Logs:Troubled Tithe Train
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| RL Date: 19 September, 2015 |
| Who: Edric, Hattie, Kh'tyr, Parli, Rhiannon, X'vin, Dee/ST, Besmernyth, Elaruth, Swaronth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The Boll tithe train needs help! Fortians respond. |
| Where: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr, and on the road to Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 11, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Stormy, sleety, rainy. |
| Mentions: Erinta/Mentions, Jenilynn/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Because visuals are helpful! |
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| As the autumn deepens, the storms that are a usual part of this time of the turn have begun to roll in. Today's which features not only dark clouds, winds and rain, but also is interspersed with sleet and not-quite-snow. There's a tension in the Weyr with the last of the autumn tithes expected in the morning now running late. It's late afternoon by the time the train is heard from and that word comes by way of bedraggled messenger now entering the living cavern with one Assistant Headwoman, Rhiannon, at his side. The messenger is a youth of fifteen, his clothes soaked to the bone and the lad looking like his knees might give out from him given half the chance. His eyes search wildly among the faces before looking to Rhiannon like she might know what to do better, he being the Holder on Weyr turf. Towards the back of the cavern, the Weyrwoman sits towards the end of one of the long tables, half a dozen of the caverns staff - primarily those whose responsibility it is to make sure that the larger caverns are kept tidy - sat with her, and all but one of them taking notes from the conversation being held. None of them look particularly pleased, it has to be said, nor does Hattie herself, but then, arguably autumn and winter threaten more work than the summer months. As she takes a breath, hesitating, her gaze catches on Rhiannon, then slides to the boy, his state processed with a moment's concerned silence. Of course, Edric is there - surveying the latest edible offerings with an expression that's wholly unreadable. The consultant appears content enough with his tea, in the end, and he turns away from the food to return to whatever he was doing. But movement catches his eye and he cuts a glance toward the latest arrivals with a flattening of his mouth into a bloodless line. He does not approach - but he makes himself available, which is significant in its own right. There is no need to glance at notes or any other such thing; like as not, the narrowing of his eyes speaks to a sense of knowing - which, conveniently, is also his job. Somewhere in the cavern, slouched down in a chair, is Parli. Swaronth is somewhere in the bowl, probably; or maybe he's eating. Whatever. The newly transferred and now-Flinty-brownrider is currently buried in a book while a plate of picked over food and cold klah (probably from this morning, to be totally honest) sprawls over her chosen table. She's alone, which is probably because she's given the ol' stink eye to anyone that's tried to sit with her thus far. Rhiannon looks around the Living Cavern, looking in as much a hurry as the messenger, just perhaps a little less wet. Her gaze reaches the Weyrwoman, and with a relieved expression she tabs the messenger on the shoulder and heads in her direction. "Weyrwoman, I'm sorry to bother you. But we have news about problems with the tithe from Boll, and I was sent to find help." She's not talking quietly, so anybody nearby could have heard. She takes a few steps to a table with drinks and pours some klah and holds it out for the drenched messenger to hopefully strengthen him. By afternoon X'vin has settled in for a late lunch and mug of something warm. He doesn't seem terribly perplexed by the late tithes, like so many are with their nervous fidgets, at least not until that half-drowned feline of a holder comes dragging himself in. X'vin's head quirks to the side and something darker briefly touches his smile as twirls his hooked mug on a finger, he murmurs, "Excellent." If he's within range of Edric, filling the mug but passing deliberately to angle apparently for Parli's table, so be it. One former Igenite is having a bad day, really. What former Igenite wouldn't be in this kind of weather? Still, it's improved by klah which means Kh'tyr's arriving somewhere near the newest bit of action to claim a drink for himself. "We'll finish this later," Hattie tells those she's been conversing with, and all but one, who happens to also be the one who's not taken any notes, quickly disperse to return to their duties, leaving that last soul to linger and rather obviously wait for the latest news (gossip). The goldrider stands, as if to more clearly invite the messenger to sit, asking of him and