Logs:Murder Gather
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| RL Date: 10 October, 2015 |
| Who: Aughan, Everett, Farideh, Faryn, Jo, K'zin, Keysi, M'kris, Oriane, Quinlys, Quint, R'hin, Rategar, Yesia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold, Monaco Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Crom's gather turns... a little pear-shaped. |
| Where: Crom Hold |
| When: Day 18, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
| OOC Notes: Happens in and around R'hin's End. |
| Gathers in the middle of winter are always a little touch-and-go: if you're lucky, it won't be snowing or sleeting or windy or otherwise miserable, and if you're not... well. Aughan, however, has luck on his side; it's icy-cold, today, but clear and fine, and between gather tends with cromcoal ranges, and bonfires out in the open (not to mention the great hall for those desperate to get indoors), it's not so bad. Tents and stalls line the gather grounds; dragons line of the fireheights; the air is full of merriment. Turn's end is days away, and despite the peculiarity of holding a celebration as large as this for a thirty-ninth turnday, there are few complaints from the visitors-- hailing from near and far-- on hand. Mid-afternoon finds Aughan and his Lady acting as bystanders as a skating competition takes place, along with a number of other dignitaries; others enjoy the other celebrations on offer, including music and dancing, and a plentiful array of food. The atmosphere is festive. Quinlys is always loath to give up a gather, especially with impending weyrlings, so it's no wonder, really, that she's out today, dressed up in white fur and a brilliantly cerulean blue coat. With a drink in hand, the bluerider weaves her way through the crowds, pausing every so often to examine wares in one tent or stall or another, though she doesn't seem inclined to buy anything. The music, as always, draws her attention, and though it's still too early for dancing, she meanders that way nonetheless. It's a gather, and what enterprising harper would miss such an opportunity, really? Certainly not Quint! Especially with such a small contribution to the set, standing in for a short time while some of the local harpers take a break, Quintus is free by mid-afternoon, watching the skaters -- or more accurately, watching the people watching the skaters. His harper blue makes him stand out, perhaps, which is why he doesn't stay overlong: just enough to get a measure of the Lord, his wife, and the people around them, before heading towards the stalls. Out on the ice, one of the skaters takes a tumble, to the roar of delight from a good amount of the crowd: great fun! Of course, those who've placed bets on the young men... well. Today's just not their day, is it? Up by the harper pavilion, a reel begins, and a few young people grab partners to dance, just because they can. Now there is dancing, but Quinlys has a drink in hand, and that's no use at all. The bluerider gives the dancers a somewhat wistful glance and then turns away again, her path carrying her towards Quint; a chance encounter. She gives him a glance, as if she's not sure if she recognises him or not, but her smile is bright enough: those candidates that she is escorting are looking after themselves, and that makes today a fine day indeed. "Cheers to the turnday lady," she offers, with a lift of her glass. The cold weather customary to High Reaches' coverage hasn't stopped Farideh from enjoying herself at gathers in the past, and, despite her three month hiatus of late, it doesn't stop her today. She's dressed in her gather best: a dress in varying shades of midnight blue and deep sapphire, a fur-lined cloak, and a silly fur hat that's pulled down over her ears. Since she arrived, in the late morning, she's been seen a varying parts of the gather grounds, conversing amicably with different people, weyrfolk and holders alike. But now, with most of the pleasantries out of the way, she's found her way to one of the bonfires, to seek warmth with the other bodies present, as she strategically dissects a pastry-like dessert she got off one of the vendors. Oblivious to skaters, dancers, and dignitaries, she seems terribly pleased with her lot right now; fireside eating sticky bread with wind-reddened cheeks and a secretive smile. Even if Quint isn't recognized by the rider, he recognizes her; what good Harper wouldn't know such an esteemed personage of the Weyr? "Weyrlingmaster," Quint says, with no small amount of pleasure at the encounter, a hand pressed to his waist in the shade of a bow not-quite-executed. "What a delight. Journeyman Quintus," he offers his name smoothly, and at her toast, lifts his hand -- and grimaces, because said hand is empty. Still, he recovers well enough: "Yes, yes. A whole seven in celebration of his Lady. A generous Lord indeed." Everett arrives with a greenrider--That Greenrider, it might be said--having made some attempt to dress well enough to warrant the company. At least, he's gotten a better coat at some point than whatever he might have originally arrived at the Weyr with, and better boots, and none of it's flashy, but let's leave flashy for the girl. What he can provide is smiling, and a bit of conversation about nothing in particular, and a little pausing here and there for amiable small talk with familiar faces. Not the fanciest folks, these people--mostly young men--that he's made acquaintance with along the way, but they're generally seeming in good enough spirits for the occasion. Quinlys, plainly pleased to have been recognised, is all dimples in her reply to Quint, not even acknowledging hi lack of glass. "No one feted me like this when I turned twenty-nine," she comments, merrily. "Let alone thirty. Perhaps it's something I've got to look forward to when I hit thirty-nine. Will he try and top this next turn, d'you think? A