Logs:A Diplomatic Mission
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| RL Date: 23 August, 2013 |
| Who: Ali, Hattie, Adiulth, Khiabeth, Rhenth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Southern Boll Hold, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A diplomatic mission of Fort's goldriders to Boll goes badly as it's revealed the renegade riders have taken over Southern Boll. |
| Where: Great Hall, Southern Boll |
| When: Day 8, Month 8, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| It's mid-afternoon in Southern Boll when Fort's queens make an appearance in the Hold's skies; skies that are strangely free of other dragons, none to be seen on the fireheights where recent rumour places them. Elaruth spirals lazily down towards the Hold, relying on thermals rather than any energetic acrobatics to carry her to the ground, a greeting in the form of the briefest touch of her mind given to the watchdragon on her way down to the courtyard. Hattie looks a little like a child drowning in borrowed clothing, her 'dress' leathers now a little too big for her in all the wrong places, but she looks smart and presentable all the same as she clambers down from Elaruth's straps and her boots meet the stone of the courtyard with a solid thud. Ali's only just been back at Fort for two days since her vacation - the first is spent getting settled back into things, the junior thoughtful and distracted. It's on the second day that she suggests they attend to Boll's request to see them, apparently wanting to get it out of the way. Isyath seems happy to be flying, as usual, a little more energetic than her dam, swooping past, circling back up, then finally touching down a few moments after the smaller queen. Her rider may just be looking a little ill, but it's probably par for the course, climbing unsteadily down to the ground. She's quick to strip off her jacket, the short-sleeved top underneath more suitable to Boll's warm climes, walking to meeting Hattie- though there's a pause to look upwards as Isyath launches skyward again, seeking the ocean thermals. Murmured to the other goldrider as she joins her: "If they ask us to stay for dinner, we have a prior engagement, right?" Elaruth settles down right where she's landed, curling her front paws in to avoid the rough stone beneath her, her focus not on the goldriders or the Hold itself, but elsewhere, her head tilted and her gaze not quite any one particular colour. Hattie leans against her for a moment, one hand pressed against pale gold hide, then straightens and begins to unbutton her jacket, other gear safely stowed away on straps. "Definitely," she murmurs in answer to Ali. "Though I doubt they will be /that/ hospitable, unless his daughter is truly making a bid for Lady Holder." Her say shares more about her feelings on the subject than her expression does. "Come on." She begins to make her way across the courtyard, pausing only to detour to the fountain and hold her wrists beneath one of its spouts, and towards the open door. "If she is-" making a bid for Lady Holder, "I don't see how /we/ can help. We have no influence over Conclave." Ali says, with a shake of her head. She's slower in following- perhaps because of the concerned expression that she can't quite hide, stepping up to join Hattie as she moves away from the fountain, hovering close in a way that is all-too-obvious. There's almost a sigh of relief as they reach the shade of the Hold proper, pausing just in the entrance to let her eyes adjust, tugging hair back. "Better relations with her Weyr would make her look good," is Hattie's only theory, shared under her breath as she slips into the Hold, pulling her scarf away from her neck as she glances this way and that to look for the person she can only assume will be sent to greet them, seeing as they're expected and have an appointment. Just like the fireheights and the skies, the great hall is oddly empty and devoid of life, no sign of /anyone/ in the vast room; a room that would usually be bustling with both visitors and residents of the Hold alike. Frowning, she glances at Ali, but the lack of any particular presence draws her further into the room, her footsteps echoing. "Hello?" she calls. "Having better relations - as compared to the current Lord - wouldn't be difficult. /If/ he is sick." Ali's trying to keep her voice to a low murmur, but the lack of any other noise within the hall tends to make the words echo alarmingly. Chewing her lower lip, she shakes her head at the look from Hattie - she has no idea either - then ventures, "Maybe there's a gather on? Only- Issy can't see any flags or people on the beach." That's when those heavy doors slam shut with a heavy clang and the room is cast into what multi-coloured light spills through the stained glass panes that make up the hall's windows. The presence of glows is a necessity perhaps only noticed when those closed doors eliminate that wide mouth of daylight, and it leaves Hattie blinking as she turns on her heel to find half a dozen other figures just inside the doors. It's likely that some of them might be more familiar to Ali than to Hattie, who doesn't spend much time interacting with the wings even at