the reservoirs with oil and adjusting the light. She was reminded of that late evening when she had found herself in these halls alone, when half the lamps were unlit and the other half lowered to an oil-conserving dimness. She had not stopped to look around; she had not thought there was anything to see in her own frantic desperation to return to her own room. But there was a long gallery here, well lit, with frame after frame of painted portraits and painted shields in an assortment of shapes and designs. They were mostly all blue. Cobalt, Shallan remembered, was the colour of Kholin blue - it was technically called azure to those who painted such shields. The paintings at the beginning of the gallery were almost naïf in their technical simplicity; they were queerly flat and emotionless. The backgrounds were beautifully detailed, with sunbeams bursting through clouds in a way that Shallan knew was supposed to represent the Almighty’s Grace and Light; it showed that the subjects were His chosen leaders of men. There were quaint wooden houses in the background – this was presumably Kholinar before Kholinar was the City, or a city at all. Subtlety was not to be found in the first half of the portrait gallery. They mostly depicted men: men wearing armour, men bearing outrageously oversized swords – oh my, what could that possibly mean? – men holding scrolls, men with their hands possessively resting on model globes. It was only when Shallan ventured into the second half did she see family paintings, of men with their wives, and sometimes with their pets and children. The men from the first half did have horses, one had to admit, but Shallan counted them to be in the same category as the swords and armour. She liked these paintings more. There was more emotion in them – they were records preserved of the people who lived in the House, she felt – rather than an allegorical representation of how much land and wealth and power a man had. She knew such an indulgent opinion was a sign of the times and of her own position – art was a hobby to her, and not even her Calling. The painters who made these pieces were workmen at their trade: no mere idle lady whiling away the interval between completing her feminine education and finding a husband. She neared the end of the long gallery. There were several empty frames; she went back to look at the last portraits. They, she thought, were the most well-done in skill and subject matter; they best appealed to her modern sensibilities. The very last was in an oval frame: it showed a dark-haired man in blue and a lady with braided blonde hair in a white dress. The man had a dignified presence; he could be called handsome if one was partial to large noses and thick black eyebrows – and Shallan assuredly was not. There was a voice behind her: “That’s my mother and father.” Shallan turned. It was Adolin, wearing his dining whites and looking perfectly comfortable in them. His hair had been combed – not very neatly – off his forehead and his formal, courtly appearance made Shallan feel suddenly very anxious, even though she was dressed equally formally. “You don’t much resemble your father,” she said. “Everyone tells me that I take after my mother more,” he replied, and now he was standing next to her in front of the oval gilt frame. Shallan searched for something to say. Talking about families … this was not an easy subject for her, and past experience had shown her that she could easily, unknowingly misstep. “I don’t think I am much like my own mother.” Adolin seemed to sense that this made her uncomfortable; he reached for levity. “For the first few years of my life, I thought my mother’s name was ‘Grefina’. Silly isn’t it? – it was what her lady’s maid and my nursemaids called her; she’d brought them with her when she married Father.” “And it wasn’t her name?” “No: it was her title, Gräfin. Which was actually her father’s title, and now that I think of it, a bit disrespectful to those who care about such things – since Father made her a Duchess and that’s a higher rank.” “Does this mean you might inherit lands on the Continent? Or would you have mysterious distant cousins contacting you, promising to deed over the estate on the condition of your sending funds to retain a lawyer?” Adolin chuckled at that, he glanced down at her and offered his arm. “Actually, something like that has happened before. Shall we go through to dinner, then?” Shallan smiled and took his arm. “I would be delighted. And even more so if you tell me about those ‘cousins’ of yours.” Author's Notes: Shallan is going through some character development, and trying to figure out her feelings for the gentlemen. Kaladin isn’t a cardboard monster now, is he? The maid character (non-canon SA character) was added for exposition purposes and to show that Shallan is letting herself relax and accept her place in the house. And now you see that when Shallan, Adolin and Kaladin are friendly, they have a pretty interesting and fun dynamic. TELL ME HOW YOU LIKE THE SETUP FOR A TRIANGLE. I think the chasm scene in WoR was pretty hamfisted, honestly. If only Brandon Sanderson were a romance writer. - "Renarin's new position" - Renarin is now a supply/logistics officer in this AU. This happened because they put him in a benchwarmer combat unit first but he still almost got killed, and then Kaladin had to save him. - "Something from the south" - something Jasnah is looking for, but Shallan doesn't recognise. - "Bath chair" - old fashioned wheelchair, to be pushed by a servant or pulled by a pony. - "Presumably the Admiralty" - Joke about the Navy having rum and the lash and one other thing. - "Those issues" - Shallan is just as innocent as Adolin in some ways. Historical detail: maids were expected to be maidens and low rank domestic servants had to quit to get married. Same for having a child, which is what Finnie is trying to say. - "Kind and generous man" - Finnie is trying to tell Shallan she shouldn't be scared on the wedding night, and Shallan thinks she's talking about gold digging. - The silver hairbrush - was Adolin's mother's. I have decided that forget-me-nots are her flower motif for humourous reasons. The S stands for Shshshsh. - The lace dress - historical detail: it's extremely expensive handmade bobbin lace, called "Brussels lace" in the real world. The type on the dress is called "Duchess point" lace. Adolin’s mother wears Duchess point lace on her dress in the portrait. :-D - "Laced up tight in the front" - yes, it's cleavage, which Shallan doesn't have. But Adolin doesn't care. - Shallan is a pretty judgy art critic. She does not like the early paintings, and if she lived in a later period, she wouldn't like post-modernism. - "Outrageously oversized swords" - reference to Shardblades. - “Thick black eyebrows” – reference to Kaladin. - "Easily, unknowingly misstep" - reference to snarking on Kaladin praying for his dead brother. - "Grefina" - comes from "Graf", equivalent to "Count". As mentioned earlier, Adolin's mother was from the East Continent. If calling a Duchess “Countess” is disrespectful, then Kaladin is disrespectful by calling Lady Shallan “Miss Davar”. If it’s allowed by the other person, then it implies familiarity. - "Mysterious distant cousins" - The Nigerian Prince scam has a very very long history.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 10

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART ELEVEN Shallan was delirious when Adolin carried her into the screened off private dining alcoves of The Sign of the White Boar. She vaguely remembered being held, limbs sprawling awkwardly, in his arms – she felt immensely heavy, yet somehow simultaneously wrung out and empty. Adolin bore her weight with ease; impressions of her surroundings flashed by disjointedly, one after the other: smooth skin against smooth skin, her cheek against his neck, cologne that smelled of orange pith mixed with the Kharbranth spice markets, red hair against striped blond. Soft and indistinct they were, these blurred combinations of colour and sound; the dullness of sensation was as if she were face-down in the bathtub screaming and screaming in a way that could not be heard. Her weary mind feebly tried to understand, to analyse, to conclude, but such exertion was beyond her; it was as if her mind and her body were now divorced from each other, and both of them were completely removed of her. So she rested her head on Adolin’s shoulder and watched with a queer sense of complete apathy as a scene unfolded in the inn. The scrape of chairs as the guests and patrons stood for the Duke as he burst through the door, only to see that he held a swooning lady in his arms. The Duke’s physician, calling for blankets and warmed bricks and hot tea. The noise and bustle of a busy establishment drawn to sudden stillness and then returning to action with twice the volume. Shallan watched; she would have felt bemused if she could feel anything more than indifference. The warmth of the Duke’s body was all too quickly withdrawn; she was settled, lolling, on a chair and folding screens were dragged all around. Her tartan was placed on her lap; a man’s overcoat was draped over her shoulders. She watched everything, was impassive to everything. Until Kaladin waved a small phial filled with white crystals under her nose. It burned worse than ether vapours. Oh. Ether vapours. White crystals - spirits of hartshorn. The leaden fatigue in her limbs remained, but she regained awareness and clarity. She could understand speech now, instead of seeing moving mouths and hearing syllables: now she could link them together and comprehend their meaning. “Shallan? Miss Davar?” she heard. Kaladin was in the chair in front of her, looking at her face. He had one scarred hand on her wrist, feeling for her pulse. The other held the phial of smelling salts. “Oh. It’s you,” said Shallan. It seemed appropriate. “You could have asked to see my sketches.” He dropped her hand. He seemed about to say something nasty, but then thought better of it; he relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “You would have refused,” he replied, simply. “You … are right”, said Shallan finally. She couldn’t think of anything better to say. The disinterested lethargy was retreating to the edges – she was functional now, if rather sluggish in her cognitive reflexes. “I endeavour to make it a habit." Kaladin hadn’t lost anything of his penchant for sarcasm, even if she had. “Why did you do it, then?” “It is rare to encounter a person who possesses such skill and eye. Every man can destroy, most can reproduce, but the ability to create beauty is rare.” He paused for a moment, then looked away. “You drew my portrait: seeing it reminded me of an artist who took my likeness … three or four years ago.” It was a long speech for a usually taciturn man. It seemed this subject held great significance to him - perhaps she could tease it out of him. “Did you knock him senseless too?” Or not. Kaladin did not smile. “He was my brother.” “The question still stands … well, it would if it could.” He looked down at his hands. There were white traces of scars running down the wrist and into the sleeve, and shiny pale lines in stripes across his palm. His hands could not be called slender or delicate - they were, after all, the hands of a working man - but they were long-fingered with neatly trimmed nails; there was a surety and confidence to the way he used them to measure her pulse or dig through his kit bag. His movements were economical and measured; she could discern no trembling or hesitation in them - or him. “Of course not,” said Kaladin at last. “He was a woodcarver, a sculptor. When he carved miniatures of my face with frightfully cheery grins onto my bedposts one morning, I admit that such a thought crossed my mind.” The line of his lips, usually set sternly, seemed less grim for a moment. There was no smile, of course: there never was, but Kaladin now almost seemed wistful - as if underneath the ill-humoured disposition there was buried someone who remembered, very faintly, a time long ago when he had no burdens but his own. It was far from gaiety, no, that could not have been - could never have been - expected. It was just the merest of indications that Kaladin could be something other than perpetually unpleasant. Shallan was quiet. She found herself thinking that Kaladin did not have an annoying voice; he possessed a deep voice and with his accent marking him as one properly educated, he would not have been so irritating on first impression had he managed to speak without impudent cheek or presumptuous disrespect. She would have liked to listen to him reading aloud – they would have to be another’s words, of course - thankfully. She did not speculate how Adolin’s voice sounded when he read; she could not begin to imagine Adolin reading aloud. Adolin. “The incident,” she spoke, trying to find the words. Thoughts, disoriented from the swooning episode, were tumbling back into place haphazardly. She recognised only some of them. “Does Adolin think it was an accident?” “An unfortunate one, but yes.” Kaladin had returned to his usual tone – it sounded like derision hidden - not entirely successfully - behind impassive professionalism. “What if he were to be informed that it may been … otherwise?” “Blackmail, Miss Davar? How very charming – you do move fast. What do you want? My support in pressing your suit?” He seemed amused at the prospect. “No. You’re a doctor.” “…The last I checked.” “You are familiar with the arithmetic progressionals for ether dosing, then?” asked Shallan. This was a risk here: she was venturing into dangerous territory. She was counting on his being a true medical professional in his role of physician – the occupation required that practitioners be willing and capable of holding confidences as a necessary part of their duties. The progressionals were a series of mathematical calculations that factored in a user’s size and density – measured through displacement in a bathtub – along with the length of time they wanted to drift, the temperature and humidity of the room, and the purity of their distilled ether. There was a minimum to induce unconsciousness, and then a series of stable or descending concentrations to either extend the drift-time or awaken the user. The safest and most reliable way to successfully drift ether was with these calculations: the frolicking dandies had usually hired someone for the numbers whilst the lower classes had gone without. Shallan had been the one to calculate and prepare for her brothers. They could not have done the same for her. “The formulae?” said Kaladin, taken aback. Unexpected emotion flickered briefly across his face. “How would a lady … Are you implying–” “Be my watcher.” A driftwatcher was the informal title of the person who measured and poured the ether, applied and changed the cloths, and watched the drifter while he dreamt. It was a title that conveyed great trust and intimacy; it was as intimate as the connection between a patient and his personal physician or principal and his bodyguard. A watcher was expected to prevent others from taking advantage of his charge the drifter whilst insensible; there had been legal disputes in the past when wills or contracts had been altered in the delirium of waking-drift. “No.” “But–” “There are oaths I must adhere to. Ether does not mark the body, but using it – in that way – marks the