Logs:Murder Most Foul

Murder Most Foul
RL Date: 4 November, 2012
Who: Azaylia, Barnabas, Brieli, F'rint, H'kon, I'kris, Iolene, K'del, Leova, Lia, Quinlys, Taikrin, Tajent, Val
Involves: High Reaches Weyr
Type: Log
What: Ysavaeth goes Between. The whole Weyr reacts.
Where: High Reaches Weyr
When: Day 28, Month 2, Turn 30 (Interval 10)
Storyteller: K'del/ST
It's mid-morning on the last day of month two, and though spring is still another month off, it's warmer than average, clear blue skies and all. Probably the whole Weyr knows that the Weyrleaders are out for the day - K'del's young sons along with them - and that they were due to leave before dawn; Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's ledges are both empty. The Weyrleaders may not be in residence, but the Weyr itself carries on. Rielsath's eggs are due to hatch within the seven, and the Candidates are finally beginning to move into the barracks in preparation. Several Wings are drilling out in the bowl, and preparations for the midday meal are well underway. It is, by and large, just another day at High Reaches. With a new batch of weyrlings due Any Day Now, there's plenty of work for the weyrlingmasters. Quinlys hasn't - yet - gotten over her disgruntlement at the prospect of this new weyrlingmaster transferring in, but she's not so unhappy about it that she can't do her job. "Tubs're all filled," she calls out, without glancing at those of her colleagues also at work in the barracks. "Let me make sure we have enough paddles." Who thought it was a great day for Glacier to actually drill? Maybe it was the fault of those lovely warm skies... combined with the Weyrleaders' absence, which meant that nobody was going to gainsay F'rint and the boys when they went to collect more than their fair share of firestone, chuckling avidly beneath their breath. Because: fire. Fire. Sure, there's one wimp who has to use a flamethrower, and a couple pairs didn't make it for reasons of their own... but there they are, overhead, making the air smell the way it used to, back in the day. When life meant more than it does now. Vrianth's flying at the trailing edge of formation, clean-up, and triumphantly she bellows at another, larger dragon who isn't going at the pretend ropes being dropped from overhead as fast as she'd like. Half of Boreal is on rest day, while the other half is on call transport, filling in gaps that other wings aren't covering, or are too busy to cover. Lia, being new to the wing and thus always drawing the short straw, loiters in the bowl not far from the drilling wings. Her lean body rests against Daehyeth's side, while she uses a small boot knife to pick gently at the grime underneath her fingers. A thin lock of hair frees itself from behind her ear, falling to obscure her vision briefly, before being pushed back with a lazy brush of her knife-holding hand. "There are a lot of things we could be doing otherwise. There are a lot of people we could be doing otherwise," is a correction that is coupled with a bemused smile as the slim woman looks upwards at her bored looking dragon. "Tomorrow. I promise. Unless N'ret decides otherwise." One could assume N'ret decides otherwise a lot from Lia's sigh-heavy tone. Though it would be well within known behavior of Brieli to be lurking somewhere in the shadowy parts of the Weyr, sometimes even lurking has to be pushed aside in favor of work. At least there's dim corners of the storerooms to make her feel at ease as she checks over the kitchen inventory for the rest of the winter. It's likely not necessary, but it's one of the many things she's obsessive and paranoid about without explanation. However 'warm' it may be, she's not going outside more than necessary. Iesaryth is left to enjoy clear skies on her ledge, watching the traffic in the bowl, the drills. Not that she's going anywhere. But the sunlight is enough. Szadath's anchoring today, which is not so unusual given his fervent love of both drills and firestone, and the iron discipline he can summon for it when he absolutely wants to. The brown pair live for drills like this, and echoes of their joy drift through their otherwise terse calls to wingmates to shift here, no there, no wait there's a hole, more fire. MORE FIRE. MORE. FIRE. Another day at High Reaches. Another day at Tillek, too, where H'kon is taking advantage of a (rare) day of rest for Avalanche to see his family, and Arekoth is taking advantage of H'kon's sister- err, to get himself absolutely slathered in oil, that is, by said broad-beaming young woman. That stubby brownrider is never quite at ease exchanging short sentences with his not-so-stubby father, but at least he's itting comfortably enough. And even manages a painful-looking smile now and then, for whatever reason forces itself up. Hraedhyth doesn't let her bulk hold her back, just as the young woman riding her does well enough with a flamethrower, thankyouverymuch! If they're in a fighting wing, they're flying like fighting dragons. The gold's inner fire may stay that way due to her inability to flame, but she's determined to throw Azaylia and the fire-spitting machine into the middle of it all. Wardrums thunder on, Hraedhyth's mind echoing the heat her wingmates' flames, proving exactly why she's allowed to fly in Glacier in the first place. Azaylia is quiet in concentration, laughing only when an infectious hoot or hollar is heard nearby. Hauling out firestone for the riders to get at: that's the sort of labor that some residents and even the headwoman's asistants have had to help with... well, actually, just the single assistant whose name is Taj, for all that he's still working on that burly part. Not far from the call transport area, he's staring up after the dragons, his jaw loosened some and well on the way to gaping, FIRE. Look at that FIRE. Now Barnabas may be big scary-lookin' dude, but at a particularly exciting maneuver he elbows in the direction of the older man. "See that?" Man oh man! FIRE! They could go back in and get back to helping, but what fun is that? Out on the sands, Lujayn stands beside Rielsath, keeping her queen company - with Svissath beside them both. There are a few people in the galleries, mostly those soon to Stand for the eggs, but it's a busy day for most: there's no time to loiter. Sweat on Bones' brow feels like it freezes before it can drip, the grungy giant still not quite used to the intense cold of high reaches. Still, the lugging of stones keeps him moving. Keeps him warm. "Hey watch the elbows, I'm workin here!" Still, even his normally jaded veneer is peeled back at the spectacle. "Whoa." Yeah, he's impressed. The low buzz of chatter that always characterises the Weyr's mental landscape is overshadowed in an instant by a sudden, desperate scream that seems to bounce off every surface - every mind - before shattering into nothing. It only lasts a second, really: Ysavaeth's awful, heartbreaking cry, her desperate, « No! NO! You-- » so quickly followed by sudden abrupt silence. And then... it's as if all the air has been sucked away, leaving behind a vacuum that threatens to engulf everything. (Ysavaeth to all High Reaches dragons) In the months since her rise to seniorship, Ysavaeth's presence has been ever-present and utterly pervasive; for most, it has blended in to the normal, now largely unnoticed. But now... it's gone. (Ysavaeth to all High Reaches dragons) To all High Reaches dragons, Ysavaeth is gone. Szadath and Taikrin were flying anchor-- the brown backwings in confusion at the start of that cry, and as the formation begins to fall apart around them it's all he can do at the last possible second to turn his head away from the blue all of a sudden perilously close in front of him. A gout of flame explodes just off his wingtip, accompanied by a queerly modified roar. What? WHAT? Even some of the non-riders seem to feel it: a sudden gut-wrenching impact, followed in an instant by the low, heartbreaking keen that signals draconic loss. Somehow, the whole weyr feels different: emptier, maybe. Wrong. Something is wrong. Gloved fingers slip, and the nozzle breathes only a few more seconds of flame before the machine is tumbling towards the ground. Hraedhyth is not far behind it, struck dead in the air and dropping. Azaylia is shrieking on the way down, the wail breaking for only a breath, one that is caught at the same time as her dragon. The exhale that leaves the gold, the one that has her catching herself with a harsh backwing carries with it a deep, resonating keen. She knows. Right away she knows, and on the second mournful cry it turns savage. Azaylia is frozen on her dragon's back, while the queen is trembling and tensing... For Daehyeth, Ysavaeth's pervasive presence was the norm rather than a heavier onus some dragons in Boreal (or maybe their riders) might consider it, remembering freer times. And the absence of Ysavaeth's presence causes a sudden stillness in Daehyeth, the melodic lilt of her thoughts hanging in a tangible 'whatthefuckness'. « What the fuck. » Do dragons swear? Maybe if their riders do constantly in thoughts, if not in actual words. Then, there's the instinctive keening, both mental and real world; brokenhearted for a dam that always, at least superficially, seemed to constantly care. (Daehyeth to all High Reaches dragons) The ocean often whispers in the background of the Weyr's consciousness, nowhere near the senior's presence, but sometimes an accompaniment in times of trouble. There is complete stillness, the calm before the storm before Iesaryth's world blackens and winds pick up, howling over the waves. Howling like the gold is keening - she wasn't her dam, but they had some connection, now cruelly severed. (Iesaryth to all High Reaches dragons) To all High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth is usually so calm, so composed, but now-- his mental anguish threatens to overflow. « Ysavaeth. Where is she? What happened? » And he's not the only one: it comes from all sides, now. From everywhere. « Where's Cadejoth? Isn't she at Tillek? » What? How? Where? Question upon question upon-- Not everyone has the gift, or in this case the unavoidable burden, of being so atuned to the happenings of the Weyr. Bones, at first, grins big at the sudden burst of even more entertaining