pleasure to meet you, anyway, Quintus. I've seen you at the Weyr, haven't I? Or somewhere, anyway." "Well," Quint replies, with an affront that is clearly adopted on behalf of the Weyrlingmaster, "That seems like a terrible fault that ought to be rectified. Perhaps," he leans in as if about to impart some conspiratorial suggestion: "You should have a word with the Headwoman. Terrible shame," he's even shaking his head, though the twitch of lips perhaps belies the gravely affronted countenance. "He has set the bar awfully high," the harper agrees, of Lord Aughan. "Next Turn it will have to be a Turn-long celebration -- and where do you go after that? Mm, yes, guilty -- well-settled in now -- actually, it's a fortuitous coincidence that I've run into you. Many weyrlings to come, I believe -- I'll be helping out with their mm, academic training, when it comes to it. I'd love to get your thoughts, some time." Delighted, Quinlys all-but beams at Quint; those first four letters in their name are clearly a sign of good judgement and taste, though her reaction to mention of those weyrlings is a little more wary, for all that she slides back to a smile quite promptly. "Quintus and Quinlys," she muses, idly, before actually moving on to answering what he's actually said. "I'll tell her directly," she agrees. "I'm sure she'll understand the fault and have it remedied quickly. I'm in my office most afternoons, anyway, if you'd like to drop by so that we can talk. Kharven was with us a long time," she continues, naming his predecessor, "But I trust we can make things work. For all," twitch, roll of the eyes, half-sigh, "Twenty-eight of them." L'rok arrives, bringing with him the candidate, Rategar. The pair of them can be seen heading towards the drinks tent in easy laughter and banter. They'll likely be in there for a little while before they emerge again. Up on the fireheights, there's an extended collection of dragon-- not just High Reaches ones, but also others from further afield, including an extensive collection of Monacoans. Perhaps most notable, at least for High Reachians? Feyzeth is one of them, lounging in his place quite as if he is lord of all he sees. (To nearby dragons) "Quint, please," the harper corrects, easily, though he chuckles at her comparison of their names. "I'd ask if you have family in Lemos, but I'm Hold-born; so that isn't much of a clue." He looks pleased, nodding, taking in her glass with a measure of study. "He left some fairly detailed notes," the harper replies, of his predecessor. "But there's always room for, mm, tweaking?" at her mention of the number, he gestures grandly towards the drinks table, past some of the bonfires. "That," he says, "Sounds like it requires at least half a glass of something stronger than wine to bear. Hard to imagine during a Pass," he muses, gaze flickering about. Feyzeth is unperturbed by everyone. Lord of everything he sees, okay? Though... there's something extra-smug in his surface thoughts, now. (To High Reaches dragons) "Coincidence, then," laughs Quinlys, though some of her good humour is sliding away amidst all of this work talk. Her own gaze drops toward her glass, and in a single gesture she draws it towards her mouth and drains it. "Let's go," she agrees, firmly. "The idea of raising a pass clutch full of dragon make me want to cry, and this is a party; we'll have none of that. Whiskey, though... whiskey is always a good plan." Leiventh isn't apt to draw appreciable attention, reticent that he is; but he is there, perched up on the fireheights, not-so-still as normal. To High Reaches dragons, Leiventh is silent, watching. If he's perturbed overly by the presence of Monaco's representatives, he keeps it well in check. If Everett is doing one thing right tonight, its leaving flashy for the girl. Frigid weather notwithstanding, no amount of cold is ever going to convince Yesia -- That Greenrider -- to wear a skirt that goes far past her knees, and for a weeklong gather she's pulled all the stops. In a long-sleeved burgundy number, with a fur hat and all her red hair down around her shoulders in big ringlets, Yesia's delight is radiant on her face once Aeaeth has deposited her and Everett on the ground. She immediately links her arms with Everett's -- hers -- and smooths down the collar of his shirt prissily. "Drinks, then dancing? Dancing then drinks? Drinks then..." She trails suggestively off, finishing uneventfully with, "bonfire?" Perhaps it's strange that Tacuseth can be seen near Leiventh, as well. Those that can pick out the blue dragon would find him on those heights, as silent as a mountain as he watches everything. Icy seas stir and thrash at the touch of the unwelcome foriegner. Otherwise the brown seems settled enough. (To High Reaches dragons from Akluseth) Quint must have a certain appreciation for the bluerider's unapologetic draining of her glass; he's grinning, falling into easy step with her. Perhaps it's mere coincidence that they pass near the bonfire -- near Farideh -- as he's replying to Quinlys' comment about the size of the clutch: "I've always wondered if you could have queens hold off. Space it out a bit more. Though by the sounds of things they're sharing the sands well enough." He makes what sounds like an agreeably noise to the suggestion of whiskey, rubbing hands together as they pass nearer the warmth. L'rok and Rat seem to take a tour about the gather grounds, taking in the female sights around them. Of course. They seem content to move in the background, heading towards the bonfire with little purpose. From high up on the fireheights, the sound of an angry roar carries-- it's loud enough that many of the holdfolk, unused to such things, glance up and stare, uncomfortable and concerned. What's wrong with that bronze? The siren's call of the dance floor is what K'zin escapes to head toward the skating contest. Sweat beads