Our master would disapprove, as I am surely needed here more than you, and you fear him more than you fear being made damane. Her hair was like pale gold, in a dozen or more braids, but her eyes were dark, and sharp on his face. Rand gaped at the size of it, a smooth ball-he was sure not so much as a scratch marred its surface-at least twenty paces through. He held out red hands, trying to make Rand look at what he held.
Don't worry. See also Artur Hawkwing; War of the Hundred Years. In spite of himself Perrin's hand gripped his axe. Who are you? Min demanded.
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