activity in the skies. At first. It's not long before something seems amiss. "That don't seem normal. Is that normal?" He asks the question to Tajent, the only one within earshot who could inform him that it most certainly wasn't. "This is some kinda part of the drill, right?" High over the Bowl, Oraynuth's not the first to notice, because sensitive he is not... but when he does, he can't avoid it, it's unthinkable. He howls for it, the flame his anger and loss made manifest. But he's also fought Fall, he may not remember exactly but he's had other dragons, wingmates fall about him and had to keep going. But it's also been so long, and he's older now. Gruff as his rider, though F'rint's the one who's got salty tears trailing into his beard, he calls on Glacier: to /behave/, to /follow orders/. Half will go /down/, those who can't hack it, or who receive special instructions: half will stay /up/, circling, until F'rint gives the command. Because something's wrong, and when it is... the old man knows it, the harpers told him, have always told him. Dragons must fly. Quinlys' arm reaches up to the top shelf, grabbing for the box of wooden oil paddles stored up there since the last clutch. Ysavaeth's loss hits just before the tips of her fingers connect, and then she's stumbling backwards, tripping over her own feet as she grasps desperately for something solid to cling on to. There's silence in the barracks: the weyrling staff stare at each other, one after another, and it's horror written on most of their faces. Silence. Silence. The fire is blown out as breath leaves her, as the wind rushes and Hraedhyth drops. A stillness that is as dead as it is deadly falls over the queen. And then, a thunderous boom that is echoed in her roar, everything is washed with crimson heat. Scorch the earth. Scorch the innocent. There are no words, only Hraedhyth's absolute growing fury. (Hraedhyth to all High Reaches dragons) Both rider and dragon still at almost the same time, Lia's knife paused with its tip lodged beneath a nail while Daehyeth's lean frame tenses. Instinctive and seemingly unbidden, a low, harrowing keen sounds from the lengthy green, almost guttural as it expels from deep within her throat. The green's rider finds impetus to move from this sound, her head canting from side to side as she seeks out a face, a voice, someone that knows... anything? Ultimately, her gaze settles upon drilling Glacier first, and then the Weyrleader's ledges next. Two steps towards, one step back; hesitant and uncertain. Violence, arctic cold limned with the flames burning in Szadath's belly and from his mouth and in his mind. That violence has no target, knows no need, as Szadath blindly reaches out to the golds who remain to him, to Iesaryth, to the distance Iskiveth and Iovniath, and to the oh-so-close Hraedhyth most of all: a wordless plea to direct him, to point him, to give him an outlet for this ice-hot pain that's suddenly stabbed through his being. (Szadath to all High Reaches dragons) H'kon shoves himself up from his seat, Arekoth's keen erupting at the same instant his rider's feet hit the ground. "We must go," to his father is drowned out by the dragon's call. That call's enough to send his sister, startled, stumbling back. It's not until the brown has broken off that his rider takes a shoulder-lifting breath, a moment of clarity and bracing, and then sets at a run to the dragon. No time to see to the family when duty is shrieking at him, and he's to Arekoth's too-slick shoulders, mounted... Airborne. "The fuck?" Taj doesn't mean to imitate, wouldn't even know to, and he's been at the Weyr long enough that he's heard keening before... but this isn't like... this is different. "The fuck," he tells Bones. "Someone's dead. Come on," and then he's running wildly up to the nearest dragonrider, in this case lucky Lia. "What's going on?" In the storerooms, Brieli drops the lists in hand, her clipboard with a loud clatter. There's no chance for the workers around to ask her what's happened before the dragons let everyone know, if not who the dragons mourn. And though she knows, is pale and wavering on her feet from it, some part of her kicks in; the one that's always protected her from this sort of thing in the past. Tears die standing in her eyes, and she leaves work unfinished and questions in her wake as she runs. She might not even know where she's going, but she goes. And Iesaryth's mourning will be for both of them, for now. A few Glacier eyes have already begun to fall on Azaylia, and though perhaps their owners are not panicking, there's a definite question in their gaze - an expectation: what do we do now? In the milling confusion, Szadath knows not whether he's been sent down or up, only that one gold is gone and there is another, so close and he has to protect her. He doesn't break formation so much as he tightens it up, further further further, as close as he can manage to bracket Hraedhyth who's fallen below them. The dragons on either side of his anchor sink down to accompany him, spurred on by his nearly-audible commands: PROTECT THE QUEEN. Azaylia is shakely trying to unstrap herself when Hraedhyth has finally reached her limit. Tensing. She's been tense for the last few minutes, before the queen explodes in an ear-splitting, bone-chilling roar. It's just as well the goldrider has managed to slide down and land with an 'oomf', for her dragon takes off with heavy stomps. There's no direction, no way of knowing where Ysavaeth was, other than she is- was supposed to be with Alpha. Hraedhyth roars on every breath, eyes whirling so quickly as to seem still, seeing only red. She lashes out, overturning several bags of firestone, finding anything wooden- anything that will break. Her only pauses are to scream her confusion and fury to the sky, before she's looking for something else to demolish. For this, Arekoth's mind sparks, crackling yellows breaking his usually empty skies in the shrill cry. All dragons have some ties to their queens, if not deeply personal. The whipping, sparking auroras end with his ckeen, a glow fading as control is established. « Cadejoth- » is too-loud, readily overheard, but pointed specifically enough for there to be a mental press to the weyrleader's bronze. (Arekoth to all High Reaches dragons) HIgh overhead, still, Oranyuth holds the line, reaching out for Cadejoth who leads him in turn, up the chain just as far as it'll get while grasping for his comrade wingleaders' minds as well. It's a delegate who's been instructed to cry challenge on those arriving: everyone needs to notify of their arrival. Everyone, even Cadejoth, even Faranth herself. To all High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth's silence has been-- unusual. Surprising. But perhaps not so, for when he does finally raise his voice - and it's unquestionably as a result of Arekoth's pointed query, and Orenyuth's as well - those ever-jangling chains are achingly silent, and his voice is greyed out and lost. « She wasn't with us, » he reports. « I don't know. I don't know. She was fine. She was just sleeping. Help. Please. We're coming. » But there's an image of his rider with that, shared unintentionally: wide-eyed and pale, utterly lost. Though Szadath is violently hovering above the ground, Taikrin still tries to shout across the intervening distance and horrific noise to Azaylia: "STAY ON YOUR QUEEN!" Of course, it's hard enough to hear that she might just be shouting 'long live the queen', or 'too bad she's not green'. There's a storm on the ocean, swelling waves to massive heights, strong and large enough to swamp houses, crack trees, destroy destroy destroy. But under that, the depths are still calm, calm enough that she can draw on it, find her sister for comfort. And being Iesaryth, try to transfer that inner tranquility to Hraedhyth. « Shan-- She says we have to be calm. She says we need to help. » But that's desperate, she doesn't know if she can, if Hraedhyth will dim her rage to help the others. They need them. Retribution will come. (Iesaryth to Hraedhyth) And it's go-time. H'kon's other life is left bewildered and flustered and landlocked. Arekoth is eager to take the bronze's cue (this time), and sends them between almost before his rider's prepared. They arrive moments later, well above the Weyr, the dragon's energy electric, the rider's, rock solid and almost eerily calm. Azaylia is on the ground, on her knees and hugging herself as tightly as she can. There's roaring (her dragon's), keening (all the dragons') and shouting to drown out. Taikrin may be heard, and if she is the junior only screws her face tighter and shakes her head rapidly. Humid tears have her ripping her goggles off, tucking into herself even more as Hraedhyth continues her rampage. Dragons who get too close may want to rethink it, as the queen mentally shoves at them while lashing out with claw and fang. There's enough clarity that she's not intending to kill, or truly maim, but she wants her distance. She needs it. She also needs to find something else to shatter in a million pieces. Overhead, the keening's thickened with injured dragons, fewer than it may seem at first: the younger ones mostly, those few who don't have the instinct to correct in Fall... or those who got just that distracted, here in Interval, here at their home. Vrianth's is a hugely unwilling descent, her eyes paled and yet still so much less grayed than when another queen left, now so long ago. She breathes deeper, then even more deeply, as though the air's so painful but there's also so much more of it now. Her wingtip's singed, but it's minor: it's the others she has to help herd towards the dragon infirmary and U'sot's care, a sharp spark for Rielsath and for Iesaryth: help them. Get them there, whether they like it or not. Even if it's meant for Cadejoth, there is no thought to privacy or sense. « YOU. » Drowned out by the sound of crackling flame, by the pounding of her drums. « PROTECT. » Thump thump. It's her elevated heartbeat, as well as her riders. « YOU. DIDN'T. » It's not the help he's asking for, not the kind he needs, but at the moment his golden offspring could care less. Thoughs of protection sizzle darkly, the salty tang of the sea cooling them enough to think. « EGGS. PROTECT