Logs:Turnday Tragedy
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| RL Date: 7 February, 2015 |
| Who: Devaki, Issedi, Daroda, Suireh, Azaylia, N'rov, Farideh, Rilka, Quinlys, Raum, Edyis, Alida, Olveraeth, Hraedhyth, Ilicaeth, Vhaeryth, Cadejoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, High Reaches Hold, Harper Hall, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lady Issedi's Turnday celebration turns to tragedy. |
| Where: High Reaches Hold, |
| When: Day 11, Month 13, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
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| High Reaches Hold Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low tide. However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop. Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and the distant lighthouse. Brilliant light plays off of the dunes of snow as a cloudless winter brings with it extreme cold. The afternoon's been full of the gossip doing the rounds, and games of spot-the-ex-Lord-Holder, Wulfan mostly apparently scarce by the time evening draws around. The cold day turns into frigid towards evening, driving everyone away from those outdoor activities, but there's plenty more to be had indoors -- the harpers have already started up, and dancing is in full swing within the main hall, while banquet tables line both sides providing food and refreshment for those in conversation or content to watch the more active participants. The guest of honor is seated near to the hearth, surrounded by others -- Lady Daroda, several of her assistants, and others. Devaki, for his part, stands near the drinks table, talking in low tones with some of the seacrafters. It's a party for the ages, and Suireh's just finishing up a song on the dais, her rich throaty voice and the 'character' she dons for this a sultry flirt with come hither fingers here and there and then a backwards look for the dancers and few watchers. She's replaced by pure instrumentals, the players' fingers flying over keys and strings and drums in several fast paced dance songs. "Water," is requested of an apprentice who has it waiting for the singer. The cold has left what flush it can on Azaylia's cheeks as she seeks shelter indoors, shedding her heavy cloak to reveal a lovely gown of proud blue and black fur trim. The knot on her shoulder may bespeak of rank, but that wide grin and dancing eyes sabotage any illusion of haughtiness one might expect. She's quite obviously on her way to the guest of honor, package beneath her arm, before she's distracted by the drinks. With hot cider to banish the rest of the chill, the goldrider can't help but murmur, "To sing like that..." Short of awe, her attention is on Suireh even as she drifts closer to Lord Devaki-- not that she's noticed yet. There's a smattering of polite clapping for the harper vocalist, and some on the dance floor use the opportunity to take a break; others are drawn onto the floor by the fast-paced song. Devaki, for his part, perhaps used to harpers, has his attention drawn to Suireh only through Azaylia's comment, joining the applause -- though that doesn't last long, with his attention fairly soon shifting to the goldrider with a little quirk of a smile. "How fortuitous. Your Weyrleader and I were just speaking of you earlier this afternoon." With water quenching her thirst, the young woman rolls her shoulders back in quick succession and shakes her limbs loose a little. "Time to mingle," is said with just a note of pretend dread that makes the apprentices smile nervously. Low words are spared the trio and then she waves them off into the wilds of the party. One later makes an appearance, albeit looking somewhat different, as a server with drinks. The other two, well, let's play Where's Waldo, harper addition. Suireh smooths out her crimson skirts and makes her way to a floating tray of bubbly and procures herself one. Azaylia is careful in her clapping, polite yet enthused while careful not to drop her paper-wrapped parcel or her cider. Dark eyes flick over to the Lord Holder, startled expression easing into pleasant surprise, "Lord Devaki, hello. I'm hoping to congratulate Issedi myself, but I'm happy to extend it to you..." It's almost melodic, "What with another baby the way." She's not glowing nearly as much as the birthday girl, but there's a genuine delight offered. It's only now that his words seem to sink in, and her face tightens with obvious curiosity, "Good things, I hope?" She doesn't seem to expect anything else. Speaking of mingling, a Fortian rider (dressed to suit the locals) has poked his nose onto a ship or two, played at making cider, and let himself be 'impaled' by a few particularly fiendish pirates who don't come up to his waist; it's all in a day's work. Now N'rov escorts a well-clad dame off that dance floor and delivers her to her equally white-haired husband, closing with a bow and a little more small talk before sauntering around the edge of the dance floor for... something. Might be he'll know it when he sees it, might be he's just taking his time. "Why, of course Weyrwoman." Devaki's expression is completely guileless and believable -- he's had plenty of practice, after all. The smile that follows brightens at her words: "Ah, well. My lady wife is doing all the work, so--" he gestures towards the guest of honor, Issedi not yet having noticed the Reachian arrival. He does look like he might fall into step with her, if she moves, though, a pause given before he answers the latter: "But of course." He manages to sound convincing despite the known animosity between himself and the Weyrleader -- gaze flickers towards the harper as speaks, but with her attention on her apprentices, doesn't linger. Bubbly in hand, Suireh starts to walk the party, keeping close to the walls and squaring around the edges of that dance floor. In between there and here, she may have managed to pluck a few appetizers off the banquet tables and now has two little toothpicks twirling idly in one hand. That she comes to stand by the Fortian visitor at the edge is a coincidence. Or not? But she stands there, silent, going up and down on from the soles of her feet up onto tiptoes and back down. Again and again. She might even be humming along with the music. The visitor whose attention had been wandering towards Lord and Weyrwoman, to the extent they might be visible at this angle (or maybe it's the table with all those drinks?). Now N'rov drawls with a glance down at the dark harper-head, "The smiths would love you." He can do it too, that up and down, if only once to illustrate. Even in her optimism, Azaylia is relieved by Devaki's answer, "Good, I'm glad." His gesture earns a soft nod, resuming those purposeful strides toward Issedi and her entourage. "I managed to catch a tour of the ship-- Maddy? I haven't been on many, but it seemed well crafted." A compliment that is meant well, even if she's far from an expert on boats. Her attention is stolen from the Holder as she nears Issedi, dissolving into girl sounds, however lady-like and far more appropriate, given the company. "Happy turnday, Lady Issedi." Respectful, there's also a playful note at the