Logs:Party Crashing Gone Wrong
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| RL Date: 2 December, 2014 |
| Who: V'ros, Zmeyth, A'rist, Lythronath, Hraedhyth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: V'ros and A'rist crash a Holder party, then get jumped by some thieves. |
| Where: Southern Nabol |
| When: Day 7, Month 6, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Chilly. Dry. |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Mielline/Mentions |
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| A seedy bar in Nabol is the choice location for after-hour revelry. It happens to be located in the southern corridor of the region, where trees and hills take a majority of the scenery, and cotholds are a hard thing to come by. Customers aren't coming in by the droves these days, so when V'ros, A'rist, and a couple other riders from the Reaches descend upon the ramshackle building, the owner is all too glad to make sure their cups overflow and the conversation is pleasant; he might even encourage his serving wenches to get a bit handsy. But all good things come to an end, as it were, and with no other customers besides the increasingly-drunken dragonriders around, it's the wise choice to close shop. Luckily for them, he mentions, before he ushers them outside, there's an informal shindig at a close-lying minor Hold. Invite only, but with the right attitudes and a clever alibi, they could easily slip right in. That's how they've come to be in the midst of an overcrowded, raucous gathering in the bowels of a tiny Hold in the middle of southern Nabol. Harpers are playing a rowdy tune and the dancers are dancing, barely letting the musicians catch a breath before the next set begins. Huge hogsheads of ale and wine line one wall, taps handled by ever-present servers. No one has bothered to double-check the off-kilter stories of four cousins three times removed from the Holder's ex-wife, but then again, not many are sober on this night of nights. A big-bellied man with a full growth of beard slaps the two youngest of the newcomers on the shoulders, spraying delightful spittle when he speaks in his booming voice. "Welcome, welcome, m'lads, have a trifle or two, squeeze a few, and oy, over here, with the cups," as he motions to a passing waiter to stop and serve all four with tankards of brew. V'ros can't help but laugh, a sound quickly snuffed out as someone pushes his head into his beer and all he can do is not drown, for now. "Shi-itt." "I," declares A'rist, brought to his feet by that slap to the back, in a swaying, trying-to-sit-again way rather than a brave posture, "could totally squeeze." He does find his chair again, and rescues his beer from certain abduction. This is raised in a toast to V'ros, to V'ros' not drowning, raised in a sloshy way, and then swallowed in much the same. "This," he declares next - it's a night of declarations - "is an excellcent party." His is a comment to join others of a similar vein from around the table. "Excellent!" Whatever! Raising his head from his tankard, notably not drowned yet, V'ros holds his out like its about to catch fire and squints one eye at A'rist. "Amazing wer yeah, this one." He beams and leans heavily against the back of the nearest chair, trying not, as it would seem, to fall over; that would be embarrassing. Someone passes by wearing a hat with herdbeast horns and the brownrider openly gawps, then turns sharply, sloshing his beverage everywhere. "I wan' that hat. Thin' Mielline would let me wear it to drills?" with a leery grin. A'rist is to the point of drinking where, after a chug like that, he can't help but shiver, bodily. The chair, it scrapes loudly across the floor. Someone makes a crack that was probably intended to be about thinned bloodlines in cousins, but winds up sounding like a come-on. By then though, A'rist is distracted. "I," declarations, again, "m'gonna getchu that hat!" His beer isn't finished, but it's left there. He's on his feet, spry, if weaving. Weaving not after the hat, but toward V'ros. "An' she'll have to letcha weart!" "How're you gonna get the hat. It went.." V'ros tries to get up on his tippy toes, because height's his disadvantage, and squint at the crowd of passerbys. "Think he went out," he mutters glumly, but then remembers he has beer, and downs the rest of his tankards without coming up for a breath. He slams it down on the nearby table and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Let's get the hat." Clearly, he's changed his mind that fast, but outside they'll have to go if they want to find the horn-hatted one. "THE HAT!" yells A'rist, a battlecry, with one hand pointing bravely toward... well, the door is in that general direction. "C'mon, c'mon," and he's trying to grab his bro by the shoulder, and lead the way, all at the same time. Here's hoping they don't fall. But if he gave up what might've been a sure thing at the seedy pub, it was definitely for something as epic as this. This hat. Falling could be a