EGGS. » And that's an /order/ to whoever's listening. (Hraedhyth to all High Reaches dragons) Iesaryth launches into the air to circle above, sunny hide bright in the sun, bright enough that she is easily seen. She is not going anywhere, for all that her ocean swells have reached tsunami proportions, seeking destruction, her skies are black. They will all listen to their riders, they will do as Hraedhyth wishes. Below, when Brieli bursts out of the caverns and into the chaos, she doesn't stop running, despite the fact that there's a lot of snow, and she's sliding around more than she would ever normally allow herself to when seen by so many. Maybe it's Cadejoth that's clued her in, but not even Azaylia's obvious distress slows her - she's headed for the Weyrleader's weyr, coatless, hair streaming. To all High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth all but shatters under Hraedhyth's anger; he's lost, he's so lost. He's cold. « She isn't here. Find her. Find her. » And now, that is spreading outward, an instruction to the Weyr that may not supersede his progeny's-- but certainly forces the issue. At least Rielsath has the eggs. Rielsath, and Svissath, though both are shaking and anxious: grieving, even as they huddle in about each other. Only with her Sister will she welcome the sea, mingling with the salt of Azaylia's tears and the acrid tang of smoke. She can't think beyond the confusion, the anger, and for Iesaryth, the sadness. Gone. It's gone. She's gone. Thier mother, for all that Iesaryth is Monaco hatched, is gone. But there is sense in her sibling's words, in the words of her rider. It's enough to slow the rampage, letting the saltwater seep in and battle her wildfires. (Hraedhyth to Iesaryth) To all High Reaches dragons, Szadath's ice-fire keen takes on an edge of whine, a motor cranked too high: here is an order, one which goes against his very core. Part of him direly needs to remain where he is, hovering protectively nearby Hraedhyth and the comfort her rage brings, and another part of him is bidden to break for the hatching caverns and the helpless eggs. « Where? WHERE?! » (To Brieli): There's no one in the Weyrleader's Weyr, when you get inside. There's a fire on the hearth, though, and a tea-tray on the table, with a single cup sitting beside it. Nothing seems amiss here, but it's also pretty obvious that someone was here not that long ago. (To Brieli): That is to say, there's no one in the main room. High overhead, it's Sevierth who's been designated to interrogate arrivals. Szadath's distracted, after all, and if it's one thing the bronze can do, it's be loud. And the watchdragon? Not a wingmate. Not Glacier. His flight pattern stutters momentarily, but then whether it's his rider or Oranyuth or simply the distance of what Hraedhyth's trying to do with so many dragons, he interprets her command: protect the eggs, protect the Weyr, find out who's where. Arekoth may be familiar, but there's no time. Instinct's still triggered, demanding identification: « Cry your name. » His entrails burn with it. Something's wrong here. And there are others arriving, too. There's a lot of frantic gesticulating from Szadath's back, as Taikrin tries to get down, up, something. The brown's hindquarters briefly touch ground, but then he springs up again in a frenzy of conflicting needs. She's still shouting at Azaylia-- to come, to go, to be safe; on her demand, the brown is working himself as close as he can manage and still avoid Hraedhyth's wrath. His hind claws touch down again, and this time Taikrin's ready-- straps are undone, and she manages to fall-slide-stumble to the ground so she can continue to shout encouragement to the huddled goldrider, "... get you somewhere safe ..." Oranyuth can protect, will protect with all that's left within him. Guttural, to Cadejoth and the queens, « Tell them to stay away. » Those others. Those away from here, even those who live here, much less the looky-looks. « We defend our own. » Close the Weyr down. (Oranyuth to all High Reaches dragons) Waves threaten to drown everything they touch, strong enough to sweep everything away. Gusts carry the smoke of fires, but below, deep under the water, there is stillness. Iesaryth's drawn on that stillness and her rider's strength to extend it to Hraedhyth. And now, she'll blanket the Weyr, damp and warm. She's done this before, for Ysavaeth. Everything is wrong, but there must be some calm, some thought. « No one leaves, no one enters. » Definitive. No one. (Iesaryth to all High Reaches dragons) « Arekoth! » comes on the brown's distinctive shrieking bugle, H'kon's name encapsulated as it has been for so long in his dragon's, and so, as it so often does, going unsaid. Under that, the faintest mental glow of green to Hraedhyth, her instructions heard. From between those 'ridges, H'kon squints desperately to the bowl below. His brown hovers a moment, a piercing look levelled over his hooked snout at Sevierth- and then the break, a sharp dive toward the sands. Oranyuth - Iesaryth - couldn't have meant him, right? Hraedhyth slows. It's not that she's tired, far from it. Her wings sag, head turning up to watch Iesaryth circle above, shadow falling over the brawny dragon below. It's then her protective nature flares, turning and rushing back to Azaylia, curling around the trembling rider and roaring for the sake of it. Szadath and His will be getting the brunt of the bellow. An unecessary warning. Her sire's command is echoed, « FIND HER. » A conflicted command, one that is better translated through Oranyuth and others like him, those who are calm. Her youth, inexperience, so painfully obvious and raw, « NO ONE LEAVES. NO ONE COMES. » She's trying. Azaylia looks towards Tairkin, managing to get on her feet and nod though she's stumbling and using her dragon's tense forearm as support. Luckily, Cadejoth arrives just before the edict goes out: it's a good thing, because in this state? He might not be able to stand up to the combined might of those queens, even in his weyr. The bronze is visibly pale as he announces his presence, following Arekoth downwards-- though not to the sands. No: he's headed for his ledge, to drop into a frantic, uneasy landing. For now, he has no words. What do they need human names for? Arekoth: it's good enough, Sevierth lets him pass, and Visigoth who's roaring hard on his heels, the large brown's messy-haired rider just woken from sleep. Others... only just before the blanket falls. Just in time for that, if nothing else. The skies begin, slowly, to clear of all but the Glacier partial contingent and those few others who pass to and fro. The sun still shines. It's still, to look at, beautiful. All at once Szadath flattens to the ground with a thump -- and very nearly flattens his rider with him. Iesaryth's mental command is a damp blanket plastering him down and banking the ice-fire flames of his rage. He quivers at Hraedhyth's commands, a tremble of muscle spreading from his nose to his tail and back again, until all that's left are violently whirling red-white eyes. It's Taikrin who moves for them, he stumbles to her feet in the wake of his impact. For the brief moment she has Azaylia's gaze, she seeks to hold it-- a knife that can more properly called a dagger is pulled from her boot and planted, blade-first, into the ground. "FOR YOU!" And then, because she's taking the compulsion meant for Szadath, she half-trots, half-stumbles in the direction Hraedhyth has bidden: the queen ledges. Brieli calls out for Iolene when she enters at full tilt and with snow and ice spraying everywhere - even if she knows it's pointless. When it's obvious no one is in the main room, she slowly edges her way into each of the other chambers, careful in case someone is still around... other than the Weyrwoman, whatever state she might be in. She's almost gray, shaking. The Headwoman looks no happier than anyone else, but she's taken charge of the situation, at least: standing at the mouth of the caverns, she's calling people in, instructing them to get out of the cold, to let other people take care of it. To look after themselves. "There are warm drinks," she says. "And alcohol. We're no good if we panic. Please." The Headwoman looks no happier than anyone else, but she's taken charge of the situation, at least: standing at the mouth of the caverns, she's calling people in, instructing them to get out of the cold, to let other people take care of it. To look after themselves. "There are warm drinks," she says. "And alcohol. We're no good if we panic. Please." So many dragons are grounded, now, beneath the queens' command. Ledges, earth are clotted with them and so many of them are still howling, wounded in one way or another. For once the weyrfolk have that much more of an advantage: they can move more freely, Taj's eyes showing white rings as he abandons questioning to stumble into action and help his boss out. He can help hand out drinks, he can do what she wants. (To Brieli): There's no one in the bedroom, either, though the bed is unmade. But the curtain that gives the bathing cavern seclusion is open and-- oh. Oh. Iolene is splayed over the edge of the bathtub, her head having clearly impacted with the stone edge of it. The look on her expression is one of panic and anger - but there's so little blood it seems hard to imagine she would have been in pain for long. Though Taikrin's shouts have finally reached her ears, Azaylia has gone from huddling on the ground, to huddling against Hraedhyth's leg. The queen, stubborn, making a stand, or perhaps still just lost decides to lay right where she is. Her nech arcs protectively over Azaylia, red gaze all too alert as every nearby movement has her muscles tensing beneath brown-gold hide. It's the sight of Taikrin's dagger that has the gold lurching to chase, stopped only by a cry from the junior. Azaylia manages to make it over to the blade, wrenching it out of the ground and returning to her dragon with only a few spills. Luckily, she doesn't stab herself on the way, returning to the safety that is between her gold's legs. She's stranded, whether by her own fear or by Hraedhyth's orders. Though the skies may clear, Iesaryth isn't landing anytime soon. She circles, like a beacon, watching for any who may try to