Rhiannon both, "I think we're going to need to know what kind of problems and what kind of help before any of us can be of any use. I imagine sending assistance won't be a problem, but it's no good us turning up and just being bodies amongst chaos." The messenger's too-wide eyes take in the Weyrwoman when Rhiannon addresses her, "M-ma'am," could be stutter for cold or for rank. He gratefully accepts the drink from the assistant before refocusing on the woman, "They're in a bad way, ma'am. Lead wagon's broke. They're tryin' t'maneuver th'others 'round it, but they sent me on t'get help before the cold took all the vegetables and ruined whatever else the oilskins can't protect. Train ain't meant for this kind of weather," which probably means the Bollians should've left sooner, but... certainly, that's not a decision of this lad's doing. "They're 'bout an hour's hard ride south of here." South, too, then of Fort Hold. "Please, ma'am," is pleaded with a more personal note. Those are his people out there. Only then does he drink, but the seat has been foregone his frame rigid in a way that seems to expect he'll be going right back out into the growing storm. A faint smile teases at the corners of Edric's mouth when X'vin passes by. His response is little more than a shallow inclination of his head, that fleeting smile forced into neutrality again. He has work to tend to. By the time Rhiannon approaches the Weyrwoman, Edric is there, but not precisely by the woman's side. He's not the Headwoman, after all, but the tithes are still his business - at least until the end of the month. An eyebrow lifts just slightly at the explanation and he purses his lips with a sidelong look to Hattie. Unless she has another suggestion, he intones, "Would you like me to arrange for a crew here to be ready for when the tithe does arrive?" Since she'll be busy, or so the implication goes. Parli picks at some bit of pastry or another, sighs, and flips to another page in her book. It's only when she's aware of someone in authority approaching - kind of - that she blows out a breath, rolls her eyes, and forces herself to sit upright. The book remains out, of course, and she's not about to look up to see the approaching Presence of Doom Itself, but she's aware. The klah is sampled with a sour expression and she puts the mug down and pushes it out of immediate reach. "Gross," is muttered. The drama unfolding elsewhere in the cavern is, well, elsewhere. Rhiannon seems ready to defer any decisions to the Weyrwoman on what to do next, but she does add, "The Headwoman has been informed, and she sent me and the other assistants out to inform the Weyr." She looks around at the others who seem to be paying attention. "There were mention of volunteers to help the tithe train," and then back to the Weyrwoman, "and if I can help then I'd like to." "I know," X'vin says cheerily to Parli, perhaps the only person still smiling in the caverns now. It's just what his face does. His eyes follow Rhiannon and her charge, levelling on Hattie very briefly before he sits down at the chair across from Flint's newest brownrider. His eyes are unfocused as he takes a drink from his mug, and then, "I hope you've had enough time to settle." Small talk, his gaze skipped over her shoulder - between Edric, Rhiannon, Hattie. That boy. "May have work to do." "I hope you're not afraid of dragons or heights, because it looks like you're going to be helping with directions once anyone is near enough to your estimated location," Hattie tells the boy a little dryly. "We'll assist, but your Lady needs to be informed as well." Then: "We'll handle that too." To Rhiannon, she says, "If you wish to help, I suggest you go and get changed. It doesn't sound like it's going to be easy going." Only then does her gaze settle on the Steward. "I want you to work with Erinta and make sure that there are not only hands available to deal with the tithe, but that the infirmary is ready to deal with anything that any of Boll's people require," she tells Edric. "Whether the latter is needed or not, we should be prepared." Which could just as well be 'she needs the practice', but with Rhiannon there she doesn't undermine the Headwoman aloud. "Of course. The teams have been ready since this morning, but I suspect their focus has waned," Edric notes blandly and with a slight shake of his head at something or another. "I will make sure they're prepared to move quickly." Hattie's additional suggestions are taken with a thin, polite smile and a dip of his chin in concession. "Absolutely. The Infirmary, stores, and stables will be prepared for their arrival. Now, if you'll excuse me. We have further preparations to make." Subtle weight sits on that we, Erinta implied if not named. There's a flicked glance askance to X'vin, one that's unreadable, and then he's gone to see that things are handled efficiently - and properly. Parli's eyes narrow