Difference between revisions of "Logs:Not Being Smart"

It's taken a bit of time to come up with the plan, but disturbingly not *that* much time, all things considered. N'hax and C'wlin walk from the docks, the shorter man dressed in bold Harper-blue and exuding confidence with every step, the taller standing a relaxed, less-uptight amusement as he trails in dark garments well-tailored, every bit of the unlikely archivist. Up from the sea they venture, following behind an assistant steward who has evidently taken their credentials at face-value, gesturing them towards the doubled courtyards. As they pass the oh-so-helpful assistant who leaves them at a certain point, N'hax-- er, Nahark-- glances to his companion. Ever on-camera, as it were, he comments mildly, "The staff is so helpful. We must be sure to give our commendations to the Lord."

At ease in the role of the harper, C'wlin -- Sully -- has a sheaf of papers just in case the vocal credentials don't work, but loathe to pull them out unless they have to. He's managed to produce a harper journeyman's knot and it's only after explaining that they are here as representatives from the hall, here to question the men in holding for archival's sake, that he's dropped a name of his own personal contact at the Hall -- a Senior Journeyman by the name of Ranaulf. Which is legit. "The staff is. Pleasant place." Snotty like a harper, 'Sully' is more than happy to be stopped to add, "Now we're supposed to see the Steward, I think, to see about getting to the men accused of piracy."

The assistant steward is all to happy to pass any decision further up the chain. The two 'harpers' are left to their own inside a reception room -- there's nothing particularly exciting here, but it has a fire that burns brightly and merrily, taking out the chill of that sea approach. It's some time before the Steward -- a portly man in his late fifties -- arrives, beady gaze flickering over the pair of them. "Steward Langford. Now, what did you say you wanted?" expectantly.

The only thing that Nahark carries with him is a worn, hidebound book and a stylus case; he's obviously here to write. Eyes roam around the reception area, and the lightly-bearded man - just for this occaision - moves to flank Sully in a posture that manages to state deferential without a hint of grovelling. Maybe he *should* have been a Harper, after all. "Well-met, Steward," he replies, jostling his case from one side to the other to extend his now-free hand. "I'm archivist Sahark, from the Hall, and this is journeyman Sully. We're here to take a defense account from those you are holding for piracy." A glance to Sully occurs at this point, very much as if from an underling checking for validation.

Sully tilts his head in the slightest show of approval at Nahark's execution of his intentions. "That is correct," the journeyman harper turns to Steward Langford. "We must gather this data for the Hall's record in order for the arbiter to prepare should one be assigned or needed." Sully manages a tight smile, his features not given to warmth, but his demeanor implies that they're just doing this by the book for the Hall. "If you would be so kind as to show us to where the men are being held, we can get this done pretty quickly and not be a further bother." He pauses and adjusts his stance, "If your Hold is amenable to this, of course," is added solicitously.

Langford puffs himself up. "I wasn't told of this," he rumbles, visibly displeased at not being in the know. "But it's not surprising, the way that upstart Lor--" about here is where he realizes he's talking about his Lord, to Harpers, and he goes pale. His lips press together, and he grunts as he looks from archivist to harper. It is very likely this faux pas combined with the appropriate amount of deference on Sully's part that makes him quick to turn around sharply for the door, "Follow me."

Down a twisting maze of corridors they head, deep into the Hold. It's mid afternoon, except no daylight gets down this far -- the walls filled with glows to light the way. Finally, they arrive at a small room, in which a couple of guards are playing dragonpoker, though they snap too quickly as they see Langford. "Harpers," the Steward grunts to the guards. "Let them in, don't let them get eaten, and call me when they're ready to leave." The guards salute, and at least one of them has an expression of distaste that only appears when the Steward leaves. The other is busy opening a metal door, and he gestures carelessly inside. It's definitely darker here -- the glows almost shedding less light -- but beyond the door is a corridor lined by cells on either side. It's definitely not a nice place to be.

...and not so nice when the metal door slams shut unceremoniously behind them. "Bang when you want out," one of the guards calls carelessly.