his brow until it's mopped away with the loose cream sleeve of his shirt, setting off the blue-grey of his gather best with its peach accents. It's the sort of outfit that's meant to accent someone else's rather than be flashy on its own, but the other half of the paired ensemble seems absent. With drink in hand, he moves through the figures. Rasavyth, up on the heights, tilts his head toward the roar. Bonfires and gossip, gossip and bonfires! It's another reason Farideh has stationed herself nearby the others gathered around the flames. She can lend an ear to their conversation as she tears apart her gather food, without actually having to contribute to the conversation; it's the best of both worlds. Still, one can't help themselves when they're hearing something salacious, and it's with one brow arched high that the goldrider leans back, her focus settling, not without some surprise, on the weyrlingmaster and her harper escort. She's just about to say something presumably waspish, when-- her eyes lift to the fireheights, confusion plain on her face. Feyzeth owns that roar, and the deep fury that follow it, curling and uncurling in his immediate thoughts. (To High Reaches dragons) "Neither of them is bitchy," agrees Quinlys. "Which is a good thing. A really territorial queen could mess things up pretty bad. I mean, shells, they have to share, or you have to send one queen to another Weyr before she clutches, and that opens up a whole host of other issues." Beat. "Ridiculous, really, having gathers like this in winter. I for one am going to head south for turnover. Bring on the beaches, righ--" She pauses, uncertain; that roar has caught her attention, and in seeking it out, she's caught sight of Farideh, too. There's a question in red eyebrows, but not upon her lips. To High Reaches dragons, Rasavyth's attention shifts in the wake of the sound, the shimmer of ooze attentive, his shrewd mind casting out tendrils of his curiosity to query the moods of the dragons around and about, stopping short of the one who made the sound. Faryn's been here for a while, as it were, but her participation has been mostly indoors, where she won't lose a limb to frostbite. Her reappearance from the main hall is not obtrusive -- it's the sound of a dragon roar that draws her out, not fast but with an urgency that's easily read as she steps into the cold. Her brow is furrowed with confusion, and her eyes scan the heights for just a moment before she hastens further out, scanning for something specific as she goes. Maybe someone. A dragon roaring up on the fireheights is unusual an occurrence during a gather; a second more so. The normally watchful bronze Leiventh stretches his wings wide, talons gripping the edge. To High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth projects « What's going on? » Olveraeth's stars are seeking, searching, and uncertain. His discomfort is obvious, that voice lower and more nasal than usual. « Is something wrong? » "I've heard that's not always been the case...?" Quint says, thoughtfully, in response to the Weyrlingmaster, quizzical expression perhaps seeking further information. "And that, I don't blame you," he's laughing, "I've been at Boll for the last couple of Turns, so this is quite some shock to the system, let me tell--" he breaks off, as he notices Quinlys' odd look, frowning as he glances from her, following her gaze to Farideh, with a frown. "Is something wrong, Weyrlingmaster?" he asks, politely. Although there is no verbal content to Leiventh's mental presence, there is something dark and roiling. Fury? Fear? Something in between, even: wintry winds whipping into stormlike conditions. (To High Reaches dragons from Leiventh) "Drinks," that much Everett can be decisive about; it's a good place to start, and the focus on this--complete with having to give instructions to whoever's pouring, because apparently he's fussy when there's a girl to impress--is perhaps enough to distract from whatever's going on with the dragon up there. "I do intend to get a dance in, mind, but might as well save it. They usually wind up serving better stuff at the beginning of the night than at the end--at least, to most of us." Tacuseth looks agitated, but the blue is the only one remaining where he is. It only shows in his stiff posture, his wings coming up halfway. Roars? Akluseth is unimpressed. « Bullies. » Is his irritated scoff, the Ice churning in the waves of his thoughts as he answers his onetime mentor. (To High Reaches dragons from Akluseth) Can anyone not feel Feyzeth's fury, now? His absolute towering rage? No says his thoughts, except he's not got it in him to put it into words. Somewhere, beneath that, there's the touch of a queen-- Evielth, probing from all the way back at Monaco; concerned. (To High Reaches dragons) Neianth circles slowly before landing upon the heights, having appeared from Between a little while ago and vocalizing an initial- and brief- announcement of his arrival. He doesn't fully settle, wings shuffling and re-shuffling, as he angles a faceted-eyed look at the angered bronze's general direction. The small brown's location lingers some distance from the already-arrived Leiventh and nearby Tacuseth, but aside from a second tilt of his head and a quiet rumble, his presence is otherwise 'just' there. For now. Keysi had been within the masses of the Gather for at least a little while, with the majority of her attention caught by a stall lined with smith wares. Two dragons making a fuss up on the fireheights? Farideh makes a thoughtful "hm" sound, letting her gaze fall from the angry dragons up above to the weyrlingmaster nearby. She gives her head a tiny shake of unknowing, as the earlier confusion clouding her face starts to recede underneath a more rational, if neutral emotion. To High Reaches dragons, Aeaeth's rainbows are muted with surprise and caution; there's the