Logs:Chasing Up Reports
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| RL Date: 26 February, 2013 |
| Who: N'rov, Gregorin, Brighton |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov is totally going to find some of those missing runaways! Except not. |
| Where: Plateau Hold, Healer Hall, and probably some other places along the way. |
| When: Day 3, Month 2, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Played in two separate episodes plus +mail in between. |
| N'muir's notes were clear and concise, among them a report of a missing girl from Plateau Hold north of Ruatha. The girl, fifteen-turn old Brighton, was reported missing by her parents, both Beastcrafters. A beastcraft apprentice herself, Brighton was an exceptional student according to her parents, who were also her mentors in the Craft. They were only intending to stay in Plateau Hold a short while doing research before returning to the Beastcrafthall in Keroon. But once Brighton went missing, they lingered. No beasts went missing from Plateau until long after Brighton went missing, quickly putting an end to suspicion of her fleeing on foot. Begrudged as her parents were to admit it, the girl had spoken to a few of the holder children and developed some friendships against her parents' advice. Inevitably, it is one of those children, a dark-haired, unkempt boy of sixteen named Gregorin who eventually drops hint that Brighton caught a ride to Fort Hold - information given only after begging N'rov not to bring her back. "Don't screw it up for her, eh? Maybe she ain't want to go home, you ever thought of that? Anyway, if you really gotta' find her, she ain't hard to spot. She got this awful birthmark on her cheek, almost looks like somebody went and smeared something on her, you know?..." And sure enough, a little (or rather a /lot/ of) asking around Fort leads N'rov to the Healer Hall where a girl with a dark smear on her cheek sits on a bench lining one of the walls, her hands folded awkwardly between her knees. She couldn't possibly be waiting for him, could she? It's been a long day, already, considering how early they began. Vhaeryth hasn't protested the ups and downs, far from it, and even tolerated the waiting with the odd comment about the smell of the place, or (while N'rov's cross-checking the birthmark with the parents) speculation about grass-raised beasts versus the hay-fed kind and how much their caretakers grow to resemble them. N'rov, though: his boots aren't made for walkin'. Riding, yes. Walking back and forth and up and down stairs and so on, not so much. Still, at least he's carefully not limping as he strides into the courtyard and, yes, notices the girl. At last. With Vhaeryth peering over the wall of the courtyard, he crosses towards her with only a slight hesitation upon seeing her /healer's/ knot, and finally stops right in front of the girl. He's tall. She'd have to look up to really catch his still-gratified expression: one, at least, run to earth. Probaby. Even if it's not one of the /exciting/ ones. "And you would be?" The girl looks up at the voice, her delicate brows twisting with dubious confusion. "Who wants to know?" she asks in return, attention driven from his smile to his shoulder. Is there a knot there? Still, perhaps even if there isn't, a dragonrider isn't difficult to spot. For a moment, she becomes infinitely aware of their surroundings and her green eyes search the courtyard for someone or something, and she hurries to her feet. "I don't know you," she insists, and begins pacing towards the inner Hall. "Leave me alone, please. I... have classes to get to." His knot is there, plain as day, Vhaeryth even more obvious with the long extension of his neck, faceted eyes whirling and sparkling brighter now. "N'rov, bronze Vhaeryth's," he says quickly, maybe even /smugly/ as he moves to meet her pace, Vhaeryth busy making eyes at the girl all the while to the point where N'rov rolls /his/. It adds levity to what he finally remembers to add, "And we fly in the Weyrleader's wing. But! You have a good idea. No, a brilliant one. Let's go find one of your journeymen. Or a master, maybe?" And he seems to think she's a tricky sort, for he poises himself where he might grab her arm if she makes a run for it. Not now, though. Now, he's hands off. Keeping pace, is he? The girl tries to speed up her steps - will he make her run away from him like a lunatic? "/Weyrleader/?!" Her voice is almost shrill with disbelief but it does have the effect of stopping her in her tracks rather abruptly, and with no regard whether the bronzerider is behind her or beside her. She whirls on him, green eyes wide so that every fractured shade of gold and brown that rings her pupils is staring into him demanding as much as begging. She's at that pivotal age where youth is transforming into uncertain adulthood, and it shows in the visible debate of anxieties and confidence waging war across her features, nibbling at her lip and weighing so heavily on her chest that her nervous breathing is audible. "Why are you being such a /creep/? What do you want? Why won't you just leave me alone?" "Not that /I'm/ the Weyrleader!" N'rov's starting to say, just as she stops and momentum makes him miss a step and half-stumble into her. But he's quick to take a step back and then, with her staring like that, with her nibbling on her lip like that, abruptly shakes his head against some sudden, unwanted familiarity. "If you're Brighton," he enunciates, though his accent's thick with Boll, "I want to be able to tell your parents that /you aren't dead/." It's quite possible that it's a lack of experience that lends her to ignore Vhaeryth completely. Is anyone unaccustomed to seeing enormous creatures looking over the courtyard walls really going to check for something