Logs:R'hin's End
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| RL Date: 10 October, 2015 |
| Who: Jo, M'kris, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold, Monaco Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin chooses his end. |
| Where: Crom Hold |
| When: Day 18, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Oriane/Mentions |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
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| 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. A week before, one of R'hin's contacts -- Albret, the one he and Jo tracked down in Ista and pressured to watch M'kris -- ensured a list was delivered to him. It was a short list, but one of the lines said, Crom Gather, and today's date. Last night, R'hin gave Jo a bunch of letters with specific instructions for each, and after, a long discussion about his plan. It's a relatively sleepless night, at least for the bronzerider; stuck thinking, ever in his own head with thoughts of what might be, and trying to plan for even eventuality. In the morning, he brought a present for Jo; a new set of dark-cut leathers, with custom made holders for knives at the sleeves and thighs alike. He is sober, quiet, contemplative, though by the time they reach the Crom grounds, he has the set of a man intending to enjoy the day -- however it might unfold. Leiventh lands on the fireheights, and R'hin's gaze lifts there, looking not for his bronze, but another's. He slips his arm through Jo's, leaning in to murmur: "I've arranged to borrow a tent, for privacy. Have any further thoughts on how we get him there?" The bronze in question is there, stocky and solid, surveying the hold below quite as if it were his hold, and not one on the other side of the planet. Time differences are a bitch; it's already late, back at Monaco, not that something like that stops M'kris-- and his usual cohort of beefy riders-- from enjoying themselves. Free food and drink is free food and drink, and that this is in High Reaches' territory; that's only the icing on the cake. The last week hasn't been so easy for Jo as well. Having meetings with R'hin once his contact pulled through, going over things with a grim demeanor and being not her overly-flirtacious self for once. In the morning, when R'hin arrives with those new leathers, it's clear that the convict wingsecond has to work hard to maintain her composure. She lingers on touching the fine leather up until their departure, with the simple words, "Yer a good man, R'hin. To me." That last, in case he tries to refute it. Then it's off to Crom, which by then she's composed as someone looking to enjoy the day. She holds onto him, looking around before she answers, "Does he enjoy liquor'n women at the same time? For some, it's quite the heady lure." R'hin certainly doesn't -- try to refute Jo's words, at least not verbally -- instead giving his customary, low-throated laughter in response. Now, at the gather, his attention shifts from the sight of Feyzeth, a slight clenching of teeth, as if to steel himself, exhaling sharply. It's the latter that makes him snort, amused: "A lure to any bronzerider. Or anyone, depending on the woman," he's grinning to her, now. "Are you the lure?" is the question he asks, though his gaze asks something different: Can you do this? Jo follows where R'hin's gaze goes with a slight frown, catching that clenching of teeth. As to his question, she meets his gaze steadily as she sees the real question there. The smile hitches up on one corner, turning to draw long fingers across his cheek as she says, "For you? I'd do anythin'." Her words have heavy meaning along with the tone before she looks ahead. "I hear that's his nature," she says briskly, seemingly back to business. "What man will turn such a lure down? Especially when attached to the promise of more." The Wingleader's expression is complex in response: love and guilt and determination and fear, all intermingled into something indefinable. In lieu of words, for once, R'hin leans in, pressing lips to hers, gently. His murmur is barely audible: "The second tent down from the weaver's, on the right hand side," he tells her, his hand trailing down over her shoulders, before he steps away, intending on fading in to the crowd. Leiventh's thoughts are cold and tight, held close, and not still, up on the fireheights -- shifting restlessly. M'kris and his cohort have found one of the beer tents, and have been hanging out there for some time; their voices are raucous, their mood energetic and exaggerated. They're foreign, and they're in no way hiding it. Why should they place nice with the locals? Watching him, Jo doesn't speak until his lips are on hers. She listens before she nips his bottom lip - just a pinch - and then is on the move as he fades into the crowd. She's a woman on a mission, her blue mentally touching Leiventh once as she heads toward the tents. She casually takes a stroll about the place, locating the tent in question briefly before she moves on without a misstep. She looks into each tent she passes, pausing someone walking by to ask questions on likely locations to check out until she comes upon where the beer tents are. It takes a while for her to locate them, pausing on the threshold of each one until she steps right on in. Her steps fade from purposeful to something akin to a saunter as she looks around and passes out smiles. A few men in passing get a touch on the shoulder or a murmured greeting, all the while making her way towards where the loudest crowd is at with no purpose to her