spirit. I will not knowingly do harm – even to someone as insufferable as you. I believe that harm to the spirit is just as damaging as harm to the flesh,” said Kaladin, his voice flat and toneless. It was a refusal, pure and simple. He disapproved, of the use, if not her desperate urgency for it. It still felt like a blow to Shallan, heavy with ringing finality. She tried for another angle. Kaladin did not respond well to brazen lies, she’d discovered, to her embarrassment. The whole episode in the carriage was an unwanted reminder of that. She did know from that instance with the aluminium forks that speaking disconcerting truths could unbalance him. “You cannot mark a spirit which carries all the marks that could possibly be borne,” she said. She could scarcely forget that her outwards appearance was none too pristine either: her hair had been a mess since the morning, and her skirts were spattered with mud that had now dried and crusted. “Ether drifting,” said Kaladin, “is still the most wretched and reprehensible of vices. Why do you want it? What did you see?” “I … had a family.” “Everyone has a–” “A family in which all the children were loved.” Kaladin paused for a moment; he bit back what he was preparing to say. Then he said: “The Duke will be all the family you need, Miss Davar.” He did not meet her eyes. She thought she saw pity in him. Was he ashamed to see her descend to this state? He had, no doubt, thought her just another pretty thing to hang on the Duke’s arm, for as long as she was still pretty enough to catch his eye. Now, perhaps, he finally saw the wretch in her that he recognised in himself. Her face was flushed – from shame or anger or something else, it was impossible for her to guess. She still felt the sting from his refusal; she wanted comfort, but she was so very very far from home and Malise was dead, and Mother was dead, and Father was dead, and the sensible part of her mind was unresponsive – it might as well have been dead too. All she had here was Kaladin and he had no kindness in him to spare – least of all for her – and she found that she could not be kind to him now. “As he is for you? Is it enough?” she spat. She felt dark triumph, which was immediately followed by regret. Too far. She wanted to use truth to unbalance him, not drive him away completely. “I …” he began. Then he rose to his feet. “We will continue this later.” The screen by the door had been slid back. Adolin stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a tea service; there were three cups and three saucers. There was a serving woman in an apron pushing a trolley to their alcove; she unloaded a large pie with flaking shortcrust, a wooden platter of sliced tenderloin that dripped pinkly in the middle, mustards and pickles and cheeses, a basket of sliced bread, and a large earthenware flagon sloshing with ale. The bottom level had their table settings. Adolin set down the tea tray. He nodded to the serving woman, who wiped her hands on her apron in acknowledgment and bustled away. Kaladin glanced around their alcove, met Adolin’s eyes and stepped away. He slid the screen closed. “Heralds,” remarked Adolin, turning over two teacups and pouring. “Can the two of you be left alone without re-enacting the plot of some absurd serial?” Shallan ran a hand over her face; it felt uncomfortably warm and there were wet spots in the corner of her eyes. Perhaps it was the pickled onions. Could pickled onions even draw tears? She did not know. But she was aware that she looked terrible, and felt terrible; she had said things that she wished she hadn’t, and shown too much of herself when she had been told – and knew for herself – that one must act a certain fashion if one wanted to attract the gentlemen. It wasn’t honest, but when were gentlemen attracted to honesty? They thought they were, but it wasn't true: the very existence of cosmetics and elaborate corsetry was proof to the otherwise. She forced a smile. “I sincerely doubt it, sir. Perhaps our chaperon needs to be chaperoned.” Adolin returned her smile, and took a sip of his tea. “It seems our Shallan has returned to herself. Are you feeling better?” “Yes, I’m not going to vomit on you. You can come closer; I promise I shan’t ruin your clothes with drool,” she said. Well, if she had given Kaladin reason to revise his impression of her from title-hunting foreigner to manic ether-wretch, there was no reason to treat Adolin similarly. He did not seem a bad man; his presence encouraged her to exaggerate the light-hearted side of her character to the point where she felt she was entirely light-hearted. Perhaps he lacked Kaladin’s acuity, but he was good-humoured through and through, and one need not play verbal racquets to enjoy his company. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.” He waved a hand in her direction; she looked down and realised that she had his fur-collared overcoat on her shoulders. “It’s only clothes, after all.” “’Only clothes’?” Shallan said, with a genuine smile. “The Kholinar Duelling Club would revoke your membership immediately if they heard that.” Adolin laughed – that delightful hearty guffaw – and slid to the edge of his seat; he took her hand. “I think you’re more important, Shallan. Even if you don’t think it’s true.” This was why she liked Adolin. He said things he felt, and they were things he truly meant. She mused on the possibility that he found her joking honesty equally attractive, even if he could not whole-heartedly approve of her reliance on sarcasm. “Hah, they were right,” she laughed. She tilted her head – something she had practiced in the mirror to Jasnah’s tutelage. “You do know how to flatter a girl.” “’They’? What do ‘They’ presume to know about me?” “They say you don’t embrace girls unless you really like them, and…” “…And?” “And you reserve your kisses for the girls that you are truly fond of.” “Well, whomever ‘They’ happen to be, they seem to know me awfully well. There are – were – very few for whom I reserve my kisses.” “Those lucky girls,” remarked Shallan dryly. She picked up her teacup and took a sip. “I am certain they are much to be envied.” “I – Damnation! – I am fond of you. There. Does it satisfy you, woman?” “Not quite,” said Shallan. She was smiling, and her ears were going red. But she liked Adolin; she liked how the red of her ears matched the flush appearing on his cheeks, how he bit his lip and looked down even as he attempted to counterfeit the suave ladies’ gentleman she saw that he could never have been. “Ah,” he said, after a while. He took a deep breath. “I see. Uh…” “Are you going to tell me that I have nice hair?” “I was going to ask if, um. If it was all right with you, and I don’t mean to be too bold or anything...” “I shall close my eyes if it helps,” said Shallan, and did so. She felt something in her chest twine itself in and out of her ribs with sheer gleeful exultation. No cagéd doves, yet. But there was some other creature inside her that stole her breath away and made her forget she even needed to breathe. She sensed Adolin draw close to her, felt the slight stir of his exhalation against her lashes, and the warmth of his body. She kept her hands in her lap, over the tartan. She didn’t want to scare him away prematurely. There was the lightest brush against the side of her mouth, where it met her cheek, then it was gone. She waited. Nothing else happened. She opened her eyes. Adolin was back in his seat, dipping a biscuit into his tea. Was that it? Was that all?! This “first kiss” wasn’t worth writing home about, let alone telling Jasnah! “If that was fondness, sir,” said Shallan, with an exasperated sigh, “I would hate to see affection.” Adolin looked up; the biscuit was in the air, en route to his mouth. “Are you mocking my, ah, technique?” Shallan reddened, and, gathering her courage, swept a lock of hair behind her ear. “No. I mean, yes. Just close your eyes, please.” She didn’t wait to see if he did. She got to her feet, rather wobbly; the tartan dropped to the floor. When she stumbled over to Adolin’s chair and all but fell into his lap, the biscuit dropped also. She threw one arm over his shoulder, and drew the other hand through his hair. It was as soft and fluffy as she’d imagined – though never expected. Then she kissed him. It was gentle and soft at first, all hesitant bumping noses, but she then pressed against him, wanting more. She wanted comfort, she wanted contact, and she took it from him all at once. It was the kiss she had wanted as her first kiss, and not some half-hearted peck of the type one shared as a child with the hall boy or scullery maid when no-one was looking. He returned her kiss with passion, and she felt the coolness of his hand against her burning cheek, and felt the smooth slide of his seal ring’s golden band, and the roughened skin of his callused palm catching on the unruly hair curling against her temple. She pulled away from him, finally – all too soon. He took a deep breath and his eyes opened. There was a smile on his face; it matched her own, just like the flushed cheeks she supposed the both of them sported. She became aware that it was not as comfortable as she had once thought, to sit on a man’s lap – she hadn’t thought knees would be quite so bony – and adjusted her position. At that, Adolin suddenly gave a strained cough and cleared his throat. He turned his head away; he did not look at her face, but pulled her close and lay his head against her shoulder with his ear on her collarbone. “I heard someone once say that ten heartbeats of a beating heart is all it takes to form a bond between two,” he said, softly. He was silent; they both were, for ten heartbeats, and then ten more. “Perhaps it’s not such a silly idea.” Shallan sighed, then gingerly got to her feet. Her legs were wobblier than before; she staggered back to her chair and sat down heavily. Adolin’s stomach grumbled with hunger. They both laughed rather loudly, and suddenly that single perfect moment was over. She did not regret that it was over, nor that it hadn't lasted forever. But something was different between them now; there was still a tension between them, a humming expectation that did not want to go unanswered. It was a different sort to the anxious hesitation that had been between them at the start of the pavilion luncheon. This sensation was strange in its raw newness, and Shallan had never felt it before, nor had Jasnah ever mentioned anything close to it – but it was not at all unpleasant. “Should we invite Kaladin back for lunch?” she asked. “That would be a good idea. Um. Excuse me,” said Adolin. He stood, adjusted his neckcloth which had been pulled askew – it didn’t help – and tugged down his waistcoat. He slid back the screen, and stepped out. Shallan took the opportunity neaten her own appearance. A minute later, Adolin returned, Kaladin following. Kaladin plucked a bread roll from the basket on the trolley, and bit into it, eyes darting from her still rumpled appearance to the tartan on the floor. Shallan flushed, then bent over and picked it up. “Oh–!” she exclaimed. “Watch your step! There’s a soggy biscuit on the floor.” Kaladin gagged, then coughed. A piece of half-chewed bread flew out of his mouth and landed next to the aforementioned biscuit. *** They had their long-delayed luncheon. It was what the proprietor of the White Boar would have called a huntsman’s lunch, or a ploughman’s, or the name of some other charmingly rustic occupation; whatever would have enchanted the romantic rural sensibilities of the inn’s patrons, who were mostly middle class Courtlea townsfolk rather than genuine labourers. The only thing the meal had in common with a real farmer’s meal, thought Shallan, as she spooned mustard next to her venison and mushrooms, was that they both contained copious amounts of bread and meat. She did not think it likely that a farmer’s noon meal had more than one type of bread and one type of meat. She and Adolin – what was the situation with their … understanding, now? They were courting, yes, more than assuredly so. She had not expected that she would be so taken with him: Jasnah had given her a brief description of her cousin’s character during their journey, and Jasnah was rarely very complimentary on the subject of men’s characters – at least those men who were currently alive and breathing. Jasnah had not mentioned the glowing red eyes or black blood of storybook monsters – she had rather more tact than that – but Shallan had been expecting the worst. And what she had gotten was, well, Adolin. Their table conversation passed by her; Kaladin kept turning the subject to one of military matters with which she was unfamiliar with – he mentioned the names of people she did not know, and locations she had never visited; he lacked the grace to introduce either of them to her knowledge. She would have felt more excluded had Adolin not occasionally paused to inquire about her opinion; they exchanged shy glances and tentative smiles over the ale flagon, and she could feel his foot tap against hers under the table now and again. It was almost like a second, unspoken conversation hidden under the first, to which Kaladin – to her great satisfaction – was not privy. It was entirely possible that he noticed hints of it, but Shallan found she could not care. Luncheon drew to a close; Adolin was the first to rise. His napkin was deposited on his plate; he took a last swig of ale. “Shall we return, then? Unless there was something anyone needed from the village while we’re still here … ? No? Kal, could you escort Shallan to the carriage? I should settle the bill with the innkeeper,” he said, plucking at the buttons of his waistcoat. He had eaten quite a lot, Shallan observed. He always seemed to eat quite a lot during his meals, and then when the next mealtime rolled around, he ate quite a lot then, too. Shallan gathered her tartan, and on second thought, folded Adolin’s overcoat over her arm. Kaladin rose from the table without a word, slid back the screen of their dining alcove, and made his way to the door, stepping pointedly around the abandoned biscuit on the floor. She hurried after him, maladroit limbs still weakly soft from the earlier … incident. “Doctor!” she called, as he pulled open the door. “Kaladin!” He did not hold it open, and it swung back into her face until she caught up the knob and pressed after him. There was an inner door and an outer door, to retain heat during winter. Such a style of building was common in the north; she had expected that it would be rarer here in southern Anglekar, but an inn or tavern with guests entering and leaving regularly would need more than one door if it aimed to conserve coal and firewood. Shallan seized Kaladin’s elbow when he had paused to unlatch the outer door. He did not turn around. “I have considered your … proposal.” “And?” “You were someone’s watcher once.” “The formulae? Of course. Three someones.” “If I were to refuse you,” he said in a low voice that could not be overheard, “you have knowledge enough to seek the drift on your own.” He did not push her arm away, and he had slowed his pace slightly – she was grateful for that. The rain had ceased for now, but the cobbled stable yard was shiny with rain water; it was littered with slick patches of horse doings churned into mud by moving carriage wheels and stepping feet. There was a queer tone in his voice. This subject seemed to draw forth memories; his last comment