disjointed squeal of bow drawn poorly along violin strings. The roars, the fury -- what are we all yelling about? "I don't know," is genuine, apologetic, and confused. Quinlys breaks away from her glance towards Farideh and the fireheights and looks back at Quint. "But be ready for trouble. Olly's trying to find out-- Farideh, do you know anything?" She has to ask, even if she has seen that shake of the head. "Olly says one of them is Feyzeth. And R'hin. Have you seen either of them?" Abruptly, something stirs Leiventh to movement, launching up from the heights. Instead of climbing, however, he's diving downwards, towards the middle of the gather, a noise tearing its way from his throat somewhat between a roar and something higher-pitched. The storm gathers to something haphazard; kaleidoscopic anger and fear mixing with something odder: relief, welcome. (To High Reaches dragons from Leiventh) There's enough commotion, now, that Lord Aughan and his Lady are on the way back towards the gather tents, the former quietly watchful, the latter plainly furious. Above, too, there's a new dragon in the air: Evielth of Monaco, her rider clinging to her without straps, both their heads craning to see what's happening below. Quint's be ready for what? isn't quite voiced aloud, even if it's writ large in his expression. Still, he's well-trained enough to observe, gaze flickering between the pair of riders, and across the crowds, fixing on riders, here and there, with a frown. When Leiventh launches, it's the first time during all of this that Tacuseth emits a loud shriek in his wake. His wings lift as if he was going to follow after the bronze, but the blue still seems rooted to the heights. Keysi moves away from the stall, the look on her face mutedly distracted in that glaze of draconic communication. Neutral expression gains lines that just slightly furrow her brow as she turns to move away from the stall and just start walking, pale eyes simply looking over faces. When she sees Quinlys, her simply meandering observance turns into something a little more directed as she starts an approach towards her. "Weyrlingmaster-" Is started in both greeting and question, but she's paused, stiffly, when Neianth first warns and then she sees Leiventh diving. Her sorrel-topped brown spreads his dark wings almost to their length, maw opened in what should be sound but isn't. Talons curl over the edge, ready to follow, weight tipped over the edge as if all he needs to do is let go. K'zin's stopped in his path, not a far distance now from the Qs and the weyrwoman, but his eyes aren't looking for familiar (and unfamiliar) faces, but is rather upturned toward the heights, brow wrinkled and expression troubled. With the launch of Leiventh, however, and his apparent course down, K'zin is turning his eyes to take in his surroundings anew - who has two thumbs and doesn't want to be collateral damage if there's to be damage? This guy. To High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth reaches, reaches for Leiventh: « What's wrong? What's going on? » He's too agitated to try and control the channel; it spills outwards. When the dragons get agitated, both L'rok and Rategar pause to look towards the fireheights. "Is this normal?" Rat asks his friend, his Bitran accent oddly missing. L'rok - being usually jovial and easy-mannered - isn't so much anymore as he slowly shakes his head answers him with, "I would think not." He didn't even notice the accent change. The frantic movement of her eyes, flicking here and there around he gather, tells another story than the calm of her expression. "M'kris? And R'hin." Farideh exhales loudly, turning in a circle until she's coming to face Quinlys and Quint. "I haven't seen either of them. Perhaps M'kris has said something vile again and they're just--" Horror alights in her eyes when they lift again, to espy Leiventh's dive towards the gather grounds. "No. Nononono--no." It's obvious that whatever is going on is not merely a lover's spat, and Farideh's walking towards Quinlys, panic on her features for a moment before she reels it back in. "They can't. Not here. Not on--" But Lord and Lady Crom already look angry-- the former anyway. "I don't know," is not really answer to anyone's question specifically, not as High Reachians start coming out of the woodwork towards Quinlys and Quint. She looks from one face to the other, evidently attempting to seek out some kind of answers, but it largely seems as if none are presently forthcoming. Leiventh is perhaps the only clue the bluerider has; she gestures in his direction, and says, firmly, "Come on. If Aughan is going to head that way, we need to too." Yesia is pliant tonight at the promise of a party, and she all-but purrs, "Okay, drinks," and lets Everett guide her along, trusting that he'll get her something she likes. She's startled by the roar, enough that her grip on Everett's arm tightens quickly, then loosens enough that she won't cut his circulation off. "That's weird." Which means something, for a girl whose been a dragonrider all of a turn and change. "I think maybe we--" Then there's diving, and motion, and Yesia's eyes glass over when Aeaeth startles on the other side of the fireheights. "M'kris?" Quint echoes Farideh, too much the harper not to recognize that name: "The Monaco Weyrleader?" He's frowning, now, in thought, eyes fixing on the Cromese Lord and Lady. With a nod, he's surging forward, checking his longer strides to match that of Weyrlingmaster and weyrwoman. Faryn stops in her tracks at the shrieking, the roars, and now her calm urgency presses to a a jog -- she's going for Quinlys and Farideh, the two-fer of authority figures. Leiventh's dive stops her, and she skitters to the next best thing: K'zin, who is lucky enough to have to field the Faryn's shaken, "K'zin, what's--?" Leiventh's dive takes him down, over the line of tents near