pass, edicts aside. She doesn't have Hraedhyth's territorialism, but she does have a need to protect - though, at the waver in the queen's glide and sudden cry, someone else who needs her is in no little distress. (To Brieli): There's vomit - breakfast and pile - in the toilet, and on Iolene's face, too, and... is that blood under one of her fingernails? It stands out, so dark, against her pale skin, and the others, which are so clean. H'kon manages to urge his dragon to land, helped in no small part by the queens' commands. Broad wings rustle restlessly, but Koth stays down. Eggs. Svissath and Rielsath's eggs. That sharp stare goes to the clutchparents, there to help, ready to divide and conquer. And that divide part? He's getting to the exit onto the bowl as fast as his short legs can carry him, trying to keep a good distance from the sands, face set but unpanicked. He'll get to the action eventually. No really. To all High Reaches dragons, Hraedhyth pulses with deafening beats, though they are no longer the erratic, frantic pounding that had overtaken her moments ago. It's stability. It's strength. Black smoke curls from her scorched plains, but it isn't enough to hide the pain she feels, her own and that of her tribe. Unarticulate still, the flames offer heat rather than destruction, pits flickering to comfort along the waters of Iesaryth. They are here. She, Hraedhyth, is here. Queens protect the weyr. It is a belated attempt, sloppy and perhaps unwanted now, taking a page from her circling sister. Lujayn seems relieved by the arrival of other riders, though Rielsath is drawn tightly around her clutch and doesn't seem to want anyone else too near. Svissath is still shaking-- and his rider is nowhere to be seen. Still stormy and unsettled, Iesaryth is nonetheless pleased. Proud. And seeks her sister's fire to light her dark, dark night. (Iesaryth to Hraedhyth) Brieli sinks to her knees. She's dealt with a lot of death in her time, a lot of stark and awful situations, but something about Iolene, of all people, lying there like that breaks something in her. It might be only because she sits and stares dully for so long, expression bleak, that she notices what she does - the vomit first, obviously, then her gaze narrows on that fingernail, and she wavers. "No." Because who would hurt Io? But there it is. Are there scratches, anything to explain? It's more work this way, but willful Vrianth twists, nipping and prodding at her more physically injured wingmates to keep herding them the rest of the way toward the dragon infirmary. By now she's not working alone, and finally they get to U'sot's care and a quick partial explanation... and then the older man's handing her a kit bag and a healer and she's off to Vrianth and the three of them towards the weyrleaders' ledges. It's faster than running. And it's too late, for Ysavaeth... but there might be something they could do. Up, and then narrow-winged down, and the two humans pounding inside with the journeyman healer in the lead. Sudden and quicksilver, Iesaryth is there, stormy and dark, anxious. Serious, so so serious, « She says yours should stay outside. She asked me to ask you to make him stay. » (Iesaryth to Cadejoth) It's less difficult, when Taikrin has someone to follow: once she spots Leova, her shambling gate picks up into a more respectable jog. She still doesn't know where she's going, but the closer she gets the more Szadath's relexive trembling eases. He's still fixated on Hraedhyth, still pressed to the ground, but is less torn about it now that his rider is doing her duty to fulfill the doubled command. To Arekoth, Svissath is barely able to keep his throughts together - such a reaction, from a foreigner, and a usually-so-calm one at that! - but he extends a gesture of gratitude nonetheless. Presence. It's important. His eggs must be protected. Cadejoth is on his ledge, now, barely moving. His rider has climbed down, and seems half torn between running for the entrance, and staying out here, where... well, maybe it's slightly safer. Leova and the healer are caught only barely, and, in a voice that is barely above a whimper, he tells them: "I think she's in here. Iesaryth--" To Iesaryth, Cadejoth shakes. Iesaryth's seriousness only seems to make it worse, and he understands, but he doesn't know, and-- « I will try. » (To Brieli): Aside from that fingernail, and obviously the state of the back of her head, there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong with Iolene. She's certainly not scratched it any way-- though there's something off about the shade of her skin, even ignoring the fact that she's, well, dead. "You're not hurt, sir?" but despite the question, unless K'del looks as though he's spurting blood, the journeyman's not staying. Into the weyr, then, Leova still behind, with only a look thrown over her shoulder for K'del. Vrianth stays just beyond his ledge, on one of the nearer sky ledges, watching even as her tail lashes to and fro. To Szadath, Hraedhyth will not try to rob him of his fury, or his pain, but she will offer some semblance of comfort. Smokey and harsh, a warm embrace that is fleeting enough not too smother. « Are you... » The question falters, already knowing the answer. « What do you need? » Her contralto rumbles with only faint uncertainty, the question not just meant for his needs- but what he believes is needed of her. "Food," Brieli says faintly, to herself before she hears the commotion closer outside - and though it takes her a long time to stand and a long time to step, she starts for the ledge. To break bad news to a man she thought she'd be thrilled to destroy. Not so fun now. Despite the warnings, despite everything, it rather seems like K'del can't stop himself: he follows almost blindly after Leova and the healer, into the weyr that it is home... where, he must surely know, the absolute worst is waiting for him. "Brieli?" No doubt they'll all meet half-way, the ashen-faced Weyrleader, and all the others. To Svissath, Arekoth's level of excitement manages to manifest some dull greenish glow back at Svissath, a mixture of H'kon's bracing calm (and perhaps H'kon's own instinct toward the younger brownrider pair, as Arekoth, for all he doesn't outright dislike them, has no particular love for them either), and some instinctive need to steady the one in turmoil that sits far deeper than even the older brown's personality. To Arekoth, Svissath is, must be, aware of Arekoth's feelings, for he is inclined to be perceptive. But now... there's something in the way he attempts to focus his attention on the older brown, something that almost makes it seem like he's trying to study him. Trying to figure something out. Trying. Val doesn't snigger at the injured of Glacier, but she is giving them the side-eye as she passes the injured en route to the headwoman and yes, booze. She'll take two, one for each hand, and for such a petite woman she has quite the pottymouth. The drinks are both for her, of course. Not that she's going inside just yet, when she can lodge in the entry and attempt to get her own questions answered. Brieli appears as soon as Leova and the journeyman start inside, looking gray and shaken, and even more somber than usual. Dark eyes are still wide as she tells the healer and the greenrider both, "Save the food, if there's any... I can't remember." She's moving so slowly, so different from usual efficiency - and when she hears, sees K'del, she stops. "Don't," she says, quietly. "She didn't suffer, but just... don't. Wait." Till the Healers are done, till... something about it is better. Beneath Iesaryth's blanketing presence, a banked fire of freezing cold hailstones still burns. « Tell me what to do. I will protect you! » He stirs, instinctively twisting against his restriction as a kitten would in its mother's hold. « Order me. » There's more to the request, a need for Hraedhyth or her almost-sister to put the world aright that has tumbled so far end over end. (Szadath to Hraedhyth) (To Leova): There's a fire on the hearth, and a tea-tray on the table, with a single cup sitting beside it. Nothing seems amiss here, but it's also pretty obvious that someone was here not that long ago. Good, Taikrin's not the only poor lost soul who's made it to the entrace of the Weyrleader's weyr: she swipes up against Val, and makes a snatch for one of her precious drinks while demanding, "Did you see?" Her accent is oddly thin, voice more remininscent of Szadath's enunciation than her own. It seems like ages have passed, hours by the time that Azaylia has her trembling under control. She still shakes, clutching that dagger to her shoulder, wet face buried against Hraedhyth's legs. No longer hyperventalating, she slowly turns to look at the sea of dragons- those who haven't been herded to the infirmary. She won't move too far from between Hraedhyth's paws, now clutching the knife with both hands and simply looking. Watching. In shock, but safe. All the others can meet K'del halfway, but not H'kon, who is still well below, in the bowl - and who slows, perhaps because of a glimpse of Azaylia and Hraedhyth in his periphery, perhaps because there's already such a crowd on the ledges, perhaps because his quiet opinion of Iolene is starting to manifest, or perhas because he's becoming aware of how his dragon, meant to be guarding eggs, is now starting to focus in more and more on the brown clutchfather. To Szadath, Hraedhyth will not undo what her sister has done, her own smoke carried on an ocean scented breeze. « I do not need- » An sigh, flames flickering in one direction as her understanding blows over them. « Protect the weyr. » Which counts as protecting the golds, all that remain, « Stay on the ground. Patrol. » Or sit there and watch her and Hers, if he'd rather not maneuver through prone dragon bodies. There is an order she can give with confidence, « Stay strong. » The younger brown can attempt focus; Arekoth finds it quickly, and there's a crackle of atmospheric disturbance, if very little colour to go along with it. It's not full attention, but a good deal of it is there. To be figured out, or otherwise. (Arekoth to Svissath) To Arekoth, Svissath's question, this time, is direct: « Do you... know anything? » It may be that he's trying to feel