gave the impression that he’d had prior encounters with drifting or driftwatching. Shallan took a risk. “Whose watcher were you?” She thought she had missed the mark, but she felt the arm of his that she held twitch and pull away almost imperceptibly. He did not, however, pull away – nor did he shove her away or throw her to the ground as she was almost afraid that he might. So, she had struck the mark in this. “That’s none of your concern, Miss Davar,” he finally said. “Past experience has taught me that an immediate refusal does nothing to deter the determined. Ask in a week’s time. Perhaps by then, the Duke’s regrettable … attachment will be enough for you to reconsider.” “The Duke is a good man, but he cannot give me my family.” “He can save them from the workhouse. Do not abandon good sense in favour of false illusions.” There was coldness in his voice – no judgment, but no empathy either. It is for your own good were the unspoken words he likely wanted to say, but everyone knew such words did nothing to discourage improper behaviours. Shallan was silent as the coachman was summoned and their carriage brought around to the front of The Sign of the White Boar. The workhouse, she thought. He knows the details of my current predicament; he knows about my family. How much does he know about me? Does he know about – about Father? No – no one could know about Father. They had … taken steps to make sure, double-sure of it. It had been six months since she had left Loch Davar to seek Jasnah Kholin: not one of her brothers would have let the information leave the estate; she had given Wikim the pages of charted progressionals she’d calculated for Jushu - he could watch and ensure that Jushu stayed at home instead of going out; no one would have heard his drift-waking rambles… It had all seemed like a game – acting the Lady Shallan to Jasnah’s Countess – sunning in Kharbranth’s best hotels like dandies on their Grand Tour – meeting Adolin and living in his palace where the rooms were painted and named with different shades of blue. But it wasn’t a game, was it? – it was all for her family, for the house on Loch Davar that she had called home. Had called home. Was it still her home? It was a prison. The consequences of her actions were falling into place now, one by one. She had not really considered them; the endgame had always been in the fuzzy distance; she’d waved over them with a cursory ‘Jasnah will take care of things as she always does’. But success in saving her brothers – success that seemed all too possible now: that would mean she could never be anything more than a guest – an honoured one, of course – to her childhood home. She found she was gripping Kaladin’s arm very tightly as the coachman aligned the carriage and unfolded the steps. He did not pull away or complain. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and leaned against him, her head resting against his shoulder. She did not want him to see her crying. He had already caught her at a disadvantage twice today. “You sound just like Jasnah,” Shallan managed to choke out into the lengthening silence. There was a curious panicked sob to the end of that; she was afraid – afraid – and those yearning doves tucked beneath her ribs cringed inside her. “Miss Davar,” he said, in a surprisingly gentle tone. It did not sound like him; she was so used his being sarcastic or derisive. “You do know how to flatter a man.” Author's Notes: If I'm going to wing it from here, why not crank up the drama and have the obligatory make out scene everyone has been waiting for since chapter one? Why not throw in the love triangle that everyone hates to love and loves to hate? In this AU, Shallan is not a lightweaver and she doesn't need her soul to be reforged for anything; she also has no spren guidance. Her character development is something she has to find on her own, not because she needs to level up her oaths. This may make it look like she is more messed up than SA canon. Anglekar is the name of the country south of Scotland. It's pronounced closer to "Anglican" than "angle car". There is some good old fashioned (but still anachronistic) British boarding school humour in this chapter. :-D Subtext: "He seemed about to say something nasty" - Kaladin feels guilty about the whole incident, and is willing to let some of Shallan's rudeness slide. "They could not have done the same for her." - Shallan wanted to when Jushu offered, but she didn't because she is the one who has to look after others. Remember the scene in Part 3 when she is weirded out by a maid dressing her? This is a sign that she may not like Kaladin, but she is starting to trust him. "There are oaths I must adhere to." - the Hippocratic Oaths. Kaladin thinks oaths and promises are important and lying is bad. But in his mind he thinks "As long as it is right" when he says them. “Can the two of you be left alone without re-enacting the plot of some absurd serial?” - refers to serialised novels (middle class version of penny dreadfuls) that were common in the era. Also meta joke hahahhahahha. "It wasn’t honest, but when were gentlemen attracted to honesty?" - hint hint, Kaladin is attracted to honesty. "hall boy or scullery maid" - historical detail: the lowest ranking and usually youngest servants in a big house. “Whose watcher were you?” - SPOILERS, well not really, since it will never be revealed in-story: it's Renarin. Kaladin used it to treat the seizures and then Renarin got messed up after it just like Shallan. Shallan is still messed up all the way through this whole episode - she has impaired inhibitions and is not her normal self. “You do know how to flatter a man.” - ironic echo: compare to Shallan's conversation with Adolin. Kaladin was close by the whole time, since he's a bodyguard. In this chapter, he stops hating Shallan so much when he sees she's not just a pretty doll, since she's just as messed up as him. He sees something of Renarin and Tien in her, but is also impressed that she was driftwatcher for three people. He's disgusted and flattered at the same time that she wants him to be her watcher. He has a bunch of mixed up feelings about her now. Shallan still thinks he hates or pities her.

No one knows if she is from Iri or Rira. I don't even know what the difference is. Are they the same ethnic group in countries that broke up from a single silver kingdom? I was thinking of ways to include a drawing of Shshshsh while still following the curse of the Nightwatcher. Looks like it has to be silhouette only, or if I'm feeling cheeky, from behind or an angle where the face is out of view or in shadow. The problem is that people who don't want to show off butt or cleavage are not the type of people who go to dress up parties on Halloween. They tend to stay at home on Halloween and shake their heads in disapproval when they hear car alarms going off in the distance. If you want a modest costume, you have to be creative and make it yourself, or pay $$$ to buy from a specialty costumer. You can make a costume of a sandwich using sheets of foamboard painted white and hung on straps over your shoulders. Or you can order a Queen Guinevere costume from a LARPing site for $500. There is just not much market for boring costumes when many women look forward to wearing revealing costumes in public. This is kind of random, but how about using a makeup brand's foundation chart for skin colours? They use very poetic sounding names for their colours and brands are never consistent with each other with what they name "light"/"medium"/"tan"/"deep"/"dark"... I would put Kaladin at Bare Caramel or Honey. Filipino skin colour can be as variable as Alethi, so it's a pretty good analogy. Many upper class Filipinos are mixed with Spanish blood, from when Spain was their colonial ruler, and also Chinese blood from the Chinese merchants and bureaucrats in the old days. Filipinos, like the ones in TV dramas, can have pale Eurasian or Chinese looks, or they can look almost like the natives in South America. I always thought Adolin was the cute, clean-cut, "boy next door" type of handsome rather than the pretty model handsomeness of Alexander Ludwig. Adolin is the boy next door and Kaladin is the emo skater boy. :ph34r: With the power of Google images stock photos and the magic of Photoshop, I bring you young Adolin!!! (I couldn't find many good stock photos that also happened to be watermark free, so here is what I imagine to be kid Adolin at 16. You can't find such a mix of ethnic traits + handsome in one person unless you are compounding chromium or have a really good plastic surgeon. Blond hair and blue eyes with Asian-like eyes can be found in Russia or northern Finland but they are way paler than Canadians. It kinda came off as bragging when I read it. If she's not bragging, she's still knowingly flaunting the Codes by hooking up with her brother in law. But yeah it does make it unambiguous that they have done the dirty off-screen. Adolin just wants a mum. I don't think anyone but Dalinar knows about the curse so it's weird to him that no one ever talks about Shshshsh, like she never even existed. Maybe he talks to Renarin about her. For wedding dresses or any dresses with flared hips, they usually don't make you take off your pants, just your top. Strapless dresses tend to need perfect fitting to stay on, and since people are planning to wear bras under their dresses, they measure the bust-line over the bra. If there is a sample gown, then you may not need to strip to undies, because they'll just use the sample size as reference and mark from there. And of course, anything with a laced up back means it's adjustable, so perfect fit doesn't have to matter that much. I had a few things made to measure and got stuff tailored for the handful of black tie events I've attended so seeing how it's done is always interesting. Shallan might prefer the bridgeman uniform over the current Bridge Four one. :ph34r: She draws the shirtless sailors on the ship. The bridgemen wear shorts and vests which is way more skin than proper Vorins show. I got excited when I remembered the sketch page with the forehead tattoos, then I went back and saw it was Nazh who drew it instead of Shallan. Would Shallan really snoop in Adolin's room? He doesn't do sneaky things like Amaram so there's no justification other than nosiness. Would she take a pair of his undies because he has 40 of them and he wouldn't miss one if it disappeared? :lol: In anime, there is a type of female perv character who gets nosebleeds when something she sees something sexy. I do not like huge Kholin glyphpairs which are canonically described to be on the front and back of Kholin army officer coat. It's so...vulgar, blahhhh. Like gigantic annoying brand logos on modern Earth sports team jerseys. The team colours should be enough to identify which team you are on, so Kholin blue should be enough to identify a Kholin soldier. That is probably why fan-artists rarely draw the glyphpairs. I only put it on the back of the waistcoat, which is covered up. Earth armies in WWI had uniform pyjamas, it's part of having a modern military, instead of soldiers having to buy their own uniforms or not wearing uniforms at all. And Dalinar's Codes say that a soldier has to be prepared at all times, so he has to be ready to jump into action even while he's asleep. Adolin's PJ's are probably nicer fabric than the common soldiers who get theirs made from Soulcast cotton-equivalent. :ph34r:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 9

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 8

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TEN Shallan was filling in the last details of her drawing now; she roughly sketched the stones that bordered the lead frame which held the glass panes of the window. Shading now. She turned to her pencil box, picking through the double layered compartment for the string wrapped lead-clay pencil stick, when she saw that she was not as alone as she had thought. There was a person in the back, sitting on the pew three rows away from the door. She did not turn her head around; staring was unseemly and perhaps it was merely some village man who wanted a spot of quiet out of the rain. She dug through the wooden pencil box, sifting through nubs of chalk that really ought to be thrown out once they had become too small to comfortably hold; she peeked sideways through a veil of hair. It was a man: he was sitting; he was head and shoulders above the end of the backrest. Was that –? The man had hair that hung loose to his shoulders – not tied in a tail. An umbrella leaned against the bench seat of the pew, its handle presented vertically. A man with an umbrella would not need to enter a church to avoid being rain-soaked. Of course it was Kaladin. There were, and there would always be people in the world who appeared when you least expected them. They were such people as an inquisitive widowed neighbour who would mysteriously happen to be in the area when she saw a stranger’s coach in your drive, or a delivery boy from the village who brought up a side of ham that had been forgotten from the butcher’s cart earlier that morning. There would also be those persons whose appearance and presence you least wanted, and would go to some trouble to avoid. On very rare occasions, there would be an intersection of the groups; one was usually lucky enough to encounter only one or two such people in his or her lifetime. Kaladin, naturally, found his way with unsurprising ease into that lattermost category – to Shallan’s dismay. She finished her drawing and closed the sketchbook with a snap. The chalks went back into the box, the lid was slid into its groove and the band around it was secured. Both the box and the book were stuffed into the satchel atop the envelope of maps. Shallan rose. Kaladin did not raise his bowed head until Shallan’s shadow fell over him. He sighed a great heaving sigh of long sufferance and opened his eyes. “What are you doing here?” Shallan demanded. “I came for presumably the same reason why you are here. To pray,” he said. He straightened from his bowed posture, then leaned back against the pew; he lay his arm against the top of the backrest and cocked his head. His eyes swept across her impudently, almost as if he were daring her to contradict him. “What have you to pray for, pray tell?” “Why should I not be allowed to pray?” “If you do indeed have a soul – its existence is quite contrary to my expectations, of course – I am absolutely certain that the Almighty will be hard-pressed to find it, let alone want it. If it can be found at all.” Kaladin’s dark brows drew together, his lips pressed together thinly. “My soul’s existence is irrelevant; I am here to pray for my brother’s.” “The Almighty,” Shallan said, “is not a relay service for those too frugal to hire a courier. You ought to inform him to pray for his own.” He stared into her eyes. They were not angry eyes, as Shallan had thought when she had seen them for the first time. They contained emotion that did not show on his face, but it was not anger – it was something else, darker than that. Perhaps there was a jaded spirit in there that had once been broken into pieces, then reformed out of sheer dogged spite and the single-minded regret of leaving affairs unfinished. That was not impossible: Shallan had seen shades of this in the looking glass before. She was not afraid of it. She did not look away. He was