the weaver's, close enough that the buffeting of his downsweep might stir the air below. That noise that comes from the bronze, somewhat between a roar and something more terrifying, terrible, ceases abruptly, as the hook-nosed bronze vanishes between. There is no answer; the storm silences, abruptly. As does any trace of Leiventh's presence. (To High Reaches dragons from Leiventh) Above, Evielth is not too far from Leiventh as he disappears; hers is the first keen, the first of many as those dragons present-- and others, further afield-- acknowledge the absence of another. It's sudden, Tacuseth's keen. He sends it on high, the sound deep and shattering as the blue seems to lose the rigidity of his posture. Tacuseth's presence is a silent one throughout all of this, his shadows darker than usual. More chilly than usual. Now, his sadness is all that is felt, lingering on desert winds. (To High Reaches dragons from Tacuseth) To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth's not at Crom, but that doesn't mean he's not aware-- as Leiventh's departure resonates within the minds around him, High Reaches' Weyrleader dragon raises his own keen, joined by Niahvth alongside him. Confusion, however, reigns: what the shell is going on? Instinct takes Aeaeth. She was focused, wholly, on Yesia a distance away -- now whatever drove her concern drains out, and her high-pitched keen is inconsolable. A still-internally-panicking Farideh makes a strangled sound and bobs her head at Quinlys, her cheeks flushing with brighter color when she only spares a glance for the harper; not right now. "They're going to be pissed. First Greenfields and now this. What if they do what--" Again, another unfinished sentence, as Leiventh's dive takes him past the tents and-- between. She'd been in the process of scurrying after Quinlys, in the direction of the holders, but the sudden disappearance of the bronze brings her to a stiff halt, shoulders rigid and arms straight at her sides; her face goes pale. Leiventh, R'hin? "I don't-" is all K'zin manages to answer Faryn, a hand instinctively reaching for her elbow as though to guide her away from here and to where things might be more safe. Only the movement is forgotten. If it contacts, the grip is too tight in the moment that the bronzerider loses his breath. If it doesn't, he doesn't even realize the hand is still upraised. Leiventh's abrupt departure prompts Rasavyth to raise his voice with the rest. "Leiventh-- R'hin," is all K'zin manages to get out before looking to Faryn, eyes fearful-- no, dreading what must be. It must, mustn't it? Rising With his Dam's cry, Akluseth joins in the confusion and keening. (To High Reaches dragons from Akluseth) Keysi listens to the tail-end of whatever pieces of conversation she tags from the moments between joining Farideh, Quint, Quinlys, to the change in Leiventh's path. "Is there any idea-" The stern look about her, creasing that neutral expression, suddenly goes abruptly blank, very still and even more pale. In the same beat, Neianth releases his hold on the fireheights to dive for the Gather, as if to follow the bronze's path though he never makes it so low. His keen is delayed, potentiated but not suppressed by the disbelief between himself and His. When he lands, he lands on the grounds at the edge of the gather, his voice joining in no lack of volume to those already spreading the note of loss. Back at home, back on the sands that she shares with Niahvth, Roszadyth keens thoroughly and deeply, for another one of their own lost. She lacks her usual sunshine and brightness, and in its place is a feather-light breeze of cold Reachian climes. (To High Reaches dragons from Roszadyth) Quinlys' face goes deathly pale, but she, at least, manages to push herself back into action. "With me," she says, in a low, furious undertone, aimed towards those in her close vicinity: she as a Lord and his Lady to follow, and now, as Evielth lands, a Weyrwoman, too. And there, coming out of a tent, not so very far away... M'kris, bloody-handed and stunned. Every ounce of color shudders away, soaked up into nothingness -- Aeaeth in grayscale is a miserable thing, but her mental keen is a pitch-perfect melancholy, a wordless dirge she didn't know she knew. (To High Reaches dragons from Aeaeth) Faryn would complain any other day, hiss her objection to the tightness of K'zin's fingers on her elbow, but she knows this, and she doesn't need an answer. She goes from stock still to trembling in a way even the cold couldn't be responsible for, with realization and understanding, her rejection breathless: "No. K'zin -- he can't -- no." Is it Quinlys' ferocity that kick starts Farideh into action? Or perhaps the vision of the bloody-handed M'kris? Farideh's brow dips once, her lip wobbling twice, and then her face relaxes, again, as she picks up her skirts to gain on Quinlys. "That makes two," is all she says to the bluerider, mindless of the others that come with them, if harper or brownrider follows. "What's going on?" Everett has been at the Weyr a bit now, but even with that, the reaction of the dragons gets more of an unsettled glancing-around than any expression of instant recognition. An arm around Yesia's shoulders is entirely there for her security and comfort, of course. Not his. He is absolutely not spooked by any of this. Quinlys' voice is what snaps K'zin out of his moment. It's an automatic response to the long habit of doing what he's told by that voice. Well, usually not with the irate undertone, but still familiar enough. Releasing and turning away from Faryn, the bronzerider's jaw sets and he falls into step behind the weyrlingmaster. His expression only deadens when brown eyes catch on M'kris. Clearly, Quint has heard this sound before. Still, exposure doesn't make him like it any less; he winces and grimaces, but if anything it makes him hurry more, even