Difference between revisions of "Logs:The Promised Thumping of Skulls"

Tithe Train(#1636RJ)

This stretch from Crom to High Reaches is a winding trail. The road is dusty from use and lined with trees on either side. It's occasionally rocky and never smooth. Wagons traveling this route are in for a bumpy ride, occasionally having to move quite slowly as they roll on to their final destination.

The tithe train is a long line of wagons. Some rather large with bigger beasts harnessed to them, others are smaller and pulled with more appropriately sized ponies. All are driven by capable hands, sometimes with a passenger on board. Otherwise the rest of the party is either on runner-back or traveling along on foot.

The line of wagons has grinded to a halt following another long day on the trail. Darkness has covered the temporary encampment and only a few torchlights and lanterns can be seen here or there. They're only a day or so away from High Reaches, so far without any real incident. The small wagon that's carrying Leova and A'son is situated as close to the valuable goods as they can get, a lantern left lit inside. Someone walking close nearby might hear the occasional grumbling of the bronzerider's "Ow, damnit." and then the more womanly one of Leova's "Shut up." As the hours progress, now and again one or the other can be seen sitting up at the front, keeping a silent look-out over the train.

Nights are awfully long when you can't get a decent amount of rest, aren't they? This one stretches... stretches... stretches... Dawn comes late this time of the Turn, and it's still well and truly dark some time between three and four in the morning when the first inkling of something amiss. "Did you hear that?" from a guard. "No," from his partner, who's trying to nod off. "Listen." But all there is to hear is the sound of a hand clamping over his mouth, a muffled shout, a sack going over his head, and the skitter of fast feet making their way past A'son's and Leova's love den toward the expensive stuff. So at least these petty thieves learned a thing or two about stealth.

Something muffled, fast feet. Leova's already twitchy from days away from Vrianth, days of /this/, naps caught when not at the reins during the day or when her companion's not yammering at night. She's already caused a false alarm a couple days ago: someone up to take a piss, who'd have thought? But now, it's enough to startle her, sitting up all of a sudden to twist, eyes narrowed against the lantern-light that would hurt her night-sight, with a hissed, "/Sonny/." And a shake of his shoulder if she can reach, too, waiting just for him to waken before she jumps off the wagon-den. Already-winging Vrianth? Louder. « //Nikoth//. » Might be it, this time.

No one else seems to wake - and nor, thus far, are they likely to. Whilst some of the thieves focus on the loot, the others are more concerned with the travellers, shifting like ghosts between one wagon and the next. Another muffled cry, a light /thwack/, and then footsteps again, carrying on. It's hard to tell where noises come from, in the dark, but those footsteps? /Sounds/ like they might be getting closer, too.

To say that A'son can sleep at all, even when Leova isn't there would be a vast over statement. The second he hears something even resembling his name, the moment her hand touches his shoulder, he's up and moving. Sleep is wiped away from his eyes and his nerves are all a-tingle with the adrenaline that comes from this time, maybe being the /the/ time. « We're awake. » Nikoth sends to Vrianth, his voice low and quiet for once. Channeling his A'son maybe? Maybe. The bronzerider is up, moving and jumping down as silently as possible as he follows after her. He'll lightly touch her on the arm when those noises get closer. Pressing his against the side of their den, he signals to wait, pointing to their now empty wagon. Where someone(s) /should/ be sleeping.

"It's," hisses a voice in the dark, followed by the creak of wood from a slightly shifted wagon wheel, the flap of canvas. "--this one. Jackpot," and the whisper of rope while that flap is quickly re-tied. "Get him outta here," while they haul the man who sleeps at the back of the wagon out, bound, and toss him safely off to one side. More footsteps, there must be a dozen of them tonight, hurrying in all-black through the prevailing darkness. Most of the train sleeps through it, except the ones that get clubbed on their head if they make the mistake of sounding like they might be awake, or sleeping in a wagon that might contain something worthwhile. So far, A'son and Leova go unnoticed, only the frantic whisper of orders.

/Someone's/ fault the greenrider's short on sleep, and since going after A'son would ruin the point of this venture... « Wyaeth. They're /here/, » as though he should /know/, edged to be audible to Nikoth, too. Quiet, quiet, she has to be quiet still, just a /little/ while longer, quiet on the wind above the caravan, floating gradually downward towards that more valuable wagon... this, while the green's rider has taken A'son's cue, one hand patting the still-sheathed knife on one side of her belt while the other loosens the rope, just plain trying not to breathe too loudly. People hurrying by. Wait for it. Wait for it. Surely someone must be slow? Someone not 6'4"? An elbow to A'son, /that/ one, and she's aiming to jump out at the best available choice as he's going by, to loop the rope around his neck with a solid yank, knock him over if she can.