as X'vin sits. Not that it's effective or anything, but she does it anyway. She marks her place in the book, sets it in her lap, and pushes the picked at plate of pastries toward him with a slow, creeping motion. The eye contact she does provide is unwavering. "No, not really," is honest and deadpan with a healthy dose of slightly annoyed. "I was kind of hoping to get a few more naps in my bed before we had to do anything." Work? Oh, no. That's a filthy, filthy word to use around her. Though the messenger boy blanches slightly, he does say, "I'll manage, ma'am." The rest of the how to and what to do is out of his hands so he'll bend his head to drink deep for the fortifying that hot klah can do in the scant time between now and departing. Rhiannon nods at the Weyrwoman. "Yes, ma'am." She seems interested in the plans made between Edric and the Weyrwoman, but since there's limited time she doesn't linger. She leaves through the Inner Caverns exit and returns a few minutes later changed into warmer clothing and a coat. She carries another coat over her arm, and holds it out to the messenger. "This will only be a little big, and it might be better than the one you've already soaking in." On her arm under the coat was a towel, which she also holds out to the messenger when he's ready. "Ah," X'vin says, rapping a knuckles on the table a couple times and laughing at her. It makes it sound stark, even if X'vin's clearly paying attention to what's happening. His tip of the head is minute for Edric, easily just a natural sway, but then his eyes drift down to make contact with Parli's as she adjusts. "You'll have plenty of time for naps, Parli. Just not today. I hope you've treated your leathers for the rain. A Flint rider should take that boy." It's a suggestion. A nudge. A test. To Fort dragons, Elaruth is not loud when she reaches out to all the dragons of her Weyr, yet there is suddenly a quiet, but insistent voice there where before there might have been silence or the murmurings of the dragon community. « The tithe train from Boll requires urgent assistance, » is an announcement impossible to escape from. « Any who would assist in bringing the tithe to the Weyr and in aiding those accompanying the train should gather in the southern end of the bowl for a quick departure. » And that's where she'll be waiting, some of Citrine already gathered around her. "My thanks, ma'am," is offered to the assistant by the messenger as he puts empty cup down and takes up the towel to give himself as much of a once-over as he can manage in limited time before donning the jacket and making to follow those heading for the bowl. "Fine. I guess." And that's that, then. Thanks X'vin. Parli pushes listlessly up from her seat and tucks her book into her jacket for the time being. One will hope that she has somewhere to put it later, because- oh, right, there isn't much later. "They're treated," is an eye-rolled afterthought, though there isn't a trace of malice in her voice; that would require effort. Sure enough, that nudge seems to suffice to get her moving. She's soon where the collection of messenger, Rhiannon, and Weyrwoman are gathered. "Swaronth and I can take him back and get the coordinates out to everyone," she cocks her head toward the messenger. Kh'tyr's head cocks to the side as if listening to something faraway. The look on his face is resigned then so it can be little wonder that he starts buckling his flight jacket and making paces toward the bowl. Hattie lifts her voice to call, "Well, you heard her," in the manner of one used to being heard without outright shouting. For those who haven't heard Elaruth, she adds, "Anyone who'll assist Boll's tithe train should find meet our riders in the bowl." Where must be obvious by now, given the growing collection of dragons. She gathers her notes up from the table and hugs them to her chest, telling Parli, "Then you had better get going. We'll all be ready to follow soon." She glances to the messenger, then back to the brownrider. "Don't let him freeze," is lower, yet not entirely out of hearing range. As for her, she's off to do as she advised Rhiannon: to change, and to gather Elaruth's straps before the group departs. Flint is a hard wing to track, often scattered to the winds as it is; even so, when X'vin stands, fingers nimbly working the fastens of his jacket, several other riders with matching patches follow suit and are quicker to make their way for the bowl, where their dragons are gathering in loose formation, shaking their wings and grumbling in the rain. "Thank you, Parli," X'vin says after her, pleased, and lingers only long enough to make sure the new Telgari rider does as she was bidden before he turns to stride out and gather his ranks. Rhiannon nods at the Weyrwoman's words, and makes her way out to the bowl to join the other volunteers. She buttons the warm coat she grabbed for herself as she walks.