seeking to outstrip his companions, as if he could possibly outrun the noise. He seems not to have noticed that Farideh's stopped, trailing Lord Aughan and the guards that have appeared, not having to strain overmuch to see over them. To see... an unfamiliar figure, to him, but in an obvious situation. He takes two steps forward, but Crom is not his posting. Instead, he steps in line of sight of Lord Aughan, in his harper blue, giving a nod to him as if to suggest his support. His fingers are white, threaded together in a simulacrum of calm, turning his head as one of the Hold's harpers arrives at his side. Keysi hears the bluerider's voice, but it takes her a moment, almost two before it registers. But when it does the change from shock to anger is a switch-flip, redness flushing her face in an abrupt contrast to the paleness of initial reaction. She follows the weyrlingmaster's and Farideh's gaze first, taking in M'kris' posture far more readily than his expression. Once the lead lifts from her legs, deadened so thoroughly and slow to leave to give her any sort of speed, she's moving with the group, shortly picking up pace from a deliberate walk to a jog, hand shifted under her flight jacket to touch the hilt of her own dagger in the seconds before confrontation. Yesia's eyes are wide as saucers, on the spot where Leiventh was, on Everett, then on her lifemate on the fireheights, where she's strident in her grief. "He just --" she starts, hollow, her eyes distant. She takes the comfort Everett offers for all of ten seconds, then pushes him away, gently. "We...no, I. Do you know -- no. No, you wait here. It's okay, it's okay, shh." Conversations are overlapping in her head, it seems, because she's shushing him and looking at the fireheights as she backs away. "Right back. I'll be right back." Maybe. Through all the confusion, maybe no one will notice that several moments later, someone looking very much like Jo - the front of her yellow halter top bloodied - emerges. Her steps falter a bit with a dark look at M'kris. Uncharacteristically, there's tear tracks down her cheeks. With Rategar and L'rok having following Quinlys belatedly, the convict candidate's gaze sharpens on her familiar form before furtively looking around. L'rok is oblivious, staring hard at the Monaco Weyrleader as he comes to realize that one of his own has been snuffed out. Shoulders drawn back, expression a mask of calm, Oriane approaches her Weyrleader, falling in step with Aughan and his guards (though the Lord Holder acknowledges Quint, too, and the local harper alongside him). Oriane looks at her Weyrleader as if to dismiss him, but it is Aughan who speaks first. "Guards, arrest him." And from Oriane: "No." Nor has Jo slipped past anyone: as those guards file in, aiming to grab hold of the Monacoan Weyrleader, another attempts to take hold of Jo. "Sure!" Easygoing. There's nothing wrong, is there? Nothing at all. Everett is perfectly fine with Yesia taking off--or if not fine, at least quickly distracted by other things afoot, and making his way over to try to get a glimpse, and watching with very furrowed brow. But certainly no attempt to intervene, say anything, signal that he's ever met Jo before in his life, none of that, absolutely not. There's a moment of conferring amongst the harpers. Apparently Quint draws the short straw, because he steps forward: "Lord," with a bow towards Aughan, "Weyrwoman," the same to Oriane. "Perhaps you will allow myself and my fellow harpers to question both, provide you with a report, and then a decision can be made as to the ah-- outcome." K'zin's eyes have finally taken in enough of the bloodied Weyrleader to stray farther, to take in more, like Jo, his breath catching, eyes searching down the bloodied top as if to see if there's a wound there, or only blood. For all her rush, Quinlys now stands back; out of her depth. When a guard comes near her, Jo comes to life. She wrenches her arm away as if he tries to touch her with a steely, "Don' ya dare." Her gaze falls on M'kris now, her anger palpable as she shakes her head and says, "I saw him do it." If she could rush the man herself, she would in her anger. It, at first sight, appears that Keysi would push past everyone, even the guards, moving to arrest the Weyrleader to get to him in her evident rage as she shoulders her way past the forefront of the line of onlookers. But if anything else could stop her in her tracks a second time, maybe it's seeing a familiar face appear from the tent, seeing the tears on Jo's face. "Jo." Her voice, harsh and more air than any volume, echoes after K'zin and undoubtedly others. She forces her fingers free from the hilt she'd held as much to steady herself as in preparation to use it. It's easier to stare unfiltered anger M'kris, but the brownrider finds herself staring at the tent's entranceway instead, locked on it. After a few moments, the pieces snap into place for Faryn. Left to consider it for a head-spinning moment, it seems she might follow K'zin and the rest, but she stops for just a moment, not sure of her place in this. Eventually she settles for her place on the edge, her arms banded around her middle and her eyes intent on the scene unfolding. She cuts a look at Quint's offer, then the pair. "His dragon's still here," she says bitterly, not to him. To her boots, but it might carry. "Forgive me, Weyrwoman, if I do not trust your... position in this." Aughan is smooth; oily smooth. Oriane is undaunted, ignoring Quint and his harper companion in lieu of focusing upon the Lord and those around him, as M'kris attempts to struggle away from his captors, swearing blind that, "It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" "You're quite right, Lord Aughan. My leadership, in this, is compromised. I resign my knot," says Oriane. "We will cooperate fully with all Harper investigations, although I request