formality as she offers the delicate gold parcel. Whenever Issedi decides to bask in her gifts, the contents are revealed as a set of glass hair pins, an intricate hair brush, and rolls of fabric in the Lady's favorite colors. She won't be pregnant forever, which will call for new dresses. "Hmmm?" Suireh's response is all sound and nothing understood as words. She looks towards the Lord Holder and Weyrwoman, pale eyes fixated onto them. If she were closer it'd be considered staring and rude, but since she's so far, they might not even notice. And then that gaze is drifting, sidelong for just a half second before seeking out faces in the crowd. "She is quite an achievement." The ship, presumably, Devaki's voice lilting briefly with amusement and pride both. "The seacrafters are very proud. Apparently there's some new material on the mainsail they're trying out -- it's all very complex." And he doesn't intend to bore her with it, especially since he slows as they arrive at where his wife is seated. "Oh! Weyrwoman Azaylia, it's so kind of you to come!" Issedi is both effusive and delighted at the sight of the Reachian goldrider, rising to take the offered parcel before daring an embrace. "You -- know the Lady Daroda?" Of Igen, though that's unvoiced. "She's been so good to me." Daroda murmurs a greeting, while Devaki, it seems, uses the opportunity to ease away and seek a replacement drink for himself. "Attached to a piston," N'rov continues charitably, without even waving his hand in front of that harper's nose. But, as long as she's looking off into the distance, he'll reach casually for her glass. "What do you think they talk about? Lord Holders and Ladies? Weyrwoman and Weyrleaders?" Suireh ventures, holding on a second too long and tightly for the glass to be just easily plucked away. And then it's not the crowd she's looking at, but again up at the dais and Daroda. Those pale eyes gleam and suddenly her lips aren't so chatty anymore. Her drink is also far more easily taken away. "Hmm." Though Azaylia actually does seem interested in what went into making such a fine ship, her Lady-friend has all of her attention in an instant. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Especially not when your husband has put together such a fine celebration." Her embrace is warm, if careful, pulling away to get a better look at Issedi. "And I have to check up on you-- make sure you're looking as lovely as ever." And pregnant. Goodness. "Lady Daroda," There's no shift in expression, dipping her brow, "A pleasure. I'm so glad Issedi has you. I don't get to visit as much as I'd like. Have you been enjoying yourself?" The question is for both, bringing the cider to her lips. A decidedly loud and talkative group of teenage girls moves through the throng of party-goers, clinging to their herd-status like breaking loose would be the worst thing to do. More than a few have tiny banners bearing High Reaches Hold's color, though whether they're homemade remains to be seen. They're dressed for practicality rather than style - even if there's that one girl who wears a floor-length dress under her winter coat (what a loser) - and seem completely content to babble their way through the festivities. Near the back of the all-girl pack, Farideh's speaking amiably, laughing, with another woman, their arms linked in friendly fashion. She's got a knit cap on, her usual over-sized coat, and some fuzzy gloves; she's prepared for all that snow. Rather suddenly, a tall man standing in a collection of three steals her attention, and she begs leave of her friend, waving with the hand not holding her cider. Except, when the other girls have moved on, she speed-walks behind the men, to peer warily towards Lady Issedi and her attendants, particularly at a certain former Lady of Igen. Daroda cants her head to one side, glancing up at the Lady seated near her, and then back to the Weyrwoman. Carefully, her voice tempered and controlled, the former Igen Lady says, "Well enough, Weyrwoman. High Reaches Hold's hospitality is incomparable." Her smile is thin, though decidedly warmer when she looks up at the pregnant Issedi. "If they're mine, they talk about their little ones," N'rov supposes. "Or, so I hear," his easy, subtly confidential tone suggesting that it might be otherwise elsewhere, might even be otherwise there. He'll take the glass, patient as he's been, and sample from it. Musingly, "So many Ladies." Issedi's beaming, her hand deliberately smoothing down over her stomach, the bump there not pronounced but certainly visible. While Azaylia greets the ex Lady of Igen, she opens the parcel, and gasps in delight, examining the contents and gushing, "This is too much, really...!" but she seems more than pleased with the present. She opens her mouth, and with a slight flush, glances at Daroda to let her answer. "Oh, it's the least we can do for you. You've been an amazing help," the Lady Reaches replies, beaming. Amidst the crowds, Rilka is an obviously odd one out; no coat, no 'proper' shoes, her hair left free to tangle and twist in the wind. She seems to float rather than walk, paying attention to nothing-- and yet staring through everything. More than one person moves hastily aside as she passes; it's creepy. She's creepy. "They breed like rabbits," opines the harper, reaching for her glass back now that he's had a sip. "Are you here as someone's guest, or just heard of the celebration?" Suireh resumes her up down movements, nervous agitation or just the inability to see over certain heads as they pass by, it could be either. What she wants to say and what she chooses to say are two entirely different things, the former causing her to catch sight of a pair of green eyes from across the room and a curt little nod that apparently means something for the music changes after the next two to something slow. The latter is what N'rov gets to hear in a mild confession, "My feet are killing me after standing up there most of the night, but what holders pay for, Holders get, no?" Daroda reaches to place a hand on Issedi's knee, patting it gently with all the maternal affection of one bereft of such gestures otherwise. "It was my pleasure, love." Devaki, glass now in hand, steps over to talk in low tones with an older man, the pair in conversation for a few minutes. His gaze does flicker, as if drawn, towards Rilka whenever she catches his eye. His red-headed guard Captain is never that far away, though well practiced at being mostly unobtrusive at events like this, though his smirking, sometimes leering looks at some of the women as they pass him is perhaps unsettling. That girl, Farideh, keeps his leering gaze for moments, too. Quinlys is not much of a 'lady' (let alone 'Lady'), but that's no cause not to enjoy the celebrations; she's dressed for the weather, a woolly hat just barely restraining her curls, and given the pinkness of her cheeks? She's been enjoying herself. Now, striding out of one of the tents, she seems intent on enjoying herself some more, preferably in the form of another beverage; "Cheers!" she calls, as she approaches, delightedly merry. "I wouldn't expect anything less, with Issedi as Lady." From a more