The nearest convenient place to land is a clearing on the west side through those trees that aren't set near enough to one another to make a wood, just close enough to be problematic for any dragon trying to land closer. It seems the dragonmen will have to approach on foot (through the mud), lucky dragonmen. >---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 3 by X'vin >----------------------< 10 7 3 >-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---< >---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 3 by Rhiannon >-------------------< 4 6 7 >-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---< >---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 3 by Parli >----------------------< 3 7 1 >-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---< (To X'vin): It might have been missed entirely were it not for Besmernyth's position in the formation but as you come over the road, a brief lightening of the rain affords you a brief glimpse of the people below. More toward the front of the train with that broken wagon, others scattered along the rest and toward the back an unexpected amount of movement. Maybe they're just trying to move the livestock along, but it's... odd when so much of the manpower is focused on that front pair of wagons. (To Rhiannon): It's hard to see much through the sleet and rain, but just as the dragon you ride on moves to make landing, you hear a shout. It could just be someone urging on an oxen, but it has a distinctly startled tone. With all the wind, maybe you only think you heard it? Still, something doesn't seem right. (To Parli): With as long as Swaronth's been in the area, you've had the opportunity to circle, largely concealed from the eyes that aren't looking for you to be there anyway. The efforts of getting the second wagon around the first seem to be drawing on more manpower, but still there are a number of guards spread farther back along the train. For safety maybe? Who can say. The messenger behind you is anxious and shivering. It's a bad day to be out and about. « There, » Besmernyth says almost as once when they appear in the sky, his scope of the area made quickly and a landing zone determined, and the image relays through his wing - and beyond it, to others - quickly. Plenty of people gathered near the front of a caravan, and notably, « Land there, » with a sense of authority that perhaps is odd for him. There are more riders now that they've arrived than were gathered in the bowl -- though, notably, Flint is still very short of a wing; where the other half might be is anyone's guess, and probably not close to the mind as he angles for a neat landing among the trees. If two of the greens make a pass around the rear, for a full evaluation to complete their image of the caravan in the darkness, they can't be blamed for thoroughness. Rhiannon is now safely on the ground, and seems ready to get to work. "Thank you, Wingleader," she says to X'vin for giving her a ride. She squints into the rain, and doesn't wait to be given an order, and wades into the action to lend what help she can. She turns suddenly, as if she's heard something from that direction, and starts trudging through the mud. Lucky messenger. He'll be kept warm with a borrowed jacket and helmet and gloves snitched from somewhere or another. He'll just have to endure riding on a big ol' brown that, frankly, doesn't give a damn if his landing is a little on the rough side. The mahogany-hued dragon will land - once the all clear is given - and Parli remains mounted for the time being. She twists around and reaches to knock, gently, on the messenger's helmet. "Stay here until we figure out what to do with you, I guess." And it's easier to find that out via telepathy, although it takes a bit to rouse the beast to actually ask: « What's the plan? » This is angled mostly to his new Wingleader, but traces of his musk-and-whiskey voice will inevitably reach out to touch all the dragon minds in the area. >---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 2 by X'vin >----------------------< 4 7 >-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---< Elaruth remains aloft even after most of the arriving party has landed, her path one that takes in her lazy circles around the immediate area, currents coasted along to keep her on an even, steady path that involves the minimum of effort. With the amount of dragons landing nearby and all those trees, perhaps it's safety concerns that keep her in the air and watching the dragons of her flock, or maybe she just wishes to take in the bigger picture. « Keep them all from trying to solve the problem in different ways, so that we might deal with the lead wagon first. Report any injuries. » (To X'vin): One of the greens reports just a lot of gross storm, and do they really need to be out here? The second, however, has a touch that holds confusion and uncertainty. « They're shouting, » she seems fairly sure, « for help? » is less sure. It's not hard to put that together with the direction that Rhiannon turned, toward the end of the wagon train rather than the head. Elaruth remains aloft even after most of the arriving party has landed, her path one that takes in her lazy circles around the immediate area, currents coasted along to keep her on an even, steady path that involves the minimum of effort. With the amount of dragons landing nearby and all those trees, perhaps it's safety concerns that keep her in the air and watching the dragons of her flock, or maybe she just wishes to take in the bigger picture. « Keep them all from trying to solve the problem in different ways, so that we might deal with the lead wagon first. Report any injuries. » « Because