TALE OF THE PATTERN
(inspired by Robert Jordon's Wheel of Time)

Therian settles his cloak around his body and sits down cross legged.
Therian smiles warmly,
his eyes shining with knowledge of ages long past.
Therian begins the tale in high chant.

	The field was just a memory
	But memories weave the tale
	And it is the tale that is woven into the pattern
	While the truth is left to the shadows

Harp strumming accompanies the words of the Gleeman tale.

Therian's chant echoes radiantly: To the south here is the ocean,
to the east  the lands of Aielmen, (and farther east is Farra;
a land of hopes and  dreams), to the north is the Blight and
Shayul Ghul, to the west there is the  ocean.

Therian continues chanting the tale, the voice softens
for a split second before resuming in a powerful plain chant.

	The tongues of gleemen speak of these in glory:
Therian recants in only a hiss of a whisper,
"They tell of tales of the Sea  Folk: Atha'an Miere,
and then also of the Aiel, warriors bred by blood,
(and  Farra, of course, is not forgotten,
for tales come also from this foreign  land),
then the Blight, where cities such as Malkier once stood,
(before  being blown away to memory by the hordes of Darkness),
and in the West more Atha'an Miere, and also the Seanchan,
(who exist only as memories of memories)."

Therian smiles intelligently,
the handsome features of his face reflecting the  light.

Therian continues, emphasizing every sentance with a soft harp chord,
a loud  voice, and a swift swirl of his gleeman's cloak:
THEN there are lands beyond  this, lands where the world
is run by a Great Queen; a Queen the equal in  power to
Artur Hawkwing, a goddess to her people.

Therian smiles to his audience when he pauses for a breath,
"AND farther west,  though direction has no meaning in lands
this distant to us, is a great vast  plain; on these plains
legions stronger than all of Darkness battle against each
other, the warlords all seeking power over the isolated peninsula."

Therian's lips twitch but his voice still rumbles from his lips,
the tone  taking on similarity with thunder: MILES of desert and
then a city untouched  by the Breaking, where gold and silver line
the streets; and here there are  no wars, and strange machines
separate man from the wild.

Therian slowly sheathes his harp beneath the many folks
of his patched gleeman  cloak.
Therian smiles as he stands.
Therian bows.