not her father. “The Almighty is the only messenger I have. My brother is dead.” There was a silence. It was an awkward, desperate silence, and Shallan’s immediate instinct was to draw on levity, which she ignored with some difficulty. Because in that slow and spreading silence, she recognised something in him that was bitterly familiar to her, and for this one odd moment, she felt a pang of … empathy. The last time she had found in other persons such mutual sentiment was the day she had left Loch Davar. “I...,” she said slowly, not wanting to get it wrong. How was it that she could easily find words to say when her intention was to say something that meant nothing, and yet now she struggled for words to describe something that was plain and unadorned truth? “I am sorry. Truly. If it means anything, I wanted to pray for my own brother; he has been missing and presumed dead for near two years now.” “It doesn’t,” said Kaladin shortly. “Are you quite finished here?” “Yes.” “I am to collect you for the village, then. The carriage is waiting.” He rose to his feet and picked up his umbrella. He towered over her, a little more than a full head taller, and Shallan could see a few stray unshaven hairs on the underside of his jaw. He left the nave, his legs taking long strides that Shallan could not match. He did not wait for her. Upon Shallan’s reaching the vestibule, she saw the front door of the church swing shut. Kaladin, that insufferable creature, had not waited to hold the door open as any gentleman ought. He had not even offered to share the umbrella. Storming Kaladin, storming Jasnah… Grumbling, Shallan pulled the tartan shawl up over her shoulders and draped it over her head as a makeshift hood. Wearing one’s tartan shawl or kilt over the head was a highland tradition, and had been common until umbrellas had stopped being rare. A tartan kept one warm in wet winters – the thick wool held heat marvellously when one layered their clothing just so – but it did not do much, unfortunately, against the prospect of getting wet. She held the pouch of the satchel in her arms and wrapped the ends of tartan around it. Then she pulled the door open with a heave and stepped into the damp and misted air of Courtlea. It was past noon, she thought, scanning the sky. It was still raining; water trickled off the eaves of the veranda and puddled into the smallest dips in the path, turning shallow ruts into glassy lines of reflected grey-white. It would have been more beautiful, thought Shallan, through a window. The blue-painted carriage was ten yards away, the matched pair jerking at the reins in their impatience to return to their stable. She took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and ran for it. It was a good idea that she had worn her heavy walking boots. She had tried to skirt the deepest puddles, but the ground was wet and sometimes a puddle was better trod through – better than attempting a running start on a muddy path in order to leap it: she would rather not slip in the mud in front of Kaladin, nor would it do to have Adolin see her covered head to toe in mud for luncheon. She made it to the carriage; she scrabbled at the door for a second; her clumsy wool wrapped fingers found the handle and pulled the door open. She threw herself into the seat and, reaching out, slammed the door closed. The carriage started moving immediately. Shallan sighed in relief and realised she was sharing the same padded seat as Kaladin. In fact, she had thrown herself in so vigorously that she was now pressed against him; he was studying the roof above his head with the strained tolerance of silent aggravation. She cleared her throat and untucked her shawl with cold fingers. The satchel was safe and dry now; she slid to the opposite end of the seat and placed the satchel between them to prevent any more accidental contact. That was when she noticed the smell. It was a smell that wafted upwards. She hadn’t noticed it when the door had been opened; now it was closed and there was nowhere for it to go in the closed cabin. It spread through the carriage with distressing familiarity – she thought she knew what it was, to her great consternation. “What is that Heralds-cursed smell?” she asked. She needed to be certain. “Ether,” replied Kaladin after a while. “I bought a few bottles in the village; it makes a useful analgesic.” “The vapours are awfully strong – my nostrils are being singed just breathing it.” “The stoppers are poorly moulded. I plan to decant them into better bottles when we return to the House.” “Of course.” Shallan turned away to the window. The glass was starting to fog with the warmth of their breath; water condensed in beaded droplets on the edges of the window frame. She drew a hand across the glass and saw misted fields and paddock and the occasional building; trees in the near distance were wreathed in white. Well, it did not seem likely she would find much worthwhile conversation with Kaladin, and the view from the window was of no particular interest. She unbuckled the strap on her satchel and with some difficulty, tugged out her sketchbook. It was packed tightly in with the thick envelope she had gotten from Brother Kadash earlier; she had considered getting a larger bag whilst in Kharbranth with Jasnah, but there was only so large one could go before a bag became uncomfortably unwieldy – it rather negated the convenience of being able to carry more in the first place. The carriage, as it was during the ride from the House, was becoming warm now; it was drying the damp tartan across her shoulders, but that was making the uncomfortable humidity worse. Shallan opened the sketchbook and read through her notes. She had copied the wall inscription under the stained glass window, and written her thoughts about it. Who was the Stormfather? She had seen it written in some books of folk legends and collected bards’ tales; Jasnah had gathered sources from a variety of examples of pre-Vorin cultural history; she thought it relevant for their research. But, now, for some reason, her mind was moving more sluggishly than normal. Thoughts seemed to flow from one to the next like treacle, when normally links of association flashed by at an instant for her; it was most perplexing. Why was it happening? Wait… It was the ether. Shallan knew that smell, the singeing nostrils, and the hairs inside feeling as if they were shriveling up like the earthworms and snails Balat played with in the garden when he thought they weren’t looking. She closed her eyes, breathing and remembering. Ether was originally something privileged young men used for amusement in their parlours – the ether brought on peculiar trances and dreams to some, on some others it brought simple unconsciousness. What it had in common for everyone who used it was that it took people away from who they were. It was amusing for these dandies to watch each other in turn take a light dosage and lapse into making a series of bizarre faces; sometimes they spoke in tongues. That was probably where Jushu had found out about it. Eventually, the production of it became more efficient and the prices for ether fell – now those of lower class and lesser means could afford to experiment with it, and they did so. Larger doses of inhaled vapours were found to make the dreaming unconsciousness last longer; as did drinking the distilled liquid. The first time Jushu had bought ether for himself, he hid it from them and used it in his own room, alone. That was not what one did: even the carefree dandies were not so careless as to frolic alone. Jushu did not show up for dinner that evening – Father had sent a maid to knock on his door but he did not come down. They had dinner without him. Shallan had gone up to his room afterwards, and found that the door handle would not turn: he had placed a chair under it to hold it closed, and there was no response from inside to her crying and beating her fists and begging him to open it and to come out. She had called for Wikim, who removed the door hinges and together they found him dreaming those unnatural ether dreams on the floor, a blanket over his head. Under the blanket they found a dampened kerchief pressed over his nose and mouth, from which arose that recognisable burning scent of ether fumes. They were holding his hands when he awoke. She had asked him why he did it and he told them that was what people did when they found their lives painfully tiresome. Shallan understood; she understood all too well, and she had made Jushu promise never to do it alone, and never outside the safety of the house. Over the following months, Balat had taken Jushu up on his offer to drift with him; they did it together a few times, and with Wikim once. Shallan had refused each time. Jushu stopped offering. So it was always Shallan who sat on the chair by the bed; Jushu had stopped using it to prop the door closed. Shallan was the one who set and watched the hourglass and changed the kerchiefs from the high starting dosage to induce immediate sleep, to progressively smaller doses of ether mixed with water to draw out the dreams and wake him gradually. Once she had learned how the doses worked, and Jushu trusted the surety of her hands to measure it right each time, she began lowering the doses without telling him, and reading to him while he was in drift. She supposed it worked; he asked for ether less frequently and asked to be read to more. But the smell of ether was something she would never forget. …It reminded her of home. Was that so terrible to admit? It was a comfort to her, a perverse comfort to be sure, but when she placed the kerchief over Jushu’s nose, or Balat’s, she was bringing them a temporary peace. It was the short-lived satisfaction of worrying an itching scab and risking a scar, but Shallan had very little with which to help her dear brothers; ether was one of the few things that took them away from who and where they were, without hurting anyone in the process. It brought no happiness – but it could at least manage gratification. Her thoughts slowed. If it had been treacle before, now it was … frozen treacle? She could not think of any droll metaphor at the moment, how very unusual. Was this what ether drifting felt like? The sketchbook fell out of her hands. Her body felt monumentally heavy – as if fatigue were weighing down flesh and bone alike, fatigue reaching down to her very soul; it took more effort than she could summon to twitch a finger. She leaned back and back and back. There was warmth; she felt the scratch of wool against her face; she pressed against it. It was wool, wool like a tartan, beautiful beautiful tartans – green and yellow and white and black – McValam tartans all in a row … a row of tartans like the day her father married Malise and they thought she could replace Mother in his mind and make him all better, and everything would return to how it used to be. And he did get better, and Malise had a baby, and Shallan had a wonderful baby sister with blue eyes and red hair and a pretty toothless smile, and a wonderful family who loved her as they loved each other… *** The carriage door opened; cold damp air swept the ether vapours out of the warm closeness of the cabin’s interior. But Shallan still had ether vapours inside of her, where they couldn’t be reached – where she didn’t want them to be reached; she was still clinging, shamefully and desperately, clinging to the drift. “–Shallan, Kal, there you are! I am perfectly famished; one might reasonably think it would take less than forty-nine years to sign a forty-nine year contract, but it was a close thing–“ Shallan opened her eyes at the beautiful voice of the beautiful young man whose hair looked like a bee’s bottom – yes, that’s what it looked like – who stood at the open door. She, through bleary eyes, saw Kaladin with her sketchbook guiltily open in his lap, open to her – lovingly detailed, she could say it now without second thought, how very strange – portrait of him. She found that she was pressed against him, slumped on the cushioned seat too, but mostly against him. She was leaning heavily on his shoulder, her face on the wool of his coat. There was a line of wet drool down the coat’s shoulder and drool growing cool on her cheek. The beautiful Duke said, smiling: “My heavens – it looks like you two have had rather an eventful morning!” His eyes darted from Kaladin to her and back. Kaladin cleared his throat and slowly closed the sketchbook. He put it down on the empty seat opposite him. “Shallan here had promised earlier to show me her etchings,” he said. “Shallan?” “Nuuuuuughhh,” was all she could say. That was witty and clever, wasn’t it? She nuzzled his shoulder. It hardly mattered that she was smearing drool over her face and his coat. Author's Notes: Whew, that chapter was pretty dark. I'm pretty curious to know if you got the sads or cried at any point. I was testing to see how dysfunctional I could make the Davars while still keeping them kinda sympathetic. Let me know how it worked. This is where my prepared scripts end. IS THIS THE END FOR REALS? Or do I just wing it from here, lol. Backstory: (since it will never be explained directly) Tien and Heleran both died in Ireland. Heleran was part of a guerilla group that set mines and blew things up. Tien lied about his age to enlist and when Kaladin found out he sent letters to the army but they replied with canned "There's nothing we can do" responses. Kaladin joined as a medic as soon as he finished school in Kharbranth and looked for Tien, who had travelled to a different town to sign under a fake name. Tien's noob unit was sent as cannon fodder to recon a dangerzone area and he was killed because the officers didn't want to waste trained veterans as mine scouters. Kaladin went crazy for a while afterwards and became a guerilla hunter volunteering on risky missions, where he eventually killed Heleran and saved the Kholins. Ether was discovered in the late 1700's and was used for surgery in the 1800's, and then people found out how useful it was at making you feel weird when you breathed a little of it at a time, or drank it. In the 1830's "ether frolic" parties were popular. In this AU, I refer to gentlemen using low doses for party entertainment as a "frolic", like people do with helium balloons today. People using higher doses I call "drifting" in this story. Shallan drifts on ether but Kaladin doesn't. She is smaller physically, and closer to the floor - the bottles were stored under the seat. Kaladin is used to the vapours and Shallan hasn't had anything to do with it for at least a year. When she was pouring for Jushu she made sure that everything was well-ventilated so she had no idea why it was happening in the carriage. She was breathing in the smell and thought that everything would be fine since she didn't have a rag on her nose ... anyways, don't try it at home, kids. Did Kaladin know what would happen beforehand? He probably considered it, but cared more about getting some painkillers than Shallan's welfare. And yes, he looked at the other pictures and read the notes in her sketchbook. "Show me her etchings" - 1890's line originally, but it works here. It originally referred to a man inviting a woman to listen to his gramophone, look at his Japanese calligraphy, or view his etchings, or watch his Netflix. Kaladin likes to snark too.

Trust me, Part 10 (already written) is way way darker. I felt bad writing it.