savvy person, rider or holder, the excess in praise would seem saccharine. It still might to some, even if Azaylia means every word of it. "You are also welcome to visit High Reaches Weyr, should you have any desire to." An easy invitation, Holder sensibilities kept in mind. "We're expecting a clutch, soon." When the turnday gift is so well received, "I have a few Weavers to recommend, when you decide what you'd like to do with the fabric. Though I admit, over the years I've spent most of my marks into the Smithcraft." Hence the pins and brush. "Third-hand guest, and I got abandoned for a redhead," glass-less N'rov says with amused, even cheerful resignation; his glance lingers on a redhead as the man walks some distance away, but surely Raum can't be the one. "Did they pay for your entire night?" he asks of Suireh, and then waits a well-timed beat before adding, "Or are you allowed to sit down. Would they be so cruel?" Issedi's beaming smile for Daroda is sweetly genuine and affectionate, at the same time. Carefully wrapping the present back up, she hands it off to one of her attendants to spirit it away to safety. "Oh!" Issedi's eyes go wide at the invitation from Azaylia to attend the Weyr. "Yes, Dev did mention you've a new junior... Irianke? He seemed impressed with her." She chews her lower lip, hand again pressing her stomach. "I-- it would be nice to see the Weyr again, spend time with you. Perhaps once I reach my third trimester, things will settle down. You'd come, wouldn't you?" her beseeching eyes rest on Daroda. Stealth-walking, which really resembles an uncanny duck waddle, Farideh wends her way along the edge of the crowd, trying to circumvent the area that the ladies are sitting in. It's in this endeavor that her eyes swinging wide, taking in the people closest, and her startled eyes meet Raum's. Her brow lowers, displeased, before her eyes move away and she hurries towards the next group that she can hide behind. Unfortunately - fortunately? - she bumps into a different redhead, one that she knows. "Oh. Oh-- sorry." Quinlys, the superior redhead, lets out an ungraceful squealing sound as she's bumped into; luckily, she's not yet taken ownership of another drink! A few steps backward are required to regain her steadiness - which just goes to show how much she's had to drink - and then she's peering at Farideh, first with confusion, and then, enlightenment. "Careful!" It's a trilling sound; she's amused, more than anything. Suireh takes a sip and generously offers it back to N'rov. They can be nauseatingly friendly and share a glass, right? "I'm allowed. Will have to go back in a short while. I'm sure the Hold Steward is counting the minutes I'm not up there singing my heart out for all their guests. Maybe that one there too," she says of that red-head, the one her conversational partner is glancing at. "He looks like he should belong to Lord Cendon more than Lord Devaki." At this rate, there might need to be a walk-off. Raum's looking over at Quinlys, attracted perhaps by Farideh's glare and following the girl's path, this red-head smirks at the other. Of course, it distracts him from his Lord, who is setting an easy path around the edge of the dance floor, now. Rilka's head lifts so that she can catch Devaki's gaze through the crowd, just for a moment. She frowns; she adjust her path, too, wending her way through the guests and closer, closer, closer to the group of dignitaries, her peculiar garb and appearance all the more obvious by comparison. Brows lift in mild surprise at mention of her new junior, "Irianke, yes. She's a new transfer from Igen. I'm glad she left such a good impression on the Lord Holder." Azaylia does seem pleased, if thoughtful, "I wouldn't expect anything less from her, honestly." Her eyes slide over to Daroda, expression gentle and curious as to her answer. "If you'd like to ride dragonback," Now she seems to tease a bit, "I can promise to have only the most graceful pair send for you." A soft wave of her hand, "Whatever you decide." No pressure. As long as neither of them have a cold to share, to make that nauseating literal. N'rov duly sips, and then again; "I don't doubt it," he says of both, the undertones of his voice more somber than before. "Do you know... that one?" The inclination of the glass, just before he returns it, denotes she whose garb is not like the others. The spooky one. "Sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going. I didn't mean to. Honest." Farideh's cheeks are flushed, and she looks genuinely concerned that she's bumped into the bluerider. She reaches up, as if to grab hold of a scarf, but frowns when her fingers fumble at the air. "Have you-- been here--" Her words come to an abrupt stop, verdigris eyes slanting towards the other redhead. "Who-- is that?" she asks quietly, frowning at Raum. Edyis slipped in between dances, sticking near the drinks where it's safe, or at least moderately safe, making her way in the direction of familiar faces. Issedi's gasping, briefly, at Azaylia's suggestion she go dragonback, hands fluttering up to her mouth. "Oh, no! We'd go by carriage, as long as the snow stops long enough. I couldn't," she pats her stomach. "Even if they say it's safe, I could never take the risk." She leans forward, gaze somewhat apologetic, begging for understanding from the Weyrwoman. "But I would so love to come again. I'm sure Dev wouldn't mind." Unaware, perhaps, of Rilka's path, Devaki circles back towards the group of ladies, parting with the older man. "Mind what?" comes his easy question, slipping in next to Issedi, a hand sliding comfortably around her waist and looking curiously at Azaylia. "He's a rescue." Suireh chooses her words carefully, deferring from using the more popular term of exile. "Don't catch his eye, he'll steal your soul with them." There is a thread of seriousness in that tease of hers. "It's an eclectic gathering." All these Bloods. All these people. Everyone from small to big. "I always wondered why high born folk thought their birthday was worth the expense of... all this." Not taken by the society she entertains, the young harper's words are nonetheless low, for N'rov only. No need to insult the hand that feeds you so loudly. "It's fine," Quinlys is quick to reassure Farideh, her smiles for the girl (and not - very much not - for Raum). Indeed, it's not until the other redhead is pointed out to her that she turns to glance in his direction, her smirk answering his... and dismissing him, all at once. "Devaki's faithful goon," she announces, brightly. "And bad news, I'm told. I've seen him around. Stay away. Or stick with me, if you'd like." Speaking of bad news, Raum is definitely heading towards Quinlys and Farideh, because... well, her smirk is far too similar to his to ignore, really. "Ladies," he says, with a leering look up and down both of them that is... both assessive, interested, and creepy all at once. Rilka's approach to her Lord - and her Lady - is briefly interrupted by people less inclined to move out of her way; to an outsider, she certainly doesn't look like anyone who ought to be here. A few people glare at her; she's apparently undaunted, sidling