[standard disclaimer: that the Wheel of Time is Robert Jordan's and that (almost) everything is his as well.
Almoth Plain
Rorus Arash looked over the sea of grass on all sides. Beneath him, his horse seemed not to move at all, but he was literally flying across the plains. His bow was strapped behind him (he had not seen an animal that he wishes to hunt yet), but his hands continued to stray back, towards the horn shaft and the wooden arrows. He didn't exactly mind - he had come here to hunt, after all. But the bow was away; strapped at his back, and his hands were on the horse, not the arrows. He doubted that would last long.
There was something about simply being out here - in the great plains that his people had struggled to gain, riding with the wind on his back, the hooves of the horse thundering into the ground. She was a razor, given to him by his uncle, and she knew just how to ride. "Just to the left." he whispered quietly, nudging the horse ever-so-slightly with his left leg. She moved almost instantly, changing course exactly the direction that he wanted her to turn to. There was no noticeable slacking in her pace or her speed - one of the marks of a good horse who knew her rider - or of a good rider who knew his horse.
There had always been a strange connection between Rorus and his horse. Ever since he had gained her (but a few seasons ago, a gift from his powerful uncle), they had ridden together often and the bond between them was strong. He knew her emotions, her capabilities, and her skills. He knew how hard she could run, how long she could run, when she was tired, and when she wanted a break. She could tell how he wanted her to run, how hard, how quickly. She was an asset in battle as well, a horse who could dodge arrows, and yet carry her rider right to the position he wished. Rorus had been in few battles in his life, but in the ones that he had been a part of, she had been nothing but an advantage.
As he rode, Rorus glanced about him. The long, waving plains that he had earlier been in were a rarity on Almoth Plain, and even rare to the west, on Toman Head. The legendary war between Tarabon and Arad Doman had scarred the land forever. In most places, grass lay burned and withered, mounds stood high, honoring those who had fallen. It was a generational war; one began centuries before, when the nation of Almoth had been destroyed. Rorus' family, the Arashes, had taken part, and had earned great recognition for their efforts. He even had some imperial blood in his veins. Rorus shook his head, sadly. All the imperial blood in the world would not consolidate for the destruction of the land.
Turning his head, he looked southwards once more. A great, thick pillar of smoke rose solidly above the plains, spiraling its way upward. This was no continuation of the Taraboner-Domani disputes. No, this was a more recent feud. Rorus easily guided his horse away from the south, moving eastwards instead. This was the work of armed warriors from Arad Doman and Tarabon together, soldiers fighting the dreaded Seanchan. These were warriors fighting under one banner, warring against another oppressive regime. Another war. Rorus was a part of it, but a small part. That had been his uncle's choice.
His uncle, a prominent and well-known man throughout the world, had ordered Rorus to stay behind the lines, to carry messages back and forth, from Bandar Eban to Katar to the battlefield. It was a necessary duty, but one that Rorus hated. Light, he had warrior blood in his veins! His forefathers had fought on this very ground and died here! Rorus was no longer simply a young boy, to be kept away from the fighting until it was over - he knew that. Not to mention the fact that Rorus was a fairly skilled archer in his own right. But it had been his uncle's decision and his uncle had chosen to keep him behind the lines. No one argued with his uncle. Not even the Dragon would have argued with his uncle.
The thought of it brought a wry smile to Rorus' face. His uncle facing the Dragon Reborn, he who was reputed to be a warrior beyond warriors, who had defeated the Seanchan in Altara, who had conquered Cairhien, Andor, and Illian without a fight! The Dragon Reborn, whose had come from beyond the Spine of the World with hordes of those desert fighters, those Aiel! Rorus shook his head. It was unlikely that the Dragon Reborn would have any interest in either Almoth Plain or even his homelands. It just was not likely to happen. That was that.
A sudden thunderclap interrupted Rorus' reverie. He shook his head in surprise. What was that? Reining in his horse, he gazed to his right. What had been the cause of the sound? The skies were a pure blue, undisturbed by any sort of cloudbank or rain. Rorus looked around, making sure that everything was the same. It was. He was about to start moving again, when a second noise followed the first. This was no thunderclap! Rorus suddenly knew that whatever the sound was, it was something that he was not familiar with - something that he did not want to be familiar with! He was ready to spur his horse on, when something happened.
Right in front of his eyes, the world seemed to contract for a second, then expand again. Light filled his vision, a seeming explosion of pure light. His pupils dilating, he covered his eyes in his hands, muttering words to himself. "The Dark One and all of the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul, beyond the Great Blight, bound by the Creator at the moment of Creation, bound until the end of time." His mouth mechanically moved through the phrases of the saying, as if he had no other choice, but to say it. He shuddered at the thought that perhaps it was not true and maybe, just maybe, he was facing one of them. He doubted that very much.
Raising his head, Rorus chanced a glance at the light. It was gone. In its place was a woman - a girl, really. Her head was bent down, revealing dark black hair cut very short. Her clothes were tattered and so covered with dust that Rorus could not tell what color they had originally been. She heaved her head upwards (as if there was great pain in doing so) and Rorus could see her eyes, a bluish color, forlorn and hopeless. Getting off his horse, Rorus moved closer. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse, though he had no idea why. "Where did you come from?" She seemed to move in response to the questions, but no sign came from her lips.
Rorus moved closer, until he was standing above her, looking down at her. She had strange marks on her body - cuts and bruises covering her face, almost evidence that she had been beaten. Around her neck was a snakelike cut of an entirely different sort, just like clothing that had been too tight and worn for too long. Rorus stood over her, without any idea of what to do. "Who are you?" he asked again. There was no response. He had to do something. But what could he do?
Then an idea came to him. Reaching down, he grabbed her around the wrist. She flinched from his touch, but from her left hand, he pulled her upright. There was another mark around her wrist as well. Perhaps she had been tied. Holding her upright, he tried to pick her up, to no avail. Struggling with her limp figure, he finally managed to get her on his horse, with him right behind her. As he nudged his razor forward, he chanced another question to the girl, whose eyes were wide open and staring unfocussed around. "What is your name?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
"Kalia." The sound of her voice was a surprise, but the state of it was not one. She sounded half dead. Rorus piloted his razor towards the south as he simultaneously held her upright. Perhaps his uncle would know what to do with her.