you have to, » is clearly an overflow of private conversation, and one of Flint's greens flinches in the air before she angles her wings and flips back around to try and land with the group, her rider careful to not worry any of the livestock any more than they already are. The second green fares better, it seems, and her pretty mindvoice touches them all, though her words are for Besmernyth and Elaruth, particularly: « There are more back here. And animals. » A wistful sigh. « I should have eaten. » And X'vin surveys from his ground vantage only long enough to signal and provide Swaronth and the others a firm answer, « X'vin says to move on foot. Unless there is another landing zone in the rear. » There is movement up ahead as riders and weyrfolk draw through the trees. "Can't do!" can be heard shouted from one of the guards by the second wagon, audible to those heading toward the north end, and toward the south? The animals are scattering amid shouts rising in volume and desperation. Elaruth waits until the last of Fort's dragons has landed before she begins to make a descent of her own, angling for a spot that brings her a little too near to the edge of the clearing and those trees for her broad wings to be entirely safe, yet she doesn't ask anyone to get out of the way and move for her. As her paws touch the ground, there's a soft, off-key noise from her that doesn't sound like it can herald anything but pain, though there's no fuss beyond it. Even once Hattie has dismounted, she remains where she is, one side kept facing away from the dragons gathered. « Prioritise the people, then the livestock, » she requests. Her rider stares up at her for a long moment, then heads off through the trees. >---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 1 by Rhiannon >-------------------< 4 >-------------------------------------------------------------< Failure. >---< Rhiannon trudges through the mud and comes to where the animals have scattered and she looks for someone in charge of them. In lieu of actually figuring out who that is in the chaos, she just calls out. "What have you got that can get a hold of these beasts?" She eyes a chicken that runs past her and ignores it for the moment, perhaps figuring out that chasing a chicken in the mud wouldn't do much good. "Now I know why our caravan was out of this area before this time of year. I'd want to miss this weather too." « Obviously, » is dry for Elaruth's order, and there is an icy prickle. And X'vin, conveniently, remains on Rhiannon's heels, the wingleader clearing the trees eventually, if not the mud, since the road is churned up. The chicken gets an eye for it's annoying clucking, but the wingleader's eyes are in search of someone who has that air -- the person in charge of this catastrophe, probably. It's possible that Rhiannon might not recognize what she's seeing when she arrives near those livestock, what with the rain and the worried animals. The green above has the distance and the weather to contend with, but proximity for the assistant affords obviousness: there are men, fighting among the animals. Others, digging into the last wagon of the train the oilskins thrown back and items being removed and handed to others. It's more than bad weather besetting the tithe train and without quick action, the Weyr may be out whatever goods are being wrested from them judging by the way that one man after another slips into the wooded area on the north side of the road. « Fight! » is a delighted blue. A blue whose rider is too young to have taught him that not all fights mean excitement and gambling marks with good drinks and good company. The incoming aren't the only ones beginning to pick up on what's happening and some guards who were helping toward the head of the caravan are responding to shouts toward the back, though slogging through the mud on the road will take time. Rhiannon yells "Bandits!" at the top of her voice when she sees what is happening, just in case not everyone has realized what's going on. She hesitates on what to do personally, since it appears she doesn't have any weapons. The Weyrwoman said to change, not to arm. She looks around and finds a loose rock nearby. And while it probably isn't the best thing to do when you are unarmed amongst bandits, she throws the small rock at one of the men leaving with the Weyr's belongings. Besmernyth earns himself the ash-tainted weight of Elaruth's displeasure for the quality of his response, the commanding presence given her colour one that settles in the centre of her focus; a silent warning, whether one of her own, or with other origins. A decade or so ago might have seen Hattie head straight for the back of the train and the fray, but she today she hikes the knife in her right boot free as she heads in that direction, her approach more cautious than a headlong rush. At some point or another, the messenger is helped down - perhaps to the lad's relief, frankly, given how agitated Swaronth himself is. Too many trees; not enough room to move in. He's a big guy. Big guys need room. Parli, meanwhile, just stays strapped in while everyone else is off doing... well, whatever they're doing, because she has no clue what's happening at this point. It's just wet and chaotic and she's not about to add another chef to the kitchen, so to speak - at least until that word « Fight! » is kicked out there. That gets Swaronth's attention and he swings his head around in search of the source. He pushes through the trees as best he can - but, it seems, he doesn't need to go too far before trouble manifests. One unfortunate fellow finds himself staring down the barrel - er, muzzle - of the brown. "Ugh," is all Parli