possibility, but V'ros finds balance in grabbing random people along the way to stabilize himself. They, of course, aren't too happy with that situation and he's quickly brushed off. He's trying his best here, to walk and think, while they're rushing out the door after the mysterious hat. "Wha if he's gon, off on his dragon er something already," he asks woefully, obviously forgetting this is a holder party and they're the only riders in attendance. "Could find 'nother hat.. nah, let's get that fuckin hat." A'rist adds a little extra speed once they're underway, and it actually seems to aid in his ongoing struggle with moving in a straight line. "He's not gettnfar!" And A'rist, he's not worried that some of those holders back there might have overheard, might be wondering, might be cancelling arranged marriages even as the two riders stumble out into the night. "Get the hat," comes clearer, and there's something different in his voice, even when the bronzerider realises he should probably slow down, and try to actually see, in the suddenly dark night. The night is dark and eerily silent once they're outside of the main Hold, if you don't count the muffled partying sounds and that guy throwing up in the bushes. And it's cold, though less so than the Reaches, and the change has V'ros stopping in his tracks; where he sways. "Where'd.. he go?" He turns in a circle, rocks crunching under his boots, as he tries to squint into the darkness. That guy with the hat is nowhere to be seen, but the sound of a runner whinnying in the distance breaks the quiet - oh, yeah, and that guy hurls again. A'rist... is sniffing at the air. "Find him," is low and quiet, and after that, he's still. Hunting. It has his head whip around at the sound that's not a party sound. But he's also still drunk, which is why he turns to the brownrider and loud-whispers, "Did he have a runner and a hat?" "But he's.." V'ros turns in a circle another time, his feet getting caught up in each other to the point that he has to lurch forward to catch himself from falling. "Shit." He's scrubbing at his face with his hands, as if to get rid of the drunkenness when more runner sounds, their hooves crunching on rocks on the road, echo through the night. It's enough to bring startled brown eyes up, to stare, horrified, into the darkness. "A'rist.. I think.." Laughter, to their left, cruel and sharp, bursts from the dark, though its owner is just a shadow. A'rist's hatful hopefulness is gone. A'rist is reaching, reaching for V'ros, not to grab, but just to touch, to determine location. "Think so." His other hand has reached for the usual place of the rider's belt knife, but it's not there. Nope, just the date shirt is there. So that hand holds ready, back out. But it's the puking guy who gets hit first, one putrid wet sound traded for another, that one, a surprised yell at the same time as the hit. That makes one of them - being prepared to fight. V'ros is frozen to the spot, his hands having fallen to his sides where his fingers curl into his palms. Next, the puking stops and the hitting begins, and the sounds of a flurry of movement fill the night. "A'rist," he grounds out, "I don't think.. these people.." He gulps and frags his foot back. There's multiple assailants, and while some are entertained with the sick party-goer, the others make for the two riders on their lonesome. They could stop their runners, but where's the fun in that? A slap reverberates through the air as one shouts and spurs his runner forward, directly at A'rist and V'ros. "Shh!" A'rist has found V'ros, has backed in closer, and the time for thinking? Is over now. He listens, waits on the balls of his feet, and once he can sort out that separate set of hoofbeats, the ones getting too loud too fast, he shouts, "Shells!" And bodycheck-tackles V'ros hard, and almost certainly out of the way. To Zmeyth, Lythronath is awake and in tune with A'rist's more primal instincts. Zmeyth just gets one too-solid, « UP! » "Shh-" All of V'ros' reactions are still delayed, due to the alcohol still pumping through his veins; and, also, he hasn't got a fighting bone in his body. He would be run over if it wasn't for A'rist, and his grunt is part pain and part thanks when his back makes contact with the ground. They could make a better strategy or laugh about the situation, if the next wave of thieves wasn't already on the ground, leaving their runners in favor of catcalling the riders. "Come on now, boys, we jus wanna have a nice chat!" Another one hoots, "Ya, a chat, lads!" But there's laugh around, so it's obvious their chat means something else. "Shit, we need to run," V'ros tries beseeching to A'rist. Zmeyth is less concerned than his bronze counterpart, but consents with a rumble of displeasure for this newest set of events. « Where? » It's dark, can they even get a lock on location? (To Lythronath from Zmeyth) A'rist knocked his friend out of the way; he doesn't help him get up. The bronzerider is busy getting to his own feet, not quite as springy