By special request of Ulrike, yet another piece dragged out of Ari's Archives. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you all to read this while I get cleaned up -- it's amazing how much dust archives seem to collect!
The Dark One sat staring moodily out the window of the Bore. Events in the world were simply not progressing according to plan. That blasted farmboy was conquering nation after nation, the Chosen were so busy scheming amongst themselves to be Nae'blis that they'd forgotten all their instructions, and worst of all, those half-trained girls had gotten their hands on the Bowl of the Winds. With that, they'd be able to tune into the Weather Channel and learn that the disruptions in the climate were simply the result of an unusually strong El Nino and not part of some master plan of the Shadow. Shai'itan sighed. So much for the appearance of omnipotence. Not for the first time, the Dark One wished Gholam had been made with bones; hearing them crack would have been so much more satisfying than just tying the thing into a granny knot.
The Dark One's reverie was broken by a distant, mortal voice. Shai'itan listened intently; somewhere on the plains of the world, one of those puny human Darkfriends was renouncing his allegiance to the Dark. "I renounce thee, Father of Lies!" the human cried. Shai'itan sniffed disdainfully. "You think by now, they'd have figured out that I'm a woman! Stupid mortals!" Reaching out with a tendril of thought, she stopped the man's heart in mid beat. "Renounce that, you son of a goat!" she said, chuckling wickedly.
Casting about the world, she found the distinct echo of a male channeler going hopelessly mad, and laughed delightedly. She'd not known, when she'd placed the spell of PMS over the True Source, that it would affect the males so dramatically, but it certainly was fun to watch. After all, it merely made the women a bit crabbier for a few days each month. It was probably a good thing she'd not used the spell of labor pains, as she'd originally planned. The males probably would have died on the spot, and where was the sport in that?
Her mood somewhat improved, Shai'itan moved away from the window and drifted into her kitchen. She'd been meaning to tweak that Myrddrahl recipe a bit, and now seemed as good a time as any. Hmmm... let's see, if she doubled the recipe, and used Ogier stock instead of human...
Humming happily to herself, the Dark One set about her baking. "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. Bake me a Fade as fast as you can! Pat it, and roll it, and mark it with a 'D'. And put it in the oven for the Dragon and me!" She laughed evilly. "Let's see how you like this one, hayhair!"
Finishing up the Myrddrahl's body, the Dark One popped it into the fires of the Pit of Doom to bake, then went over to her soul rack for the final ingredient. "Now, then," she said to herself. "I'll need a real b**ch for this one. Hmmm.... ah, yes! Bonwhin! She'll do nicely!"
Just then, the Dark One doubled over in a spasm of uncontrollable laughter. Once she had control of herself again, she was furious. "Ishamael! That pr**k is using the True Power again! I hate being tickled!" She reached up to a shelf above her pantry, where a series of rag dolls were neatly lined up. Once, there had been 13, but two were now little more than piles of ash. Two others wore caps of intricately woven wire and gems. Picking up one of the dolls, Shai'itan casually backhanded it across the room. Somewhere out in the world, Moridin saw spots floating before his eyes...
The timer rang -- the body was done! Distracted, she grabbed a soul jar and ran for the Pit. Last time, she'd left the body in just a fraction too long, and the edges had started to brown. Every time that Fade had tried to disappear into the shadows, it had walked smack into the walls, and she'd had to recycle it. It seemed happy enough in its new life as a horse named Bela, but still...
She pulled the Myrddrahl's body out of the flames and sighed in relief. Still totally pasty white -- perfect! Propping it up against the counter, she took the soul jar and drew a deep breath. This was the trickiest part, and it required all of her concentration. Raising the soul jar high above the Myrddrahl's head, she intoned formally, "I christen thee Shaidar Haran, for thou wilt be mine handmaiden in the world!" Breaking the jar over it's head, she said, "Wake up!"
"What is thy bidding, Great Mistress?" it said in a voice like rotting leather -- a male voice like rotting leather. "What the..." cried Shai'itan, shocked. Gathering up the shards of the jar, she peered at the writing there. "BEIDOMON?! Oh, NO-O-O-O-O!!!!"
And now you know the true story of Shaidar Haran!