meandering. "And then I told her--" one of M'kris' companions is mid-story, his cheeks pink with cold and beer both. There's a roar of laughter as the story continues; someone's beer goes flying as he gestures, wildly. M'kris himself is in the middle, holding court with men around him-- no women. There's a sense of being followed, but it's not threatening; something familiar in the quarter-turn glance that suggests R'hin's watching at a distance, just in case. Jo is now close enough to hear some of the story, sliding in between to large men with a promising smile for one of them as she moves on. Since she's now the only woman in this knot of men, she must feel comfortable enough to cut in and say, "Here's where all the fun's at. I think I've just found my place, 'n the booze." M'kris gets a welcoming look, as if she had only just discovered her amongst the other men. As she looks him over, she calls out to the men at large, "Who's gonna pour this thirsty girl somethin' heavy?" "Who're you?" is one of the first questions that gets asked, and not by M'kris himself, but by one of the men nearest him-- one of the men whom many might recognise as one of his right-hand men. The Monacoan Weyrleader himself is more relaxed, waving Jo forward as he gestures for someone-- one of the others-- to pour Jo a mug of the beer. Now that she's found her prey, the sense of R'hin vanishes. Maybe he trusts her to do what needs to be done -- what she's good at -- certainly he's nowhere visible to the Monacoan Weyrleader or his offsiders. "Reanne, darlin'," Jo gives one of her known names with seamless ease, turning briefly towards the voice. "Don' wear it out. Plenty of men have screamed it enough." Back to M'kris, her gaze briefly flickering over her should towards the entrance, "So what's your name?" she asks now, seeming to size him up with her piercing gaze. The, "Don't you know?" comes from one of the other men, though not the one who thrusts a mug at the bluerider. "This is M'kris, Weyrleader of Monaco and rider of Feyzeth!" Anyone should know that, is the tone, though M'kris seems more indulgent than that. "Now she knows," he says, easily enough. "Want to know more?" That, yes, is for Jo alone, his voice lowering. Taking the offered mug, Jo is already drinking through it with a grateful nod. Looking around them as they correct her, her demeanor is nothing short of innocent as she says, "Me? Know? I'm just a Cromese girl that works in the stables for all her days. Monaco seems so far away." She has the glassy eyes of one that has dreams - that is in awe of standing amongst men that come from faraway lands. It's heady, and she makes it sound heady. M'kris gets the majority of her attention, though, the man seeming to be just her type as she answers him with, "Much more. M'kris." Her voice is lower, and her eyes seem to look beneath his clothes. "Especially if you toss in more drink." M'kris is not a man known for subtlety. He roars with laughter, obviously pleased, and rises from his chair, one arm already draping around Jo's waist as he seeks to nudge her on. "Stay out of trouble," is his parting call to his companions, who are hooting merrily at this so-easy conquest; it's plain, too, that it's not as if the bronzerider means it. "Got someplace we can go?" he wonders, more quietly, as he leans in to aim a rather harder-than-it-needs-to-be bite to Jo's ear. Easy conquest, indeed, for 'Reanne' was so easily maneuvered by the Weyrleader of Monaco. She's all sinewy and sultry now, letting her arm drape about his waist in a possessive way as she leans over to hook one of the bottles as she's being steered away. If he looks at her, she'll wave the bottle to indicate she was serious about that drink. "My boss is out, wranglin' up some runners for buyers," she tells him on places to go. "He gets mad when I borrow his tent, but, I always make it up to him. Not like anyone owes me as much around here. This way." That bite to her ear elicits a shiver rather than a recoil, woman adding to his ears only, "So that's how ya wanna play it, Weyrleader? Mmm, yeah I've got somethin' for you." She leads the way. "Pretty sure I've got something more," is M'kris' bawdy reply, though he does not quite go so far as to try and put Jo's hands to that particular 'gift' he has in mind. Once she's announced a destination, he's easy to direct, though he pauses now and then to take a liberty or two-- though it's also plain he's not much into exhibitionism, especially given the chill in the air. The light is low in the tent, but it's out of the icy air, and there are throw-pillows scattered on the floor here and there. It's a fairly cozy spot appropriate for an anonymous rendezvous -- except for the glint of a knife, and the shadow that steps forward, resolving into R'hin. His gaze flickers towards Jo, taking in her demeanor, the interactions between the two, quickly, before his gaze narrows onto the Monacoan Weyrleader. "M'kris," he scowls. "Oughn't have stepped into my territory. You've gotten cocky, and soft, in your position, old man." Jo knows where to go, having seen the tent R'hin meant on her hunt to find M'kris. Either way, his words draw husky laughter as she takes the liberty to grope one of his buttcheeks. Baring teeth, "Promises, promises," is all she says to him in a sing-song manner, and once the tent is question is found, she makes headway in pulling the tent flap back and finding it already occupied. Seeing R'hin there, she's wise enough to put a guilty stiffening of her body for the intrusion as she merely says, "Boss. What're ya--?" The