Tucking himself back behind Sully incon... well, as inconspicuous as a man of N'hax's size can hope to be, at least, Nahark follows along blithely with only the slightest hint of a smile at that initial faux pas. Twining down into the Hold is easy enough... when you're following someone. Then there are guards and metal doors and prison cells, and only after the door slams behind them does Nahark comment sotto-voiced, "Which one would you prefer to start with?" An unholy gleam lies in grey eyes as he assesses the closest cells and moves towards the first on the left - a spot of honor were this a stable, and isn't it, almost? It's probably telling that he doesn't seem at all ill-at-ease down here, with the glows and the darkness and the soured emotion stagnating in the air with other, more menial odors.

This is where Sully's natural inclination to carry an expression of mild recrimination mixed with indulgence that does him well at the Steward's faux pas. Following the Steward, the 'journeyman' harper's stance is stiff-necked and proper -- every drop the harper so clearly stamped of the Hall. When the metal door slams shut, Sully's nose wrinkles at the conditions of the cell. "Interesting," he comments, almost primly if primly came packaged with snotty entitlement. "Let's see if we can pick out the leader," is his suggestion as he moves to the cell after Nahark's chosen cell. "We are here to take your defense." Gross. C'wlin is not impressed with the odors.

Yes, there's definitely a scent in the air. It's kind of that damp, mildew smell, combined with sweat, and something less indefinable. Probably familiar only if one's been in a dungeon before. Well, the first they pick cell is probably going to be a wash, judging by the immediate: "Fuck off!" from the long-haired, grubby occupant, who doesn't even look their way. The one next to that is quick to grumble, "Don't fucking talk to them!", and then more jeering starts up: "Harpers!", "Defense, hah!" Not every cell is noisy, though -- the last one on the right has an occupant that can be barely called a boy -- certainly younger than the two 'harpers' -- he is sitting on the bench in his cell, his head down, arms wrapped around him.

"It's your decision if you want to rot away in here," Nahark returns to one particularly vociferous (and odious) pirate. Accused pirate. He walks the line, looking for a one that's been properly tendered-up for gentle questioning. Hardly any roughhandling is intended! Harpers, after all. He aspies one - that boy at the end - and nudges silently at Sully, gesturing with his chin. What about THAT one? He moves closer, with or without his companion.

"Trust me, you want us on your side," Sully states loftily before attention is caught by the archivist to the young boy that resides in the quiet cell at the end. "You there," his enunciation is perfect, no hint of accident sullying the snotty tones, "What's your name?" By way of icebreakers, Sully is not the best, though he does make an effort to gentle his tone to something approximating coaxing.

The lofty response from the harper earns more jeering. "What are you going to do, word us to death?", "Don't they smell like such pretty boys? I bet they have nice soft hands!", "I bet they'd mewl and beg for their lives!" More rowdy laughter from the so-called pirates. Even over the noise of the others, the boy must hear them -- because he jerks suddenly, the whites of his eyes visible in the dim lighting. "G'way," the boy whispers. "You'll get me in trouble."

Enough's enough, at least for one resident of the corridor: Nahark gives over his case-and-book to Sully, and walks to where one especially bold jeerer remains: isn't it handy how the space between the bars is usefully broad enough for him to deliver a hard, sharp, murderously-precise blow to the gut. Takes all the words out of THAT one, at least for a moment; "Do you've got anything else to say, or do I need to go get the key?" His tone and stance have shifted to an incredible degree: gone is the mild-mannered archivist, and here to play is the hard-eyed pragmaticist, who rubs his knuckles in a way that indicates he hasn't a problem using them again.

Taking Nahark's case-and-book, Sully angles himself so that the boy has a hard time seeing what the bigger 'harper' is up to. His attention is fixated on the boy -- let's be real, Sully is not going to be man-handling any of these guys -- and says, "No we won't." His own form of pragmatic, this. "We're here to take your defense statement. To hear your side of the story to find out why all of this," he sweeps a hand behind him, "happened."