One by one, they check those wagons, a couple of burly men making sure before they come to help with the payload. It's the youngest of them, skinnier than the rest, though still hardly a runt, who eases his way around towards the entrance of Leova and A'son's wagon, taking a step up so as to get a look inside. His companion - taller, heavier, older - bypasses this wagon, heading back towards the ones with the real interest to him. Whispered: "So far so good. Sleepin' like lambs."

Those footsteps don't stop at their place, instead their whispers still float through the darkness. There's a space in between where they are and the wagon next to them, A'son slips into that spot being as quiet as he can be. Trying not to let that one lame leg trundle him up too much. He looks across to Leova in that darkness, patting his own similarly sheathed knife. Still there, for now. In the meantime, he's looking for his own contraption, not rope but... wood. Crouching down he pulls a wayward branch (good size) laying out on the ground, having fallen from one of the overhead trees at some point in recent history. The enemy goes to their wagon and keeps going. As they pass A'son, he'll slip that branch out. Silent, silent, silent. Looking to trip the larger of the two men when he passes. Should he fall or stumble, he'll find the bronzerider on his back in a near instant. « Wyaeth, Wyaeth, /now/. »

Impetuous Wyaeth, leap-before-you-look Wyaeth answers a casual, « You need us? » Us-- us does not mean him and his foul-tempered counterpart alone this time, there's the tendril of other thoughts in there. Cover his ass, A'son says, and that's the idea. But they've been on-call for a few days now, and they're not exactly poised to burst in from *between* in a matter of seconds; it's going to take a few minutes, for riders to stumble out of beds, drag on coats... But they'll be here.

And, in the interim, that first wagon is all set to roll off into the darkness-- which is liable to wake up half the wagon, adding to the chaos, adding the confusion, adding the likelihood that no one is going to notice A'son and Leova in the mix of things.

There's a palpable mental /tug/ as answer, and let's just hope they were smart enough to give Wyaeth their coordinates while it was still light enough to do it right, and not just from the quarter and crescent moons they have now. Meanwhile, Vrianth's snaking a look under her wing towards the small figure of her rider as the green's descent continues, though it's gradual still so she doesn't spook the draft beasts too soon: following that lead wagon, letting it and its burly men gain both some distance from her breakable rider and some time for the (save-their-) asses to get here, scoping out the terrain to make sure the wagon's not going anywhere she can't still pounce on it whenever she wants to. Or, at least, its beasts. This, while breakable rider's jumping after young-and-skinny, the better to let him acquire a personal acquaintance with that rope. A yanked rope. Question is, whether she or A'son gave too much warning to one or the other target...

A'son's branch doesn't take long to catch its prey, the man in question far too concerned about getting past to be paying any kind of attention. Besides: nothing to see so far, right? He goes flying, hitting the ground with an audible /thump/, not to mention his yell of surprise and pain. He's not completely stupid, though: he may end up on the ground, but in doing so, he lunges for an ankle, seeking to bring A'son down with him. His cry surely does notify his former companion, the younger man spinning on his heel at the sound of it breaking the darkness. It gives him a moment of warning before Leova strikes, but just barely: only enough time to yell out. Which is, as it happens, more or less about the time that wagon starts to roll away, and, indeed, all hell breaks lose. "We're being attacked!" "What the hell was that?" "Where's Bruno? Thought he was supp--" It goes on.

Nikoth is not as quiet and gentle with his arrival as Vrianth, he just doesn't have that female's touch. Instead he wings past her, aiming to end himself in the direct path of the wagons that are trying to trundle off and away. When he lands roughly on the ground it'll be with an overly impressive display of him spreading his wings and making a lot of noise. Just his little way of saying hello. To his brother, « Yes, yes, We do! » On the ground, naturally, A'son's attacker grabs his not so good leg. Which causes quite the yell from him and then a guttural noise as he flings himself full body into beating the larger man about the head. He's still got his branch and is using it to try and knock out his new friend. And if that doesn't work, if this guy gets too close and doesn't let go of his ankle? He'll go to kneeing, elbowing, biting and any other manner of dirty tricks.