up alongside Devaki a few moments later. "Faithful goon," Farideh repeats quietly. It's like she called him into being by repeating that statement, because the next moment he's there and giving them that leer. She looks vaguely perturbed, taking a safety step to the side, putting Quinlys between herself and Raum. "Hello," but it sounds dismayed and unsure all at the same time, with a bit of politeness. Her gaze flicks to Quinlys, obviously expecting the older woman to have words to make the man be on his way. "'Rescue.'" N'rov tastes it in lieu of the bubbly, his baritone rasping at the sibilant. He may track Raum as he heads for that pair of women (another redhead!). "The folk seems to like it; as a boy," could that have been so very long ago? "I never thought twice about whose name was on it. Perhaps others don't either; excluding our hosts and their guests, of course. And that one? The woman." Rilka. "I'm mostly teasing." Azaylia admits, eyes crinkling closed at her wide smile, "As lovely as I think you'd look on a handsome blue, a fine carriage suits you best." There are no hard feelings, of course, hoping to reassure the Lady before her husband's arrival. Devaki's return has her still hiding behind her drink, unable to school that impish mile, "Visiting High Reaches Weyr, once Issedi is able to travel." As if it might sweeten the offer, "It's Irianke's Niavhth we're expecting to take to the Sands, next." "We're not interesting," is Quinlys' answer to Raum, resolute and more than a little protective of her younger companion; as Farideh steps to the side, the bluerider steps up, all the more determined in her barrier. "Wait. Interested. That one. We're not. You should move on-- go back to your master. Good day." Unfortunately she doesn't beat Raum to where Farideh and Quinlys are, but she does give him the fullest measure of a disapproving look from over the rim of her glass. Presumably as Quinlys sends him off. "Farideh, Quinlys!" she greets cheerily keeping Raum just... licks his lips, presumably by way of answer to Quinlys. Then he grins, as if challenging her. Devaki seems to take Rilka's presence in stride, with a fond smile for his fellow islander, blue eyes lingering on her for a moment before he's drawn back into the conversation. Issedi's, perhaps, less fond, giving the barefoot woman an uncomfortable look that falters across her expression for a moment, before she says: "Yes, and we do so love to attend those clothes." The Lord gives a little mm, perhaps of agreement. "If you're feeling better, I don't see how we could possibly pass up the Weyrwoman's offer. Perhaps the Lady Daroda and her husband would come, as well?" his gaze goes to the former lady Igen. It happens almost too quickly to notice. A non-descript dark-haired man saunters up to the group of Lord Devaki, Ladies Issedi and Daroda, and Weyrwoman Azaylia. He looks, for a moment, like he's going to walk past, then pauses, stops abruptly, and moves towards them with suddenly hurried steps. His, "DEATH TO THE EXILE!" carries in the space between harper beats, as a knife gleams briefly in the light. "I remember family and my father on our birthdays. My turnday," Suireh amends quickly. "I don't remember the entire Weyr coming out to celebrate the fact I turned ten." Hold up, look there. Raum licking his lips is likely visible from space for sheer creep factor alone. "Hmmm?" The blue eyes tear from the show down between redheads to where Rilka is, and she's just about to answer when, "SHIT." It's an expletive that's expelled with an immense amount of force, and the harper is moving, a hand on N'rov's to pull him along with her. Away? Or to? To, it would seem. It's as though it's what Rilka has been waiting for; as though that's why she was here, all creepy eyes and vagaries. In the instant that knife is bared, she throws herself into the mix, not to push Devaki away - though surely she could have done? - but, instead, to push Issedi into the path of that knife's sure arc. Issedi seems more surprised by the movement than anything -- uncomfortable with the exile, but not startled by the movement -- but now she freezes, a sharp gasp preceding a sudden flush of color to her normal pale pallor. It is color that very quickly drains away, her hand at her stomach moving, moving, lifting, bloodied, from here that knife has slid in. "D-ev," she gasps out, collapsing seconds later. Devaki stops -- stares -- frozen for a bit, then launches himself towards Issedi, practically pushing Rilka out of the way as if she were forgotten. Everything Quinlys says, Farideh nods her head along to - preach it, sister! "Oh, oh no," the laundress squeaks, pressing tightly-clenched fingers against her mouth. In the same instant, there's a commotion amongst the ladies and assembled Blood. Her eyes pull, almost unwantedly, towards the cause of the stir in the crowd, but she's too short and people are moving far too much to get any kind of good view. "What's-- what's happening?" she asks Quinlys, leaning forward, fingers latching onto the bluerider's arm. Daroda is instantly at Issedi's side, the confusion apparent in the woman's face when the realization that Rilka somehow got in between the pair. "Issie? Issie? What did you do?!" Accusative eyes find Rilka instead of the knife bearer. "I'd love for all of you to attend," Azaylia's train of thought is interrupted by Rilka-- startled by the lack of dress, unnerved by the islander herself. "Hello." Polite and sweet, it's drowned out by the man. She can't recall when he's appeared, and it's the sound of his bellow that sends her hear straight up into her throat. The Weyrwoman is frozen, drink falling to her feet only after crimson stains Issedi's hands. "Issedi!" The cry is echoed from outside, Hraedhyth's roar heard well over the clamor as Azaylia suddenly reaches for the man's wrist. It isn't smart, it's far from ladylike, but the goldrider intends to twist the knife-arm behind his back. Trembling, hands uncertain, she has to try. The knife might not have hit its intended mark, but the man doesn't stick around to try again -- he's quick to dart out of the way of the Weyrwoman's grab -- and he's off pushing through the crowd, ducking and weaving for the exit, trying to keep his head down and move with speed through a crowd that's suddenly full of screaming, as people seem to notice what's just happened. There's certainly a lot more Quinlys might have to say to Raum - none of it good - but the commotion from over there forestalls it all. "What?" she says, turning away from Raum to look, barely registering Edyis' arrival, though it's with an arm for both of the younger woman that she says, "Let's go find out. Stay close. Keep out of the way if you can. Fuck." To local dragons, Olveraeth projects « What's going on? » It's more active than his wont; he pushes into the space between, urgency captured within each star. « What can we do? » Why is it that either she draws conflict, or it draws her enough times? Alida is moving through the crowds thronging the Hold - a cup of some kind of gather wine in her grasp, being sipped at - when that shout is heard. Whether for good or ill, her training snaps into the