That particular jeerer would probably be glaring and cursing at Nahark: if only he wasn't curled into a ball, busy groaning. At least the punch wasn't lower, though. There's a momentary silence in the cells, and then more jeering, this time at their downed compatriot: "You let a boy harper best you, Deffor?", "That ain't no harper!" Even if Sully's blocking his view, it wouldn't be difficult for the boy to hear what's going on, and he goes wide-eyed, gaze flickering past Sully, then back with a tip of head. "You ain't no harper. They don't beat up on people," the boy says firmly, but if anything he sounds relieved. "Who are you?"

"Does that really matter?" N'hax can be heard to mutter in respones to the audible question from the kid. The big man eyes down the aisle, smirking at the one guy who hastily steps back from the bars. He turns to return to the boy, and revoices that; "We're here to find out the truth, kid. Who hired you?" Grey eyes are not unkind, despite the rest of stance and demeanor.

"Oh no, I am a harper," Sully states with the firm ring of truth, "but he's here to enforce what we need to find out." C'wlin glances to N'hax, before turning back to the kid, and stepping forward until he's close enough to the bar'd cell to drop his voice. "Tell us who hired you and what you hoped to achieve by this, and we might can help you out of this."

"Hired?" There's gaffawing laughter from the crowd. "We're pirates. We steal things." Not everyone is intimidated by Nahark, even if some are -- a few are watching in that silent, patient way, as if waiting for him to get close to them. The boy's still staring dubiously past Sully. Ring of truth or not, he's likely unused to harpers needing muscle, so it's clear he doesn't believe him. "We were there to get the loot, on the ship," the boy begins, hesitantly. "Something important was on board." Nearby, the other pirates yell, and one of them growls threateningly, "Quiet, boy!"

There is a flicker of a look from Nahark to Sully, and the man turns with a sigh. The slow and deliberate process of rolling up his sleeves is undertaken with the unmistakable pace of ritual, and the broad-shouldered man starts his way down the aisle, a challenge in stance and set of eyes: a showy set of actions to distract away from Sully and the boy, no doubt, even though his wolfish smile to one particular cell-denizen speaks the promise of pain.

"What was on board?" Sully coaxes from the boy, letting Nahark deal with the rest of the pirates for the moment. "Do you know?" While not unkind, he's not the most comforting person on Pern. Little nuances that Nahark doesn't have -- demeanor, enunciation, deportment -- leave the stamp of the Harper Hall on Sully; enough to give the weight of truth to his proclamation. "And what were you going to do to this precious cargo?"

Looking is not overly intimidating -- at least not to pirates used to the level of violence they're undoubtedly accustomed to. There's some gutteral laughter, and a, "I think he wants your ass, Jobb!" cat-calling from the other cells. More than one of the pirates are still paying close attention to the conversation with the boy, though: "Don't you dare tell him anything!" The boy cringes back in his cell, obviously more wary of his compatriots than the insistantly questioning harper. "I don't know." Maybe he really doesn't, or maybe he's just frightened of answering in front of the others.

A long arm reaches through the bars to snatch at the front of one grimy-ass shirt, fending any flailing to aim a short, sharp jab at the delicate point where ear meets throat, just under the strong ridgeline of jaw -- for the one with the JOKES. Nahark's not amused.

Sully doesn't look back to what Nahark is doing, he keeps his eyes trained on the boy. He considers the kid for a few moments before taking some hide from the documentation that the 'archivist' Nahark was carrying. Quietly, he writes a single sentence: 'Telling the truth will possibly save you. You can write it.' Then, blocking the action with his body and using Nahark's behavior as leverage against being seen, he shoves hide scrap and stylus at the boy, saying in a normal volume. "If you don't know..." his voice trails off, affectation of dubiousness creeping in, "... just remember, we're Harpers, not affiliations of Hold or," disdainful glance behind him, "Men accused of piracy."