Five. Five pairs of wings, of glowing eyes that pierce the darkness of sliver-moons, quick-spiraling descents that cut off the road in either direction and find landings in the surrounding thickets to make stealing away into the woods that much more difficult. Wyaeth passes Vrianth hurriedly, looses a trumpet to announce, /announce/ the arrival of the Reaches, thank you very much. « Hold yer horses, kids, » he assures brassily, landing with his usual thump on the edge of the wagons, wings spread in full, egomaniacal possession of the debacle in progress. "Oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck," is the sound of the fearless leader of this raid bolting into the night, of a half-dozen men getting the idea real fast and tearing ass outta there.

Vrianth to Nikoth, sharply: « You're scaring them! They'll run. » And then they do, but at least the cavalry gets there too. Still vocally silent, she spins past Wyaeth in a shower of electric sparks for him and his trumpeting, heading in the other direction to keep a better eye on her rider with young-and-skinny. Whom Leova's not so much trying to garotte with that loop of rope, as keep contained as best she can. Roll him under her wagon if she's able. And mutter a just-as-sharp, "Give /up/," along the way. He's a small fish, probably doesn't know as much as the leaders, but she's trying to hang on anyway.

The realisation that they have probably been abandoned hits taller-and-heftier sooner than his companion, perhaps because he's closer to the escapees as they bolt free. Not that it stops him from fighting back, though his yanks to the ankle don't quite seem to have been as effective as he might have liked. It's a bit hard, when you're being beaten around the head like that. Finally, though, he releases the ankle, squirming into a ball to protect his head from the battery it receives: surrender, surrender. His companion is easier, though he pulls desperately at the rope, flailing, toppling himself as much as anything which at least makes it easier to roll him. "Ow, ow, ow!" he squeals, pig-like. Real professionals, right here. Meanwhile, the rest of the tithe train is in action, which more or less just means chaos; no one seems to know quite what to do. And there are /dragons/.

Nikoth to Vrianth? « Ha ha ha! They're hiding in the woods like animals! » Perhaps not the brightest bulb in the box here, but hopefully everyone knew /that/ going in. With the arrival of Wyaeth there's more postering and trumpeting and in general good humor from him. Friends! Meanwhile A'son is exhaling loudly when his ankle is released by Big&Burly. As an overture of goodwill, he stops beating him over the head with the branch. However he keeps his full weight and pressure on his friend-in-a-ball. "Leova, keep him /down/! Knock him the hell out if you have to." To Wyaeth, the larger bronze brother sends the image of the two undercover riders wrestling their "buds" to the ground. « Tell yours that they're /here/. The prey is a little wriggly. »

"Told him this was a bad-- son of a--" N'thei can't seem to get a word in edgewise, not when he takes off at a dead run toward the wagon trying to angle its way past the bronze trying to stomp it to prevent it getting by. « Tell A'son that he ain't the only one with his damn hands full. Just hold on a minute. » Stomp. Neither the wagon's escape nor Wyaeth's efforts to deal with it via stamping on it will yield positive results for the recovery of the tithe, so he busies himself with hauling the hijacker out of the driving seat, casting him roughly toward the ground, and then getting mad when the guy takes off into the woods. (Best-laid plans.) Dressed in black, instantly invisible, those men are lost to sight once they hit the forest. The /dragons/ in the woods aren't catching anything but shouts. These people have made a career out of being sneaky, and most of them are going to slip right through fingers, talons, whichever-- so A'son and Leova better hold on to Wriggly over there.

« Try to /catch/ one! » Vrianth tells Nikoth as she speeds over the train, past her rider's hideout to check for anyone departing too hurriedly off the back end. Someone /she/ can catch. Because if his rider can... "Will do!" /her/ rider yells about the knocking-out meanwhile, not that she's got a good way of doing it without letting go of the rope, but at least her victim can hear her sounding good and determined while she tugs it tighter with a "Then give-up-give-up-give-/up/," emphasized by her leg trying to hook around his. And besides, under the wagon? Nice low ceiling in case he wants to squirm up too hard and bonk his head. And finally, yelled again: "Raiders! Raiding! Get them." Hopefully not get-N'thei? At least it's muffled by all that wood-and-supplies, not to mention the poor boy's ear.

Big&Burly, Taller-and-heftier, whatever he wants to go by in this - well, at least he stops getting hit, right? Not that it stops him from curling up like that, protecting his even-less-pretty-than-before face with his hands. But he goes still. "G'head," he snarls, through his hands. "Kill me. Don' care. Just do it." Ah, if only it were that simple. Young-and-skinny has the impetuousness of youth, and aims to try and kick - if ineffectually - at Leova as she hooks her leg so. "Never!" he avers, loudly, yelling out. "They'll never let you keep me!" Someone still hasn't gotten the message, then. He squirms, he wriggles, he bangs poor, ungainly parts of his body everywhere. Ow.