can manage before she's dismounting with startling speed given her otherwise bored manner about things. The poor bastard will get caught one way or another - and Parli (okay, let's be honest, Swaronth) will keep him "occupied" until someone or something comes to take care of the situation. « Bandits! » corrects the Flint green primly in a flash of lightning, and there are several beats before she realizes exactly what that means. « Oh no. » She's too large to angle back around for a landing, though she tries before vaulting in frustration to the rest of her wing, where her rider - like most of Flint, has changed tack from surveying damage to drawing hidden weapons and slipping around caravans. "A rock?" X'vin asks, exasperated, as two more wingriders take to fleet foot and run into the shadows after the bandits. Cool. Aloof, Besmernyth asks, « Should we prioritize people over our tithes, my queen? » Rhiannon's rock sails true. Some might call it a lucky shot or perhaps the assistant's aim is just that good. It hits one of the men now loaded down with a pack and aiming to slip into the trees to the north, jarring him badly enough to go to a knee where a man dressed just like him snags him into a grapple, "Have you taken leave of your senses, Bart?" is demanded. One guard to another? And yet... the others there making their way away and grappling with less formally attired men who are just as wet and tired looking are surely in Bollian guard uniforms. Rhiannon shrugs at X'vin's comments. "It was better than nothing." She wipes her muddy hand (the hand she used to throw the rock) on her coat. Now that the riders have gotten word and more experienced people are prepared to take on the bandits, she changes direction and looks for any injured people who need help. It's hard to say as the melee increases to include the riders and weyrfolk as well as guards coming from the front of the caravan which of the Bollians is friend and which is foe. Even if one can distinguish by who's carrying items away from the tithe train alone, can the rest be trusted? There's patience in Elaruth's reply, if the same weight that's been there since she landed. « To the best of your ability, » she says slowly and surely, « keep your riders from preventing anyone from leaving. » As futile as that might be, by now. It's by chance more than anything that Hattie finds herself with someone clearly fleeing in her path, and though she might not have weight or true strength on her side, she's well-trained enough in combat and how to use that ever-present knife that he ends up with the blade pressed to his throat before she shoves him into the waiting grasp of one of Hematite. "Don't send him back to Boll," she instructs in a growl. She doesn't trek any further into the mess, but turns and begins to head back to her queen. « We go to the Hold, » Elaruth shares with all. « Bring all to the Weyr. » People, innocent of intent or those otherwise who might be caught, goods - everything. Rhiannon's return quip is missed when her rock lands true, and X'vin is surprisingly quick on the heels of his riders from there. Their path is quickly cut towards him - and the man who is addressing him. If they're not quick, they'll be set upon by Flint's riders, as are several up and down the road where they'd scattered out to offer their aid. Some get away -- there is a furious roar from a blue when his rider loses footing and, consequently, a large load of goods and the man carrying them into the trees -- but there seem to be no injuries or heavy mishaps. When X'vin wraps his fist in the collar of the fallen man, his smile is more wicked than pleasant. His words are too friendly. "Going for a ride, my friend. What was it? Bart, is that what he said? Bart." Beat, a little too long. "You're riding with me. It'll be fun." The speaker seems as confused as anyone about what's happening. Only the look to X'vin's shoulder seems to silence protests into a, "Sir," of (perhaps grudging) respect. There are other mishaps as men are apprehended, some putting up more of a fight than others, but the dragonriders and weyrfolk outnumber the lot still with the tithe train. It takes time and effort but in the end, the majority of the tithe is transported from wagons to dragons and the tithe is delivered unconventionally to the Weyr. The only ones left to the mercy of the storm are a trio of herders and a pair of dragonriders as guards, and whatever men managed to slip the riders sent to circle wider in hopes of catching them before giving up the chase. Bollian Tithes and... Captives? The Boll tithes didn't arrive on the morning of day 11, month 11 as expected. When a single rider dispatched from the tithe train arrived in late afternoon to beg help for the train stuck south of the Weyr and Hold and facing a grim storm of sleet and rain, the Weyr responded. Elaruth led volunteer weyrfolk and riders including half of Flint wing to the broken down tithe train. Upon arriving, however, they had not only the storm to contend with but chaos of another sort. Accounts vary, but it seems that some of the guards were trying to make off with what they could carry of the Weyr's tithes when the riders arrived. Not all the guards or accompanying drivers and herdsmen seemed in on whatever plan was afoot, but anyone who traveled with the tithe who could be collected was along with as much of the tithe as could be managed and brought back to the Weyr. The only outstanding Bollians arrive the following day, herding what beasts could be wrangled back together after the storm, escorted by the pair of Flint riders left behind to keep guard over them through it. |
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