Difference between revisions of "Logs:'Fixing' A Problem"

It's in Averin's nature to be watchful, wary, and suspicious; it's part of why he's become such a thorn in the side of the Greenfields crew and their associates. Since the fields burnt, he's taken to riding out and checking the perimeters, something-- according to rumour, at least-- his mother both appreciates... and finds a little over the top. It's been a few weeks, now, and no one has seen anything. It must have been an accident, nothing more.

Averin, however, is undeterred; a man on a mission. Timor is waning crescent, tonight, but Belior is full, casting enough light over the quiet fields that Greenfields' heir scarcely needs the torch in his hand to light his way. His runner is sure-footed as they reach the furthest borders, where the young man-- 'young' being relative; he's close to forty-- pauses, lifting his torch to stare through the night in search of... of something, anyway.

The Greenfields gang has been unnaturally silent these days. Some might notice that the number of dragonrider visits to the hold had suddenly dwindled down to none at all. Some might notice that the Greenfield gang's activities have been more or less legit than usual. It's also likely that no one has noticed that a certain non-descript man has been seen hanging around the hold lately with a large cart full of cheap trinkets for the children that hang around there.

The night is indeed a quiet one, and Biron is seen out by his cart - selling the last of his little trinkets to a holder girl with blonde hair. Perhaps no one would notice that, somewhere along the way, Biron suddenly isn't the one manning the cart that's being pulled towards the stables. Rather, it's a large barrel of a man with younger features but a very dangerous eye. Biron is nowhere to be seen...but those quiet fields are awfully close to where the man had disappeared.

Averin doesn't notice. Hasn't noticed. Linuore's second son, the one named heir for reasons no one outside of immediate family seem to know for sure, turns his body to stare off into another direction, torchlight and moonlight both giving him a clear enough view. Trinkets, and the selling thereof, aren't his priority; whatever Averin looks for, he seems to have a narrow view of where it might be from, or in what form. He nudges his runner on, the beast moving at a deliberately controlled pace, both listening for what they might hear.

Biron isn't on runner, but he's indeed nearby. Lost to the night's shadows, the man only suddenly coming into view when the pair is on their slow pace. He's on the ground, clutching his right leg - a leg that looks broken. Averin would see him in the dirty clothes of a farmer having finished for the day, leaning heavily on his shovel as he tries in vain to get back on his feet. The huffing sounds of pain heard this close now, "My....good man..." he huffs out, perhaps to try and stop him.

"Whoa!" It's as much for himself as for his runner, really: Averin can still the beast with a single tug of the reins, but he's plainly startled by Biron's abrupt appearance, and by the man's obvious condition, too. Despite his surprise, and despite the severity of the situation, there's something triumphant in the heir's voice and stance as he vaults down to approach the newcomer. "You there. What has happened? I can call for assistance."

Biron's practically one step away from caving once he manages to get on his feet, seeing the approaching Averin with a feeble-like hand. Dirt smears his features, making it difficult in even the better lighting to see any distinct description of the man as he shakes his head at the man's words. "That damn son o'mine," he grumbles aloud in answer, looking back over his shoulder. "I told him to pick up after himself and guess who's the one that gets to trip over-" he pauses, trying to see the man on the runner. "How far are we from the hold?" he chooses to ask then when assistance is offered.

"Children," agrees Averin, though there's a note of impatience in his voice, as if to suggest he'd been hoping for some more dramatic cause. He steps closer, his runner evidently well-trained enough not to move from its position, torch lifted so as to let him get a better view of the other man. "Did you hit your head? Are you confused? We're at the northern border... look, my runner can't take two, but I can ride back for help. A healer."

"Too many in this hold, if'n you ask me," Biron grumbles, as if he's found a sudden relatable friend in Averin. "Too many. But, that's alright. Reckon I did hit my head pretty bad back there. That's alright. You go on ahead and I'll just walk the rest of the way. I managed this far. Just point me in the right direction." Perhaps it's a bid to get the man to turn his back on him in the process, the 'farmer' favoring that shovel a lot more in the dim lighting.

"Walk?" The very suggestion is plainly offensive to Averin, whose gaze shifts from Biron to his runner, to the direction of the hold, not visible from this vantage point. "You've a broken leg, surely. I can't let you walk. No-- why don't you ride? I'll walk." It's a magnanimous gesture, the heir drawing his shoulders back and seeming somehow proud of it as he turns, this time, to reach for the reins of his runner.

"I've worked the fields on broken legs before, young man," Biron is letting him know, appearing affronted that anyone would want to take away from his painful limping back towards the hold proper. Shame. He straightens up a little as if the option of riding his runner appeals to him, but it's also likely that he's stretching up enough to wield that heavy shovel in a swing that cracks hard across the back of the man's head the moment he turns his back.

Crack. It hits squarely, sending Averin stumbling forward, stunned but not out; his cry is startled, pained, and more akin to a squeak. His fingers grasp for the reins, but the sound of the impact has frightened the runner, who bolts off into the evening. Averin falls, instead, bleeding freely from the head as he hits the ground.

Biron is a patient man when his victim hits the ground without being out completely. Despite how he looks, he's done this sort of thing before. He looks regretful for having knocked Averin down with a shovel, however, sticking to staying right behind him as he plants a heavy foot on the man's back. It's the very foot that's supposedly broken. Only watching the runner frighten off briefly, "This ain't exactly how I wanted to spend my night, either," he says to the blooded man whether he's still coherent enough to understand him or not. "But I wouldn't've fucked with Reanne, were I you." The next aimed hit is will likely prove fatal once he has him down, looking to crack his skull.

Dazed, it's likely Averin doesn't even pick up on the supposed reason for all of this; in any case, it's not as though he has much consciousness-- or life-- left to him. That second hit does its job, and Averin, second son of Linuore and Graeson, once heir to Greenfields, breathes his last.

Of course, the name dropped wouldn't ring a bell. 'Reanne' was all Biron had to go by, and 'Reanne' was currently safe and sound in her weyr several miles away. Patient, once the killing blow is delivered, he straightens his foot from the man's back and waits until that last rattled breath is free. Once that happens, then his real work begins. It's just as well that his trinkets cart can be seen in a distance, slowly ambling his way with Dov at the reins.

By rights, the return of a riderless runner ought to be noted, back at Greenfields, even at this point in the evening. But the stablehand on duty drank just a little too much wine, and without a wife to miss his presence in bed, there's no one to note Averin's absence until morning. They'll note it then, though: the runner, the empty bed, the missing heir. And by mid-morning? Well. There'll be plenty to see, then, won't there?

Plenty to see, indeed, for when the heir is found, it looks very much like the man had drank too much and had taken a wrong turn. His body would be found further down towards more broken up land, following the hoof tracks of the runner that ran. Besides the head shot, his body would be bruised and broken in other places to suggest that the runner had trampled him on its way out, and there would be no traces of a trinkets cart nor a farmer complaining of a broken leg in sight.