fore without rational thought, the cup in her hand dropped even as her tough body is jostling, darting through the crowd towards the sound of that dangerous call. It's not a few seconds later that her wide-eyed, chilly self is shoving through the last barrier, and breaking into the small gathering of Ladies, goldrider, Lord... looking all around for the assailant as she pauses on the edge of action. Assessing for the one who...has stabbed Issedi. Blood tells, as do actions. The moving one...the running one. Like a gazelle, the pale-blonde's on his ass like a fly on shit, darting after the man while bellowing, "OUT OF THE WAY!" The music has abruptly stopped and the three apprentices who were scattered to the winds converge only to be sharply sent to the exits by sharp words from the journeyman on the dais. "Go. Have them shut the gates." Rilka falls. Indeed, she goes entirely boneless, her slender, fragile form gone from standing to a puddle of limbs in the space of a moment, quite as if her single action has left her, now, with nothing. Nothing, except-- "The sea. The sea. The sea." Those festive dancing drums are replaced by a violent roar, a declaration of war. « FIND HIM. » Hraedhyth commands, already launching herself into the air to sweep over the Hold. « YOURS. HUNT. » Even if her words are far from eloquent, the meaning will be felt throughout: Catch him. Bring him to justice. By air or on land. (To local dragons from Hraedhyth) Disbelief, pure and simple. It's a moment, as Edyis notices the person moving -away- from the commotion, purposefully moving in attempt to cut off his exit, rolling up the sleeves to her dress as she does so. Alida seems to have gotten the right idea, and the brunette is fair close on the former guard's heels. "Shit." Raum's SHIT, is about the most heartfelt he's ever been. He bolts, not for the knife-wielder, but for his Lord. 'To' it is. N'rov swears in his own right as he moves forward, aiming to clear a path for the both of them (not, it must be said, to push Suireh onto that knife or another). But it isn't easy; there is that crowd, and there's all that screaming, even as the play's enacted atop that dais. (Is some harper, somewhere, already taking notes?) Onward. Then there's that blonde cutting past, the other way. Fired to instant action as is his lifemate, Ilicaeth growls from the Heights as he launches into the air above the Hold, « We HUNT! » Snarl! (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) "Oh, someone throw that fucking lunatic in the sea," says Daroda, her eyes daggers as she tries to keep her hands back from cradling Devaki's lady. Issedi's on the ground, the crowd pressing in around her to see, the curious and concerned both. There's a wailing noise rising from that direction, while one of the other ladies is screaming, "WHERE ARE THE HEALERS?!" High Reaches Hold must not have as good of healers as the Weyr. Someone even makes some sort of jab about the Lord Holder's proclivities and why his Master Healer mistress is not around. Someone might lose their head later. There's no dissent from Farideh, only a single nod to convey that she's heard and understood. She's not the bravest girl on all of Pern, but she'll follow in the bluerider's footsteps, the other redhead and his leers forgotten in face of the chaos. "What's-- can it be that bad?" she asks, breathlessly; even as she says it, snippets of conversation are flowing around her and she can't help but pale. It's not quite a shriek of fury, a savage sound of frustration leaving Azaylia as he gets away. Hands curling, she reaches up into her hair, clearly panicked as her eyes slide from Issedi and Devaki, to Daroda, and then-- Rilka. She moves to the collapsed islander, fingers rough as she grasps those clothes, looking up to find a guard-- any guard. When Raum approaches, "She pushed her." Breathless, trembling, "I saw her. We saw her." Oh, Issedi. There's a darted look over his shoulders, the knife-wielder's face a set of determination. The doors he was bolting for slam shut ahead of him, and he has to change tact, quickly, nearly bowling over a group of women as he seeks to push past them. He doesn't see that his path is going to intersect with Alida and Edyis' charging one, though. Quinlys, having decided to draw in closer, seems abruptly to change her mind; "I think the Lady's been attacked," she reports, coming to another halt. "Fuck. No, we need to stay out of the way. They're looking for the--" She glances around, registering only belatedly the frantic chase going on. "We're going to stay out of he way. It'll be okay, Farideh. Don't worry. Let's... stay over here." Vhaeryth's rumble is low, equivocal, from the distance; long wingbeats take him closer to Hold and rider, that if nothing else for certain. (To local dragons from Vhaeryth) Raum arrives, the crowd around the dais parting way for him. All is fine. Nevermind his Lady has been stabbed. His pale eyes rest on Azaylia for a moment, mouth tightening, before it flickers across Issedi, and his Lord. "C'mon," he reaches a hand for Rilka's arm with the intent of helping her up -- hoisting her, if he has to. It's not really the gesture of someone treating a dangerous criminal, though. Grateful for the assistance, Suireh stumbles through the crowd to get to the center of it all. And then what does she do there? Pale of face, she looks at the scene and the bleeding out woman. "You go get the healer," she immediately orders the screamer, "Or you, or you. One of you must know where the healers live. Go, now." For all she's not shouting, her trained voice is dangerous and low. The hand in N'rov's tightens, knuckles whitening as if she needs that touch to keep standing. Someone runs off, for the healer presumably. "Lady Daroda, step back, this is not your place. Go find your husband and stay in your rooms until I speak with you next." Bossy Suireh. "Lord Devaki," for the Lord, she has nothing but silence. "N'rov," she opts for instead, drawing back a step to release that hand, "Could you go to Fort and inform the Masterhealer her presence may be required? Without," she adds a hand reaching up, "Letting it be known what has happened her yet?" "Attacked?" is high-pitched, nigh hysterical. "No. No no." Farideh takes a couple of steps backwards, staring unseeingly where the ladies should be, but instead there's a swelling crowd of onlookers. "Is it, safe? What if-- what if she's--" Shaky fingers come up to cover half her face, eyes widened and glistening with unshed tears. Now would not be the time to fall apart Farideh, kthnx. Not only is Ilicaeth (and his shadow) swirling just above the gather area, being eyes and ears and nose for Alida's quarry, but also a tiny golden firelizard, who's much faster and more maneuverable than anyone here. Pyrite blips into the air above her mistress and soon whizzes off - her eyes roiling yellow and orange - trying to find a running male human with a knife. Not terribly difficult, really, even in a crowd of humans. Only one is trying to actively escape, isn't worried looking or screaming in fear. Rilka is largely oblivious to everything else going around her; oblivious to Daroda, to Issedi's