The joker's not so much with the taunting anymore -- that jab from N'hax connects, and he's howling in pain suddenly. "Come over here and try that, pretty boy," another pirate calls in a gruff voice. This one doesn't look like he'd be taken unawares by a grab through the bars. The sudden howling from the cell nearby is enough to make anyone sweat, especially the boy Sully's talking to. He stares confusedly at the scrap of hide that Sully gives him: it's obvious the boy can't read, but he inches closer, to hiss out frantically: "Look, it was something from Tillek, that's all I know! We'd planned to grab it before it got to the Hold, but we were running late as the wind wasn't in our favor. Please don't let him hurt me!"

Nahark simply shoots a disdainful, distasteful look over his shoulder to the most recent catcaller: "I try not to get too close to assgrubbing buggerers. That shit's catching, and I don't want anything you have." He gravitates back to the middle of the aisle, ignoring what goes on behind him. Nothing to see there, folks, move on. His eyes are dark, left hand absently rubbing the knuckles of his right.

Was that a snicker from Sully at Nahark's comment? Never (okay maybe). As the kid leans in closer and hisses out his answer, the Harper frowns. "Who is he?" He jerks a thumb at one of the louder pirates in the cells behind him. His voice is equally soft. Followed by a louder, "Okay kid. Whatever." As if the kid isn't talking. He even has a level of frustration to his tone, though the kid can see from his expression that it's for the benefit of the others.

"Really?" comes the gruff answer to N'hax, "Because it looks like you enjoy it, pretty boy. Maybe you should join us!" There's more laughter in the cells. The boy's edging away, squeezing himself into the corner of his cell, shaking his head mutely. Beyond the metal door, there's the faint sound of boots and raised voices. Not long after is the 'thunk' of the lock turning, and the creak as the door slowly opens. The two guards are at the front, hands pointedly on their swords -- beyond them is Steward Langford, a stonefaced Lord Devaki, and a third red-headed man.

There's silence for a moment; the Lord's gaze flickers over the two as he walks past, then towards the cells -- strangely amused as he takes in the two groaning pirates. "Harpers," a thread of disbelief infused in his tone. "Come with me." Turning on a heel, he leaves the dungeon.

The arrival of all the -- well, all that arrive doesn't catch Nahark doing anything nefarious, thankfully. His sleeves are still rolled up, and his eyes are more for Raum than for the others, a flash of recognition evident. With a shrug of his shoulders at Sully, Nahark takes back his book and case and gestures fluently towards the exit. They are... summoned.

Sully is also merely standing by the boy's cell, expression already saying he was done with the kid. Turning, he follows the Steward, the Lord, and the Archivist. One last look for the cells, expression blank, before that chapter is closed and let the summoning begin!

While the guards continue to eye them warily, Devaki doesn't seem at all bothered by turning his back to them -- perhaps because of the watchful gaze of that broad-shouldered red-head that falls in behind them. They are lead through that twisty maze of corridors, back up to the waiting room they first arrived in. While Raum loiters near the door, Devaki goes for a chair, turning his blue-eyed gaze on the pair. "You are of the Weyr," he says, simply. "To make things straightforward, how about you start by telling me anything you would tell me before... encouragement is necessary?" His eyes flicker towards the red-head at that faint emphasis, then back between the two.

Oh, that nice waiting room. With the fire! N'hax, sleeves still rolled up and knuckles bloodied, chooses to stand by said fire, warming his hands and keeping an eye on the rangy redhead. He doesn't respond to Devaki, having planned to leave initial strategy to C'wlin, but his snort about encouragement is loud enough to be obnoxious. His glance to the Harper is glittering with amusement rather than alarm, his entire stance relaxed rather than what one would likely expect, given... the circumstances.

The waiting room. C'wlin is -- if any thing else -- a cool cookie when it comes to these types of scenarios. "I have papers from my Senior Journeyman, Ranaulf," he answers calmly, rustling around for these said 'papers'. Brows merely raise at 'encouragement', but for now he manages to mask any thoughts beyond, "Here." They aren't first-turn student level papers; they'd hold up at superficial reading. Enough that if Devaki doesn't have prior knowledge of their association with the weyr -- this being 'Sully's' first time to the hold -- they might get them out. Then again, Lord Devaki's knowledge is key for these to pass! It is, at least, a well thought out plan!