sight of R'hin has M'kris tightening his grasp on Jo, drawing her closer to his body as if as a human shield. "You," he spits. "It's always you. Why don't you fuck off and leave me alone, R'hin? Move on. I won." R'hin steps in closer, with the intent of pressuring M'kris; the knife in his hand is raised now, his face set: determined, sure. "Maybe," he replies, with an odd kind of smile, "Maybe not," something wavering in his expression when the Weyrleader clutches at Jo, and that makes him stop. "Ever hiding behind a girl's skirts? Yes; you won," he snorts, dismissive. "Think you've got Oriane outplayed, do you?" with a twitch of fingers "Stay out of this," he asides, dismissively, to Jo; to whatever part she plays: he trusts she can take care of herself, even if it holds him in place for a beat. Jo is clutched, and she stiffens against M'kris as she makes a show of looking from one bronzerider to the other. The angry diatribe seems to have her silent, watching R'hin for the most part with slightly narrowed eyes. When R'hin speaks to her, "What's...goin' on here?" she seems opt to continue playing the part, shaking her head. "Stay outta what? I just..." and she holds up the bottle, her eyes lingering on that knife. "What the fuck are you even talking about?" M'kris demands, his arm tighter and tighter upon Jo, enough that she might find it difficult to breathe if this keeps up. "What the fuck do you want, R'hin? Leave it. Monaco is mine. Oriane has nothing to do with this." The Wingleader's fingers, clasped about the knife, turn white, though it's less the other's words and more the actions. While that arm tightens, R'hin pushes forward the final steps. The knife flashes for M'kris' arm, and despite being sharp, the riding leathers likely deflect most of the force. It's a distraction, though: he's seeking to bowl the Monacoan over, with or without Jo's presence in the mix. Jo continues to stand there, looking at R'hin. Perhaps that's why when she sees that knife flashing, she has time to see it coming. She gasps appropriately when it's coming, trying in vain to wrench herself from the Monacoan Weyrleader's grasp as if to get out of harm's way. The bottle goes flying with the movement, smashing to wet pieces on the ground. Certainly, M'kris roars in dismay as that knife flashes; certainly, he's surprised enough to be bowled over, though as the bottle smashes to the ground, the Weyrleader joins it-- and unless Jo can pull herself free in time, the bluerider will go with him, glass and liquor crunching beneath them. "What are you playing at, R'hin?" he yells, as up on the fireheights his bronze roars his disapproval, struggling to pull himself into a standing position, a motion that's made more difficult by Jo, the amount of beer he's drunk, and all that glass. Feyzeth isn't the only one roaring; the normally taciturn Leiventh is agitated enough to do so as well, talons clawing at the fireheights as he stretches his wings. For his part, R'hin doesn't waste time, or breath, for more words -- he instead attempts to use his weight to keep M'kris from standing, with knee or elbow or anything else sharp, trying not to hit Jo in the tangled process -- his knife is gone, dropped somewhere beneath. Perhaps that's why he's reaching for M'kris' belt knife, though undercover of another grunted press. All this roaring has Tacuseth nervous, evidently; from where he perches, he's shifting in an agitated state that has him reaching out to Leiventh's mind with a shadowy, « Is he sure? Let us- » Let us what? Jo falls on that glass with M'kris, sound falling from her mouth as she scrabbles in an attempt to get away from the two men. She's reaching for the knife concealed underneath her yellow halter, wide eyes watching. Waiting, but mostly watching as she hears their dragons from outside. They both reach for that knife. R'hin reaches for it, and then M'kris does, too, those beefy, thick hands perhaps not as fast but certainly aiming for strong and over-powering. "Leave it, R'hin," he hisses through gritted teeth, largely seeming to forget Jo. "You don't want to do this." Whatever 'this' is. "Don't be a fool. Like it or not, I'm a Weyrleader." Oriane and Evielth may not be here, but there's a questioning thread in Feyzeth's mind, and from his, straight to Leiventh's. In Feyzeth, there's pure, white-hot anger. There is no logic, or sense, or reason to Leiventh's thoughts. Tacuseth is one of the few the bronze remembers in that half-fuelled touch of memory: « No, no! » but it is not in answer to the blue's question, but to that thrill of fear that crosses them, a rising shadow that becomes a storm-that-is-not-a-storm-on-the-horizon. Despite all that, there is certainty: « We must be free! » That struggle, borne by weight of gritted teeth and determination, has R'hin fighting with M'kris for control of his knife. The Weyrleader's words prompt something, something half mad, flittering and completely inappropriate laughter: "For now!" His gaze is not on M'kris, but on Jo, the words for her. Just as well Jo is as forgotten as that broken bottle in this. Just as well that she's just slow to gather herself to her feet, off to the side, her knife already free in hand. Tacuseth is in turmoil outside, trying to calm Leiventh with his shadows as he sends him « It's gonna be alright, partner. She's got this. » Jo's dark eyes lock with R'hin's, her face no longer maintaining the facade of a shocked holdgirl looking for a place to fuck. Instead, her face is as hard as stone as she lingers just a second longer looking at him. Just a second