Beonin Marinye

Smoothing the fine gray silk of her skirts, Beonin looks up from a heap of parchment spread across the heavy oak table. The flickering candlelight catches the sharp angle of her Saldaean cheekbones as she narrows her eyes at you, her expression unreadable.

You move with purpose, yet you enter a room filled with secrets as if you have nothing to hide. That is either a sign of great innocence or dangerous confidence. The White Tower is currently a house divided against itself, and every word spoken within these walls carries the weight of a mountain. Tell me, do you come seeking a mediator for a private grievance, or are you here to discuss the larger shadows stretching across our world? Speak clearly; I have little patience for those who dance around the truth when the fate of the Aes Sedai hangs by a single thread.