Images are being flashed to A'son of Wyaeth stamping on a wagon. « Hands full? Ask N'thei if he's a damn /weyrling/. Why is that dragon doing that? Damn it! Tell him to stop doing that! » As if one will really listen to the other. With the order of the younger green, Nikoth is off clumsily into the air. Probably not fast enough, he's surveying the edges of the caravan but sees only terrified holders. A'son shakes the guy underneath him real good before leaning in, quietly to him, "/I'm/ not gonna kill you. But I got a real nice friend coming along, he's going to want to know you really well." Still probably far too close for comfort, "/Where/ were you going with the goods? Where?" He asks roughly, smacking him upside the head. "You don't tell me my brother is going to come. I hear he likes to cut tongues out these days. Worse things than dying."

Another scuffle; this time, it's N'thei that gets cast roughly out of the driving seat, landing in the dirt on all fours with a busted lip, a spit of blood, and a pissed-off, "I'm one of the /good/ guys, you stupid bastard." To their credit, the wagoneers get up the gumption to do some fighting back, everyone searching their own wagons for any unauthorized persons in sudden haste, a few making their way hurriedly over toward the scuffle ongoing between A'son, Leova, and whoever they caught? Are trying to catch? Wiping his lip, pushing a few people out of the way, N'thei's not one of the ones ringing the scene; he's the one elbowing his way through toward the sound of A'son's voice. Leova who?

A hiss from Leova: good thing it's not the most effective of kicks, because she's going to feel it even more later when the adrenaline wears off, and all that wriggling and jostling can't be good for her either. "They /left/ you. Ran /off/. Don't /care/." It's an uncomfortably punctuated snarl while she simply aims to wear him out, with a tighter pull on the rope if she has to, a shaving burn writ large. Pinning his arm would be nice, but surely a wagoneer will get here soon? And not just let him go? And in the meantime, she'll go with what she's got. Vrianth, circling the end of the cavern only to seeing Nikoth finally do something in-her-mind-useful: « Someone tell your rider to /tell them we're helping/. Yell. »

For a moment, the bigger of the two captives relaxes. Not going to kill him. Not go-- then the rest of A'son's words appear to sink in, and he begins twitching and flailing again. Even if he's still protecting his poor, poor face. "Not going to talk!" he bellows. "Got nothin' to say to any of you. Rather have my tongue cut out." The smell of fear, though... well. Urine. Same difference. One of the tithe trainers barrels round the corner, and at the sight of it, turns and runs away again. "/Do/ care," insists Leova's prey, though he's beginning to sound frightened. "They'll come back. My unc--" He breaks that off, and goes silent, turning his head away as he continues to try and wiggle, though the rope? Ow.

"Leova is /under/ the wagon. Down there, right there!" A'son tells whoever's just /watching/ him smack this guy in the head. There's a certain sense of urgency to his tone, like maybe she's dead under there. Who knows! "Did you seriously fucking piss on me?" He's been stuck on a tithe train for a week. He's been stuck on a tithe train /with Leova/ for a week. This guy grabbed his bad leg. It's his /turnday/ and he's been stuck on a tithe train with /Leova/ and this guy grabbed his bad leg. And now, to add insult to injury there's probably /pee/ all over him. /Whack/. Again. "I'm going to cut your tongue out /myself/. Then I'll kill you." And intervention would probably be good right about now.

"Good. Then she can stay under there," says N'thei charitably, and puts a hard kick with the bottom of his foot to the side of the wagon, giving it a nice rumble. Kind of like asking if she's okay, but mostly just feeling like he's earned the right to kick something. Promptly, cuffing A'son by the shoulder; "Can't have you denying me the pleasure, brother. Best stop beating him in the head." He aims a look at his friend's prey, smiles with dark relish, and adds, "For now. And let's see if he's up for a chat-- and check on her, would you?" The idea being to pry A'son off the guy before all coherent sense is knocked out of him.

As young-and-skinny goes silent, Leova's voice is still in his ear, irregular squirm-containing fits and jerks that add up to, "/Uncle/ up and left you. Must not like you much. Or his boss made him. Hm?" Where are these people already. The helping people. There are some, right? Is she going to have to wait for A'son? Especially with the thud-rumble of the wagon like that... "Hope this thing don't fall down on top of us." Hope she doesn't get pissed on too.