pains, to everything-- until, at least, Raum's hand is there to help her up again. She's shaking, those thin shoulders wracked with not-actually-sobs; and for a moment it may look as though she's like to throw herself into the dubious comfort of his arms. She does not (phew). Instead, hoisted up, back on her own feet, she begins to wander away, humming under her breath as she goes. Edyis catches up with Alida, matching her pace stride for stride, dark eyes fixed on their mutual target. "With you." She calls to Alida, letting the blonde know she has friendly backup. Pulling out a last burst of speed she reaches after the man, aiming to trip him up or at least halt his progress. "You aren't getting away asshole." She hisses through her teeth. Issedi is... panting, eyes glassy, unaware perhaps of the clasp of Devaki's hand over hers, or the way he cradles her, head bent towards her. The Lord notices neither Raum, nor Bossy Suireh, nor the healers, when they finally arrive at a dead run, seeking to -- firmly and insistently -- part the Lord from his Lady so they can get to work. Quinlys stops, turning to grab Farideh by the shoulders and hold her there, gaze firm. "Deep breaths," she advises. "It's fine. They'll have the best possible healers, and everything will be fine. Come on, let's get you a drink." Shock has clearly done a lot to remove the impact of the alcohol she's consumed until this point; she's quite calm. "There's nothing we can do to help but stay out of the way. Okay? Let's let them have some space. The healers will fix it. Breathe." A last minute switch of paths lets the knife-wielder avoid a collision with a bulky pair of riders, but unfortunately for him, Edyis' well-placed foot stumbles him, sprawling to the ground for a moment. He glances over, sees her, and Alida beyond her, and hastily scrambles to his feet in an attempt to evade them. Raum mutters something to Rilka. It sounds suspiciously like, Good job, but his voice is too low to carry that far, as he escorts her a few steps away. One of his guards follows a pace behind the exile after a nod from the red head, before he returns to the dais, watching the crowd nearby, and further on -- eyes drawn by the movement near Edyis and Alida. Suireh's approach is met with an uncharacteristically sharp glare, Azaylia far from welcoming until the dark haired harper is recognized. Turning back to Issedi, the Weyrwoman, perhaps foolishly, leaves Rilka in Raum's care. She's there by Devaki's side when he's forced to give the healer's room, hand finding his shoulder, "They'll help her." Quiet, but firm, she truly believes it. "We've got dragons and riders looking for... looking. If he gets out." She tries to read the man, not intending to smother but unable to help the need to comfort the inconsolable. The harper apprentices have secured the exits they know of. Are there ones they don't know of? The other harpers begin to fan through the crowds, their watchful eyes noting and cataloguing everything they see. Some of them are better than others and Suireh, at the top of the dais, takes her own notes from up there. Devaki is visibly in shock, arms hanging slackly by his side, and it's hard to tell whether Azaylia's hand, or even her words penetrate, staring at his wife as the healers surround her. The noises they are making are not hopeful. If Rilka hears Raum, she gives him no acknowledgement. Crowds part for her, aware of the blood staining her skirt, and the wild look in her eyes. She makes her way away from the hold and off towards the shoreline; the sea calls to her, plainly. The knife-wielder isn't the only one trying to escape. A group of anxious, panicky holders are pounding at the main exit, demanding to be let out now. N'rov's nod is quick, sharp, and gray eyes glitter as he memorizes the scene as he's been trained; then he's leaping off the platform and headed through the crowd. With the main gates closed, he changes course, hunting out a side portal if he can find it; if it's guarded by a harper apprentice, so much the better for getting by. If one isn't readily apparent, though, the gates it will have to be. Or, no: Rilka has a path. He can seek to follow it, bloody or not. Quinlys grip on her shoulders snaps Farideh's eyes to hers, and it's somewhat calming, if not completely. "I don't think I should be-- drinking. What if-- what if--" There she goes again, but this time, she takes control, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath that only goes so far as to keep her from shedding those burgeoning tears. "We shouldn't help? We should--" Her eyes lift to the nearest drink stall, and her forehead furrows with great thought. "Okay." While her 'companion' isn't Guard/professional, at least Edyis has a decent set of training from being under her sensei's tutelage. There's a hard, quick glance at the not-Scribe, then an incisive little nod, the 'student perhaps seeing the bluerider truly in her home element for the first time. And then they're face to face, near-literally, with the quarry, and - with Ed's foot having done the 'slowing move,' Alida charges in as the second lioness to perform the coup-de-grace: not a crushed throat, but a flying tackle that puts all her momentum, weight, and training behind it to overbear the man trying to rise again. Is that a flash of steel, as well, somewhere upon the bluerider? Above the little knot of violence, Ilicaeth roars - red-eyed and circling - while Pyrite shrieks and hovers near the culprit and her own mistress...talons unsheathed, teeth clicking the air menacingly. "Weyrwoman," Suireh watches N'rov go, only now remember the bubbly glass that's probably shattered somewhere out there. Tearing her eyes away from the departing dragonrider, she turns to seek out Azaylia. "If I might have a word, a favor. Would your Weyrleader and you leave a wing here to watch and transport as needed for the next few days? Unless," pale eyes slide to take in Devaki and the state he's in, "The Lord orders you to leave." Eventually. When he's in a thinking state. Devaki mutters something. It sounds a lot like a toneless, "It's my fault," though it probably doesn't carry much beyond Azaylia and Suireh. It doesn't seem like the Lord's giving orders right now. More gently, "What can we do, Farideh? We'd only get in the way." Quinlys looks, for a moment, like she's about to throw her arms around the younger woman... but she stops herself, and instead, draws the girl with her as she heads for the stall. The cider's not super alcoholic, but it's warm; as she hands Farideh a mug, the bluerider says, "It'll be fine. If there's anything we can do to help anyone, we'll do it. Until then, we just need to stay out of the way. I'll get you home as soon as we can leave, okay? Everything's fine." Edyis isn't resting anytime soon, moving after Alida's tackle, though also being careful to stay the hell out of the blonde's way, ready to attempt to slow the man down again if he manages to escape it. There's always a path to the water-- particularly when it's an isolated stretch of beach and not an obvious means of escape. Rilka doesn't notice N'rov; at least it means there's no one to stop him. Daroda, having