Gavilar and Elhokar have green eyes, and Iriali have yellow eyes and metallic hair. I think the Iriali also painted their skin in strange designs. If Dalinar had a painted portrait of him and Shshshshsh, would his mind blank out her face? I think it's just the same 3 or 4 people who followed the thread who read this. Most sensible people who see posts with walls of :ph34r: :ph34r: :ph34r: :ph34r: :ph34r: are smart enough to skip them, because they're not story. Minimal clothing means less chafing. The last time I went to a costume/party supplies shop....I think the women's section was 80% questionably family friendly costumes. Then 15% ugly frumpy costumes, like "vampire queen" or "evil witch" which were ugly mop wigs and "one size fits most" dresses that looked like polyester sacks with elasticated waists. The last 5% were decent costumes like basic pirate vest and props, or '50s poodle skirt girl. They were usually out of stock. Next time, plan months ahead? When I go to renfaires, I wear a traditional Ukrainian folk peasant costume that took me several months of crawling eBay and Etsy to find. If Brandon came to my city, I would wear it and he would probably think I tried and failed doing a Terris costume. Is Kaladin "tan" or "tanned"? Tanned would imply he has a natural skintone that would be lighter if he stayed indoors. Too bad that the best way to see what a man's natural skintone is usually by looking around his "other" areas. :ph34r: Many East Asians (Chinese, Korean, Japanese) can be pretty pale. If I got paint chips and compared skintones, an East Asian would probably be as light as, say, someone from Switzerland. In painting, the amount of lightness, or amount of reflected white relative to black is called "value", which would be similar. But the "hue", or where a colour is on the colour wheel, would be different. East Asians are golden-yellowish while white people are pink. Unless you are counting minority Chinese ethnicities from southern China or the Mongolian border, I think Kaladin would be too dark for East Asian. I draw him as closer to Vietnamese/Filipino. Who did you picture for Adolin? On my first reading, before I looked up WoBs that said Alethi had Asian-like eyes, I pictured these actors: And yes I know now they are way too white. You can get sweaty in 5 minutes if you only took off your pants while keeping your shirt and coat on. :ph34r: And if you are trying to get it done in under 10 minutes, getting out of breath is normal. I still think it's ambiguous if they just had a touchy feely make-out sess or not. But I don't doubt they did take care of business off-screen earlier in the book. Navani tells Dalinar "I need you" in an earlier chapter and then later on brags to Adolin about seducing him. What else can seduction mean??? Well, all Adolin has to do is go out to a battle and since he doesn't know how to take care of business himself, the first time he needs to #1 during a time-out, his armourers have to unzip him. He either lets another man pull his undies down or he pees himself. Zahel is the kind of guy who would let a stubborn student try and fail and give up before they come to him and beg his forgiveness. Like Kaladin knocking on his door at night after he fought Szeth. He doesn't throw kids into the mud, he waits and watches while kids fall into the mud themselves. It depends on what you are being measured for. If it's an item of clothing that is directly on your skin, like a dress shirt or dress, you need to strip to your undies (or bra for women). Pants are easier since they're just tubes, but if you want them very tight, like riding pants, you still have to strip. Once a tailor has your measurements, he can use them for all your made-to-measure clothes unless you are growing taller or working out a lot. But if you want alterations of existing clothes, you have to strip again so the tailor can pin and mark for new seams. I doubt Adolin the fashionista settles for military-issue one sizes fits most. And I am surprised that Kaladin's uniform fits and isn't too short in the sleeves/wrist because he is taller than average. Maybe he just doesn't notice/care. ...for reasons? What is Shallan even doing in Adolin's room? I imagined that they had army uniform pyjamas that looked like the Bananas in Pyjamas, white with stripes in Kholin blue. Since they are modern and stuff, and nightgowns are considered old-fashioned in-universe. But Bridge Four sleeps in just the pants or the shirt with their loincloths underneath because pyjamas feel weird and fancy for slaves. Adolin's PJ's have a Kholin glyphpair shield on the front pocket and there's a matching Kholin blue dressing robe. If only Szeth could have busted through the wall while everyone was asleep, and then we'd have Kaladin in uniform fighting in trident position with nightgown Dalinar and dressing robe Adolin. :ph34r: :ph34r:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 7

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART NINE The interior of the church was dim and cool, and surprisingly dry. The door entered into a vestibule with rush mats on the floors for visitors to wipe their feet; by the right-hand wall there was a cloakroom area with coat hooks in rows by the wall, an umbrella stand, and a metal boot grate. There were old-fashioned iron torch sconces set into the stone of the wall, but no torches; polished tin chimney lamps hung from them by their handles to give off a steady yellow light. There was a second door that opened into the nave. Shallan drew the fold of tartan off her head respectfully as she stepped into the main body of the church – it arched overhead in a row of pointed vaults; she almost felt as if she had been swallowed by a great beast of monstrous proportions: the grey-white stone eerily resembled the curving parallels of the whales’ ribs that she had seen displayed at Middlefests in her youth. She walked hesitantly through the empty church, passing rows of pews. She was nervous, unprepared to explain away her presence if confronted, and her mind jittered into tangents. Whales’ ribs … she had used whale oil to fill the lamps of home when she sketched at night. It had a strange and unpleasant smell compared to the more neutral naphtha that the Kholins used, but it was much cheaper: whaling was good business in Scotland; many a Scottish man who found that a living could not be earned by the plough took to the sea in hard times … Jushu had once almost been crimped by a crooked boarding master after a number of imprudent wagers… She had reached the end of the church. There was an altar ahead, a towering window of stained glass set in a leaden frame lay behind it; she presumed that when an Ardent led the village prayers, the window would illuminate him with Almighty’s Grace and Light. The window depicted the Almighty in His aspect of benevolence; His hands were open in a pose of benediction. There was a small door by the side of the altar: this must be where the Ardents entered and exited for the service, and led to the private wing containing their personal cells and communal refectory. She pulled the ring handle on the door. It was not locked. Well, the Ardents lived on the patronage of the Duke, and she, with her attachments to both Jasnah and Adolin, could be arguably recognised as a Kholin by association. So it was not so odd for her to poke around this church, when she might very well become its lady benefactress one day. With this thought in mind, she straightened her shoulders as she had been taught from the many painful lessons of Madame Tyn’s, and strode through, head held high. Project confidence. If this will be yours one day, you must act like it is already. And when it is truly yours, then they will never be able to take it away. The inner corridor was silent; she heard the shushing movement of slippered feet somewhere in the distance but this hallway was empty. There were two doors at the end of the hallway. One was sturdy with iron crossbars over the wood and a rush mat on the floor in front; the other was of simple wood with a brass nameplate. The door opened, and a young man with the shaved head and square beard of the Ardentry stepped out. He stopped short at seeing Shallan, whose red hair made unruly by the damp marked her as definitely not a Sister of any Order. “Miss,” he said firmly but politely, “Requests for Elevations and personal guidance should be made through the office around the side. This area is for staff only. There is the exit if you are lost.” He gestured pointedly to the crossbarred door on the left. “I am come from the House – a personal guest, if you will,” said Shallan, with as much cold authority as she could muster. She was trying to imagine Jasnah in her place – Jasnah would not meekly go where she was told if she wanted otherwise. “I do not seek personal guidance. I seek legal counsel, of a private nature.” The Ardent looked her up and down. He was tall, with blue eyes and a straight nose set on an evenly-featured face. Shallan had always thought that it was men and women with no other recourse who took to the Order; all one had to do was read from a book once a week in front of an audience and listen to prayers now and then, and one was guaranteed food and lodging by a patron for the rest of their life. It was not a life of luxury – unless one managed to find the rare and sought-after patron who was pious, wealthy, and generous. But it was a life better than others if one could not plough soil or waves; Shallan had seen a number of returned soldiers and cripples among the Ardentry back home. This Ardent glanced at her blue silk dress, slightly rain-spotted, with its whimsically patterned silk-floss embroidery; the hem of her lower petticoats thankfully covered her walking boots. He took in her straight-backed posture and the hands she had clasped demurely in front of her: they were soft and pale hands, freckled over the back, but lacking the imperfections of red blotchy chapping and healed burn scars of any woman who had ever in her life washed laundry or cooked a meal. He seemed to accept her word - or was not inclined to quarrel - for he knocked on the door with the nameplate. Two sharp raps were followed by his saying loudly: “Brother Kadash, there’s a Lady from the House to see you.” After a minute, she heard a scraping sound from behind the door, then it opened, and a stern looking man with a shaved head peeped out. “What’s this about a Lady?” Shallan gave a shallow curtsey of respect. Ardents were not formally on the social ranking at all; you were supposed to ignore their past status and treat them as equals, as they were the Almighty’s secular representatives, and the Almighty was beyond such mundanities. But this man was the head Ardent: he held second-hand power, but plenty of it – and it paid to be cautious with those who could make much trouble even if they could not directly touch you. “There is a legal matter I should like to discuss in private,” she said, looking him in the eye. Eye contact was important. She did not glance to the side to observe the younger Ardent’s reaction. “Then come in, please, Miss,” said Brother Kadash. He opened the door for her, waved his hand at the seat in front of his desk, and the door was closed. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Jasnah analysed situations and deduced the best plan; Madame Tyn relied on variety – she had a catalogue of responses prepared for anything. Shallan had always wanted to emulate both but had the skills and experience of neither. She would have to think quickly, then. Her eyes opened as Brother Kadash found his seat and placed his hands, fingers twined lattice-like, on the desk. “You wanted to speak of matters legal and private?” he asked. “Yes. Um,” said Shallan, thinking furiously. “I am Scottish, you see, and I have pledged my allegiance to a Clan Chief – ah, Duke, I think, in Anglethi equivalence.” “…And?” Brother Kadash smiled benignly. “If you are looking for an expert in Scottish law, perhaps an Anglethi village church will be less useful to you than a hired solicitor in the City. If you come from the House, you will of course have the means available to do so.” Shallan reddened – he was subtly implying that she wasting his time – and tried to control the trembling of her shaking hands; she straightened the drape of the tartan shawl on her shoulders. “I was rather inquiring how an allegiance to one Duke would stand in the event of a marriage to another. One surely cannot have two lords and two House loyalties, can they?” “Ah,” said Kadash with a knowing smile. “A Lady from the House indeed, then. To answer your question: allegiances are divided and defined during the writing of the marriage contract. Usually one person – in most cases, the bride – relinquishes her loyalties and joins her husband’s House. But in the case where the partners are both high in precedence in their respective Houses, there may be an exception made for a dual allegiance - for the purpose of a military alliance or a claim on the union’s children in favour of either House upon their majority. But that is for high-profile marriages worked out on a case-by-case basis by the Ardents in the City court – not my jurisdiction at all. Did that answer your question, my lady?” … Joins her husband’s house… She pulled the tartan closer, twisting the ends of it in her lap. She felt anxious now; she could not name the exact reason for it, but her breath felt like it was drawn spiralling downwards with leaden unease. The tartan smelled faintly of lavender … Malise, her step-mother... “How can a marriage contract be broken?” she suddenly asked. She regretted the question almost immediately: it was too private – one should only ask such from their own privately hired solicitor, preferably a retainer who was sworn to their confidence – and never an Ardent who was beholden to his own patron. “Marriage contracts were not made to be broken.” His reply was firm and neutral; she could not tell if he disapproved or not. “Exceptions can always be found,” said Shallan. She kept her own voice suitably indifferent. “For high-profile marriages, there is usually leverage enough to include specific terms that would nullify a contract if they are not fulfilled. We do not approve of secular considerations in nullifying marriage, but,” he sniffed, “the Ardentry must be pragmatic. Annulments can be granted upon proof of treason, barrenness, infidelity, or inability to provide minimum maintenance. But only if the original contract stipulated a ‘good conduct’ clause. Will that be all, my lady?” Treason, she thought. Oh, Malise, we were too late for you… “There is one other thing,” Shallan said. The whole reason for the visit, which she had forgotten about until now. “When was this church built? I know many churches were built from the stones of more primitive temples of worship, either on the same site or moved to be closer to a village. Was it the case for this one?” Brother Kadash’s twined fingers untwined themselves, his fingers tapped the desktop in surprise. “That is a somewhat unexpected deviation, my lady.” “Cultural and historic matters interest me. I wholeheartedly support the preservation of sites of … local importance.” She met his eyes and inclined her head in a meaningful way. “Ah, yes,” said Brother Kadash, and a genuine smile flitted across his face. “Such matters deserve attention. Ahem. Of course. This church was built when Nodadon II … or was it IV? I am not