Logs:The Murder Rug
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| RL Date: 16 October, 2014 |
| Who: V'ros, A'rist |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Two drunk riders stumble into the Weyrleader's weyr. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Seani/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
| Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside.
Reeking of liquor when he speaks is one thing, but V'ros' whole body smells distinctly of hard spirits. It could have been that whole glass he knocked over and spilled on himself earlier, or that he's drank so much it's permeating everything. Somehow - by the grace of Faranth - he's staggered into K'del's weyr in A'rist's wake. He leans against the entryway, one eye closed and the other trying to squint-and-focus on the dark inner sanctum. "Wh.." His head lolls forward, but he catches himself and staggers a few more steps inside, slanting the bronzerider a narrowed glance. "Here? Righ.. here? On the.. rug?" He sounds unsure of that, like a rug is a horrible place for someone to get murdered. A travesty. That. That is also hilarious, and A'rist's giggling, almost subsided, has started up once more. "Maybe! Maybe, on this very," except none of the words are really coming out crisp and clear here, "rug, maybe sh'dran- or'us it somethin' she ate?" That swaying hasn't stopped either, and it goes one step too far, and he's overbalanced, and collapsing, almost gracefully, into a sit, almost cross-legged. The rug gets felt up. Confirming murder on the rug re-enforces V'ros' drunken suspicions, so he's just going to avoid that piece of decoration altogether. Good luck, A'rist, being on the murder-rug. He edges around it and bumps into the couch, which he starts groping over the back, down the arm, to the seat. "Poi...poison.. righ? She jus.. who was that guy?" His words are just as slurred as one would expect. Fingers press into the seat cushion, testing its springiness, just before he attempts sitting. He misses the first time, catching himself with his hands. "Shhi-it." Finally, success. "Wha... what did she look like?" Does A'rist know? Squinted eyes turn to where A'rist should be, fondling the murder-rug. "Some brownrider," the word is mangled, but not beyond recognition. Just beyond accurate phonetic spelling. "Fro' Monaco." A'rist's petting has led him to discover a tuft of wool. He's now methodically pulling at it, fingers and thumb slipping away rather than doing all that much in the way of damage. "She... uh... Hair was brown? Mebbe blonde. I'unno, ne'er saw-" a half-burp, half-hiccup issues forth from his gut, and for a moment the bronzerider looks ill and horrified, mouth clamped down. Once he's sure, absolutely sure, there's no vomit forthcoming: "Didn't see 'er much. Weyrwoman, y'know." That tuft was forgotten in all the strange bodily functioning, and now he's bear-walking toward the couch, to drag himself up next to V'ros, using cushions and limbs and couch arms all for leverage, as required. "Fr.. Monaco?" V'ros sounds completely flabbergasted. "In't R'hin from there?" He is sure of that.. he thinks. Could there be a connection? Say it ain't so! Back to squinting as A'rist starts coming towards him, away from the murder-rug, and pulling himself up on the couch. "You think.." he sucks in a steadying breath, leaning into the cushions so his head juts out over the back of the couch and he can see into the second part of the weyr, "she's really.. ya know.. around here? Waitin?" Brunette or blonde, it doesn't matter when it's a ghost they're talking about, so the details can be as hazy. He rubs his eyes, blinks, and tries squinting into the darkness again, like that will help. "Was she.. hot?" His eyes fall to A'rist. A'rist succeeds in his climb, the final flip around seeing him land with a 'fwump'. Sitting. "Wun'nt.... wud'nut she wait a' Monaco?" But that makes him go all frowny-faced, and slouch farther down onto the couch. "Unless that brownrider," slightly less mangled, "ne'er got back." It's sad, that thought. He might be sitting forward for that. Or because there's another sickly burp. After the necessary pause, A'rist turns to look back at V'ros, nearly overbalancing, but not falling off the couch. Just leaning way out and away. "If y'like skinny." All this talk of Monaco and ghosts is confusing. V'ros keeps rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, as if that will help dispel the darkness surrounding them. He glances up sharply - for a drunk guy anyway - and frowns at A'rist. "Ya.. you like.. fat chicks?" Now, he sounds plain disappointed! "Huh?" And then, A'rist is making a face. "No. Just... some curves is nice, y'know? For like..." both hands are out in front of him, as if to grasp, "holdin'." That was a pelvic thrust, albeit a sloppy one that has him falling backwards again on the recoil, and it makes him laugh. "I guess she couldn't'a been that bad, I mean K'del liked her, but you want more'n that. Dontcha?" Oh, man," and no, there's hardly time for V'ros to get a word in edgewise, but there is a solid thwack with the back of his hand to the weyrling's shoulder, "but a butt, right? Gotta have a butt." "Yeah.." V'ros peers over the back of the couch again, as if the spectre of Iolene might materialize on the spot. "Skinny's okay. Butts," he sucks in a breath between his teeth, turning back so he can put his hands in front of his chest, making the breast shape with them, "These are better." He gives A'rist a shove right back, less hard than the bronzerider's hit. "G-- ugh, go check.. the.." But he's pointing, that way, towards the inner weyr. "Depen's which way she's facin'!" A'rist