Sadly, no one seems to want to help Leova: run and scream and check their wagons seems to be the extent of /their/ abilities. No wonder no one got anything useful out of the other trains. To make matters worse for A'son, his dude draws his hands away from his face just long enough to send a mouthful of spit up at him. Of course, a good amount of it falls back down onto /him/, but when you've been beaten up, and then pissed yourself, what's a little more bodily fluid, anyway? "Ain't going to talk," he insists, mouth full of blood, eyes shifting from A'son to N'thei. But there's fear. Meanwhile, "He'll come back!" insists young-and-skinny, twitching uncomfortably as the wagon thuds like that. His eyes are wide, and he stares at Leova warily. "But you won't kill me, right? If he doesn't? Wiggle. Wiggle.

A'son has probably come close to murdering someone about... zero times in his life. He's gotten Legitimately angry only a handful of times. But now? When this man who pisses on him and practically spits in his face? There's a certain livid expression that carries across his face and his hand is going up again, balled into a fist this time. But then there's N'thei, cuffing him and pulling him back. A shudder runs through his shoulders as he shakes off the hand of his friend, simply walking away. Except for when he stops and spits in the direction of their hefty captive. "Warned you." He's dropping down to his knees besides Leova's wagon now, peering below. He leans underneath, grabbing young-and-skinny about the arms roughly. "I got him on this end, Lonna." Force of habit? New nickname? "And no kid, he won't. Gonna spend some time with the 'Reaches folks." Grim tone here.

N'thei's hand snatches up a handful of hair, draws the twittering kid up to his feet in the least comfortable way he can think of. "Let's you and me go have a talk, son," he invites, leaving the safe dabs of light near the wagons and heading for the treeline. Where, yes, there's some blubbering to be heard, some tell-tale thumps and thuds, but it's all just out of earshot, certainly out of eyesight. And it gives time for A'son and Leova to deal with their new friend in their own way-- which one can assume involves fewer possibilities of dismembered limbs.

"Don't want to kill you," Leova's meanwhile telling young-and-skinny, daring a quick, deep breath without relaxing because reinforcements have got to be here soon. Vrianth's gotten to circling low overhead, hissing through the dimness like somehow that's going to help herd them closer. "But here you go stealing stuff! Other people's hard-worked stuff! Your ma's going to be /disappointed/ in you when she hears." Very reproving. Lonna could be his not-married-to-his-uncle aunt. But there's reinforcement-called-Sonny and: "Careful." To the extent A'son seems like he is, she'll let the bronzerider pull the kid out and crawl out with him, but it's an awkward job what with trying to keep both ends of the rope knotted in one hand and not get kicked.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, fucking /ow/, fuck, ow," begins the one that N'thei has by the hair, making it all the worse for the way he attempts to kick at the taller bronzerider. But he's not too difficult to get moving, ultimately, and off they go, for the beatings. "Don't want to /die/," wails the younger one, despite Leova's words. "Gotta do it. Got told to. Got--" He's not really good at keeping his mouth shut, but, luckily, he gets interrupted by A'son's arrival, and the resultant hoisting of him from beneath the wagon. He positively squeals, for the record. And kicks. Though whether any of those kicks connect remains to be seen. "Don't want to go to the weyr. Awful folks. Horrible things. /Bad/."

"Yeah, gonna show /you/ horrible." A'son informs the younger man as he continues to haul him out from under the wagon. If Leova relinquishes her grip, he'll get him to his feet and embrace him in a nice, cozy (tight), bear hug. He's still got that livid, crazed look in his eyes from only moments earlier but at least it's tempered for now. "You're going to stop kicking my friend here, right? Because she's a very nice young woman. And you don't want to die? Right?" There's a grim look on his face for the part about awful weyr folks.

Muttered expletives from Leova, as she emerges from beneath the wagon with her knees and hands and elbows all dirty, getting more dirt on her jaw as she gingerly examines it with her fingertips: maybe the kid was contained enough that he didn't break her jaw, but still, ow. Not as articulate as she ordinarily might be, "Heard that." Very nice young woman! "Your poor /mother/. First stealing stuff, then kicking a girl." A cussing girl. Likely she's the only one preventing Vrianth from landing /right now/.