quite sure actually – built Kholinar Court as a country hunting lodge away from the City. The village was established to support the House and grounds, so it was decided that there must be a church for the use of the villagers and the House residents. That is why we are on the very edge of Courtlea.” “So there was no original pre-Vorin temple?” She hoped she did not appear too insistent. Jasnah had told her to conduct inquiries without raising interest; the organisations who had assassinated her father the King were likely interested in the same information. Brother Kadash frowned. “Not this site, no. This church was built new as the House was. It is definitely a Vorin church by its architecture – no re-dedicated temples would be fit for a King, you see. But…” “…Yes?” “There may have been some primitive structures in the area, used before and during the construction of the House – when this area was just woodland with isolated crofts. In fact, their location may be reported in maps from a survey fifty years ago. We haven’t any newer surveys than that, I’m afraid: the woodlands around the House estates are a game park reserved for the Duke’s disposal. The current Duke is not interested in hunting and the previous one was always too busy for such diversions.” “Those maps would be wonderfully useful,” Shallan said, delighted. “Would it be possible to borrow a copy of the surveys? They will be returned in a timely manner, I promise – I will have a copy made immediately.” “It would please me to treat a generous lady such as yourself with generosity, my lady,” said Kadash. His eyebrows drew up and down suggestively. Blessed Heralds, he lays it on thick, thought Shallan. “Such generosity will not go forgotten.” “Then I shall send a Brother to fetch them for you. Just a moment,” he said, as he stood and tugged at a rope to the right of his desk. It bounced up and down on a pulley system built into wall for a few moments, then stilled. A minute later, there was a knock at the door. Kadash went to open it; Shallan heard a whispered conversation and then there were retreating footsteps. He returned to his desk and sat down. “You and our good Duke, then…?” said Brother Kadash, casting for a response to fill the silence. A light-handed interrogation, then; Shallan was used to this sort of “conversation” from Jasnah, who was always eager for information but never liked to look less than informed. “We have an … understanding. No contracts have been drawn as yet, hence the questions. Thank you for that, it may prove invaluable,” said Shallan, smiling at him and tucking of stray strand of hair behind her hear. “I am a personal guest at the House currently; if there are any more papers you find relevant to my line of investigation, they would be greatly appreciated if sent on.” Kadash looked amused. “A personal guest, hah, the others never got that far–“ There came a knock, and the door opened. The young Ardent again, with a thick envelope closed with strings tucked under one arm. He looked at Brother Kadash and then at Shallan, and his eyes narrowed. “I have the maps,” said the Ardent. He approached the desk and offered them to Brother Kadash. “For the lady, Kabsal,” directed Kadash. The young Ardent looked at Shallan, and hesitated. She thought he was going to run; she had seen fear and hesitation like that in a young man’s eyes before, once… He offered the maps to Shallan; she took them before he could change his mind. She stood. “Thank you, Brother Kadash, Brother Kabsal. You have been most helpful today; I am pleased to make your acquaintance, truly. These maps will be returned safe and sound, have no worry.” Shallan nodded to them, and slipped the envelope into her satchel, doing up the side buckle. It barely fit. “A church is the centre of the village … well, not this village, perhaps – but a fine one like this ought not be neglected. Good day, gentlemen, I must take my leave.” She curtsied, they inclined their heads respectfully to her – Ardents were not expected to bow in court fashion. Kabsal held the door open and followed her into the hallway. “You must go around the side entrance to the office when you call on Brother Kadash, Lady,” he said, as he opened the door leading to the nave. “Those found wandering where they are unwanted are … unwelcome.” “Thank you. I shall make a note of it,” Shallan replied noncommittally. She stepped through, and the door closed behind her with a heavy thunk. She thought she heard the grating sound of bolts sliding home. What a strange man – it was almost like he did not want her to have the maps, and was irritated that she had managed to get them. The nave of the church was still empty. It was too large to be lit by chimney lamps except when an Ardent was leading the weekly prayer – when the Family was represented and the village was in attendance. There were two lamps on either side of the altar. Most of the light came from the stained glass window: soft and grey light that was diffused by the soft grey rainclouds outside, then filtered through the window design; it was fashioned of alternating panes of clear and opaque glass. She stepped up to the altar and inspected the base of the window: the very bottom frame of it started at head height, and there was an inscription carved in an antiquated script into the row of stones below – it was hard to read and half of it had been eroded into illegibility. “Perpetual … something… Tanavast bestowed Jezerezeh with his … honour and wisdom? Dignity and gravity combined something something Stormfather; may the light of his grace stand solid against the … something,” she read. She pulled out her sketchbook and wrote it down, then sat down on the front pew closest to the altar; she opened her pencil box and started copying the design of the window. To see the top of it, she had to crane her head so far that the back of it touched the backrest of the pew. It was peaceful in the church, silent and still with the occasional hush-hushing of draughts along the rows of half-lit pews. The high arched vaults of the stone beast’s stomach did not seem so oppressive now to Shallan, whose mood had vastly improved after completing her task with triumph. She sketched peacefully, relaxing into a pleasant art-induced reverie while she shaped and shaded the many stained glass panels in white chalk and grey charcoal. All alone – just her and the Almighty in an empty hall that seemed now a great protector rather than monster: it held her safe against the cold rain and cold people of the outside world. Author’s Notes: This is exposition and no romance. Sorry guys. I felt like the research needed to mean something if Shallan wanted to be anything more than a generic female romance protag. The history of whaling in Scotland is pretty period accurate here. Sailing was a tough job and sailors often jumped ship when they hit port. For ships to have enough men to sail and whale, there were people who would kidnap, or "press gang" men into service. Once they beat you up and stole your clothes and wallet, and you woke up on a ship, there was no proof that you had rich parents. I thought it was a realistic way to explain a noble boy being enslaved. “Any woman who had ever in her life washed laundry or cooked a meal.” – working women washed with lye soap and used metal boxes with fire inside to cook their food. By the time a woman reached marriage age, you could probably tell what class she was just by looking at her skin. Ardents in the real SA wrote and approved betrothal and marriage contracts. However, in this AU, secular lawyers also exist. Vorin churches look like Gothic churches to fit the setting. Shallan is too nearsighted to realise that a proof of treason would have saved Malise but ruined the Davar children. The Loch Davar estate would have gone to Elhokar as forfeit. It is possible that Malise knew and refused to turn in Lin Davar funding rebels for this reason. Shallan will tolerate Adolin’s wandering eye just in case she needs to use “infidelity” as a reason to annul a marriage. Yes, Kabsal is interested in the information that Shallan is after. He is not very nice on first impression, because in this AU Shallan is too interested in Adolin for a hot priest to attract her. And really, why make it a love square when Kaladin has already taken the role of "boy with secrets".

Renarin's eyes are either blue or yellow, or if grandparents' genetics matter, green. Is it really such RAFO material? I'm leaning towards blue or green; if it were yellow I think it would be noticeable enough that Kaladin would mention it, because I think Laral had yellow eyes too. No one will make the connection between you and the crazy clown lady. There are only a handful of people following this thread so you should be fine as long as you don't post it elsewhere. Maybe I just want to see a random clown in the background of Brandon signing photos.... Well, yeah, most East Asians don't grow as much hair as white people. It's rare to see an East Asian guy who can grow a full beard at 20; most can only grow a small mustache and a soul patch by then. Brandon was inspired by Chinese and Korean history, Dalinar was inspired by a Mongolian, and the rest of the Alethi are supposed to look Polynesian. They still grow armpit and leg hair, but arm hair and chest hair is thin and fine or non-existent. But they still have "other hair". Kal is pretty hairy if he can grow a beard at 18. He's too dark to be East Asian, and when I looked at the "Stormlight movie casting" thread and everyone seems to want Indians to play him. When you subtract the time to take off and put on clothes, then they only have a 15 minute time slot. Yeah, I know it's possible to finish up in that amount of time, but there's barely time to "compose yourself" so you don't come out of the room breathless and red-faced smelling shamefully sweaty. And Shallan was using Navani's bathroom. The risk of daytime canoodling is having to go through the rest of the day feeling sticky if you didn't have a chance to clean up. :ph34r: But who knows. Maybe by the time you're 50 years old nothing bothers you anymore. Can you imagine that Zahel's Lesson #38 on how to use Shardplate is on how to "take care of your business on the battlefield"? If he made Renarin eat a proper sit-down dinner in Shardplate, then Adolin was probably told to go behind the training field and practice being able to do #1 in Plate without hurting himself. The armourers would take care of #2 because he can't reach it himself, but I'm not sure if they'd want to go that far to help him for a #1, which probably happens twice as frequently. I read that story you wrote. And I couldn't decide which team to be on. :ph34r: Shirtless bridge brothers. :wub: I think Adolin doesn't know he's shy because he doesn't know any other way to be. Alethi people are reserved in public, so Adolin's no-touchy is normal and so he think he's normal. But they do their dirty in private, like Dalinar and Navani, and Adolin has never gotten that far to find out. Simple explanation. Adolin's tailor has probably seem him in his undies. That reminds me - I have never done a clothing design on Alethi underwear, maybe someone has to ask Brandon or Ben about it. Do lighteyes wear loincloths or do they have nicer undies, like silk shorts with a drawstring waist or folded fabric banana hammocks like the traditional samurai/sumo wrestler ones? Do they wear singlets/tank tops under their white dress shirts to protect it against sweat in a time where most people only own 3 shirts and no washing machine? ALETHI UNDERWEAR FASHION FOLIO WHERE ARE YOU :ph34r: :ph34r:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 6

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART EIGHT The carriage took to the metalled road with a frustratingly cautious pace. Visibility in the fog was limited; Shallan supposed that the driver had been given a charge to be judicious with the horses – it would not do for one to stumble on rain-loosened gravel; the injury of a beast would have resulted in the passengers’ being obliged to wait for a replacement, or walk the dirty weather themselves. Shallan sat on one padded bench inside the carriage, Kaladin next to her. Adolin was opposite her, his dripping umbrella leaning against the door; his overcoat with its fur collar was carelessly thrown over a large rectangular briefs satchel. The air within the carriage, with the three of them inside, had grown still and uncomfortably warm. Adolin had left the coachman’s window behind his head slightly ajar, but their carriage's slow pace meant no breeze stirred the fug of humidity that their dampness had slowly become. The benefit of a closed coach like this was that there were no leaking spots common in folding-top Landaus, but as Shallan found now, the closeness was approaching sweltering warmth. Each passenger had brought their own diversion for the journey. Kaladin had in his hands a thin booklet with a simple cover; The Forceps written across the front. The interior consisted of the dense double columns of text common to those small publications whose operating costs were priced by the page. Adolin had a larger album of some sort; in contrast, his had an elaborately detailed letterhead of vines and curlicues on the cover, and, from what Shallan could see, engraved fashion plate illustrations with annotations and price lists. He sprawled with his back to the door and his feet in the shared aisle of leg-space; perhaps it was something men did when limited space caused their touching knee to knee to become a distinct and fearful possibility. Shallan’s own satchel was in her lap; she had pulled out her sketchbook and her wooden pencil box with its sliding lid and useful compartments. She flicked through the sketchbook, looking for the point where old drawings ended and the fresh paper started. “Is that a picture of me?” Shallan jumped. Kaladin’s eyes were on the sketchbook on her lap. Shallan found a clean page and smoothed it down. She had flipped through so quickly, how could he have seen what she’d drawn beyond a blur of grey and brown – let alone identify her drawing as his own portrait? She took a breath to compose herself. “No, of course not,” she said coolly. “Why would I have a picture of you?” “That is a question you ought to be asking yourself,” he remarked. He turned back to his periodical. “My hair doesn’t look like that, you know - you should have made it more curled. And why didn’t you fill in the irises? It looks somewhat ghoulish without them.” That storming man. Yes, it was true she had drawn a picture of him, she could admit that to herself willingly, if perhaps not eagerly – but she had sketched portraits of Adolin and Jasnah and even herself at one point. Was it so strange that she had added him to her collection of Memories? It could be counted irregular that she had spent more time on his picture than the others – but Kaladin possessed a darker complexion than the others, so she had shaded it in; naturally shading the hair followed, and of course, if one coloured the hair, one daren’t forget the rather prominent eyebrows that lent so much unpleasantness to his countenance. She was disinclined to argue with him; she was all too aware that they were both of similar temperament when it came to what could only be civilly described as passionate discourse: neither would concede ground, neither would let the other eventually triumph for the sake of superficial cordiality. It would not