something out, or maybe he's just trying to understand what is going on; perhaps he's been too distracted to really be able to follow. He's keeping a tight lid on things, even so, despite his obvious anguish. The two nod at Brieli near-simultaneously, the healer still faster, simultaneously more motivated by his own job and far, far less encumbered by draconic moods. The journeyman keeps going through the outer weyr, looking for someone, while Leova scans the tea-tray but is otherwise about to walk right past until... food. Save food, the junior weyrwoman had said. She crouches to pick up the cup, checking to see if it's all drunk or if, perhaps, there's some left. If it's still warm. If there's anything else on the tray. Only one cup. K'del falters again, at the sound of Brieli's words: it looks as though he's about to cry, and is struggling, desperately, to avoid it. "I have to," he says, using that oh-so-rare-for-him 'I'. "I need to see her. I need..." His voice cracks. "Where is she? Show me." (To Leova): The cup is nearly empty, but there are still faint traces in the bottom - sediment, definitely. It's still faintly warm, and so is the teapot beside it, which is far from empty. There's no food. « The queen is dead, » is sharp, sparking flare and tearing beak all in one as Arekoth tilts his head to settle that piercing gaze on the young brown on the sands. « That I know right well. » The focus is getting sharper. There are other dragons to watch out over the eggs. Arekoth can watch this brown. (Arekoth to Svissath) To Arekoth, Svissath's flinch is as visible as it is mental-- visible to Rielsath, beside him, and visible to all of the other dragons, too. « I know, » he agrees, aiming to keep his tone even. « The exile queen. Your senior. » Somehow, though, it doesn't seem to be the answer he's looking for. Slowly but surely, Azaylia will continue to walk out from the safety of her lifemate, despite Hraedhyth's low growls of protest. Lips mumble something that manages to quiet the gold's rumbles, heated gaze watching as the junior walks to a rider. Words are exchanged, a touch to the arm, and she motions towards the cavern with alcohol. It is like this as she does her best to avoid looking at the Weyrleader's ledge, keeping her gaze and her concentration grounded. Azaylia puts her efforts into comforting others within the bowl, asking what they need, using her and her dragon's influence to soothe those who need it most. The entire time, she's got one arm straight, the flat of the dagger pressed against the side of her thigh. There are moments in life where things shift and tilt in a way you couldn't possibly imagine, and it leaves you disoriented, unsure what way is up. Brieli looks like she might be going through that now, struck with both K'del and Taikrin's requests, both drastically different, but amounting to the same thing. Stunned momentarily, she stares at the Weyrleader - though, is he? - and tells him shakily, "I think the Healer should first." But she says that loud enough that said journeyman can anticipate the situation and help her out a little? As for the brownrider, "Make... make sure no one decides they know what happened and looks for justice while they're..." Distraught. Drunk. Whatever. To Hraedhyth, Szadath's wings flutter helpelessly, he would, he would, but he needs to stay and watch. His keening approaches whine again, attention dividing between Azaylia and Hraedhyth in turn. « Don't let her hurt, » he pleads. « They are soft. Fragile. We will protect you. » As they failed with Ysavaeth. Leova tilts the cup, stares at the thin trail of sediment inside like she could read the future, the future of someone other than the queen and exile who are dead. It isn't cold. Maybe it should be. The teapot is warmer. She sniffs that too, only then shakes her head at herself, and walks her fingertips across the tray itself. Probably nothing, and like she can go tromping around with this in tow, but the junior weyrwoman had said... Distantly, Vrianth flicks through familiar minds, pinging: anyone in the kitchens, anyone whose rider could be near the kitchens, who could ask a question for her? She doesn't say what. Yet. Nor does she question the queens. To Svissath, Arekoth's intensity doesn't flag. « Senior of the Weyr you've made your way into. Whose sands you're flinching on. » Oh, he saw that, and his voice has gone icy enough that it doesn't need image or sensation to carry the cold with it. « I know other things, as well... » To Arekoth, Svissath can explain. « I have never... this is new. » The death of a queen? The death of any dragon at all? He doesn't specify, but that means... mostly nothing. « The feeling. I cannot imagine if it were... Zaisavyth. Or Evielth. » Beat. « What other things? » H'kon finally stops, looking slowly back toward the sands, the ledge his dragon occupies. It's a slow move, calm against the bustle that Azaylia's working to calm, dragons' steps away. His eyes slit closed against all that outside world, keeping just enough vision to avoid getting bumped too drastically. His focus isn't on Vrianth's pings. 'Cause Arekoth's sure isn't. Appointing Taikrin to the head of the anti-mob-justice brigade? Sure! She takes the request seriously, at least; her nod is sharp. Her gaze cuts not-quite over to K'del, and she offers briefly to Brieli, "Call me if you need-- help." And then she tromps over to the edge of the ledge, hands cupped over her mouth, and calls out to the crowd pressing against the Weyrleader platform with lungs made strong from bellowing across a wing in formation, "Weyrwoman reckons it's an accident, everyone go inside! Wine skins're open!" Taikrin is a lying liar who lies. To Szadath, Hraedhyth does her best too sooth, bristled fur brushing over Szadath's helplessness. « I am watching her. » There's no anger for his plea, and when Azaylia begins to wander further away, she rises to follow and continue to guard her rider. « You will. » There's a headbutt for the brown, affectionate as it is jarring, pain a possible anchor for reality. « And Queens will protect you. Watch her. » Azaylia, if he must, not that she is incapable. It's something for him to do, to focus on. Whether or not the journeyman wishes to go first, K'del is not going to wait: he gives Brieli an unreadable glance, and then crosses the room, disappearing into the bedroom, and then the bathing room beyond. They'll probably hear his sobs a moment later. At which point someone yells back, "Weyrwoman can't reckon nothing, not if she's dead!" (To Leova): And what will the Journeyman see, in that little bathing room? Iolene has fallen backwards against the bathing pool, somehow, it seems. There's very little blood, for all that half of her skull has caved in: she must have died quickly. Or did she choke? There's vomit in the toilet, and around her mouth, too. To Svissath, Arekoth adds a little more pressure to that focus, while on the ledge he's taken, his shifting stops. « Oh, many other things. » That ice doesn't crack; it bends with the rise and fall of his tones; it squeezes in with the pressure of his mind. « Only one really matters. Wouldn't you think? » To Arekoth, Svissath has stopped shaking; he seems calmer, now, as though Arekoth's pressure is doing him good. Reminding him of himself. There's no gap in his defences, not yet. « And what would that be? » Brieli tried. That's in her expression when she hears K'del in the weyr beyond, just some little weary resignation. That shout though? That brings her out of her reverie with a sharp, dark look around for anyone who wants to be a smart ass right about now. It might not be as intimidating as she'd like, but that's a job for Iesaryth, apparently - from above, she lets out a roar before landing on the Starstones, where she can stare down into the bowl. Just words, but given the givens... Someone has picked up on Vrianth's ping, at least: there's Demirath, returning the ping with a silent question of his own: what does she need? "We got one right here, ain't we? Weyrwoman Brieli and-- and Weyrwoman Azaylia, got it under control, yeah? And Weyrwoman Lujayn. They--" Taikrin's gaze goes distant, heralding communication, then: "-- queens're protecting us. Need some space to work. Come on, show a little respect!" Taikrin's really getting into it, this haranguing the crowd business. "Reckon we can all use a drink in Weyrwoman Iolene's honor. Not here. Give the Weyrwoman some dignity, yeah? Weyrwoman Brieli wants us in the caverns." Lies upon lies, but at least Taikrin is willing to lead the way and stalk towards the living caverns. Hopefully at least a few follow; Szadath is reluctantly relaying a similar message, in between spasms of grief. "Stay back, sir," the journeyman tells the Weyrleader, and he doesn't mean his voice to be harsh, but it's his job and he's going to do it and oh fuck, if he screws up he's going to be demoted to Arseway Hold in the back end of nowhere and she's dead, she really is dead. And she was such a pretty girl, too. He cleans his hands, with the alcohol cloths in his own bag and not the bathing pool itself, and sets to examining the dead gir... the corpse. Just another corpse. Iesaryth's anger is her own, Hraedhyth pausing to turn and add her roar, a warning that two pissed off queens are worse than one. Azaylia turns to look with that wide eyed, lost gaze of hers, though the grip on her dagger's hilt tightens. Stillness. And then she continues to wander through dragon bodies, looking for their riders, or weyrfolk who are in need. The queen continues to shadow her rider, making it a point to keep out of Szadath's line of sight- so he too can keep tabs on the junior. At least K'del hasn't touched anything: he's just standing by the door, staring. He flinches as the journeyman begins his examination, but he doesn't make a move to stop anything. "You can't take her from here. I won't let you. You do what you need to, right here, and then you leave her. You hear me?" Leova, so not being a smart ass. Leova, might as well be disappearing, except that she's arranging the teapot and cup very carefully on the tray, and then setting it off to the side where it might be the least likely to get bumped into, accidentally or on purpose. And then she's circling the room, her head