Devaki takes the papers with a surprised quirk of brow, examining them carefully. He seems impressed enough by them, folding them over. "These would be very convincing, harpers, except that I was at the Weyr for nearly three months. I watched the Hatching. I pay very close attention to those who may be of interest to me." He pauses to look at Raum, and -- there's almost something oddly apologetic in that look. "We shall go the encouragement route." He stands, and walks to the door -- interestingly, the red-head leaves with him, the door thunking behind. They'll find the click afterwards is a lock, and they're left to sweat it out for a good thirty minutes, at least -- maybe even an hour.

"Well, ain't //this// fun," N'hax drawls, snorting in amusement, closing in to C'wlin. He has some fair bit of words for the other, but they aren't quite loud enough to be heard from anyone who may be listening from the other side of the door. A brief flurry of conversation goes down within the first five minutes, and then there is only silence from the room, not even the sound of feet shifting on the floor. As a matter of fact, the pair of them end up sitting at the couch should and when the Holder and his entourage return: N'hax with a bored expression and eyes focused on the ceiling, C'wlin with that snide little brittle expression which means he's thinking of things he'd much rather be doing. It's a general miracle that Athimeroth and Jhorinth don't try to destroy the hold, perhaps, but there isn't sight nor sound of either of the bronzes.

Eventually, there's noise outside -- a click, and the door unlocks. In walks Devaki again -- but this time he's not alone. Behind him is two very familiar faces -- Quinlys, and Leova -- with Raum once again taking up the rear, loitering near the doorway. While the Lord's gaze flickers over the pair of 'harpers', he pointedly stands to one side, silent gaze on them.

And there are the pair of deviants, looking very deviant indeed: N'hax in somber black clothing, his sleeves rolled up to display powerful forearms and bloodied knuckes; C'wlin sporting none other than a journeyman Harper knot and journeyman-ish clothing. N'hax's gaze passes over Leova and Quinlys with only the faintest HITCH of the side of his face, left eye twitching. Man. When Devaki said encouragement, somehow he wasn't expecting THIS.

When Devaki returns, the door opening, C'wlin's head turns as eyes latch onto the returning Lord Holder. Expecting probably chains, whips, instruments of torture. When Quinlys and Leova appear, a real snort of what might have been surprised amusement -- you know, the laughter that comes at a very surprisingly bad turn of events in a movie? That kind -- and eyes get wider. Nope, he wasn't expecting THIS either. TROUBLE.

To High Reaches dragons, Jhorinth is the strident clang of forge and frustrated vent of bellows, overheard by too many: « I told you this was a bad idea! » Anyone's guess on who he's talking to.

Quinlys is known for her occasionally volatile moods; she's known for anger, for yelling, for losing her cool. But now... her expression is icy cold, and her stance ramrod straight. There's nothing in her expression to suggest that she instantly recognises the delinquent pair... but there's no hope of her keeping up their ruse, not when she says, after casting a glance in Leova's direction, "You have my word, Lord Devaki, that this was not a weyr-countenanced endeavour." A beat, and then-- "Do you want to keep them?" She sounds terribly, terribly serious.

To High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth is there, abruptly, and there are no stars in the heavens tonight: « You are shutting your mouth, right now. » That's an order. He'll get mom to enforce it if he needs to, too.

« Please. » Iesaryth is polite, yes - but her request has an urgency that backs up that order, the waves washing high on the beach. Listen to Olveraeth. (To High Reaches dragons from Iesaryth)

A storm of winds brings forth super-chilled aether from the darkness above Pern's blue-cast skies. « Bad idea... but yield so much. » A recalcitrant whisper, counter to Olveraeth's command for the moment anarchy breaches common sense. Until Athimeroth is shut down. (To High Reaches dragons from Athimeroth)

The Glacier representative files in right after the weyrlingmaster, and then Leova's shoulder to shoulder with the bluerider, rusty hair bristly over dark amber eyes. She nods to the Lord, her jaw set. There's a certain awareness that says Raum might not be welcome behind her back, but for the moment she's silent, an electric displeasure radiating from her that has much to do with Vrianth as anything like humanity.