mealtimes, for they're all riders who have gone missing from Fort's wings in the past few months, the colours of their dragons identifiable from the ragged, non-Fortian knots hanging from their shoulders. "I'm afraid your Blooded friend has been detained," one of them states oh-so-calmly. The clanging makes the junior jump and spin, hand pressed to here chest. "You're here!" The relief in Ali's expression is palpable, like the riders were somehow /missing/ and have just returned to them. There's a stretch from Isyath, habit: reaching for their dragons with the sole intent to delightedly welcome them home, to invite them to join her on the wonderful thermals riding up off the ocean. It's only when one of the riders speaks that confusion creeps into her expression. "Detained?" she echoes, her head twisting to look as one of the riders threaded with a knot of bronze casually circles around behind them. Although today Isyath doesn't circle the skies above Fort itself, she /is/ flying, a distant sense of beach and ocean and a sudden rush of wordless delight from the junior queen that reaches the Weyr proper. (To Fort dragons from Isyath) If Isyath is Fort's 'eye in the sky,' then Rhenth perhaps is its ground presence. The bronze certainly enjoys flying, but there's something so earthy, grounded about him that he cannot help but being equated with the soil. Still, he feels the gold's delight, and trills it back to her over the distance in a gust of fertile forest loam upon the air which bouys her even higher in its updraft. (To Fort dragons from Rhenth) On the heels of Isyath's delight, there's a wave of worry and quiet unease from Elaruth, the sense of itchy-horrible sharp stone beneath paws tainting her mental touch. (To Fort dragons from Elaruth) Perhaps Khiabeth would join in said flight if it weren't so /far/ and she weren't so comfortable in her location high on the sunning ledge. She's /just/ sleepy-unaware enough not to notice Elaruth's unease. (To Fort dragons from Khiabeth) Almost instinctively, there's a shift from bouying Isyath's flight to smoothing the stone beneath Elaruth's paws, Rhenth's affinity for earthy things lending him toward turning simple, jagged stone into polished, smooth mellow granite that would make any kitchen counter envious. Unspoken in a wafting of pine and oak: What's the matter? (To Fort dragons from Rhenth) Elaruth's discomfort has finally found its reason in the sudden and undeniable presence of a dozen dragons over the Hold; dragons that she has felt there and not there and are now most definitely right in her presence and line of sight. Unsettled, she gives a low rumble and rises to her paws, wings mantling, her reaction quite the opposite of Isyath's. Her wordless /where have you been?/ is akin to that of a worried, annoyed mother. She has no invitation for them. Some of those riders look more than a little pinched around the edges, grey hairs where they weren't before and lines etched into features that are somehow slimmer and paler. "I don't believe our meeting is any of your concern," Hattie says slowly, her gaze drawn to their knots, "seeing as you don't appear to be of Fort..." She straightens, drawing herself up. "I /hope/ that you--" As one of the brown-knotted riders joins the bronze in circling behind the weyrwomen, a blue-knotted woman interrupts with, "Enough. You will not be making your meeting today. Rest assured that Jivrain will not miss you either." To Fort dragons, Adiulth finds himself conversing with some dragons but there's the bit of pause as he picks up on the breeze of the conversations between those so close but also far away. It's only when Hattie mentions those riders not being of Fort that Ali visibly tenses, a breath drawn in sharply. "They /are/ Fortian-" she starts to counter, the lack of knots aside: after all, why would they choose /not/ to be Fortian? The junior's clearly not liking the two riders circling behind them, keeping more of an eye on them than the group at the front. "This is- just come /home/," she says, half demand, half plead. "Issy's been worried sick about your dragons." There's a snort from the bronze-threaded rider behind them: "Come home? No, /this/ is our new home." To Fort dragons, Isyath practically radiates disappointment, and moreover, disapproval. Why would dragons /not/ want to fly with her? Especially /Fortian/ dragons, because she /claims/ them as such, despite Elaruth's unease. Hers, theirs, /Fortian/. "You see, you fuck up /that much/ with a Lord and he's going to look elsewhere," the brownrider declares with a too-casual shrug of his shoulders. "Jivrain's been... Well, like a father to us. And a father needs an heir. Who better than us?" He spreads his arms wide and smiles, not the least been maliciously, but with an entitled sense of glee. "And since the Weyr was so rude to this fair Hold in the past... It owes us an inheritance too." The bronzerider lunges forward to make a grab for Ali; to close fists around her wrists and force her arms behind her back. "With his help - and yours - we can make a new home. A better home," he hisses into her ear. It's as he gets closer to her junior that Hattie begins to snap out, "Don't you--" only to be