bent, looking for other signs of disruption: something Iolene might have been doing, or reading. Something out of place. This isn't her job, but she's here. (To Leova): There's more vomit in the back of her throat, but it doesn't look like she choked-- actually, there's some suggestion that she might have been spasming, somehow, and certainly the cast of her skin is... wrong. Even for a corpse. Might he recognise symptoms of water hemlock poisoning? He might. (To Leova):The main room of the weyr seems otherwise untouched. There are two mattresses on the floor in front of the hearth, small ones, but they're cold: it's been a long time since someone was sleeping there. A stack of hides are spread out on the couch, but they're only standard things: weyr records, Weyrwoman's business. There's definitely no sign of a struggle. To Svissath, Arekoth hesitates a moment, maybe too long, then laughs, insofar as his voice rolls over, « Oh, let's not ruin that surprise just yet, Svissath. » The name comes with some force, but probably not enough, not yet, to break beyond the bounds for which Arekoth has intended it. Bounds broader than that brown he's still trying to squeeze, while broadening his focus. Trying. « But I'll tell you, if you tell me. Maybe. » That last loses some of the play. Surprise? Svissath is confused, now. Utterly confused. He withdraws - not entirely, but enough that he can fold that caramel-smooth mantle about himself again, reminding, without words, that he is protecting his clutch and thus inclined to carefulness. Great carefulness. « What am I supposed to tell you? » (Svissath to Arekoth) At least all of Taikrin's lying liarness is finding appreciation in Brieli, from the glance towards the brownrider and her tight not-quite-smile. Crossing her arms over herself, since she really wasn't thinking about warmth until... right about now, her dark eyes shifts to find Azaylia, who's seemingly unharmed and doing a good job of making the rounds. And maybe because she's cold, or maybe because someone has to handle the situation, she slowly makes her way back inside. Since Leova's looking and all, and she's easier than K'del, she'll ask lowly, "Find anything?" To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth is a trickle of smoke, a lick to earlier wounds inflicted, salve for burns when her flames were less controlled. A question that she has been asking all, far and near, but for her Sire it is heavy with concern more than simply genuine. « What do you need? » He or his. She and her rider, they are here and they are trying to help. Let them try. "Sir, it doesn't work that way," the journeyman says as he continues, the generic 'sir' or 'ma'am' that works for anyone from a Weyrleader to a young miss with a stubbed toe. She's still warm enough that he can bend her jaw without cracking it, and look inside with the help of his glows. His touch is delicate, but increasingly certain, except when he forgets and remembers and starts to tremble. Perhaps even K'del can see, if he looks, how there's something about her skin... "She didn't just hit her head," he reports, his voice quavering for a moment. "She wasn't... that is, she wasn't in a delicate condition, was she?" To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth is adrift, without Ysavaeth - lost and alone. His chains are silent, and his bones have no rattle and bang. Darkness falls heavily upon this world, and he is at a loss to bring back the sunshine. Ysavaeth's sunshine. « I need-- » He doesn't know. His mind is full: there's the image of Iolene's body, her skull half gone, cracked and broken upon the edge of the bathtub. « He wants them to leave him. And her. He wants to be alone with her, one last time. » Not creepy at all. « Make them leave. So he can say goodbye. » "Well, it needs to," says K'del, on the edge of hysteria, now. "Do your examination, and then go. There's no need for-- she's dead, the rest doesn't matter. She's gone. She's--" He swallows, thickly, and shakes his head. "No. She wasn't." It's hard to tell whether that's relief or heartbreak in his voice as he relates that much. "Please." To Svissath, Arekoth projects, « Oh, anything. » There's another hesitation, a slackening of focus if not attention. « Tell me something you know, Svissath, » and again there's a broader force behind the younger brown's name. » To Arekoth, Svissath thinks for a moment, oh-so-careful. Oh-so-controlled. He can feel that force, and don't think for a second he's not concerned about this turn of events. But... « There are no bronzes in my eggs, » he relates, even in tone and quite serious. « Only browns and blues and greens. But they will hatch, soon, and we will go home. » Vrianth's busy with Demirath, and not just Demirath: what she needs is information: who brought... the rider of Cadejoth's mate, though even that concept is willfully blurry... what she wished from the kitchens. What it was. It would be harder to convey if she couldn't flash, also, the image of the teapot, the cup. Was there more? Her rider, though, looks abruptly up at the sound of Brieli's voice, a brightness to those amber eyes. Not crying, though: her face is dry from anything more than the smoke that surrounds where goggles once had been. "It doesn't look a mess," she says, and she sets aside the hides she'd been glancing at without reservation. "The tea was still warm." Could she say more, is there more to say? To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth can offer no sunshine. She is trying not to drift as he is, but his pain is almost too much for the younger dragon. Instead, there is the warmth of her hearth, very much a young pup naively offering him comfort. The image the bronze shares has her warmth flaring into a scorching heat before it's ushered into something more managable. This time, it is not directed at him. « I will see what I can do. » The fire remains, to be ignored if he wishes. A protective wave of fire comes down, not for her sister but for the men, the people who dare to trespass in the Weyrleader's home. Hers, Brieli is still there? « He needs to say goodbye. » There are no chains to jangle, only a darkness that is not the warrior queen's. « His needs to say goodbye. » Something of a plea, for she would never force her will on Iesaryth or Brieli. She is simply passing it on, seeing what she can do. (Hraedhyth to Iesaryth) To Svissath, Arekoth lags yet again, and that other mind on the end of the link can almost be felt there, for a moment. But not really. Just echoes. Reflections. « You're sure of their safety. That's good. It would be awful for my Weyr to lose its eggs along with its queen. Is that » and probably, with everything that's going on, people in the bowl won't see H'kon's lips moving almost identically to, « where he is now? Your rider? Prepping? Svissath? » Almost. To Arekoth, Svissath does not answer. Will not answer. Except: « It would be unthinkable to lose two clutches of eggs. » Is that more information? It's not the answer Arekoth was after, but there's something heavy in the way he relates it, almost taunting. Not quite up front. « He is safe. » The journeyman rocks back on his heels. "Sir." His hands are dirty, so he doesn't touch K'del, though he does call to the outer room. "Ma'am?" Then, "We need Delifa. A master would be even better, to confirm. If it wasn't that... likely it was poison, sir, but we need to know what kind. We need to know. And then they can give her to you," said with an upward lift to his voice, a burst of inspiration: someone else can hand off the body, to let the man do whatever antiquated rider rite he'd himself just as soon not know about. "It wasn't just an accident." Because that's what K'del needs to hear, right? Azaylia stops dead in her tracks, a cry rising to her lips that is swiftly cut off by the sound of gurgling sick. Bending over, she loses the contents of her stomach, Hraedhyth rushing to hover over the suddenly ill junior. The young woman has enough sense to move away from the puddle, but now she's back to square one- burying her face against her queen's foreleg. Since Szadath is so earnestly following Azaylia's every move, it's easy-peasy for Taikrin to cut towards the weyrwoman on her way to the caverns. She cuts her path abruptly short, just outside of Hraedhyth's reach, when Azaylia gets so messily sick. "Hraedhyth." The brownrider's expression is stony, her voice hard and emotionless. "Let me?" She's asking permission to approach, but only barely. Demirath's reply is prompt, as though his rider has already put herself in position to ask the necessary questions - instant gratification. « They say she's not here. » The girl: dark blonde hair, pale brown eyes, an upturned nose. « She was supposed to. They don't know where she is. But... » Demirath is uncomfortable. « She has a reputation. For not... approving. » Of Ysavaeth and her rider? He doesn't specify. The goldrider is having a hard time listening to K'del from the way she twitches at the discussion with the Healer. Brieli isn't looking back over there yet, for all that she's probably seen it already, seen enough to try to stop the Weyrleader from seeing it. "She... was sick. And something about her nails. Hands. Ysavaeth..." she's not quite coherent in her response to the greenrider, looking terribly young for a moment before that 'ma'am' cuts through. Straightening, she turns to look back towards the bathroom; with a nod, "Someone can go to the Hall. I'll..." She'll find someone. To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth appreciates that fire; he appreciates, too, Hraedhyth's efforts, and if he's not soothed, it's only because he's not really able to be, not yet. Not properly. « Thank you, » he says, with a brush of something that is perhaps intended to be comfort in return. But-- oh. His rider. His thoughts are distracted once more as the reality of the situation sinks in. Poison. "Poison," repeats K'del, as though all of the life has left his body at once. "Someone poisoned her." He can't even emphasise the word; he can't seem to do anything but stare - and then drop to his knees in the doorway, face buried in his hands. Dark and dull, the ocean's waves dying down, Iesaryth tells her sister, « He has seen her. There will be time. » For him to