To Iesaryth and Vrianth, Olveraeth's explanation is quietly concise, starkly serious but urging no panic, not yet. Yes, a summons from High Reaches Hold's watchdragon, and yes, two weyrlings caught infiltrating the Hold. But the situation is under control, and the two will be put at Iesaryth's disposal, once all is settled. « We will do what we can. » He promises it.

Undoubtedly there's a flicker of satisfaction from Devaki as he looks at the harper-come-weyrlings. "That will remain to be seen," the Lord says, in response to Quinlys' assurance that the boy's actions weren't Weyr-sanctioned. It's her latter offer that takes the man by surprise in turn, his head tipped for a moment. Even Raum turns his weighted gaze from Leova and leans forward in a manner that can only be interpreted as anticipation of his Lord's answer. Eventually, after a flicker of a glance at the red-head, like that somehow contributes: "No. I'd expect your--" a tap of those papers signed by a certain Journeyman, "--And Harper's punishment will be sufficient."

What is C'wlin? C'wlin is a mute boy. A good boy. A boy that isn't saying anything. That poker face hides much; also thank Faranth he's sitting down. He even refrains from looking at his BFF, partner-in-crime. A FEAT. Silence, silence, silence, keep the silence going, hee-haw.

N'hax doesn't social-reference C'wlin at ALL, either. He doesn't even twitch when Quinlys offers them up on a silver platter, though an eyebrow can't help but lifting. Cold comfort is the knowledge of what did transpire down in those dungeons, and his eyes lift to focus on Leova rather than Quinlys; the latter would likely bring a cringe. After a moment, he returns to studying Raum, his expression blanking slowly. Devaki's words cause a tightening of his jaw, brief but visible.

There's a vision of the pair of them, the boys. Thin. Sharp. All glare and shadow as though cast by electric light. (To Olveraeth and Iesaryth from Vrianth)

"You." Silence is working for C'wlin, because it's N'hax Leova's walking toward, too taut to be a saunter but with some of that same familiarity of motion. "You don't get to be a poor-man's N'thei. Hear me?" There's no question in that low, smoky voice. None at all.

Displeased, Iesaryth is darkened skies and high tide. « One of them told me. » She trusts Olveraeth and Vrianth both to handle it, though it would be best if they were not to admit to their error in full. If they've done that, then, well. Neither Iesaryth nor Shani know what to do with them, but they will certainly handle it. « Please let us know if you need us. » To poke them. Sharply. (To Olveraeth and Vrianth from Iesaryth)

Quinlys's wince is visible, and perhaps exaggeratedly so, for surely she can't have expected that her reassurances would be enough to dismiss the actions of these two troublemaking weyrlings. Her, "Pity," is rather more even, and followed promptly by a, "Well, I'm sure we'll manage. And Harper. I've no doubt that they'll have a thing or two to say, too." She holds back, not even so much as glancing at the two weyrlings, not even as Leova approaches. Not yet. "Unfortunately, they're definitely ours."

To Iesaryth and Vrianth, Olveraeth's own darkened skies, albeit ones far higher and more empty than Iesaryth's, linger. « Understood, » he says. « We will keep them from saying anything else, if we can. And bring them home. » As much as his rider would like to dump them both Between, right now-- riders.

There's a distinct kind of disappointment in Raum's gaze -- though N'hax's look earns a smile -- though it isn't particularly warm. The silent weyrlings are regarded only for another brief moment before Devaki says to Quinlys, "You may advise your Weyrleader, and Weyrwomen, that until we come to some agreement on reparation in this matter, only those flying sweeps, or with family in my Hold," a slight pause, then, "-or from Glacier -- may visit freely. All others musts report to one of my staff before venturing into my territory. I'm sure I don't need to explain why."

