Logs:Feeding the Bollians
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| RL Date: 29 January, 2012 |
| Who: Brakef, Norov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Southern Boll Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: After less than half of Boll's autumn tithe shows up, and N'muir sends the train's guards to the cells, Bollian candidate Norov goes to try and figure out what's going on... and help. |
| Where: Lower Caverns, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 11, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Bronnard/Mentions, Jivrain/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
| Storyteller: Ali/ST |
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| It was late afternoon on day 28, month 11, turn 27 of the 10th interval when the tithe train finally arrived from Southern Boll. While the weyrfolk were set for a celebration, the mood quickly turned sour as it became apparent that the actual goods didn't meet the listed manifest. Accusations and threats were made, some even say the guards were hogtied and dragged - and did you see the blood coming from that poor driver? - and the end result was the imprisonment of the three Southern Boll residents who had escorted the tithe. There's little doubt that this incident - whoever is responsible - will do little to heal the fraying relationship between Fort Weyr and Southern Boll. The only question now is - just what will Lord Jivrain do?
Secondhand news, made the more troubling for comments about the Glass Fountain... of Blood! and the like. Norov licks his lips before taking the tray, but does so obediently enough, and along the walk tries to erase the worry he has to know is in his expression. There's no erasing his Boll-bred accent, but he does keep to a mumble when he addresses the guards, his gaze low, like maybe he just isn't too smart. "Cooks said, for the prisoners," and proffers the tray: do they need to look? Poke through it? Snag the good bits? The riders stare for a while. They've probably secretly got some bet about who can do the most intimating stare. It's the sort of thing idle riders do the pass the time in boring circumstances. One of them, finally, jerks his head, which seems to be an indication to pass. Down a short corridor, on either side of which are metal bars welded into the stone itself. Three men: one older, and by his knots on his uniform, in charge. One younger, looking frazzled, curled up into a ball on the cot. And a third, uniformed man, a bandage around his head. Norov recognizes the older. A friend of his uncle's, perhaps? The name escapes him. Benji? Brend? Something. Not long into that staring, Norov brings the tray closer to his body again and waits with his head slightly lowered. Maybe he'd like to stand stock still too, but as it is, he shifts sometimes from foot to foot, and maybe that better pleases them anyway. As it is, he's slow heading down that hallway at first but then every step takes him a fraction faster, and he's looking through each set of bars until he gets to the right one and... "Sir?" He says it quietly, but it's riven with worry, the more so as he catches sight of that... of that bandage. "Guardsman Br....e.... I'm sorry, it's been so long. I'm sorry." The older guard looks up. There's a puzzled expression in his features as he stares at Norov. "Brakef," he finally says. Then recognition kicks in. "Norov. Bronnard's nephew." One of the benefits of being a guard is remembering random people, random names. Or not-so-random people. He stands and steps closer to the bars, leaning to see if he can see the riders from this angle. Then, "What are you doing here, boy?" he hisses. All of which sends Norov's sneak-away-from-home plan right down the tubes, but: priorities. Besides, he made it. "Right," he says quickly, keeping his back to the guards, attention trained on the senior man. He glances back over his shoulder too, but it's brief: Brakef's paying attention for them all. "They took me to Stand for the eggs. But you, what happened? I've got food for starters, here," and only belatedly seems to remember that he's supposed to give them the food, that there's supposed to be clanking of him setting the tray down and checking for a pass-through slot or just handing individual items through the bars. "This isn't supposed to happen." Brakef's fingers grip around the bars, knuckles turning to white as he looms forward. It would be a lot more intimidating if the bars didn't prevent that movement going too far. "You're Standing? What are you thinking, boy? Does your father know about this?" He releases a breath, glances over his shoulder at his fellow cellmates: no movement. One's sleeping, and one's unconscious. Convenient. "Don't worry about me, boy. They," a jerk of his head indicates the dragonriders out there, or possibly the Weyr-at-large, "Haven't a leg to stand on. Treachery, indeed! The Lord'll have us out in a couple of days, and he'll be hopping mad about it, too." And it would be even more intimidating if scrawny Norov hadn't toddled after Brakef, or rather, toddled