interrupted /again/. "Elaruth and Isyath are going to keep quiet or things are going to get bloody very quickly," the blue-knotted woman states, pushing away from the far wall. No, no, no, no... A heavy sense of dread, then uncharacteristic anger flares white hot and dies away, winking out of existence with a last spark and /snap/. (To Fort dragons from Elaruth) He certainly wouldn't mind flying the friendly skies with Isyath, but... « We pulled Watch duty. » And Rhenth must execute such properly, not abandon his post, though he'd really rather do more fun things, now that Issy's reminded him of them. Still, « We have only another half candlemark. » And then Elaruth's projecting that, and the bronze can't help but warble in alerted inquiry even as his gaze snaps this way and that, trying to both psychically and visually spot whatever's upset his Senior queen so. (To Fort dragons from Rhenth) To Fort dragons, Isyath is never angry, flights aside. She's a remarkably easy-going queen, and thus the sudden rush of something hot and /furious/ on the heels of Elaruth may well be a shock, though the sense of it vanishes just as abruptly as it appeared. Ali, frankly, looks more confused than anything by the brownrider's declaration, and it's enough to get her attention. "Jivrain is a Holder. He's /Blood/. His heirs will be-" and she trails off, a sudden paleness taking hold as she sucks in a breath. "Where is his family? What have you /done/?" She doesn't notice the bronzerider's approach until he already has his hands on her, and it's with a yelp of fear that she struggles against his tight grip. Her eyes are wide with fear, breathing heavily as gaze rolls in the bluerider's direction, then towards Hattie: she apparently takes that threat seriously. The brownrider's chuckling as he strides in close to Hattie, amused - two of the other riders are bringing in chairs. "Tie them up," the bluerider's ordering. There's something drowsily quizzical in Khiabeth's thoughts, stretching towards the pair of queens. What has them so upset? The weather is wonderful and the sun is warm: what is there to be upset about? (To Fort dragons from Khiabeth) Hattie doesn't have time for questions, though she takes that threat seriously enough to make sure that Elaruth has issued no commands and made no threats against any dragons in the area, nor has she reached for assistance from Fort. She meets Ali's gaze, more fury than fear burning in her dark eyes, and then... Then she snaps her right elbow back into that brownrider's face with enough force to break his nose. "/Move/!" she demands of Ali, all manner of order there to kick and bite her way free if she possibly can, the pained oaths of the bloodied brownrider following in the wake of that single word. Her 'freedom' is brief, for a burly greenrider has his arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her side, before she can even take a step. /She/ kicks and struggles, but with much of her muscle mass gone, it's a futile effort. "This won't work!" she shouts, trying to wrench an arm free. "They won't let you--!" Where Elaruth's voice was, there is nothing. Her /presence/ isn't gone, but even her mental touch, so often lightly flitting through the minds of her Weyr, is beginning to withdraw to somewhere... else. (To Fort dragons from Elaruth) Ali was never that good at the self-defense lessons, and Turns of riding, while strengthening her somewhat, aren't enough to overpower the bronzerider holding her. She struggles, but she doesn't /fight/ in the same way her Weyrwoman does- in fact, Hattie's violence seems to shock her junior, while it makes her captor unaccountably laugh. "Told you she'd be the fighter," the bronzerider is amused. "Least she made you look better, D'lak." The brownrider is /not/ pleased, cursing and cussing and glaring at Hattie. Rhenth doesn't like the way this feels to him, and so -- instead of rousing Elaruth further -- he tags along 'around a corner', so-to-speak, ghosting the Senior while remaining in the background...ready to supply whatever she might want, if she needs it. It might be dividing his mind, but most assuredly she's worth it, since nothing of note is happening in Fort's skies, right now. (To Fort dragons from Rhenth) Oh, Isyath is /so/ bad at keeping secrets, yet, this time... she's silent, completely withdrawn, not even maintaining that easy sense of her presence. (To Fort dragons from Isyath) Wait... he's so very used to feeling her...his 'aunt' Issy. So when she withdraws her presence, Rhenth temporarily splits his attention three ways, enough to croon out a quick, « Isyath? » (To Isyath from Rhenth) "Jivrain won't--" Hattie spits out, now trying to drag her feet and gain enough leverage to flick her heel up to kick her captor right between his legs. She misses once, twice and then the third time, a guttural growl of fury issuing from the back of her throat. "Jivrain has. And will. He thinks he's going to get what he wants," the bluerider informs /their/ goldriders, a serene, pleased sort of look plastered across her face. "We're not asking for much; not for what we've done. Will do. We're /riders/. You're happy to let--" Hattie lands a blow to the greenrider ribcage, winding