that, as soon as the interrogations have been completed, we be allowed to take him back to Monaco, where we will have the ability to keep him safe-- that, I swear upon the life of my queen. Forgive me, my Lord, if I do not trust your position on this." Beat. "The same goes for her," a dip of her head, now, towards Jo. "Whomever she is. Does anyone know her-- you?" Her eyes fall, briefly, upon Keysi. "We will know exactly what happened, from all involved. Have the site secured, please." Yesia doesn't have to go far from Everett to find what she was looking for; short being her burden, when she gets far enough to the front of the onlookers to find, "Jo?" she stops, taking in the bluerider. The guards. Everything. Everyone. "Everett?" A whisper. "I think I want to go home." Even if she's standing there, not making any move to do that at all, while Oriane looks for someone to vouch for Jo. She keeps her mouth shut, for once, shaking her head. For a moment, Quint's gaze lands on Faryn, the slight shift of head perhaps acknowledgement, but his attention is all too soon returned to Lord and Weyrwoman. "All involved will be questioned fairly. You have our word as harpers," Quint says, with a tip of his head, only the slightest ripple of a grimace given at the Weyrwoman's resignation. His voice rises: "If you are witness to anything you think might be helpful, I ask that you remain to speak with a harper." There's no familiarity in the gaze he gives to Jo, expression neutral. He looks to Lord Aughan, as if to discern whether the Lord is agreeable to the Oriane's proposal before proceeding. "How could ya?" Jo goes on, fresh tears threatening to fall as she just stares at M'kris. "How could ya?" It's a mantra, on repeat, and it's soft and perhaps barely heard. Her gaze lights on Keysi from her position, the bluerider looking to her for a moment before she says, "He shouldn' be alone right now." It's clear she wants to go back in, but with the guards there and -- her gaze finds Yesia's, those tears in her dark eyes, registering no one else. HE DIDN'T. HE DIDN'T. » Feyzeth is sure... mostly sure. He's confused, perhaps because his rider is. There's all that blood, all that confusion. « He didn't. » (To High Reaches dragons) Keysi's hands are shaking, knuckles whitened from fists so tightly curled. She's lost in her stare, that want so badly to break out of the lineup of onlookers, taking a single step towards the tent, though it is in such parallel with the question asked of her, it may seem to be some part of a reply. Vague awareness of the silence that follows that question of Jo's identity scews her unfiltered expression into lines of confusion mixed with that anger that's no less evident. Grey eyes look to the bluerider in question, searching her face for a long moment as if in seeking permission, an answer, something. It only takes that much from Jo, even if it wasn't what she was initially searching for, before she breaks into a sprint to get to the tent and enter if not stopped without answering the questioner at all. "Stop her" is immediate, and comes from Aughan to his guards-- there are enough of them that they certainly do all fall in to try and prevent her, even if it means tackling her to the ground, as Aughan says, loudly and more firmly, "Anyone who enters that tent will be arrested and held at my convenience. The scene is sealed until further notice." One of his hands is placed upon Ienavi's arm, the Lady of Crom shaking with fury. Aughan, however, composes himself. "I would never dream of doubting the promise of a weyrwoman," he says, oily-smooth. "Take them both-- all three." Because there's Keysi, now, too. "Oriane-- Weyrwoman-- come, we will retire to my personal study. And," he turns, glancing around for the first time to register who else is present, gaze finally falling upon poor Farideh. "Ah, weyrwoman, good. High Reaches, too, much be represented. Come." And M'kris? "I DIDN'T DO IT." (To Keysi): Before anyone manages to get close enough to stop you, perhaps you have a moment to see what lays within: R'hin's body, on the ground, a knife in his belly. But then there are arms aiming to tackle you down, and-- well. K'zin's jaw works a little, staring at Jo. It means he doesn't miss the way she locks eyes with-- who? he glances but doesn't take in Keysi in that moment. Looking back to the bluerider, the tension in his frame doesn't ease. He looks again around the gathered group, in time, it would seem to catch sight of Keysi's movement, to reach out strong arms instinctively to try to catch her up-- not quickly enough. His grunt is low, frustrated, but he doesn't, in the end, step toward the guards to pursue. "NO!" Keysi, at such a loss for words through it all, suddenly is at no loss for volume when the guards are quite thoroughly moving to apprehend her. She struggles to get to the tent- her direction obvious and absolute- with no lack of effort to detach herself from those who work to restrain her but with no attempt to make direct violence. "GET OFF!" Is snarled amoung other words. She gets a handsbreath through the tent, perhaps, just enough to see around the corner. Just enough, it would seem, to see something. And that something takes the wind out of her, and just enough of the fight out of her. And a second "No." Is gasped. And by the time she's stopped, on her knees for being quite nearly tackled for it, she turns eyes now damp away towards those holding Jo, "She didn't do it!" Quint's gaze, like many others, goes to Keysi once the brownrider makes a run for it, but they don't stay there -- flickering around the crowd, taking note of faces both familiar and unfamiliar. There's a nod, for the departing personages, before he and the other harper confer, and step towards whichever guard looks in charge. "There's rooms put aside in the Hold. We can question them there." Not the cells, notably, and