Sharp assent from Vrianth, and yet, « The man must see them being seen to. To a degree. » Her focus switches to the blue dragon, though the queen may still tune in if she chooses. « Olveraeth. They should fly home with you. They do not deserve to fly as riders do. » (To Olveraeth and Iesaryth from Vrianth)

Eyes rise to Leova's face, grey and solemn. "Yes, ma'am," rolls the low baritone, affirmative. N'hax even rises to his feet. His humorless smile is for Raum in return, a wolfish thing between predators, directly over Leova's head. His eyes cut sharply at the mention of Glacier, bringing his attention back to Devaki; and isn't it funny how there's another smile, this time a private, inner one? Circles within circles. He glances down to C'wlin, finally, and isn't there so MANY things that a shared look can communicate? And just when High Reaches thought they'd culled out all the troublesome bronzeriders...

Iesaryth is quick to agree with both Olveraeth and Vrianth; again, her confidence and her riders is with them and theirs. The scent of the ocean, the sound of the waves is never far off, but she merely listens, waits to see if anything more goes wrong. (To Olveraeth and Vrianth from Iesaryth)

Smoothly, C'wlin rises from his seat, his icy blue eyes settling on Devaki, when he speaks, but Quinlys and Leova get equal, side-long glances, but it's Raum that earns a longer look. A private smile that's kind of snake-like and probably thinking lovely bad-thoughts before he's snapped out of his reverie by N'hax. So many things to say, so little time, and such a HIGH self-preservation to remember to say nothing at all. SILENCE. Wait. In demure tones -- that C'wlin doesn't hold very well, but still he tries -- to Lord Devaki, "We're sorry sir, but we do hope that the young boy within your cells stays alive. He seemed to be very afraid of," blink-blink, "his men accused of acts of piracy. I'd hate for something to happen to him." Pretty-boy smile. It might land him deeper in trouble, but at least the kid's on EVERYONE's radar now.

To Iesaryth and Vrianth, Olveraeth's confirmation comes without words; yes, and yes again. And then: « The man says we may not travel freely to the Hold, for now. All but Glacier, and those with family and on sweeps. » Oh good. « Until 'reparations' are made. »

"I will certainly pass that on," says Quinlys, as impassively as she can (which is less so than she'd probably like: the heat of her anger is beginning to show again, that earlier calm no match for her emotions). Her chin lifts, sharper and angrier, and C'wlin's words? They have her turning abruptly towards him at last. "You," she says. "Close your mouth. You'll speak when you have leave to speak, and not before. Do I make myself clear?" Without waiting for an answer, she turns her gaze back to Devaki, and says, "They won't be bothering you again."

The thing about overlooking Leova is, that's when her hand goes up to N'hax's throat, dry and cool and knowing. He may be looking about all he likes, but her thumb, her fingers, the heel of her hand are all too aware of just where his carotid arteries are. His windpipe. Certain very vulnerable nerves. She presses. Is he paying attention? He should be. "Pay attention." She could repeat herself. Will she have to? She could do so much more.

Devaki turns his gaze on C'wlin, the boy's words earning a narrow-eyed look and a thin press of lips. "You do realize," he says, deliberately, "That your... interference... means it is likely I will have to release them. They were attacked while they were under my protection. The Harpers -- the real Harpers -- could argue this invalidates my right to imprison them. So -- if they are released, and something does happen to the boy -- his blood will be on your hands. And yours," his gaze flickers from one to the next. He's watching Leova with surprise -- and behind him, Raum, with interest. To Quinlys: "Good." Then, "You may have the room. When you are ready to leave, my Captain will see you're escorted... safely... from the Hold." He gestures towards Raum, then turns to leave the room.

Can they hear Aishani's mental sigh from here? Iesaryth might not be able to contain it. « Fabulous. » That's all in her rider's voice, but: « We will go to handle said 'reparations' soon, but we will abide by their requests for now, yes. » The queen is even less happy with the situation on multiple levels. But particularly on the getting caught level. That's really disappointing to her. (To Olveraeth and Vrianth from Iesaryth)

Those fingers feel the frustrated tension that expression and stance fails to communicate: the rasp of a growl that doesn't come into fruition, the jaw-clench of anger swallowed. N'hax has eyes only (down, down, down) for Leova, and the uneasily intense -- but so quiet -- reply of, "What do you think I have been doing?" Is there anyone else in the world when they have you by the throat? The cub knows when to focus on the lioness.