say goodbye. The gold doesn't quite understand the situation - not an accident, but why? - but someone must go to get a more important healer. (Iesaryth to Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth and Iesaryth, Arekoth's intrusion is abrupt and round, to the queens not on the sands with « Svissath. » That does not sit well. H'kon's discomfort mixes into Arekoth's. The protective factor is diluted for the moment, but comes out clear when the brown closes out, closes in, on his junior. There's no hiding the grudging concession from his voice on, « Mine would see he stays that way. Safe. Kept safe. » And the image is a focused one, an olive-branch flash of H'kon turning in the bowl, heading toward the caverns. « Svissath, » is this time shared. (Arekoth to Svissath) To Arekoth, Svissath is silent; uncertain. Whater he knows, or whatever he thinks he knows, he seems uncomfortable in trusting anyone right now. « He will appreciate that, » he says. « There are those who will be suspicious of him. The foreigner. » He withdraws, though, for now: he needs to focus. H'kon finally moves again, looking a little pale and sick himself, and making for the entrance to the caverns, where he stations himself. At least for a bit. Dark and stormy, the waves of this ocean are dying down, but still powerful enough to drown. Iesaryth has a request for Arekoth and his, but the sudden intrusion confuses her, as does the other brown's name. « Svissath? » (Iesaryth to Hraedhyth and Arekoth) Hraedhyth's eyes brighten with a pure red at the sight of someone approaching her vulnerable rider. Taikrin is recognized. Trusted. The gold is wary, and yet she curls her lips back oversized, drooling jaws and allows the woman's approach. "I saw.. Isaw. IsawIsaw." She whispers against the gold's leg when the brownrider is near enough, eyes screwed shut. It does no good against the mental image that caused her to lose this day's meal. Taikrin's approach is slow, wary, with both of her hands held up in the universal gesture for surrender. "Azaylia. You gotta pull it together. People're watching." She pauses when she's within arm's reach, though she makes no move to touch the younger woman. "I need you to help me. Brieli wants everyone to go inside. Got to keep everyone calm, yeah? Drunk, maybe? I can't do it; I need you." Her voice is still flat, cold; it's Szadath that still writhes and turns and grieves. To Iesaryth and Hraedhyth, Arekoth projects, « Svissath. » The tumult Arekoth shares is a replay, distanced by the repetition, an imperfect form. « He worries. He won't tell. Svissath. » There's a distracted, appreciative spark for Demirath, or rather, more of a streak. Vrianth doesn't ask for the girl's name, wouldn't dream of putting such an imposition on the other dragon. Only, there's a sense that they might check in, later. And while Demirath's at it, while he's being so helpful... this time there's a vision, of a different dark-haired man who might be very familiar to his rider indeed from tending bar, and a squiggly scrap of a thing with him. Are they all right. They are, Vrianth and her rider are. Pass it on. Reluctantly, from Vrianth, there's even something remotely resembling a please. She's busy. Her rider's distracted too, taking it in, nodding, only then she calls after Brieli, "Weyrwoman." Not quite Weyrwoman. "There's a girl." A flash of image, Vrianth for Iesaryth whether she accepts it or not, but insulated as though the green doesn't want to touch the thing directly: pale brown, both blondish hair and scarcely-darker eyes, with a nose that points up-up-up. "She was to bring the tea. Need to find her too." To Arekoth and Iesaryth, Hraedhyth simmers in thought. So much to do. Too much to do, even with three queens, one on the sands. « We all worry. » To Arekoth and Hraedhyth, Iesaryth is still a storm, images of the Healer Hall in her thoughts, confusion still, a growing sort of horror that's not just hers alone. « Arekoth. Will you and yours go find a more... experienced healer? They need to know what happened. » The word Master comes attached, for all it means to her. « We will not let him leave. We can make him speak. » Just in case the who is sorted out... « There are already. » That ice is back, and this time, it's not dancing. Nor squeezing. Arekoth's tones are abnormally flat. « And not all of them will want him kept safe. » It's a closing. He goes back to guard duty. Let that little brown have his focus. (Arekoth to Svissath) Well, if K'del's just going to sit there... at least he's out of the journeyman's way, so that's one less thing to worry about! The crafter continues with his job, checking for other marks: about her wrists especially, anything that might have been used to contain her. Just in case. Her hands, too, anything defensive. He's scrupulous about it: if he can get this right instead of screwing it over completely, maybe he'll even get promoted, to somewhere where the worst that happens is dealing with some Blooded boy's venereal disease. And less snow would be nice, too. (To Leova): Under one fingernail, in the middle of her left hand, there's some dark, dried blood. Interesting. Azaylia nods her head, damp brown gliding against her dragon's hide as she listens to Taikrin. "Trying." It's what she- they, have been doing since it happened. She opens her eyes, shooting something like a glare at the brownrider. "I'm. Trying." The anger dissolves almost instantly, closing her eyes again and swallowing, dagger hilt held against her chest- blade mostly pointing down and away from her body. To Iesaryth and Hraedhyth, Arekoth's agreement is slow in coming, but with the hesitation more particular to his rider than to himself. « We will. Keep him. » The 'safe' that is meekly suggested in that last entreaty is something the brown himself is not entirely sold on. Demirath acknowledges Vrianth's reply without words, and when he does have words, a few minutes later? It's only a: « They're safe. Worried. Unsure. But safe. » He feels for them all, does Demirath, but what can he do? What else? To all High Reaches dragons, Hraedhyth pushes, a hard smack to those either in shock or dissolving into dispare. Snap out of it. Her patience has run thin, the gold has been pulled in many directions this night and she has had enough. Contralto is deep with a command, « Riders that are not helping, that do not have a duty, » A Queen or Alpha appointed duty, for Cadejoth is still' that. « To the caverns. Eat. Drink. » Don't be merry, but, « Keep calm. We have you. » Queens protect the weyr. Iesaryth soaks up information like a particularly greedy sponge today, her waves possibly calming due to thinking, piecing things together with a somewhat distracted Brieli... so the sense of growing horror that Vrianth might sense at that image along with others, that of a brown on the sands, healers, confusion. Turning back to Leova - it's not as if she needs to go out to send someone, after all - "H'kon. He's going to Healer." That's said generally, as if it'll help that everyone know. Though the look she slides the greenrider after is troubled; quietly, "I'd bet she got out before." Before things were locked down. Maybe before Iolene was even dead. "Come on, then," Taikrin coaxes. She's got one eye on Hraedhyth now and one eye on the knife-- being impaled on her own blade would be an ignominious end indeed. "Know it's hard. Help me get everyone inside, yeah? Calm. Ain't nobody gonna listen to lowly old me." The joke in her phrasing does not find any echo of humor in her voice or expression. "Reckon you're doing a good job. I'm here to help. Wingmates, yeah?" A beat. "Yeah. Reckon that's the way," Taikrin adds. The tide bubbles out towards the brown, dark and unsettled, but still all friendly-like. Iesaryth is clearly the good cop of the pair, if this were a good cop/bad cop situation. Her tenor careful, « Svissath. Are you well? » (Iesaryth to Svissath and Hraedhyth) After taking a closer look at one of the dead girl's hands, the healer's gotten to humming to himself. It isn't a happy song if you don't know the lyrics Healer puts to such things. There's that much remaining compassion in the man that he steals a look back at K'del, the better to make sure the other man isn't watching when he makes sure the woman hasn't been forced. Azaylia opens her eyes again and manages a weak smile for the brownrider, one that lasts about as long as her previous glare. "Wingmates." After Hraedhyth gives her comand, she straightens and looks down at the blade. "...I need a hilt for this." Voice is even smaller than usual, though it seems she's intent on stealing from Taikrin. "I think... I think if we maybe do something with the drinks- half off, or-or free..." The brownrider may have to strain to hear, but the goldrider's making an effort and is willing to be lead off. Hraedhyth, of course, will be their golden-dark shadow. To Hraedhyth and Iesaryth, Svissath is silent, to begin with, that soft, creamy caramel that so often characterises his thoughts still and nearly solid, for once. « I hurt, » he says. « I have never felt... we are protecting the eggs. They are safe. » He's clearly not the happiest of dragons, right now, but he's careful in his reply. K'del is, thankfully, rather beyond noticing what the healer is doing to his poor, dead girlfriend (if that's even the way to describe it). He's turned away, knees drawn up to his chest, staring out at the rumpled bed. He's weeping, instead of sobbing, now. Thankfully. To Svissath and Iesaryth, Hraedhyth is there, dark smoke blown over the brown whose name has come up in the most interesting of ways. Bad cop. An exhale of heat and fire could be seen as comforting, loosing some of their acrid scent when he brings up the eggs. Otherwise, she is silent. Listening. (To Leova): Equally thankfully? There's no sign of forced anything on Iolene's corpse. Aside from that headwound, the vomit, and the blood beneath her fingernail, she seems quite in perfect condition. "Free. Drinks are free." Taikrin is firm on this point. She also doesn't seem to be too upset about the thought of Azaylia keeping her knife: "Sheath," she corrects quietly. "Here, I can--" One last wary look at Hraedhyth, then Taikrin edges a few (non-threatening) paces away so that she