him, and she /almost/ manages to slip free. Might have slipped free, were it not for the D'lak's well-timed punch, which makes her slump in the greenrider's arms, out cold. Outside, Elaruth /roars/. Silence. A flicker of something, distantly. Alarm? Fear? It's so quick that it can't be identified except that it's definitely not Isyath's normal mood, whatever it is. (To Rhenth from Isyath) "You're /riders/," Ali agrees, with a heavy swallow. She's not struggling anymore, which is making the bronzerider holding her relax marginally. "Fortian riders. We don't /hold/." The very idea is an anathema to the hold-bred goldrider. "/Hattie/!" Ali practically screams her name, alarm and fear overridding her reluctance, the sharp jerk of her arms enough to catch her captor off guard and slip free, racing to the other goldrider's side, chased by the bronzerider. Isyath, too, is /roaring/, her fury washing over the dragons in Boll as she soars around the Hold, helpless. Oh, she cannot keep a secret, no. /Fury/. /How dare they/! (To Fort dragons from Isyath) Elaruth's presence is suddenly /back/ the sound of her own bellow ringing through her mind as she lashes out, her anger flooding the minds of many. « You will not! » It's not /meant/ for dragons, nor does it contain a command, targets and reasons and all manner of reason drowning in the heat of her fury. (To Fort dragons from Elaruth) The greenrider grunts, now having to support Hattie's weight, but spares an arm with intent to backhand Ali away before she gets too close. "You don't hold," that same bluerider replies /so/ reasonably. "We do as we please. /You/ are happy to have people walk all over you. /We/ decide our own fate." She sighs and rolls her shoulders, patronising little smile lurking in one corner of her mouth as she watches the greenrider tip Hattie into one of those chairs and begin to bind her hands and feet. There's a sound from the Weyrwoman that could be a groan, and though she doesn't lift her head, Elaruth falls silent. If two golds were/are feeling uneasy and angry, Rhenth can't help but echo them, the big bronze pushing up to his haunches upon the star stones and offering a rare, low growl to the skies, though nothing is seen within them. His crooked tail lashes freely, and once-blue eyes spin a mix of lavender and yellow, touched with white flecks. Upon his neck, B'rant also keeps looking all around to identify what can't be seen...and trying to keep his lifemate calm. Neither of the Watchers looks happy. More...readied. And when Elaruth's bellow comes, the bronze echos it all around Fort from the Star Stones with his own bass bellow. (To Fort dragons from Rhenth) Ali's at full speed, trying to dart out of reach of the bronzerider's grab- and isn't prepared for the greenrider's sweeping arm. She goes down hard, breath knocked out of her, immobile for long enough that the bronzerider can gather her up with little fuss, carrying her towards the other chair. The red welt across her cheek is already visible, and it makes her composure ever-more-pale, but her gaze is all for Hattie. "Weyrwoman-?" is all she says, ignoring their captors for the time being. To Elaruth, Isyath makes no bones about /her/ intentions at such audacities: « Call the Weyr. Call all of them! » /How dare they/? /That/ is enough to make Khiabeth come fully awake with a snap in the wake of Elaruth's wave of fury. She might have no idea what's going on, but the green is impetuous enough to declare: « We come. » Nevermind she hasn't consulted with her rider. (To Fort dragons from Khiabeth) « If we do, they will hurt them first, » Elaruth answers, with a steadiness and logic than can't be hers at this moment in time. « Or hurt the Blood. » /That's/ definitely a term from Hattie. (To Isyath from Elaruth) It's a silence that maintains throughout almost anything from Adiulth, alert and listening for any hint as to where the golds are located. Importantly, what is going on? The latter might be a thought from his rider because the bronze bellows loudly in fury and in challenge to those who would cause such a thing. (To Fort dragons from Adiulth) There's a sense of dismissal for the /Blood/: Isyath cares not for them, even if her rider does. It's the threat to /their/ riders that tempers the younger gold- but only barely, practically chafing. Instead, for the dragons at Boll, there is a promise as she circles overhead: « If you hurt them further I will pull the Hold down around yours. » (To Elaruth from Isyath) "Do we /have/ to shut you up as well?" D'lak demands of Ali, looming over her with his nose still streaming blood; blood which he keeps wiping off on his sleeve. He seems to get a great deal of satisfaction from watching one his 'friends' tie up the junior goldrider, his expression taking on a leering, creepy edge. "You might look pretty with a gag in your mouth." The bluerider sighs. "Now, it's simple," she tells Ali, casting a look over at Hattie, who still hasn't lifted her head. "You're going to keep Isyath and Elaruth quiet. You're going to behave yourselves while we have a little chat with your Weyr," not /theirs/, "and dear Jivrain's family. He's not well, you know. And if Isyath or Elaruth push my dragon or /anyone's/ dragon around, /you/ will be the first one to feel our... irritation. Is that clear?" « NO! » That /is/ a command, with the full force of Elaruth colour and position as Senior queen thrown behind it, perhaps a little too forcefully, so rarely is it used to /order/ and not persuade. « You will stay. There will be hurt here if you do not. » (To Fort dragons from Elaruth) Oh, Ali does not like that at all: she practically cringes back from D'lak- as much as she can in the chair- avoiding his gaze. She does go quiet, though, as much because of Isyath- a distance in her gaze momentarily, though the bluerider's words do earn her attention pretty quickly, too. She takes a deep breath, looking distinctly like she's trying not to be sick, and there's a waver in her voice when she says, "It's clear, Nesri," the bluerider's name supplied easily enough that she recognizes the rider, "But you must know you can't-" whatever she was going to say ceases abruptly as D'lak leans near her, earning a shudder. There is no choice any way Rhenth can see it: he's Fort's /Watcher/ right now, and thus he cannot abandon his post, though he wants to know just what's going on! Elaruth's crushing commandment to remain at Fort makes the easy-going bronze duck his head and groan softly under it's weight, and he quickly sends back a non verbal assurance that he will remain upon the Star Stones. His eyes still whirl a rapid red, however, and on occasion, he champs his teeth at the air in reaction to the Senior's anger. (To Fort dragons from Rhenth) To Fort dragons, Isyath does not like that, no: there's a brief, rebellious wish to disobey, but Elaruth is senior, and the junior queen shudders for a moment, before the weight of her presence fades and her stars flicker out entirely from Fort's skies. To Fort dragons, Khiabeth's already moving, wind sweeping beneath her wings as she summons her rider- when Elaruth's command presses down. She's not in the least happy, but she will obey, however reluctantly. That bash at the door? That's the lash of Elaruth's tail. It makes Hattie lift her head a little and plead, "Don't," low-voiced and rough-edged, though it's not clear whether she means that word to be for Elaruth or for those making threats against her junior. If she's been listening, she's been playing 'dead' too. D'lak grabs a spare chair from one of the long tables nearby and sits himself down in-front of Ali and Hattie, though his eyes are all for Fort's junior. "I'll watch her," he decides for all of them. Wait. "Them," he amends. Nesri beams and rocks back on her heels. "Good. /Good/," she says. "Now, if you'll excuse us, /we/ have a meeting to get to. Remember to behave yourselves. If you're good, you might even get something to eat later." Is that a shudder from Ali? The junior, at least, seems relieved at hearing Hattie's voice, even if D'lak's presence means she sits straight-backed and completely rigid, looking at the floor. Whether D'lak can be trusted on his own or not, the bronzerider stays at the door to keep an eye on things as Nesri and the other file further into the Hold, presumably to attend their meeting. Hattie mutters a curse and lifts her head, tipping it all the way back to stare listlessly up at the ceiling, but she's wise enough to hold her tongue (this time). Out in the courtyard, Elaruth continues to pace, though she doesn't make another attempt to make her presence known by aiming any further strikes at the door or walls, unwilling to put more distance than is necessary between herself and her rider, even if there is a whole lot of wall between them. It's an hour or two later when the 'missing', former Fortian riders approach the Weyr with their demands. And their threats. She may not answer, but Vhaeryth reaches out yet again anyway; this time, it's with the certainty that /things are happening/, not just the frustrated worry and demand of a bronze for his queen. (To Isyath from Vhaeryth) She is exhausted. Tired. Worried. Things /are/ slipping through. (Fear. A particular face, fleetingly familiar.) In her mind, the Hold crumbles beneath her talons and Ali and Hattie walk out. In her mind, many things happen, but few are real. (To Vhaeryth from Isyath) That face is something he attempts to fix on, to pull its memory into focus, though it's imperiled by what's within the queen's mind. The Hold crumbles. The women walk out. They should jubilate... but that exhaustion, that worry, they undercut what should be /true/. Vhaeryth grounds himself again upon the ledge, Bijedth's ledge that he's landed upon and sends, « Isyath. » He gives her as much certainty as he can that they are /trying/ to make that true. « Isyath. Listen. There is something for you to do. » To /do/, not just wait. (To Isyath from Vhaeryth) She is not listening. There is too much in her head to /listen/ or be still or pay atention. More scenarios, more thoughts, fleeting and fragmented and brief. (To Vhaeryth from Isyath) « Isyath. » It's a darker, stronger call. But if that doesn't suffice, he'll have to settle for maintaining what he can of that connection, even at a distance. Just in case. (To Isyath from Vhaeryth) |
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