as he's been getting in his sparring matches with R'sig. Not yet, although adrenaline is undoing some of that alcohol. "No," says A'rist, with the sound of a smile on his voice. Louder, "Boys wanna chat." Can V'ros see the glint of his teeth in the dark? Can their assailants? « Back. » Where Lythronath is going already. (To Zmeyth from Lythronath) "No, no, no, no, A'rist," V'ros slur-hisses, scrambling to his own feet in a decidedly ungraceful way. Their friends are coming closer with their insults and faux-charming declarations. "'M gonna put my fist through yer teeth, kid," one guy growls, so clearly, they can! Another one starts creeping in from the side, chortling all the while. "We're gonna beat ya two so bad yer gonna go crawlin' back ter yer mommies, wah wah." Even V'ros, at this point, is starting to consider their chances of defending themselves against these guys - they don't sound very bad - but when one slams into him from the side, that changes a lot of things. Zmeyth might be slower in getting up and following, but follow he does, letting the bronze take the lead on their rescue mission. (To Lythronath from Zmeyth) "Yeah, you oughta try't," A'rist agrees, still grinning. "'Cause y'tired of us crawlin' offa yours?" next. He's looking from guy to guy as he goes, his tone getting ramped up with each counter argument. But when V'ros gets hit, all A'rist has in his arsenal is to whirl around and roar, "C'mon!" to that attacker, putting his attention off the first two. Lythronath, meanwhile, can't have gone far at the start of the night. He's airborne, and he, too, is hunting. "A'rist!" Isn't he thinking? Why is he goading them? But V'ros is still trying to pick himself off the ground again, but only gets to his knees before he gets kicked solidly in the ribs. "Whatcha waitin for, beat the shit out of that fucker!" the one on V'ros calls, and immediately the two squaring off with A'rist charge at him, both going in without abandon. V'ros rolls over onto his side, keeping his eyes closed and gnashing his teeth; his assailant starts to dig through any pockets he can find, taking any marks and shoving everything in a sack he has slung over his shoulder. A'rist was going to be the hero again; was going to go beat the stuffing out of the guy attacking his bro. But then he's getting punched just shy of the ear (thanks to an artful wince). Now, finding his feet is faster, even if he takes a hit to the side as he scrambles away. That little bit of time he's earned also puts his two antagonists neatly between himself and V'ros. Naturally, the thing to do here is spit at the biggest one. But this time, he's braced, and ready for the charge. As much as he can be, weighing significantly less and all that. V'ros yelps when the guy near him picks him up by the collar and drags him out a ways, throwing him back down in the dirt. "Fuck you, dipshit," the thief spits at A'rist, and his two friends cheer. They're not going to waste any time in rushing at the dragonrider again, the bigger one throwing his weight at A'rist and the smaller one aiming for somewhere lower. Either could be hits or misses. But the third guy, he sneers and supervises, one foot on V'ros's knee, pinning him to the spot; no crawling away for now. Training, and prolonged exposure to Lythronath, has made A'rist a lot scrappier than he'd started off, in weyrlinghood. Which means he's able to duck and try grapple with the bigger one before the smaller one lands the first hit, missing the bronzerider's junk, at least. Several shots land between A'rist and the bigger one. Anything coming from the rider's mouth is wordless and roaring, now. It gets louder, and the return blows stop, when there's a hit far too close to his kidneys for A'rist's comfort. And that's when there's an echoing roar. Of doom. "Shiiit," V'ros claws into the dirt with his fingers, trying to drag himself up, which just gains him another kick and a punch in the face. He doesn't try again, and being that he's subdued, the third guy moves into the fray for insurance. They are likely going to try the old hold-him-down-and-beat-his-ass technique. But then, they're not aware: the dragons are coming. A'rist is on the ground, now. He manages a final punch before a kick has him curling, knuckles bloodied by his own blood and others' up near his forehead, protecting what they can. And then Lythronath is overhead, eyes red, voice deafening, talons sharp as he dives in low over his rider. Those runners? Friggin' gone, maybe lost forever. The pissed off dragon overhead is a good enough sign to leave. They hurry, and in their efforts some of them fall and have to get back up, only to scatter away in the dark of the night. Even after they disappear, sounds of their yelling and cursing can be faintly heard - except for Lythronath angry voice. Zmeyth follows in a lazier circle, winging downwards to where his rider is still lying, albeit just out of breath and a little bloodied; not dead. "We didn't.. the hat." And closes his eyes. They