The poor kid doesn't seem too thrilled about being bear-hugged, but while A'son may not be bigger than he is, he's bruised up enough by this point to be not quite up to fending him off. Look at how well he did with Leova, after all. "I stopped, I stopped!" Kicking. Wriggling, even: he's gone limp. "Mother's dead. Would've cared. Anyway, doesn't matter. Not going to tell you anything, so--" Chin up. "Might as well just kill me!" After all that. His gaze flicks towards Leova, then, as he attempts to turn his head, at A'son. Despite his words, he looks terrified.

A'son stares from around the kid too Leova, eyebrow arching at the part about killing him. Then he's eyeballing him as much as he can from his bear-hugging position. Which is probably more unpleasent given that the bronzerider reeks of urine. Tactic. "/I'd/ kill you in a second. But only if my," Brief pause? "Wingleader here gives me permission. Probably should listen to her, don't you think." He gives the boy a squeeze around the middle.

Wingleader. Leova gives/ him/ a look behind their captive's back, and then goes about fastening one of the loose ends of the neck-rope around the kid's wrist, explaining out loud her intent to cross it over and knot wrist-number-two, the better to cut off circulation if he gets to struggling again. Which he knows better than to do, right? Her voice still isn't what it usually is, but she goes on to add, "Now, now. Not all right to kill people. 'Course... think your mother would've wanted you stealing? Can't believe an uncle'd bring his nephew into trouble like that. Just not /right/."

Wingleader? His eyes go wide, staring at Leova. For all his distaste for the weyr, he must know enough to understand that, and... a woman? In charge? It means, at least, that he doesn't struggle at all as she ties up his wrists as well; so far so good. Though, by his expression, he's aching to say something, to defend his dearly beloved uncle, or maybe his own actions, but the words seem to have dried up for now: maybe he's learned that keeping his mouth shut is a far better idea. So he glowers, instead.

A'son gives his friend another love squeeze before taking a step back, releasing him from that at least. Those tied up hands and arms are grasped firmly, just in case he's got any smart ideas about running away. "Ma'am, where we gonna take him?" He asks, casting another meaningful look Leova's way, eyebrows arching. Slight quirk of lips? "Take 'em to N'thei first-" Glance to the woods. "Or just straight to you-know-who?" ...Who?

"/S'ny/." and Leova gives him a sharp look over the kid's shoulder, giving his pseudonym that extra bit of emphasis. Still and all, since he's already gone and said the other bronzerider's name... "Telling the Weyr what's up. They're going to send some dragons over to spell us, take the train the rest of the way to the Weyr at first light." Or at least, that's Vrianth's plan that the green's relaying. "As for which one, depends on what he says in the next couple minutes. You remember hearing about N'thei, don't you, son? Crom. He didn't much like being jailed. Won't much like this either. You know, in some Holds, they cut off a fellow's hand for thieving. You right- or left-handed, or are we going to have to guess?"

Straight to--? This poor boy's knees are shaking, now, beneath their threadbare, not-really-suitable-for-autumn trousers. At least he hasn't pissed himself, though. "Don't /know/ anything," he insists, trying to wiggle his hands into a more comfortable position, without making it look like he's trying to escape, a combination which isn't terribly likely. "Didn't steal anything, either. Just with them. Just... Wasn't going to steal anything, I swear!" He struggles forward, as though he's intended to drop to his knees, though A'son's grasp on the rope prevents that from working too well. "/Please/."

A'son lifts his eyebrows to Leova in a 'so-what' fashion. Like N'thei and Wyaeth aren't readily recognizable to anyone who half a brain? Still for her does a braindead, "Huh?" tilting his head to the side. "Wasn't going to steal anything, kid? What're you doing wandering around at night hijacking wagons?" He doesn't allow him to drop down onto the ground, firmly yanking him up again. "Where you from, son. Gotta tell our higher ups /that/ at least."

Wyaeth wouldn't tell Vrianth this, keep in mind, so it's just Nikoth that gets the helpful knowledge, « That kid just ran off. » There's a blurry, fuzzy, teetering image shared of the black-clad captive disappearing into the trees, the sound of footsteps skittering across crunchy grass and dried leaves. And, oddly, a twinge of worry in the back of his mind, not like oh-no panic, but like how'd-that-happen confusion.

It's not exactly bright this time of night, or maybe that's just Leova on too little sleep. "Answer my rider," the greenrider tells the kid, and crouches to do something she should've done before: check him over for knives, that sort of thing, and telltale handedness while she's at it. Only then she switches to /they/: "Where you're from. And. Why they're doing this." Meanwhile, if things are going according to plan, and she's good and oblivious to the plan not working out so well for N'thei, some of the other riders are continuing to settle the real wagoneers: reassure them, find out who's missing and what they looked like and anything else about them, that sort of thing. If.

