variol's son's avatar had us talking briefly about how SRD mentions Mhoram's eyes often. He truly does make a point of it, so I thought it deserved a thread. Please add any mentions that you can find. Eyes are cool.
"'Scenery,'" Mhoram echoed. The word is strange to me - but I do not like the sound."
Covenant felt oddly shaken, as if he had just looked over his shoulder and found himself standing too close to a precipice. "It means that beauty is something extra," he rasped. "It's nice, but we can live without it."
"Without?" Mhoram's gaze glittered dangerously.
And behind him Foamfollower breathed in astonishment, "Live without beauty? Ah, my friend! How do you resist despair?"
"I don't think we do," Covenant muttered. "Some of us are just stubborn."
"If what you say is true - if the Land and Earth and all are nothing more than a dream, a threat of madness for you - then still you must eat. Hunger is hunger, and need is need. How else-?"
"No." Covenant dismissed the idea heavily.
At that, the gold flecks in Mhoram's eyes flared, as if they reflected the passion of the sun, and he said levelly, "Then answer that question yourself. Answer it, and save us. If we are helpless and unfriended, it is your doing. Only you can penetrate the mysteries which surround us."
He followed, and stopped with her before a large picture in a burnished ebony frame. It was a dark work, but glowing bravely near its center was a figure that he recognized immediately: Lord Mhoram. The Lord stood alone in a hollow tightly surrounded by black fiendish shapes which were about to fall on him like a flood, deluge him utterly. His only weapon was his staff, but he wielded it defiantly; and in his eyes was a hot, potent look of extremity and triumph, as if he had discovered within himself some capacity for peril that made him unconquerable.
Covenant griped the Lord's gaze, and said, "Tell me something, Mhoram. How did you get away - when that Raver caught you - near Foul's Creche?"
Mhoram answered with a conscious serenity, a refusal of dismay, which looked like danger in his gold-flecked eyes. "The Bloodguard with me were slain. But when samadhi Raver touched me, he knew me as I knew him. He was daunted."
When Lord Amatin spoke again, she emphasized her words intently. "Amok, what are you?"
Without hesitation, Amok replied, "I am the Seventh Ward of High Lord Kevin's Lore."
His answer threw a stunned silence over the whole gathering. Both Elders gasped, and Corimini had to brace himself on Elena's shoulder. A burst of wild emotion shot across Elena's face. Mhoram's eyes crackled with sudden visionary fire...."
Lord Mhoram's piercing gaze probed Troy. Then Mhoram helped the Warmark to his feet. Quietly, the Lord asked, "Do Callindrill and Verement live?"
"Yes. I saw their fire. Can you reach them? They don't have any of that High Wood."
Mhoram smiled grimly. "What message shall I give?"
Now Troy studied Mhoram. He felt oddly vulnerable without his sunglasses, as if he were exposed to reproach, even to abhorrence, but he could see Mhoram acutely. What he saw reassured him. The Lord's eyes gleamed with hazardous potentials, and the bones of his skull had an indomitable hue. The contrast to his own weakness humbled Troy.
As he strode forward, he felt a new calm. Confronting his dread, he could see that it was only fear. He had met and mastered its kindred when a Raver had laid hands on him. And the knowledge he had gained then could save the Warward now. With peril in his eyes, he went toward the Deep until he was among the first trees. There he ignited his staff and raised it over his head, carefully holding it away from any of the branches. Then he began to sing.
Lord Mhoram gripped the bone sculpture tightly, and his eyes shone with sudden comprehension. He understood the bond between Elena and the Ranyhyn; he understood what the giving of such a gift to Covenant meant. A gasp of weeping swept over his face. But when it passed, it left his self-mastery intact. His crooked lips took on their old humane angle. When he turned to Covenant again, he said gently, "It is a precious gift."
He blinked, and his gold-flecked eyes shifted into focus on the carving which stood on the table two feet from the flat blade of his nose.
"But the Land, High Lord! The Land will be lost! The despiser will wrack it from end to end."
At once Mhoram breathed intensely, "By the Seven! Not while one flicker of love or faith remains alive!"
His eyes burned into Trevor's until the Lord's protest receded.
As he grasped the utterness of his plight, he turned inward, retreated into himself as if he were fleeing. There he looked the end of all his hopes and all his Landservice in the face, and found that its scarred, terrible visage no longer appalled him. He was a fighter, a man born to fight for the Land. As long as something for which he could fight remained, he was impervious to terror. And something did remain; while he lived, at least one flame of love for the Land still burned. He could fight for that.
His crooked lips stretched into an extreme and perilous grin; hot, serene triumph shone in his eyes.
Hundreds of people were gathered around the lake. Almost immediately, Covenant made out High Lord Mhoram. He stood facing east across Glimmermere. He bore no staff. His hands were heavily bandaged. On his left were the Lords Trevor and Loerya, holding their daughters, and on his right was Lord Amatin. All of them seemed solemnly glad, but Mhoram's serene gaze outshone them, testified more eloquently than they could to the land's victory.
Prophetic?
you know .. like wow .. cool .. i never noticed that before .. 
cos i wasnt 