hopefully a suggestion taken since the Lord hasn't said elsewise. If Everett doesn't make eye contact, it's like he wasn't even there, isn't it? He tears eyes away, moves closer to Yesia. "That seems like... for the best, right now," he agrees, voice distant, quiet, putting an arm back around her to coax her in the direction of... somewhere that isn't here, now, even if it's not as far away as her dragon. To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth, still far away but evidently at least partially apprised of what is going on, extends a tendril, backed by Niahvth: « Return home, » he instructs. « All that are able. Tomorrow-- we will tackle this with clearer heads. I will be there soon. » He's reluctant, as always, to leave his Weyr and his eggs, but this is something that must be done. « Stay calm. » Faryn's expression is more and more pained as Reaches riders are detained and wrangled to be part of the questioning. Jo, Farideh, Keysi. Keysi, whose detainment makes her draw back in a wince of sympathetic pain. Perhaps it's her that breaks Faryn -- stoic, strong, steady Keysi, the tears there. The sound Faryn makes is choked off as she takes a step backwards in retreat. "Move," in lieu of excuse me, but Faryn can't watch anymore; she uses her elbow to make room for herself to get out and away. With Keysi launching herself towards the tent, it takes all of Jo not to double over in her grief in front of all of these people. With her glassy eyes glaring at M'kris for his cries, she doesn't even dignify him with further commentary. Something draws her to meet K'zin's gaze suddenly, lingering there a moment before she looks back at Keysi as she's being waylaid. She moves as if to go towards Keysi - to stop the guards if no one gets in her way. With a flick of his fingers, Aughan sets his guards into further action, his nod acknowledging Quint and the other harper. The dignitaries depart, but not before those guards grab up not only Keysi but Jo, too, with enough hands on deck to pacify them by force if required, ready to frog-march them all back to the Hold. But not, at least, to the cells. It leaves Quinlys to yell orders: "Stay calm. Don't make this worse." She looks, quite possibly, as if she'd like to knock certain people's heads together (namely Jo and Keysi). Farideh only moves from her position in the crowd when bid by Lord Aughan, and that's with her hat in hand and a severe expression on her face. She remains silent, starkly so, as she watches the proceedings with troubled eyes; where they say go, she will. Yesia stares at Jo when their eyes meet, and when something softens in her for a half-second, it's easily dismissed. The greenrider turns away first, trying to block out the direction and conversation behind her. When she laces her arm through Everett's it is purely practical, so they're not separated as she guides him to where they so recently landed. "What a terrible turnday party," she remarks, deflecting her discomfort into trademark shallowness. L'rok and Rategar are gone. Once that initial eye contact was taken, the candidate urges his rider friend to suddenly not be here. With everything going on, their sudden absence won't be easily noted. To Cadejoth, Rasavyth's mind reaches for his Weyrleader. « We wish permission to stay, please. » Yes, this is Rasavyth saying the 'p' word, and sounding sincere. There is a brief collage of images: a wingsecond's knot, a Snowdrift badge, Jo's face with tears. To Rasavyth, Cadejoth projects « Granted. » It is prompt, at least. « But don't let your rider be an idiot. » Keysi rises back to her feet, likely with some assistance. But she does, at least, stop fighting as she's escorted in a less than ideal manner towards the Hold. The brownrider looks back at the tent one last time before she's drawn to far away to be able to crane her neck in the appropriate direction. Gaze slips towards Jo as she starts to move towards her, and then simply falls in front of her when the guards move to take her as well, making no further eye contact- especially with Quinlys, Faryn, Farideh, other familiar faces. Although steeled in her expression finally, it doesn't hide the tears that are still there before she's gone. Reflection-less darkness, skewed in choppiness of intense agitation carries Neianth's response to Cadejoth. There's a hint of apology beneath it, in the vastness of his presence, followed and predominated by a desired resolution to stay. (To High Reaches dragons from Neianth) The touch of amusement is veiled with the shock and shared grief of the events of the night. « I'll have my K'zin wait with me, » is offered, « unless your K'del wishes him elsewhere. » Back up maybe? There has been a disturbing event and other disturbing events are not yet distant memories, and K'zin does have muscles and training to use them, if need be. (To Cadejoth from Rasavyth) The very possibility that muscles may be important bothers Cadejoth; that much is certain. But the acknowledgement is there, nonetheless: « Wait together, for now. We come. » (To Rasavyth from Cadejoth) Apologies are not (yet) required. Cadejoth appears in the air above the hold, circling downwards. Everything will be okay; he and his will make sure of it. Somehow. (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth) Jo doesn't fight as she's escorted finally with Keysi. Her gaze lingers finally at Yesia before her gaze steels up with the last of those tears unshed before she's gone towards the Hold. K'zin's retreat from the scene mimics several other riders to the point of joining their lifemates, but rather than Rasavyth making movements toward home, the pair settle near Tacuseth on the heights, to wait and watch. Quint falls in somewhat behind the guards, he and the other harper now conferring in silent tones, glancing back over their shoulder. |
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