looking over the courtyard wall? The girl who has yet to admit to being Brighton goes awkwardly rigid, half bracing herself for the impact and the embarrassment that follows, turning her cheeks red. She tries to recover her pride, straightening her clothes and smoothing down her hair in that obsessed way of young girls who wear their self-esteem issues on their sleeves. Those green eyes slide to the corner to steal an innocent, shy once-over of the bronzerider. "If you aren't the Weyrleader then why do should I do anything with you?" Those defensive green eyes migrate back to that knot and the bronze thread in it, and thoughts give way to curiosity that lands Vhaeryth's big head in her wide sights. "What- Make him stop that! Stop /looking/ at me!" She looks squarely at the bronzerider, jaw tightening with stubborn will. "I don't have parents. I'm not Brighton." She lowers her voice, will quietly fracturing under too much of that pride. "And if I was, I would rather them think I was dead," she utters, spitting out that last word with venom from a deep, emotional wound. "/My/ life is none of your business - and it isn't any of their's either." "Look," that bronzerider begins, hands tightening before he forces them open, before he gives her that space to collect herself in. He does glance at the dragon in question, but quickly away and back to her: if she's focused bck on him, surely he doesn't need to address the question of his dragon? "Maybe so. I don't know what happened between you and your parents, don't know why you left the herders," and if he can take a guess, he's not saying, "but people are worried. About you. And I don't know what name you go by here, and maybe you're glad to reinvent yourself, but I know a girl who did and she's had to keep looking over her shoulder, waiting for the past to come get her, and it colors your /whole life/." He's intent on her, gray eyes the color of rain-washed slate, willing her to understand with a personal sort of urgency. "I don't plan to drag you off. I've just got to talk to your masters. You're a good student here too, aren't you? They accepted you, they want you, and they'll settle things." If all he's describing is the most optimistic outcome, well, that's the pragmatic way of getting her to do what he wants... but he also seems to believe it. This, while his dragon's oddly silent, /listening/. "No." She's firm, confident; unwilling to let the past chase after her as it has the girl in N'rov's story, and just as unwilling to let N'rov speak with her master. Her slight figure straightens, rallying her pride and pushing it down her spine into the heels of her slippered feet. "You go back and you tell them that /they/ did this to themselves," she demands, the only vibration in her voice one born of the nervousness of grabbing hold of something tight and hanging onto it with one's entire life. "They wanted me to be something I'm not - my /whole life/." And there's a dryness to those last words, playing off N'rov's own phrase. She looks away, green eyes betraying her as tears brim but no, she won't cry. She dabs away the tears with her sleeve and no more rise to replace them, but a small corner of her pride has been wiped away with them and her voice is soften when she explains, "I hate beasts. I hate... everything about them, all of them-" She hesitates and looks sidelong at Vhaeryth. "The ones that aren't... winged." Because, yeah. No need to upset anyone. Or anything. "Do you know what it's like smelling like poop all the time? You step in it, you kneel in it, sometimes you /touch/ it- it's sick! And I'm not good with animals! That's just this ridiculous /lie/ that they are keeping up to make me just like them." She reaches for his arm, desperation in those green eyes as she stares up at him. "What if they don't settle things? What if they just make me go back because I lied to them? You /have/ to make them let me stay. /You/ have to. Because you're ruining my life." Very. Very. Serious. If that scant vibration is a thin and tight-wound string, it increasingly finds its echo in the way N'rov regards the girl, beginning with the untrustworthy humor that rises as she speaks of /him/ relaying her demands as though she were the Masterheaer herself. He may bite off refusal then, but he also refrains from listing alternatives. He may not offer his handkerchief for her eyes, but neither does he direct a pointed look at her sleeve, instead glancing briefly, uncomfortably away. Vhaeryth (who, still intrigued but also still very much the predator, vents an amiable snort when he's looked at that just /happens/ to show his fangs) is easier to tak about, perhaps even to make something approaching common ground with: "Imagine my relief when he could, ah, poop /between/ instead of where I had to shovel it. It was poop large enough to throw an... never mind." Short-iived common ground, perhaps, if it was ever that at all. He doesn't dispute her hold on his arm, though in that moment he's starting to look a touch wild-eyed. Finally, deliberately narrowing his eyes back again so he can better play phrases right back at her, "/You/ ran away. You /lied/. Better now than right before you walk the tables to journeyrank, Brighton, and I'm not saying I won't help, you're that convincing. Are you sure you wouldn't rather be a harper?" That humor's a little too close to desperation. But then he catches it back, "Seriously, though. This is important. /Is/ a healer what you want to be? If you could be anywhere at all, do anything at all, ride a dragon, marry a Lord? Is it more than getting away from what you hate?" Brighton (if she can now be called that) has had enough of the scary dragon over the courtyard wall, and she turns just enough so that his fanged mouth isn't terrorizing her peripherals any