"/I/ wasn't. They were, not me. I was just here to... You know. Keep an eye out! I didn't do anything, I really didn't, and I'm sorry for kicking, and--" The babble would go on, but he runs out of breath and ends up teetering off into nothing. "From Crom. Cothold. But... not all of us were. Don't know. Didn't know most of them. Don't know anything else; my uncle knew more, didn't tell me." The words begin to fly out, desperate and nervous, his whole body twitching with unbridled tension. He's knifeless, at least.

« Something happened. In the trees, A'son. » Nikoth sounds confused and therefore alarmed, because he's confused. The bronzerider's eyes open a touch widely and soon he's shoving the bound up victim into Leova's hopefully waiting arms. If not, well he just might fall down. Either way, he's jumping up into the back of a nearby wagon. The lantern hanging inside is snatched off and the bronzerider taking off at a limpy-dash into the nearby woods.

N'thei's got his feet back, mostly because he found a tree that helps peel him off the ground, but the groan is pretty serious, and the knot forming on the back of his head isn't a joke. "There's more of them," he tells the lantern, a safe bet who'd come loping over with that gimpy gait. Leaning his shoulder to the tree trunk, he gestures with the hand not clapped to the back of his skull waving aimlessly into the darkness. "Best you get that other one someplace safe before you two get clubbed. Told you someone would get their skull thumped."

The hell? /Leova/ isn't catching the kid, though she'll at least help soften his fall. Stay in her crouch. Ask as though it's on purpose, "Need your name. Uncle's, too. Cothold. Reckon you might know more than you think you do, too." Meanwhile, Vrianth to Nikoth as the lantern goes bob-bobbing: « /Why/ is he leaving. »

N'thei standing is a good thing, at least for A'son anyway. There's noticiable relief in the way his shoulders drop and then he exhales. Dark eyes sweeping the blanket of night over the woods. Vrianth to Nikoth, « Get the kid someplace. Wyaeth's got hit. Time to leave. He's coming. » Holding the lantern up, the older bronzerider picks his way over to his friend. "Didn't plan on it being you." He tells him in a derisive tone, moving to his to help him make his way out, "Lets get your thick skull looked at." There's a glance up at the bump he's holding.

So he falls. Smack. Even with the softening, when you can't use your own hands properly, it can be a bit uncomfortable. A'son's departure draws his head around slightly, so he can peer after him, but ultimately, Leova appears to have the power in this situation. "Dooon't," he insists, elongating his vowels intently. "Really, I don't. I'm not important. Just my aunt and my uncle and me, and the kids. It'd kill the kids, if... /Please/."

"No? Was high on my list of shit to do tonight, let me tell you." N'thei pulls his hand away, checks for the quantity of blood on his fingers-- no bits of skull, just a thin smear of red, he'll live-- and naturally waves off the offer of assistance. He makes his way back toward the wagon-lights without falling on his ass, picking over fallen limbs and raised roots. From a pair of wagons away, surveying the scene; "Left her alone with him, did you. Impressive." Impressive and idiot start with the same letter!

The greenrider's mouth compresses. "/Still/ not saying what you need to say," she tells the kid. Except: « /Hit/. » Vrianth's asking for them both, asking the bronzes both, though ostensibly she's focused on the non-dust-devil of the pair. « What kind of /hit/. Nikoth. You should take the boy with you. I do not want him. Can Wyaeth take his rider safely home? Or does he need... help. »

"She can handle one lousy kid that's tied up." A'son responds when they reach the edge of the clearing. "Maybe you should have been paying attention." Sarcasm? Harshly said? Hard to tell, despite the mild pull of lips to the side. Since N'thei isn't dead or unconscious, he leaves him. Back now it's to Leova and their kid prisoner. « You want /hit/ defined? » That is said harshly. « We'll take him. Don't worry your pretty head. » The bronze is bringing himself down from the sky now, landing some yards away. « He'll be fine. » A'son watches his dragon make a clumsy landing and sighs.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" says the boy, beginning to cry now, his voice teetering like a wail. He's still on the ground, clutching his hands as best he can given their tied up position, staring at Leova hopefully. "Have mercy on me! Don't take me to the weyr. Don't. /Please/."

Dull words chase A'son; "Maybe you should watch your damn mouth before there's two thumped skulls, jackass." N'thei leans his hips against the upper curve a wagon wheel, traces the outline of his new lump with a ginger forefinger, eyes on the greenrider and her new friend. Or on the people moving around them, people not in dark clothes, people who are too busy trying to calm their animals and get their manifests checked and regain some semblance of order from the night's chaos. Not people thinking about cold-clocking Leova to release her captive.