Does C'wlin want to say something? Yes. Does C'wlin say something? Hell no. Quinlys is far more terrifying that ol' Raum over there and Devaki-combined. Okay, wait, as N'hax is manhandled, maybe Leova trumps Quinlys. Yes. Quiet boy. Silent boy. Good boy.

Quinlys' mouth is a thin line when she acknowledges Devaki's words, breaking a moment later so that she can say, "Our thanks." Still, it's obvious that international relations are not really her forte-- especially when, as soon as the Lord is gone, she turns on the two. No doubt Raum will be passing information back to his master, but... too bad. "Are you two fucking stupid?" she says, through hissed teeth, a sharp whisper. "No. Don't answer that. I don't want to know. You're riding home with me." Is it deliberate, that she makes no mention of their dragons? Of their weyrling status? Quite possibly. "Don't say anything at all. Not a single word."

There's just the slightest flicker of Raum's tongue against his lips, his attention fixed on Leova, but otherwise silent. It'd probably be hard to forget he's there, given his mass of loitering intensity, but he's silent, observant as ever.

"Not," Leova murmurs to N'hax. One finger. "Being." The next. "Smart." The thumb. "I hope you were listening to the Lord," for all that her own actions may have caused him to very much not, "because you may wind up with that inscribed upon your hide." Though she releases the tall man, it's to follow it with a sharp thump right above his heart, and then she turns her shoulder to him. Not that her attention is gone, far from it, but with the briefest of nods to Quinlys, the dragonhealer's moved to C'wlin. "Journeyman, hm." That low alto makes it sound like little man. Raum can watch all he likes... for now. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" But a second nod marks Quinlys. Who'd just told him not to speak. The greenrider is very, very clear about that.

A lip curls up at the side. Not being smart? N'hax has spent his whole life beeing too smart. This is just to balance all that previous karmic force out. He doesn't even goad Raum, focusing on a spot just above Quinlys' left eyebrow. It's such a pretty eyebrow, really. He shifts restless, his eye breaking from that spot just to give Sully a LOOK. The STFU or DIAF kthx look.

C'wlin glances from Leova to Quinlys then to Leova. Not a peep comes from little bo peep. So he shakes his head. Nothing to see here! Maybe N'hax's silent thought hammer bludgeoned him into silence or he's actually listening to his common sense.

Silence. If the situation were different, perhaps Quinlys would be approving, but-- let's just say that there's not much to approve of, right now. "I think we'll save the explanations for home," she remarks over her shoulder to Leova. "And not trespass on Lord Devaki's land for any longer. After all, thanks to these two miscreants? None of us are especially wanted around here." She doesn't wait for a response (after all, two of them are under instructions not to speak), and instead turns to give Raum a glance, mostly hiding her wariness. "If you'd let us get out of your hair?"

With a nod, Raum gestures for them to proceed him left out of the room, his intent to step in behind them. It isn't that far from the room to the courtyard, and while the sight of the procession does earn attention from other holders as they pass by, most of their wary gaze is for the Guard Captain as the riders. In the courtyard, the red-head practices some more of his loitering skills, watching the weyrfolk until they depart.

No argument from the Glacier rider, the one whose canines show when she looks at C'wlin. Better. She doesn't so much step back as step to Quinlys, or rather, the door behind her. Past Raum. If he's looking, she doesn't look back. Those weyrlings, it's indeed Olveraeth they're riding with: Vrianth volunteered him for a reason. It'll be a cold ride back home.

C'wlin follows mutely. His stare blank for the Glacier rider as he rides the Weyrlingmaster's dragon back home. At least he's not sad face.

A long cold ride home, at that: Quinlys is going to fly straight, and deliver her charges to the weyrling barracks, where they can await their fate. Grounded.