longer. Which makes for an awkward conversation as N'rov's brings the bronze into things. "You knew that part of your life would end though," she reminds, "and one day you wouldn't be touching poo ever again. A beastcrafter does not simply... /not/ touch poo." Very short-lived common ground. That hand on him is joined by the second hand if he does dodge it, and her green eyes search his grey for that piece of humanity that might listen to her plea. "I didn't run away, I left," she corrects, and her smile gently flares to life. "Maybe in a few Turns I'll try my hand at that - after this ordeal, the idea of law is beginning to have an appeal." A joke, really, and then she returns to seriousness. "I'd /rather/ marry a Lord but that's not realistic. I want to be a healer. I've always wanted to be a healer. I like helping others; /fixing/ people. I never wanted to be a beastcrafter and my parents knew that. I don't /hate/ them," she explains, her voice cracking softly. "What do I do to fix this?" Not the voice-cracking! N'rov leaves off the poo talk with, all right, he has to get in just a brief mutter about he didn't /know/ there would be poo to start out with, nobody told him there would be poo, grumble grumble. He may eye the hands on his arm a little warily, without actually dodging her looking at him, but he also straightens his shoulders some like he's trying for Hardened Dragonrider rather than Squishy Putty. "If we're not going to toss you into Lord Astivan's path," he begins with a wry half-smile, "since you want to be a healer, since it's not a whim, since you're going to be good at it, you might as well do it. So. We're going to find your masters, and yes, I'll back you up, and then you'll write a note to your parents explaining things, and I'll deliver it and then run away before they hit me, and you'll go on to journey somewhere exciting and fix people whether they like it or not, and become a master if that's what you want to do, and with your luck if you have kids they'll want to be beastcrafters instead and you'll have to remember not to tear your hair out about it," and she'll live happily ever after. "Deal?" Her hands loosen and her lips give something of a weak smile. It isn't /complete/ confidence in his suggestion but her nod accedes his decision. She takes her hands back, resisting the urge to wrap them around herself but instead planting them firmly at her sides with the air of someone more mature than fifteen turns. "If you truly believe that is the right thing to do..." She trails off and turns to continue on deeper into the Hall, perhaps anticipating he'll follow. "If you think they don't know where I am," she mentions, "you're wrong. They know. They just don't want to accept it." A smile begins to peak. "And if my parents don't kill you for not bringing me home, and I /am/ as successful at this as I intend to be, I'll be sure to find you along my exciting journey to thank you. And I will remember not to have children. Deal." "Well, then, they'll officially have to know," so there, as N'rov indeed obliges with the following. He doesn't overtly offer her his arm or anything, not with that air of hers lest it crack, though his elbow /is/ right there. "I /suppose/ I'd better not make it too hard for you to find me, then. Only two questions: how did you get here? And do you know anything about anyone else running off? ...Except, make that three." He glances down at the girl. "What do you want your name to be?" Brighton either isn't inclined to hanging off men's elbow or she appreciates the solidity of her own space, and doesn't reach for him. She emits a long sigh, her cheeks puffed out before a wave of confusion grips her and she turns a twisted brow at the bronzerider. "I don't really know why it matters? There was a dragonrider," she explains casually. "He was a Fortian - a bluerider. I didn't ask his name. He sounded very proper, as if he'd had good upbringing and an education." Her narrow shoulders lift in a shrug. "I haven't bothered much getting to know anyone here. I've been studying. As far as I know, I'm the only one that has run off." Green eyes watch her feet for a few steps before swinging back to him. "There are other kids missing?" A quiet laugh bubbles up. "Brighton. I'll go with Brighton. It's easier anyway. I've been Brighton for fifteen turns; it's unnatural being called something else." "Not all proper-sounding blueriders actually are, Brighton," N'rov warns darkly, though he lightens it with, "I'm glad this one turned out. If you happen to remember what he looks like, or what his dragon did, that could help." It buys him time, time to make it further along the corridor and decide what else he's going to say. Eventually, more quietly, and not just because passersby could over hear, "Yes. There are more kids missing. That's part of why we were... worried. But I'd appreciate your keeping it under your cap, and if you do hear anything, send me a message, a sealed one. No drums." Though he looks sideways at her, his expression is serious, straightforward. And while he doesn't repeat his name, no doubt her masters will quiz them both soon enough. Brighton nods, turning a corner down a hall with a number of doors lining the length of it: the Master's Hall, no doubt. "I'll do that." Her pace slows as much for her curiosity for his whispered words as her attempt to stall the inevitable. "I'm a healer now, Dragonrider," she coyly reminds, "keeping secrets is what I do best." But now it's time to rally pride, and she approaches one of the doors and hesitates before knocking on it solidly. A deep voice from within calls out, and Brighton gives one last pleading look at N'rov. "If this goes sour, you're taking me to the Weyr." And she opens the door. |
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