answers back, jovial, whatever nausea had afflicted him moments before seemingly past. For now. He leans forward, too far forward, so that his chest is touching his knees, and looks after the pointed finger. "What's I'm s'posed to check?" Although he's already easing himself up to his feet, one hand firmly planted on the arm of the couch throughout the entire motion... and again, while he finds his balance. A snort serves as V'ros' answer. He's too busy pointing and making sure his finger is angled the right way; he's wobbly as is. "If she's.." and he lowers his voice to a high whisper, "back there." His own lean frame hefts up off the couch-- then drops back down from lack of balance. "They said she's.. y'know.." More eye rubbing and grappling to stand up. "That people have seen her around. She's not here," with a frown, "so mebbe she's.." More squinting into the darkness. "Oh!" says A'rist, and then remembers the seriousness of this whole endeavour, and the need for steal. "Right," therefore, is a whisper. He gives the murder rug one last touch, on all fours, and then stands straighter. "Bedroom." Another whisper, and he starts off carefully, guiding himself as he goes with furniture and walls. Holding onto the edge of the couch, V'ros watches his friend's drunken walk towards the bedroom, but he chooses to follow at a more sedate pace - as much contributed by his own drunkenness as his lack of courage. He finds the nearest wall and trails behind A'rist, grumbling. "Can't see a damn thing. Can't even see--" His shuffling steps stop and his head whips around, his gaze narrowed in the dark. "Wha.. what was that?" Paranoia, begin. What was what? That thing that makes A'rist stop, suddenly, and jerk his head up, a mere second or two after V'ros has said that. "I'was nothin'," he answers, bracing against the main entryway to look over his shoulder, swayingly. "Jus' like... blankets comin' off the bed for no reason. There's nothin' here." It might be more convincing, if he wasn't so slow to come up with each sentence. Maybe that's just the liquor. Ignore his wicked grin. "What if.." V'ros clenches his teeth, groping with his hands along the wall, trying to reach his friend in the suddenly threatening, darkened weyr. "What if.. K'del came back?" He whispers now, because their Weyrleader could be in the next room. Trepidation stills his hands, and he swallows hard. "We should go. If he catches us.." He squeezes the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes; he doesn't even want to think about it, much less see their sudden demise at the hands of K'del or his phantom lover. A'rist, he looks back, squinting in the dark for his chickening-out partner in crime. There's a pause, and then, he shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. Lynner says Cadejoth's not here." Another few steps situates him distinctly in the sleeping area. "S'gotta be Iolene. Or," he tries to snap his fingers, but it doesn't work, "maybe that exile one who got killed here." Maybe it's the recent mental contact with Lythronath, but now, that bronzerider is grinning like an idiot. "But what if.." V'ros doesn't get to finish that sentence, because he's followed A'rist into the sleeping chamber, where he stops, becoming unnaturally still. His breathing is all that's heard for a space, as if he too is listening for some sound. "Two people were killed in here?" he asks in his rushed-whisper, taking careful side-steps towards the bronzerider. Strength in numbers! Except he bumps into some piece of furniture and promptly jumps to the side. "We need to go, A'rist, this isn't.. it's not.. right.." No longer does he sound drunk, just scared and worried for their skins - Iolene's ghost probably wants those, for her collection. "Two!" A'rist answers, excitement still in his voice in that syllable. It translates into a startled hop when V'ros bumps things around. The hair on the back of his neck is probably up, now. "Maybe," carries more caution, "maybe... you're right? D'you think," with one foot sliding toward the door, "it bugs them? That we come here and walk where... where they fell down, like, for the last time?" Adrenaline has to be what's clearing up his speech, now. Another sliding step, back out. Confirmation of the two deaths is enough; V'ros goes pale, though it's impossible to see in the darkness of the weyr, and returns to his stiffened posture. "I don't know.. I think it would make them madder that we're.. alive, and they're.. not." His eyes dart back and forth, but eventually land on the bed. "That's where K'del and Iolene.." Urgh, no, time to go. He's much faster in his retreat than A'rist, turning fully and stumble-brisk-walking back towards the entryway. "This was a bad idea, A'rist," he says again, not bothering to hide the waver in his voice. Ghosts, man. A'rist hurries once he realises he's being left alone, stumbling out, perhaps leaving a wrinkle in the murder rug as he goes, to complement the bumped furniture and other poltergeist-like activity that K'del will find upon his return. "The bad idea was killing people in the weyrleader's weyr," decides A'rist, once they're out. Unapologetic... but also looking back over his shoulder. |
Comments
Azaylia (21:17, 28 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
The bromance continues! <3 I love how the boys make utter asses out of themselves. No, honestly you two-- tell us how you REALLY feel. xD! Faaaantastic.
Edyis (21:23, 28 October 2014 (EDT)) said...
Man poor K'del, It is probably high time to have some doors and locks installed. If someone isn't being killed people are traipsing about drunkenly.
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