can shift the knife she keeps stored at her hip into the boot sheath, which allows her to unsling her belt and free up the (slightly too small) sheath to offer to Azaylia; the whole process is scary-fast. "Be careful." Alarmed by 'hurt', Iesaryth worries for her clutchmate, tries to soothe with the soft cadence of waves, muted from their crashing for now. Gusts pick up the smoke and blow it about. Salted burnt caramel. « Was something done to you? Can we help? » Because they will, she will. That is sincere; the gold has never been a good liar. (Iesaryth to Svissath and Hraedhyth) To Iesaryth, and Hraedhyth, Svissath need not hide the truth when he attempts to explain his hurt: this maelstrom of emotion, raining down on him. His youth, his foreign-ness, his rider who has been so unhappy. And all of this-- how could he not hurt? « It is better, now. Now that you are calming us. » He appreciates it, Iesaryth. He does. « I am beginning to feel better. I do not like... what I hear. I don't feel safe. My clutch. » His queen. And Vrianth draws on all the information there is to take in, right down to that confusion that manifests within her own thoughts as static: she sets that too aside in its own insulated pocket, for later. "Good." Her rider: good that it's not Delifa, too, best that it's not Madilla. And then she's looking back at Brieli, surprise briefly on her smoky features, in her voice that's just now more ashes than smoke. "And here I was thinking, what if she got intercepted. What if she's still around here, somewhere, too." Dead. And on that note, before she's wholly left Iesaryth's sphere, Vrianth is distinctly not despairing though perhaps she's a touch more shocky than she and her rider realizes. There's a piercing jolt sent Hraedhyth's way: stop that. Smacking. Hurting those about her, those who are hers. It's not helping. Let them breathe. Even Hraedhyth cannot keep silent, « No one will touch your eggs. » It's more than a growl than it is words, « Or our queen. » The eggs are half his, but Rielsath belongs to High Reaches. Iesaryth is left to soothe and support, though her own strength is added when need be. (Hraedhyth to Svissath and Iesaryth) It doesn't take all that long for Arekoth to blink back into the airspace above the weyr, the only dragon to leave the Weyr for some time - though Iesaryth still watches from the Starstones, almost suspicious. There's an appropriately somber looking Healer with a Master's knot who's been through this sort of thing before, though perhaps not with a milling audience or for a Weyrwoman. That's really not the way it's meant to go. But he'll go up to the Weyrleader's weyr like he's been doing it all his life, and begin to confer with his colleague, because that's what professionals do. They also try to ignore the weeping. K'del looks like a wonderful Weyrleader right now, doesn't he? "Free." Azaylia murmurs in that quiet voice, eyes following Taikrin with only the slightest hint of paranoia. She'll take the sheath, staring down at it and giving a curt nod, securing it around her waist somewhat awkwardly. It doesn't match her dress at all. Still, it's better than just carrying the dagger around, "Thank you." Hraedhyth continues to follow, and will likely guard any cavern entrance that the two happen to walk through. Now it's up to golderider and brown to explain to the bar that everything's on the weyr's tab. Hraedhyth will add a particularly loud drumming for Vrianth. No. You stop that jolting. « They are listening. » So she won't need to smack anymore, save for another thump that only barely masks a snarl at the green. Patience? What patience? For Vrianth, even with bursts of static and shock, Iesaryth has some appreciation for the interest - maybe it's interest for interest's sake, but she likes puzzles; likes to share these thoughts - perhaps the green might help. But not maybe right now, not when everything is whirling around in the wind in her head and there's pressing guilt coming from somewhere. Brieli just looks at Leova for a long moment before, "That's possible too. You're right, there needs to be a search. Everyone needs to be accounted for." There's another beat before she, again, realizes that might be her job. With a shudder, she forces herself to glance at K'del for a moment, and looks away, expression distinctly ill. "S'what I'm here for," Taikrin murmurs in response. "Here to make sure you all're okay." And to set guards on the goldrider's ledges; of this, they will have a hard time dissuading her and some of her cadre of Glacier riders. To Svissath and Hraedhyth, Iesaryth doesn't like what she's hearing either. She doesn't like all the unhappiness, of such a level and strength she was unaware of... but not unaccustomed to. « Hraedhyth is right. What can we do? » Can her rider help? It's not like her to offer up hers at all - likely because Brieli can't be bothered - but today is different. To Iesaryth and Hraedhyth, Svissath dusts his thoughts with salt crystals, dimming down the sweet that so usually pervades his thoughts. « All will be well, » he promises. « I know we we are foreign. Not trusted at... times like these. But soon the eggs will hatch, and we will return home. For now - we will give you all space for your grief. We understand. » Really. It's fine! Everything's fine! Lalala. Azaylia will have no objections to guards posted to her weyr and ledge. Even more of a surprise, neither with Hraedhyth. In fact, "Taikrin? Do you... could you maybe..." The junior falters, embarrassed, "Could you stay tonight? You and Szadath?" With pale complexion and black-out drinking in store, the invitation is one of security- not anything obscene. Drumming, Vrianth can handle, after growing up with Wroth. That personal thump, though, she hisses into it, sent like the first straight for Hraedhyth. Only, given Leova's grimace, it's like she's the one who's struck, and the green quiets. Mostly. There's that whirling going on, that odd and so-unfamiliar guilt, more hidden interchanges with her other... associates. Leova nods, briefly. Glances up towards the sky, towards where the brown's descending with the master. And locates the napkin, to pour some tea on: just enough to let it absorb enough before she wraps it in the rest of it. She doesn't hide it from Brieli, only murmurs, "Backup," before she stashes it away. That way, when the master comes, she can silently offer teacup and teapot and step out of the way. And she'll even locate a blanket, not his-and-hers blanket, and set it around K'del's shoulders. Nobody will have to look at him, that way, when she's standing guard. It's going to be a long... rest of the day. Not all that convinced, Iesaryth still reassures Svissath - she trusts him. But still, « We appreciate that. » But he can still talk to her! Anytime! And ocean's roar will continue to whisper in the background, present for them all, but sharpening now and again for the brown, checking in. (Iesaryth to Svissath and Hraedhyth) Did Hraedhyth say that? She must of since she refuses to contradict the other gold in this... discussion. « I do not think you should leave. » It might sound sentimental, until, « Not until we know what has happened. No one should leave. » Just to show that she's not picking on the foreigner. (Hraedhyth to Svissath and Iesaryth) To Iesaryth and Hraedhyth, Svissath bows to the superior knowledge of these queens; he won't go without being given permission. Not even after the eggs hatch. Whatever happens. « I appreciate it, » he tells them, before withdrawing back to his own thoughts. His eggs. This new world. "Of course." Taikrin'll even stay sober, too! "Can get a couple others-- Riorde, maybe, when she gets back. Few other wingmates we can trust. Leova's got skills, too." She tries out a smile for Azaylia, meant to be reassuring despite the stiffness and the lack of emotional depth. "Or just us. Maybe keep Brieli and Iesaryth close, too. Whatever you want." Apologetic, Iesaryth whispers over salt-sea winds, « She says we must try to help him. He is hiding and will not tell us unless he feels he can. I do not think we can force this. » (Iesaryth to Hraedhyth) Azaylia doesn't smile, but there's relief on her face as she edges slightly closer to Taikrin. "Whoever you want. The more the..." Safer. "Though, I don't know how Hraedhyth and Vrianth will be, at sharing a ledge..." Surely there can be some sort of draconic truce made. Taikrin can stay sober, but Azaylia is looking to get so drunk that she can't stand. That doesn't mean she won't be unable to drunkenly snuggle some unfortunate rider. Taikrin. To Iesaryth, Hraedhyth is tense at the apology, forcing one of her own in a low rumble. « I am trying. I do not... You are better at this. » At being nice when it is difficult to do so. She snapped at her own wingmate, even! « I do not mean to force. » She explains plainly, growl sounding weary after so much of her will being used on others. K'del barely seems to register that blanket that Leova puts over his shoulders - but he does stir into action some time later, when the healers make moves to remove the body: on this, he will not lose. They do not need to cut into his dead lover to find out anything more. They've done their investigations. Now? Go. Eventually, having done as much as they can - and taken samples of everything it's possible to take samples of - they retreat. This is a crime scene, but how much more can Pernese science tell them? Not much. By the following morning, he and Cadejoth are gone - evidently, they can circumvent those queens when required - and Iolene's body goes with them. Tomorrow... tomorrow is another day. Brieli is gone long before K'del kicks everyone out, off to arrange a search of the Weyr and accounting of all who live in it, won't that be fun for her! And there's likely a line of people who need answers to questions, and she doesn't have the heart to pull Azaylia away from drinking and/or brownriders... so she deals with that too. It's a long day for Brieli, basically. After finding her good friend and the woman who sent her to find Iesaryth dead. Yeah, fun times. (And K'del breaking? Not the good time that was advertised.) No wonder she holes up in her weyr for a long time after.

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