departed with baleful eyes, still leaves her fingerprints all over the scene as one of her ladies approaches Devaki with a fur coat and a glass of something or other. When shock wears off, rooms suddenly get colder. "Sir," the young girl says hesitantly, "I ah..." But what do you say in situations like this to a man who outranks you five times over. Go to your room? Go sit? Go lie down? While the knife-wielder is quick, slowed as he is getting back to his feet, there's no way for him to avoid Alida's charge, and he goes down with a grunt of surprise and paint under the weight of the bluerider. He apparently has no second weapon to reach for, but he's squirming, fighting her for control, trying to strike with a sharp elbow. At least when the bronze dragon descends, dark-winged, it's not to give the sea-woman the slightly less obvious means of escape. Vhaeryth's only here for his rider, and thence to Healer Hall. That guard that follows Rilka gives N'rov a narrow-eyed look, but his orders are clear: follow the girl. Azaylia stands with Devaki, although her watery gaze is on his face rather than watching the healers. "Yes..?" It's a slow drift from the Lord to Suireh, before she snaps back to now. "Yes?" She turns, reluctant to leave the numb man alone. The favor in question is met with a sharp nod, "I was thinking the same." Or she would've, eventually. Suireh has a much clearer head, right now. "Of course." Devaki's murmur has her spinning, snapping, "It is not." As the lady approaches with that coat, she's quiet once more, until the woman falters, "At least sit down, Devaki." Please. Rilka walks straight into the sea. Not to drown herself; just to stand there, waist-deep, her eyes closed and arms held out. It's... an offering. A ritual? Something. "We can-- we can--" But words won't come, and she's too out of sorts to force them into being. It's a tremulous smile that she offers to Quinlys, accepting the mug of cider with those still-shaky hands. "It feels-- wrong. We are standing here with-- with drinks, and she might be--" Farideh's lower lips wobbles and she hurriedly looks down into her cup. "How can we just stand here?" she asks quietly, raising her watery gaze to the bluerider. To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth reaches out, her drums beyond aggitated-- angry. Outraged. « The Lady is wounded. » Her dark smoke carries the message faster than her words could, second-hand images snatched from her rider. Issedi being pushed, the blade, the culprit. Blood. « Mine wishes to have ours here to help protect The Lady's tribe. » Yet it is K'del who would know which Wing would be best, should he agree. The Lord shakes off the offer of a coat, though the wine, he does take, after a blank moment of staring at the girl. Devaki takes a gulp, two, and, as bid by the Weyrwoman, sinks into a seat, head bowed. Sadly for the knife-wielder...Alida knows all the tricks - has practiced them herself often enough, too - and when the assailant squirms, tries to use his body as a weapon, there's a bob of her upper torso to the side to dodge that elbow, then a knee that's planted brutally in the center of his back if her training serves her right. A knife-pommel - almost as brutal - hopefully finds the small nerve cluster at the base of his skull, and punches down in a move designed to render him near-instantly unconscious without killing him, while that knee seeks to arch him backwards toward her. The bluerider looks a bit like a barely-restrained lunatic, at this point, her eyes hot and intense, her motions predatory, her mouth twisted into a faint and strange little grimace-grin. So low that perhaps only Edyis might hear her, "C'mon muthafucker... keep squirmin'." The crowd of healers around the Lady Reaches eases back. It's subtle, but noticed immediately by those near. A murmur rises from the dais. "The Lady is dead." It's repeated, and rises in a noise throughout the great hall. The adept movements of the bluerider renders the man quickly unconscious. Maybe he'd have a come back, otherwise. Moments later, several of the Hold's guards appear, circling the group of assailant, rider and resident. Well, now, murderer, rider and resident. In a rush, those flames consume her earlier words. Not wounded. Not wounded. There's an echo of a keen that is not her own, the scent of funeral flowers carried by those smokey plumes, « Dead. » The Lady is dead. (To Cadejoth from Hraedhyth) No. No, no, no, no. Cadejoth and his rider were there, earlier today; they're home again, now, and though the news has surely already begun to spread-- no. Not the lady; not this. No. « We will send them, » he promises, bones rattling and shaking. « Szadath's wing. They come. » (To Hraedhyth from Cadejoth) Quinlys', "I know," comes before that new murmur; before Olveraeth picks up the news from those closer; before. "Oh-- oh fuck," is what she says, then, eyes flickering open again and focusing immediately upon Farideh. "Fuck, no. Fuck, fuck. Don't fall apart on me; we're-- we're fine. Fuck." Maybe not so fine. Edyis eyes the guards puffing a breath to clear the hair that has escaped. As the murmurs reach her ears fists clench, but mostly events are starting to sink in. "I need a drink." is murmured with frustration. She's among the first to hear it, up there. Suireh's cheeks blanch and her eyes shut. "Damnit," is muttered low under her breath. It's when her eyes open again that she's looking coolly at Azaylia. "Weyrwoman, I trust that you will make that happen." The end. "You," Suireh is suddenly turning looking, looking, looking, and then finding Raum. "Take your Lord to his quarters. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid." Not mincing words. "Watch him. A harper will be by when he's ready to ask for his statement." Assuming Raum will follow her orders, she then turns back to the healers and approaches them. Her words become far more quiet -- perhaps bringing them up to speed on what she's already set into motion with Tevara's eventual arrival. Raum stares at Suireh, then at his Lord. He stays where he is, a step away from Devaki. Another squeeze to the Lord's shoulder, grateful that he's at least sat down, Azaylia keeps to his side. Her eyes flick to those healers as they pull back, suddenly struck numb as the words reach her ears. "Issedi, no." It's a whimper, hand leaving Devaki to cover her lips as she suddenly steps back. Suireh's words are heard, and it's only after those eyes squeeze shut that the Weyrwoman can answer, "They're already on their way." Hraedhyth's drums are quicker than any Hold's, reaching for those dragon's nearby, echoing the murmurs of the crowd within: Dead dead dead. Her touch is forceful, a startled dam scruffing up those nearby to make certain that they are all there. All safe. The other harpers, untrained in legal as most of them are, still have taken the required basics and have already started taking statements starting with the people closest to the dais and radiating out. There's a noise from Devaki, but it's quiet. Kind of like a stifled, sharp breath in and out, so quick it could be missed. His head drops into his hands. The healers disperse, all but