do to quarrel with him, at least not here, where the Duke was undoubtedly listening. So she said: “I am afraid your eyes mistake you, sir.” They were not particularly gracious words articulated in gracious tones, but she had no gracious sentiments to spare for Kaladin. He could pick up the dispute and look disagreeably aggressive in front of Adolin – which was not what one did in mixed company, not when she and Adolin were involved in some sort of – embryonic, as yet – understanding. Adolin might have been compelled to respond in regards to her honour. In any sort of conventional situation, any conventional man would not have contemplated such conduct, and never with any woman so closely associated with his patron-employer. But the rules of social decorum did not seem to apply to Kaladin for whatever reason; she could only rely on his friendship with Adolin to hold his opposition in check. Kaladin made an exasperated grunting sound. Or was it indifferent? Or sullen? The man could probably tell a story with his grunts, if only there could be found a single person who cared a whit to listen. That the exchange involved behaviour she would consider deplorable and manipulative under most circumstances was slightly appalling; she supposed Jasnah, were she here, would have been appreciative. It made her feel a somewhat disconcerting sense of malicious glee. She had had power over someone briefly: it was a second-hand power derived from someone else, not hers by her own right – but could one grow so used to it over time they would no longer see the wrong of it? Was that what Jasnah had been privileged with, and exposed to, her whole life, as the daughter and sister of Kings? It would explain a great many things. She picked up her pencil and started sketching. And because she was feeling frivolous and aware that Kaladin had been looking at her drawings and was probably eyeing her surreptitiously right now, she almost wanted to dare him to keep looking. So in her current contrary mood, she drew a picture of Adolin in highland dress and wearing the McValam tartan. They rode in silence for fifteen more minutes, and then the carriage slowed, and there was a tap on the roof. Adolin sat up; he had been resting his head against the inside of the door and the back of his hair stood up in an oddly endearing blond tuft. “It’s the church – it’s on the edge of the village, so your stop came first. Shall I walk you out?” he offered. “No thank you, it’s quite all right – you must be expected in the village and the rain has delayed you already – I could not delay you further,” Shallan said. “Let them wait: am I not a Duke? And you have no umbrella; – I insist, please, there would be no greater pleasure.” Then he smiled. It was a beautiful smile, energetic and almost infectious, and in the dreary greyness of the day and the troubled greyness of her recent thoughts, Shallan was reminded that there were people who weren’t all like Jasnah or Kaladin: people who made her uncomfortably aware that there were parts of her that could never, ever be acknowledged as a credit to her character. Adolin was different. And the smile in front of her was much better in person than the drawn Adolin in her sketchbook; her drawing did not at all do him proper justice. She must remember what it looked like, or else try to see it again… “Then if you insist, I thank you, truly.” The carriage door was opened; Adolin stepped out first, opening the umbrella. Shallan pulled her tartan over her shoulders, then took his arm; he led her up the path to the front door of the church. When they arrived and stood under the dripping veranda of the entryway, he paused. “I know Kaladin and you find it hard to see eye to eye on things,” he began. “We see eye to neck, if you hadn’t noticed. When I see him, I want to embrace him … by the throat,” remarked Shallan. Adolin chuckled as he shook out his umbrella. “He is not a bad person, not really. He just finds it difficult to trust new people, I think. When I first met him, he was curt with me for some time.” “What happened to change that?” “He saved my life. And the life of my father. Eventually my brother’s too. I was – I am – grateful and indebted to him, and I tried to show him, in what little way I could. Who would have thought that a Duke could have a debt he considers impossible to repay,” said Adolin, thoughtful. Shallan frowned for a moment, then laughed. “So must I save his life to win his approval? And here I thought you were courting me, rather than I courting him!” Adolin grinned and ducked his head bashfully; the tuft of hair still stuck out from the back and he hadn’t noticed. “Am I courting you now? Not just friendly acquaintances?” “Why not? Yes! Just don’t tell Jasnah or she will have the wedding planned for the end of the month. From introduction to courting in a single day; Jasnah would predict nothing less than our being settled with a babe on the way by the end of the year,” said Shallan. This last comment made Adolin flush; he looked away in embarrassment, a dazed smile on his face. Shallan had never considered her own red-faced blushing as attractive in the least; in Adolin it was charmingly delightful. Shallan was tempted to say deliberately outrageous things as often as possible, now that she saw it provoked such a darling response. But then, regrettably, the conversation would never get anywhere. Perhaps, though, it was not such a bad thing. She patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry, I won’t provoke Kaladin unnecessarily. He seems to easily manage producing ire in plenty, without my intervention.” Adolin cleared his throat, then said, “I would very much like to see all of us amiably acquainted, if not friends. It would elevate my spirits a great deal if that were to be so.” Shallan looked up at him, her hand still on his arm. “I will try to be civil. For you. Now, mustn’t you get back to the carriage?” His head jerked back to look at the carriage. The curtain over the window twitched, then lay still. “That is all I ask, thank you. I will send the carriage to drive you to the village for luncheon; just wait here when you have finished your devotions and the coachman will see you from the road.” He took her right hand, then kissed the back of it. This time it was not the air he kissed; his lips gently brushed her flesh, warm on her rain-chilled skin. “Good day, Shallan,” said he; he withdrew and then the umbrella was struck open and he was off down the road; there came a crack of the driver’s whip and a whinny of horses and soon the carriage was crunching over the gravel to Courtlea proper, leaving Shallan standing on the doorstep of the village church. It suddenly occurred to her: of all the instances where a woman could be left abandoned and staring apprehensively at the threshold to a church, this would probably be the least exciting. She grasped the iron ring on the door, swung it open, and stepped inside. Author’s Notes: I tried to keep Shallan on-character in terms of PoV internal monologuing and dialogue. Please let me know if you thought it was off or weird in any place. I don’t like reading AU fics where people who are supposed to be on-character go OOC either. In this story, Shallan’s dialogue is supposed to be the happy, peppy girl that people expect to see. The internal PoV bits are supposed to show that she’s young and naïve, but still has dark bits that she knows about, but doesn’t want to inspect too deeply. She’s not a bad person, but certain situations or persons have the potential to push her into bad or questionable things. Subtext: Kaladin is reading the AU version of the medical journal The Lancet. I used a parody because Issue 1 of The Lancet didn’t come out until the 1820’s. Adolin is reading a clothing pattern catalogue. The portrait of Kaladin is from the earlier post Shallan’s Sketchbook #3. “We see eye to neck” – reference to Kaladin and Shallan’s height difference. “He saved my life” – happened while the Kholin regiments and Kaladin were in Ireland for the Vengeance Pact war Adolin is as blushy and awkward around forward girls as he is in the real SA. I write him as “pure” and inexperienced in that way if you know what I mean. Yes, Kaladin was watching from the window. “Instances where a woman could be left abandoned” – is this foreshadowing being left on the altar? Who knows.

Has there been any other appearance RAFO other than Renarin's eye colour? I can't remember. But most of the time they are small enough questions that they do get an answer, and you could probably get away with asking add-on questions. If you go in clown costume, wear face paint so no one can see your own face!!! There's no reason to get embarrassed when no one will ever know it's you. That's why people are so mean on the internet, anonymity can justify lots of weird and crazy things. Asking about "other hair" is relatively harmless in comparison. :ph34r: Why so much beard hate? Sometimes it's fitting for some people - how would a villain twirl his mustache or stroke his goatee when he ties a girl to the traintracks if he had no facial hair? If you can grow a full beard and put in the effort to keep it neat and trimmed there's nothing wrong with looking like a lumberjack. When your husband wears a flannel shirt and a hat with earflaps, you will agree with him that beards look good!!! :lol: And I know Elhokar is handsome while Dalinar is not. It's just that my mind is biased and I imagine people I don't like uglier than they are. Whenever there are bossy cheerleader characters in high school novels I always imagine them ugly even though they're described as hot. WHY. Chapter 75, "True Glory" The whole conversation happened while Shallan was in the bathtub. I think it's still ambiguous that Dalinar and Navani were doing THE thing :ph34r: Shallan was probably bathing for 20-30 minutes and Dalinar seems like too proper of a guy to want to get things done and finished that quickly. I read it and thought "OMG ARE THEY??? COULD THEY BE????" and assumed it was just making out. Because they walk in to see her like 5 minutes later fully dressed and Shallan doesn't notice that they look rumpled or anything. I thought Dalinar would take his time to do it proper if you know what I mean, so randomly in the middle of the day fully clothed is out of character and only fitting for peasants and teenage newlyweds. How does buttwiping in Shardplate work? :lol: Do the armourers have to undo the Shardbearer's pants and pull it down for him? I would think that the padded pants have the fly at the front for #1 and have a buttoned bumflap for #2. Imagine young Adolin getting fitted for his padded uniform at age 16 and asking Zahel what the back flap is for. COMPARING ANATOMY OMG SHALLAN WOULD HAVE A HEART ATTACK. If Adolin asked Kaladin for his advice on how to be "less shy with girls", Kaladin would use bridgemen showers to teach him to be body positive and non-awkward about getting undressed because he is a tough love kinda guy. Kaladin feels nothing about stripping to his loincloth so I'm surprised there aren't more shirtless scenes. :ph34r:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 5

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART SEVEN Dinner was disappointingly subdued that evening, or so thought Shallan. Jasnah had ordered their meal brought to the Teal Drawing Room again; she blithely disregarded protocol which dictated that such rooms, by the mere nature of their being Drawing Rooms, were designated for withdrawing – for after-dinner drinks and diversions, and occasionally mornings and early afternoons if one was entertaining. Eating dinner, naturally, took place in one’s dining room; Kholinar Court had a particularly fine one that Shallan approved of heartily. She had held it in higher esteem than her dining companions - if the word “companion” could be stretched far enough to include Kaladin, she was sure it would break - since that first evening she had arrived to the House. “Could we have had dinner with the gentlemen?” asked Shallan, struggling to keep the petulance out of her tone. “They must be wondering why we are missing.” “I told Adolin that I had asked for your help in packing,” said Jasnah with a serene smile, “he wanted to know why I needed an additional pair of hands to pack when I was to be away for only four days - and to visit my own house.” “Well, it seems a perfectly valid question to me.” “And that is why neither of you are wed. I am attempting to remedy that, of course. You must trust me, and trust in my plan– “ she paused, “–so shall it succeed. If you were curious as to the real reason, it was for his impression of you crystallise favourably whilst I buy time for your being prepared next you see him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.” “When did you become an expert on the workings of hearts and men? You’re almost a spinster!” “I know enough of men,” said Jasnah coolly, “to welcome spinsterhood. Your attitude is really doing you no favours; I now recognise that it was a remarkable stroke of foresight to keep you from dining in company. However, your current agitation may be an auspicious sign. How terribly splendid.” “What do you mean?” Shallan demanded. “You seem to have developed – I had the satisfaction to observe today – agreeable sentiments towards my cousin. That is very good. It would have been more difficult for you to go along with the plan if you had found his company intolerable, and it would have been even more frustrating for me to convince you to do so in spite of it.” That was Jasnah, being mis-Jasnah-istic as usual, Shallan thought crossly. But now she did have to wonder, how much of her ill-humoured peevishness tonight was caused by her disappointment in not seeing Adolin again? Was her mind now befuddled by an excess of emotion? It was hard to tell, but if Jasnah had noticed enough to comment, she must surely be making a villain of herself. Was this love? She did not know if her heart had grown two sizes larger, and she was not aware that anything battered against her ribs with the yearning of cagéd doves’ wings. She supposed that if she did feel something along those symptoms, the immediately sensible response would be to send for Doctor Kaladin; imagining him by her bedside, diagnosing her with an overabundance of feminine sentimentality and telling her he had just the cure for it, brought her a brief moment of surreal amusement. *** She spent the rest of the evening with Jasnah going over scholarly readings that they had collected in their months in Kharbranth and its extensive library. The journey on the Wind’s Pleasure had involved much sorting and cataloging of sources; there did not seem to be any conclusive or consistent voice In the clamour of self-aggrandising past historians and philosophical theorists, but Jasnah believed that there was one thread they had in common: the current unrest that had started on the East Continent and unfurled its vicious strangling tentacles into the Anglethi Isles they called home had been repeated in the past. It was a cycle. The assassination of King Gavilar I, Jasnah’s father, had been a crucial tipping point. Of what sort exactly, neither Jasnah nor Shallan was sure; Jasnah was certain that it had been orchestrated by organisations unknown when the King was on the verge of discovering the same pattern that she was currently struggling to identify. His death had sent the Anglethi into outraged animation; Parliament, the Dukes, and the