« Details. » Vrianth. Not that she's dwelling on those. More importantly: « He'd better be. » Beneath where she circles, her rider leans in to tell the kid, "Don't even know your name? Maybe you /aren't/ any use." With that, Leova straightens up, takes a single step back. All it needs is her cracking her knuckles.

A'son shoots back over his shoulder at N'thei, "You do that when you're not feeling so woozy, friend." Nikoth in the mean time is trying not to act too excited. « Ask 'em yourself, pretty. » Keeping quite still while he's in the midst of the wagons, not acting out like he did previously. "I'll take 'em. Our friend has a special place in the weyr all set up for him." The pleading, clutching kid gets a roll of his eyes. He bends over grabbing him by the wrists and hauling him up.

His name. That seems to remind the kid; he looks embarrassed, if not outright mortified. "Jamden. But that's all I know. Don't got anything else I can tell you, I swear it." His eyes flick upwards, Vrianth above, and he winces. Perhaps it's the first time he's really noticed the dragons, tonight, or maybe it's just all getting too much. It's a bad idea, though, because it's right about at that point that A'son hauls him up, and he yelps. Loudly. "Please, please, please!"

N'thei, already pissed, watches the kid getting hauled up to Nikoth's ridges with a sort of listless fascination. "He'll talk awfully quick, won't he," is his quiet muse while he pushes off the wagon wheel, rubs his thumbnail across his lower lip for a few seconds. « We'll stay, settle things, » to both Vrianth and Nikoth this time, sort of grudgingly including the green in that report. « Helluva mess you guys made out here. »

"Uncle's name," Leova says: next! Her nose wrinkles. She gives A'son another look. "Going to check the wagon, grab our things. You do what it takes." « He smells foul, » Vrianth presumably is reporting of Nikoth's rider rather than Wyaeth, even as her rider starts to climb into the wagon to do just that: take their things and put out the lantern afterward. And since he smells that way anyway... « They do not like our /between/. If he does not answer now, perhaps he will afterward. »

"About what though?" A'son asks as he goes about pulling the young man in the direction of Nikoth. The pleas of please, please, please, /please/ look like they're grating on him. "Cut the crap. It's just a dragon. He's not going to eat you. Though I might break your dam-" He presses his lips firmly closed as if reminding himself to behave. Ordering now, "Up, Jamden." Where he'll then get him all situated and safe enought that he won't fall between. To Wyaeth alone, « He says thank you again. » And then. « First bit of fun in a long time though. »

To Wyaeth, Nikoth projects, « Think Cadejoth's is going to want to speak with you. Regarding whatever the other brute said while yours had him. »

Jamden scowls and shuts his mouth again, letting himself be hauled towards Nikoth. Once there, he points out, not unreasonably, "Can't exactly climb up with my hands tied, can I? See?" There're his hands, for illustration: still tied. So - with help, then. Up on a big dragon. Probably for the first time. He looks like he might like to throw up, now; won't that be a lovely addition to A'son's night?

N'thei's look well-matches Wyaeth's tone; « Your sense of fun's all outta whack. » From there, leaving them to deal with their captive, he works on finding the wagonmaster, on helping settle the manifest, on assuring everyone that they'll have coverage from dragons the rest of the way to the Reaches, shells, calm down already, nobody got killed, did they?

To Nikoth, Wyaeth projects, « K'del can suck-- » Pausing, chastised. « K'del knows where to find us. »

To Wyaeth, Nikoth would raise his eyebrow right now. If he had one.

A'son makes some comment about throwing him off his dragon while between if Jamden causes him anymore trouble. Nikoth's wings will be spread soon enough, taking both rider and unwilling passenger up into the air and then to High Reaches.

Jamden shuts well up. Doesn't even vomit until he gets /off/ at the other end, promise!

Around then, Leova slides off the now-dark wagon with a hastily-if-thoroughly packed set of who-knows-whose-stuff-is-where rucksacks. Lugging them both. While her glance intercepts N'thei on his way to the rest of his duties, in the end, she doesn't herself. Just, for Wyaeth, « If he has trouble thinking straight when you come home, speak up, » by way of a thanks-for-showing-up. And then Vrianth's landing, just long enough to finally-finally-/finally/ collect her rider and speed into the air, the better to try and beat Nikoth back. /Finally/. Home.