to drop her guard for him and show him her feelings in the end - deep sadness, anger, frustration, longing, regret and love. R'hin could see it all in that second before the convict rider suddenly launches herself at him, trying to knock M'kris out of the way only long enough aim her knife at R'hin's gut. In the battle for the knife-- and against the roused confusion of his dragon's mate-- M'kris doesn't manage to register Jo's movements, not until it's too late to do anything about it. Confusion reigns; yes, he's knocked out of the way, but the knife, his knife gets lost in the mayhem, and where is it after that? Who can say. Despite everything -- despite expecting it -- it is still a shock when the blade, his own blade comes home, R'hin's face going white as his hands loosen -- the struggle for the knife, with M'kris -- fading away. Instead, pale blue gaze fixes on Jo, sighing out a murmur of thanks. He manages to lift a hand, reaching for Jo's face, his hands cold, so cold. Now it's M'kris' turn to be forgotten about. Even with Tacuseth's attempt at reassurances, Leiventh flees those shadows, launching skyward, diving for the tent, the noise from his throat rending the air. Jo watches R'hin's face as the knife slides home. His murmur of thanks almost has the woman loosing it, her hands starting to shake between them before she seems to forcibly still them. Halted breath, letting him touch her face with his cold hand as Tacuseth can be heard shrieking in the distance. "Shhhh...." is all that comes out of her, though, whether it's for R'hin or her dragon, it's hard to tell. Or even for Leiventh who's heading towards the tent. For M'kris? It's utter confusion. He no longer has his hands on the knife-- and somehow, between one thing and another, those hands have ended up covered in blood. He attempts to scramble out of the way, not an easy thing, just staring, shocked and horrified, at the scene in front of him. « NO, » roars Feyzeth, who has launched himself off the heights, too, though only to fly in agitated circles. And there, above the Hold, Evielth has arrived, bearing down with her golden touch; to damage control whatever is going on before it gets worse. There are more words from R'hin, or the attempt of them, the utterance of which never becomes fully voiced. His pale gaze, fixed on Jo, goes distant, and his hand goes slack. Simultaneously, the terrible noise from Leiventh above ceases, as the hook-nosed bronze goes between for the last time. Jo has enough of her faculties left to hunt amongst them. She finds the knife M'kris was holding thankfully and grabs it. It's with quick motions as she switches her own knife for his, pocketting the bloody one before she bloodies that one. It all done with mechanical, deft motions, and when she's done, "It's gonna be okay," she says to R'hin, looking at his face....only to already find him gone. She gets the confirmation when Leiventh goes Between and Tacuseth keens deeply in mourning, and then the convict rider's head dips low to give R'hin his final kiss. Words unspoken and words unshed, but the woman grates out a heartbroken, "What have ya done?" Then, louder as he turns red-rimmed eyes towards M'kris, "What. Have. You. Done." Each words is like a blow to the gut. "Me? What?" M'kris is on his feet, fists up, just staring at Jo, now. "I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him." Didn't he? He didn't. He didn't... right? "You lying bitch. You set this up. You--" Whatever is going on, it's plain the Monacoan Weyrleader doesn't know. What he does know, plainly, is that he doesn't want to be here: he abandons them both, striding for the tent's exit and out into the snowy afternoon... where Crom's guards, his weyrwomen, and assorted others are already waiting for them. Slow to back away from R'hin - reluctant to leave him - "I saw ya," Jo continues, angry tears unshed in her eyes. I saw ya! I saw ya, bastard!!!" But then M'kris is running, and she's on her feet, shouting at him now. "Ya killed him, ya bastard!! How could'j -- come back here!!" She turns to look R'hin over once M'kris is gone, rearranging the knife in his gut with a tearing grimace - the move seems to hurt her more than him, even though he's gone. She still seems to refuse to let those tears fall as she fixes the scene here and there around him to make it more plausible that the Monacoan had did it, and then she finally turns to the late bronzerider before she says with a bare whisper, "I did what ya asked, love. That 'bout makes us even. I'm gonna m--" Her throat chokes the words off and she nearly doubles over before Tacuseth's pain and her own drives her outside the tent. For those outside, she lets the tears finally fall, throwing a dark look towards M'kris. |
Contents
Comments
Edyis (21:27, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
-sobs-
Faryn (21:30, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
I reject this, it's an alternate universe.
Alida (22:02, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
Alida would understand, Jo. So terribly sad...and so very, very R'hin and Jo. *salutes* *sniffle*
Alida (22:03, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
Alida would understand, Jo. So terribly sad...and so very, very R'hin and Jo. *salutes* *sniffle*
Jo (12:23, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
I agree. Very R'hin and Jo compared to the nature of their dynamic. Jo knows that if the boot was on the other foot and she was in his place, she would have gone out the same way.
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