get away, all of them, but A'rist manages a last-minute reach to the small one's leg; manages to trip him, but not to get himself up in time to pin him. All it comes to is a punch to the calf as the guy makes his escape. And even that is a pulled punch. Because then he's yelling, "Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop!" almost euphoric in the panic. Probably, it's his attempt to stand, and falling back down, that gets Lythronath to wait. No, he doesn't hear V'ros. Those selfsame eyes pop back open at A'rist's yelling and lack of answer. It's enough to draw V'ros' gaze to the bronzerider who can't quite get up himself. "A'rist? You.. okay?" He knows the answer to that, knows his own condition too well. His next attempt is to get up, too, and he manages to get to his knees, where he stays, wincing with each movement. Zmeyth's claws mark the ground where he lands, his dark bulk hardly standing out against the dark of the night, but he's near enough that his presence can be felt at least, if V'ros should need it. "Yeah," comes quickly, but higher in pitch than it should be. "Good." A'rist's eyes are on Lythronath, though. Lythronath has stayed, but is still watching. If Zmeyth's presence can be felt, the bronze's bloodlust is surely just as tangible. A'rist, for all his assurances, is still trying to get upright. "Gonna hurl though." « Hurt. » Lythronath is angry. Lythronath wants blood. (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath) Hraedhyth's drums skip a beat in surprise. A warrior's reflexes kick in, flames growing into an inferno as she roars, « WHAT. » Smoke curls with perfumed confusion, the floral scent burned to ash and carrying with it a command, « Home. » Now. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) Getting to his feet is going to be a bit more challenging, and it takes V'ros a couple strong breaths and sliding from his knees to his feet slowly. He holds his ribcage when he does stand, wobbling back and forth until Zmeyth takes the initiative to lend his bulk as a bulwark. "What just happened," he wheezes, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the brown; which is perhaps perfect timing given A'rist's warning. To Hraedhyth, Lythronath projects « Stop. » A'rist's voice, as Lythronath hears it, accidentally slipped to the queen. Then, grudging submission. « Home. Slow. » To Zmeyth, Lythronath passes on the command from the senior gold: « Home. » And his own addition of, « Slow. » A'rist has managed to get one leg under him. He doesn't manage to keep back the whimper when it pushes up, fingers digging into the bronze hide that is there, right there, and still radiating those homicidal urges. "Wasn't anywhere to run," is grunted only once he's got to his feet. "Coulda been more." A hot wind whips up that fire, as savage as the snarl that echoes across her plains, « HOME. » That heavy incense remains, Azaylia aware and alert of what is being shared. A breath of relief sends black smoke spiraling out, inky tendrils grasping for Lythronath and his rider. « Home. » Where she can keep them safe. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) "Could've," V'ros says quietly, "How are we going to explain this to K'del." Because 'we got our asses kicked by a bunch of thieves' doesn't sound good, out of mouth or on paper. He sighs and turns, using Zmeyth's body to guide him along to a forearm and the straps. "Thanks. Sorry I wasn't more.." Helpful. Strong. Brave. All of those. His mouth compresses tightly and he shakes his head, using whatever ounces of strength he has left, with Zmeyth's help, to haul himself up; there's plenty of groaning and wincing and grimacing. Simply, from Zmeyth, « Home. » Agreed. (To Lythronath from Zmeyth) A thought beyond how to get onto his dragon startles the bronzerider, who jerks his head up, and winces almost simultaneously. "Just," has the sound of a sigh, "tell him." V'ros' apology first wants to bring about a glare. A'rist settles that, takes a breath, and turns his eyes to his dragon's straps, one hand slowly, mincingly tracing them to the handhold. "You should come. With me and R'sig." And then, he can't talk anymore. He's trying to lift himself and keep the sore bits immobilised all at once. It takes concentration. To Hraedhyth, Lythronath projects « Slow. Home. » There's not much else to say, to that, as V'ros gets settled and in the straps; next comes the helmet which is torture itself. He puts all his gear on and waits, for his friend, without another word. Words are your enemies - they make you feel things. Zmeyth fidgets restlessly. It becomes a mantra, rolling off of the drum skins, tight and tense until they appear in the skies of High Reaches. Slow. Home. Slow. Home. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) It takes A'rist a bit, but he gets there. Lythronath proves surprisingly patient, if still at the ready, tail swinging in a slow, steady rhythm. They'll get home. Slowly. |
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