Crown Prince had aligned as one for the first time in Shallan’s memory and thus the Vengeance Pact was born. The war against the marshpeople of the western isle had, over recent years, eventually morphed from a justified reprisal to its current state of uneasy attrition. Jasnah speculated that the Continent and the Isles were poised on the brink of something enormous, more than total war between all the civilised nations. She thought that there was something more, something … unworldly. Jasnah was not pious; she was more than once to be found mocking the superstitious beliefs of others – sometimes to their faces – but lately all the material she had been reading and annotating were religious texts. The Heralds were involved, Shallan was told; these holy servants of the Almighty were not just messengers who dropped legendary relics into the hands of the truly worthy, whenever historical – or religious – narrative called for a convenient bit of Deus ex machina. No, they were more than that – they must be. The books of Vorinism repeatedly mentioned the importance of symmetry; its value had become ingrained into Anglethi culture such that anything written in palindrome was holy by association. Where the Tranquiline Halls were reward for the devout and heroic, there was Damnation as punishment for those who were not. Where the Almighty had raised men up and given them the choice to be good and honourable, conversely, men had also been granted the choice to be otherwise; when there was once the endless Darkness of nothing, the Almighty brought the Light of Cultivation. Where there was a benevolent Almighty, there must be a malevolent … Something. And that was the basis of the existence of the Heralds, or so thought Jasnah. This was Jasnah’s Great Purpose. To find the seeds of chaos, to find the place from whence they sprouted. Their vile writhing tendrils were twining the Anglethi into their grip; King Gavilar’s death had seen to that. Chaos and destruction and confusion; the pain and the hate and the fear that men felt – the Something fed on it, whatever It was, and wars on the Continent and in the Isles were symptoms of Its spreading power and influence. The explanation that Jasnah had given Shallan had sent her reeling in shock the first time she heard it. Shallan had always held her faith in Vorinism in a special place; it was a cherished comfort and a focus of clarity in her youth, when she had had need of it most. The most common books of Vorin writings were held in her heart with the gentle fuzziness of childhood nostalgia; Jasnah’s insistence that she re-read them with the perspective of an analytical scholar searching for evidence of Apocalypse had near caused Shallan to question the decision to be her ward. Shallan had eventually seen where Jasnah’s logic lay, however frightening it was to contemplate the fearful symmetry of a being whose ability, nay purpose, was to counteract all that was Grace and Light in the Almighty. And it was thus that Shallan’s role was to study and locate “holy points”; she hypothesised, to Jasnah’s approval, that the Church of Vorinism was not only founded on the holy symmetry of palindrome – but the Church’s very stones were built on sites of ancient holiness, which harboured clues to the presumed location of either Heralds or their relics. The Teal Drawing Room had been commandeered by Jasnah for their communal study - there was a snooker table by the wall whose flat wooden cover had been ideal for laying down papers in orders of usefulness; the rack underneath now held books Jasnah thought were the most appropriate for quick reference. Inside the Teal Room, chimney lamps shed light through glass funnels etched with waves-in-motion. Outside, a storm lashed against the diamond paned window; rain drummed against the eaves and surged through the open mouths of the House’s fanciful statuary. *** By morning, the rain had steadied to a grey and diffuse drizzle that clung to everything with a clammy chillness. The horizon outside her bedroom’s window had been obscured by mist; the lawns of the Court were soft with feathered grey-white – Shallan, as she was laced up by the housemaid, wryly noted it was almost like the Castle-in-the-Clouds that frequently featured in old tales beloved by little girls and calculating governesses who aimed to show their charges the importance of an advantageous match. To the maid’s sniff of disapproval, Shallan picked out the boots that had been brought from Scotland. After some hesitation – but no comment, fortunately – the maid took the heavy walking boots and knelt at Shallan’s feet to slide them on and tie them up. The boots were fashioned from thick steershide boiled in wax, with nailed soles that threatened the parquet with each and every step. Comfortably broken in and reliably waterproofed, Shallan had walked the estate of Loch Davar with them; she trusted them more than the soft kidskin half-boots that ladies of leisure commonly wore for country calling. Breakfast with Jasnah was quiet as usual: Shallan was not one to make more than the idlest of chatter when part of her mind was still distant; Jasnah was not one who appreciated the fine art that was making idle chatter. So she ate strawberry jam on freshly baked scones and relished the thought of yet another breakfast – or meal, to think of it – that did not consist of oatmeal served with a side of oat bannock. Variety at the Davars’ table had been sacrificed for the sake of prudence after the sale of the aluminium necklace. The plates were cleared and Jasnah stood. Shallan rose also; it was with the ingrained unconsciousness of proper behaviour that Shallan automatically waited on the highest ranking dining companion to leave the table first: those inferior exited in order of precedence. But before Jasnah left, a thought occurred to her. “Jasnah,” said Shallan, “may I borrow your umbrella? I’m afraid I never brought one from Scotland with me.” “No,” Jasnah replied. “You may not.” “But it’s raining! If you are taking yours away, oughtn’t I to go to the butler and inquire for another?” “It will work out better if you didn’t have one, Shallan. Have some faith in me.” Jasnah was being purposefully enigmatic; she somehow expected Shallan to divine some ulterior meaning in words that would have been punctuated with a wink if Jasnah was the type of person who would wink at all; all Shallan could hear was Jasnah’s being deliberately obstructive. Shallan – unlike Jasnah – was no expert on men: she, to her immense and humiliating regret, had no option but to defer to Jasnah’s navigational skills in steering her way through the clandestine mysteries of the heart. Jasnah swept out the room as Shallan waited, then followed her into the gallery. There was a row of windows facing the misted front lawns and graveled drive of Kholinar Court; two carriages were being led by two matched teams of stamping horses outside the portico of the front door. “Storms, they’re waiting for me!” Jasnah had already gone; they had packed a valise for her visit to The City last night before Shallan had retired to her own bedchamber. Shallan now did not recall packing a bag for herself – and she was meant to join the Duke – Adolin – in the village for a call to the church as well as luncheon today. “Storms, storm it, stormy storming storms,” she muttered; she plucked up the hem of her dress and sprinted back to her room with ungainly speed. She took the stairs two at a time, keeping to carpet as much as possible – it muffled her unladylike stomping feet in their nailed shoes. She almost collided with a housemaid descending the stairs; she careened past as the maid leaped aside; she threw open the door to the bedchamber. Loose pencils and paper were scattered on the desk; her sketchbook lay open to where she had left it last night: the maid had not touched them. She was not a particularly athletic person, and the short burst of exertion caused her breath now to come in sharp gasps; her hands trembled and something in her stomach twinged from being jostled after an admittedly indulgent breakfast. She gathered herself together, bundled her research notes into a waxed paper sleeve, then turned to her desk. The sketchbook’s open page was a drawing she had done last night before bed – instead of preparing a bag for the morning, as she now realised she ought to have done. Sketching settled her thoughts and soothed her mind into the tranquil easiness that prefaced sleep; she always did it to clear her mind after hours of research, lest she be kept awake by endless revolving thoughts on this citation or that reference. The open drawing was a view of the Loch Davar estate grounds, the place she had called home her entire life; it was drawn in pen and ink with wet brush softening the shading of the cloudy sky; white chalk picked out details and highlights in the foreground. Something about the rain pattering against the windows last night had prompted her to a sudden, involuntary fit of yearning; she had drawn it with thoughts of homesick longing, then left it open to dry overnight. She slid the sketchbook into her satchel. Then she turned to the trunk at the foot of her bed and lifted the lid: the scent of lavender and memories drifted out; she closed her eyes and bit back a rising sob of hysteria. She took a breath, sent those memories back. They were not wanted here. Her folded tartan was on top; she pulled it out and wrapped the three woolen yards of fabric around herself. Small muslin sachets of dried lavender dropped out. Her step-mother had made those for her… No, she thought savagely, now is not the time. What time is it then? The lid of the trunk slammed down; the unlocked latch bounced and clattered. Time to go. *** The grey drizzle continued to murmur over the slate tiled roof of Kholinar Court. Shallan stood in the covered portico, hesitant; the horses and carriage were not far from the front door, but she would still get wet even if she ran for it – she had no umbrella: Jasnah had made certain of that. She pulled the tartan – draped as a shawl – over her head. The raw lanolin in the wool would at least give it some protection against the rain. The door of the carriage opened, and a figure detached itself from the interior dimness. A man, unfolding an umbrella. Duke Adolin walked across the rain slicked gravel of the drive and to the portico. Shallan, about to take the first step in a mad dash to the carriage, paused. “Have you no umbrella?” he asked. “Sir, I left my own in Scotland and have had no opportunity since to acquire another.” “Well, the plaid won’t do – remember that you’re in civilised lands now. You must share mine.” He held the umbrella out, and she drew next to him. He took her elbow. “Shall we?” He guided her by the arm – deliberately slowly – she thought, avoiding the puddles. She leaned against him, trying to stay under the edge of the umbrella, and she felt his hand tighten on her elbow for a moment – then he relaxed. She took brief sideways glances under her lashes at him; she saw that his chin had the clean smoothness of the recently shaved; she could very faintly smell the brisk herbal aroma of his toilet water. Then they reached the carriage. Adolin opened the door for her, and she slid into the upholstered warmth. “You look remarkably sprightly this morning.” Kaladin. She had forgotten that he was supposed to accompany them. She had also forgotten but now realised all at once that her hair had started to pull out of its braids in the manic sprint up the stairs and back, and that the humidity of the day could do nothing to improve its appearance. “I thought you preferred to ride with the driver.” “I have had the good fortune of being assigned chaperon; this day gets better and better and it has only just begun,” he said with an exaggerated sigh of wearily strained patience. The door on the other side opened, and Adolin stepped in, shaking his umbrella. “Is it ever too early in the morning for sarcasm?” “No,” said Kaladin and Shallan quite simultaneously. “Delightful.” Author's Notes: This was a filler chapter, in case you hadn't noticed. I dumped background information from my notes to stretch out the content for another chapter or two. The subtext: "And that is why neither of you are wed" - Jasnah is commenting that Adolin, as a typical bachelor doesn't know how women and clothing work. And also that Shallan is so naive about men that she doesn't know about lying to get what she wants. "Imagining him by her bedside" - this is a reference to plots of doctor romance novels, which weren't invented at this time, because doctors and lawyers and anyone who worked for a living were considered unfortunately middle class. How can the Cosmere exist on Earth when WoB says it doesn't? Well, word of Sheep says it does in this story!!! Shallan likes the rain. Foggy days and grey skies make her think of princess castles, make her creative and remind her of home. Shallan's boots - the maid thinks they're labourers boots, and they are. Jane Austen's heroines wore light boots made from cotton or the skin of baby goats and cows, which were fine for walking on sunny days but too fragile for off-roading on rainy ones. Shallan likes Adolin OMG DOES HE LIKE HER BACK????

Brandon needs another international tour. His calendar says he is going to Dubai, but who lives in Dubai???? No one would be surprised if someone in a clown costume with colourful wig asked questions about coloured hair. It's weird, but going in a clown costume would have already established you as a weirdo. I only have a Victorian-style costume I wore to a convention last year which I could only vaguely pass as something from Era2 Mistborn, but definitely no canon characters. Still, asking simple questions may sound like a waste of a question, but they are insignificant enough that you're probably going to get a proper answer instead of a big fat RAFO. I'm not a huge fan of beards either, but a character having one is like shorthand for saying this guy has authority. Kings have beards, so Elhokar should have one, and Dalinar should have one too because he tells the King what to do. But then it turns out neither of them have one. Chapter 12, "Unity", WoK He's handsome!!!! This pretty much means that Dalinar being on the low end of average is the ugly duck out of the whole Kholin family. But in my mind, Elhokar is the ugly one (because I don't like his personality ) and Dalinar is distinguished looking, and not ugly unless you hate wrinkles and old people or something. WHAT. NAKED OR HALF-NAKED DALINAR IN FRONT OF NAVANI. :o Does this actually mean that Brandon is going to confirm for reals that Dalinar has updated his relationship status from single????? I mean after two books it's still completely ambiguous what base they're on, so it's high time we get a confirmation for pretty much the only canon couple. Adolin not being able to take off shirt unless he's all alone is like guys who are bladder shy and can't use public urinals. :ph34r: :ph34r: But apparently his armourers are the ones who get him dressed in Plate, and wipe his bum when he's having a time out during a battle. HE LETS MEN TOUCH HIS BUTT BUT HE'S AFRAID TO LET SHALLAN SEE UNDER HIS COLLAR. Kaladin will have to show him how it's done and make him use the bridgemen's shower. Hint hint: there's no shower and no shower curtains, only highstorm water. I've always wondered if Kaladin has whip scars on his back or if they got removed by leveling up his Oaths.