after his brother who scrambled after their uncle who hung out off-duty with his fellow guardsman. As it is, it's somehow reassuring, and he stays close. "Of course he doesn't," he says of his father, all do-you-think-I'mstupid? and adds, "Long story." Maybe Brakef's going to be fine, but Norov's gaze can't help but track toward that man with the bandage. "Is he going to be all right, though? Did they bring a real Healer? I'll help how I can." It's simple food rather than sweetmeats from the feast, but fresh: bread and meat and cheese wrapped in cloths. No implements, not even plates. "It's got to have been a mistake." There's a look in Brakef's gaze that says, yes, he really does think Norov is that stupid. After all, he's here. At Fort Weyr. Roughly, he answers, "They brought a healer. Whether it was a 'real' one or not-" he shrugs, takes the tray, transfers it to the tiny table in the center of the room. The smells don't stir the other occupants. Then he's back to the bars, to Norov. "Not sure what it was. The Steward at Boll checked the contents twice before they sent us out. Good man, not one to risk the wrath of his betters." Which leaves either Lord Jivrain's orders, or... something else. Norov's mouth compresses in a grimace. "It better have been," he says. He glances back towards the guards again, then backs up half a step, assuming an at-ease stance that he as quickly breaks for a hands-behind-back head-slightly-down pose that's at odds with the sharp upward look through his curly fringe. "I heard there was something missing? Can you say what? There were rumors all over the place. Were there any strange stops along the way? Were..." This time, when he stops and presses his lips together, it's to stifle even the wry possibility of a laugh. "Not meaning to try and teach you to suck eggs, sir." "They say lots of things were missing." Yet Brakef's very tone casts doubt on that assertion. "Thought for a moment they were going to string us up somewhere. What's gotten these people so riled up? I've seen murderers treated with less contempt." He glances over his shoulder at the driver, chewing his lip. "Blood has been spilled. There'll be accounting for that." He shakes his head firmly. "Lots of stops, none strange. We had to detour via Fort Sea to weather out a bit storm, otherwise we would've been a day sooner, maybe two." Surprise shocks Norov's features, and he starts to repress a scowl before just letting it loose. "I don't know. There was that plague... but they say that's over. I saw the Weyrleader once," one way of putting it, "and he has a temper," though by the younger man's tone that's hardly unusual in a leader, "but he turned around neat as you please. This just doesn't seem right. it's not like the kitchens were raving for anyone's blood, not that I saw anyway, most folks have seemed upright enough so far. And, well, it's Interval, and people know where their bread's buttered." "...he has a temper?" Brakef repeats that with no small amount of bemusement, shaking his head. "He was the calmest head there." His fingers clench around the mental bars again. "Well, as long as you're here, if you can talk sense into this folk without getting yourself in... here, I'd appreciate it. The Lord would too, I suspect." That's said in a lowered voice, brows rising. "Probably about time you started writing home, isn't it, boy?" Is he... suggesting what Norov thinks he's suggesting? Probably. "He was?" Norov bites off a nervy laugh, and listens. In the end, "I'll do that, talk to them. I don't know how much it will change, not like I'm going to be taking tea with the Weyrwoman or whatever she does, but a lot of them do have sense," and he's got to believe that. "As for writing..." a flush has risen up his cheekbones. "I got one written already, was going to ask tomorrow about how to send it. Only it was to Tan, if you see what I mean. I was playing around, figured that anyone could open it." "It's worth a shot. Saner heads have to prevail." Brakef's lips thin for a moment, until Norov speaks again, and his eyes widen as he mentions his letter. "That's fine, boy, that's fine." There's an air of approval in the older guard's expression. "You'd best get on now, before those dragonriders start to wonder why you're lingering so long talking to my ilk." There's a moment there where Norov hesitates: what if the older man thinks he meant a letter about today already, not just keeping in touch with his brother on the silly-sly? But he doesn't risk losing that approval, and says only, "Sir." A last worried glance for the out-of-it men, a longer look at his uncle's friend who's responsible for those men, and he turns to head out with his head still low, but a little more purpose in his stride like he's on duty again. Maybe they'll be busy with their game. Maybe they won't bother with him. Maybe he'll just get to go. They don't try and stop him. In fact, they barely look up, in the midst of a particularly high spirited deal. One of them grunts, "Come back for the tray in an hour," and that's it. |
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