one, carefully laying a blanket over the Lady Issedi and standing nearby, keeping anyone else from coming near. The 'static' of Lady Issedi's death reaches her ears, mind, but not her gut...Alida too high on adrenaline to feel anything but the satisfaction that comes with an enemy's 'fall.' She remains kneeling on the man until she's certain he's out (achieved by brutally pinch-twisting the skin of one of his wrists, and achieving no reaction), then moves aside to roll him over...and study him head to toe...followed by the same skull-fucking given to those Hold guards ready to accept him into their 'embrace.' Standing slowly, though smoothly - only a hint of a tremble of hands seen for aforementioned adrenaline - the bluie's alto grunts flatly to Edyis, "Get one. *Don't* get drunk." Still circling overhead, Ilicaeth gives off a low sound - perhaps a little melancholy, maybe a bit satisfied - while Pyrite finally settles upon her human's shoulder, flexing her talons into padded riding jacket. With a respectful nod towards the blueriding former guard, one of Raum's guards says, "We'll take him." And, grudgingly, perhaps, "Thanks," towards the pair of them, before he reaches for the arms of the unconscious man. If his actions are a little bit rough, well... the man's unconscious, and doesn't react. The "what if she's--" is correct, evidentially. "This--" a slurred word, when the murmur reaches them, when Farideh's eyes widen in shock and her body stiffens. Her fingers release the mug and it falls to the ground, splattering its content all over both their feet; it would be the second time she's done that this turn at High Reaches Hold. "It can't--" She's shaking her head, slowly, from side-to-side, her face denying the truth, unaccepting what's been done. And her feet carry her backwards, one step, and then two. "I need to leave. I need to-- Lady Daroda," in the moment, forgetting that that lady is no longer a Lady. Later, Quinlys will probably be dismayed at the state of her boots; now, no, she simply sets aside her own mug, hurrying to take a few steps closer to Farideh, who is clearly not allowed to get away, now. "Let me take you home," she says, quickly, and for once, she's not talking about hanky-panky. "Come on. There's nothing we can do here, and... please." Amongst the crowd, the Hold's guards are visible, but also too, the Hold's staff, stirred into movement by the adept steward, Kiatin. Wine is being circulated freely, along with the indication that those who are asked by the guards or harpers to stay will be housed for the evening. It's professional courtesy from both Hold guard and former, blueriding one that has Alida responding to the 'Reaches contingent, "Aye..." a bob of her braided, pale head given as they haul off the murderer... or at least the hand that enacted such. Coming down from her high, the 'rider finds herself giving a small, slightly shuddering intake and exhale of breath, then shaking her head a couple of times. Transitioning back to 'civilian' mode is rather difficult, at times like these. Above them all, Ilicaeth rumbles reassurance back to his dam, letting Hraedhyth and other dragons feel the triumph that comes from his lifemate's successful capture. Edyis notices the grudging part, actually she takes a moment to notice a lot of things. "Catching him after the fact, doesn't do any good." She comments perhaps a bit sharply, but otherwise seems determined to make her way back to where the drinks are, and Farideh and Quinlys. "Can I catch a ride with you two back to the Weyr." Edyis murmurs knocking back a glass of something that likely isn't meant to be downed in one go. "Devaki..." Azaylia has nothing to say. Not until news rushes back to her through that draconic bond, "We, they, have him. The man." It's all offered weakly, a paltry comfort in the wake of his tragedy. "I'm... I'm so sorry." She doesn't expect her words to be heard, not really. "We're here, if you--" The Weyrwoman can't finish, not at first. With a fortifying swallow, "The Weyr offers it's support." It's then that she leaves him to his guard's care, Raum earning a curious stare as she moves to do damage control. The healers have nothing more enlightening for Suireh, nothing more than what seems the obvious. "Where's the knife," is what she ends up saying sharply, loud enough for Raum to hear, though she's pointedly not looking at him not listening to her orders. One by one -- as people are questioned briefly by either harper or guard to determine what, if anything they saw, people are allowed to leave, though the exits are still watched carefully. Some, like the Weyrwoman, those near the dais, and others, are asked to stay or come back the next day to speak to the harpers and the Hold's guards. It's a strange sight, a personal tragedy made public. Devaki, up on the dais, staring at the covered body of his wife, oblivious to the comforting words nor the crowd that stares in their direction. Eventually, an older man -- Cason, recognized perhaps by riders who know the exile elders -- arrives, and under his guiding hand, the Lord leaves the dais, Raum close on his heels. It's a fluttery inhale and exhale that follows the bluerider's offer, and an almost imperceptible nod of the laundress' head in answer. "Please," earnestly, Farideh's eyes weakly lifting to Edyis, watching blankly. Quinlys' gaze leaves Farideh for only a moment as Edyis approaches, but her nod is quick enough. "Come on, then," she says to both of them. "Let's get out of here." Their part in the questioning that follows is brief enough; after that, it's not so difficult to escape, to find Olveraeth, and to go home... cold comfort though that likely is. Some time later, with fewer -- but still enough people to witness -- the Lady Issedi's body is removed from the dais. Unwilling to bark out such things in a crowd of civvies, Alida finds herself stepping smartly over towards the Healers who uttered the call for the knife, and murmuyring low to them, "It wasn't on 'im. He either dropped it right after the deed, 'r during his run." Still, she shows little emotion...even after remaining and watching the Lady's body removed. The Weyrwoman stays long enough to give an in depth testimony, as shaken as she is. Despite the tears, she is adamant about being one of the last to leave-- no doubt to the displeasure of the Wing now on guard and those waiting back at the Weyr. It's late enough to be early when Hraedhyth finally takes to the skies, returning home safe and sound. Glacier takes care of its own...and Alida leaves with her Weyrwoman, the blonde woman finally looking much more 'human' after some hours of giving her own testimony...and backing Azaylia. Eventually, later when night turns into morning, the Masterhealear arrives and conferences with her healers. Apparently Fortian bronzeriders can only sweet talk so much. Taking Alida's comments in stride, some of the harpers who were on interrogation duty: where are you from? What did you see? Nothing? Ok, we'll find you if we need more, detour to investigate the room. They find the weapon and reach for it wrapping it up in a towel. |
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