Speaking Out
Location: Clery's Cothold
Time: Evening on Day 4, Month 3, Turn 3
Players: Roa, R'vain, J'lor, Cassiel, Neiran, Ceregar (NPCed by Neiran), Kazimir (NPCed by Benden), Ysidro (NPCed by E'sere), B'sano (NPCed by Benden), Clery (NPCed by Miniyal), various sneaky holder-folk (NPCed by Miniyal)
Scene: Cassiel and J'lor come from the island to give their statements.
Clery's cothold is a whole lot of nothing. Whatever its importance is, it's impossible to tell by looking at it. What it is, is out of the way. Nestled near the base of a mountain, but with outer courtyard clinging to a cliffside it provides a nice convenient out of the way place for those with secret purposes to meet. Although it is doubtful enough truly know about it for it to have been used in the past.
The hold proper is small, looking to house maybe a family or two outside the extended one which run it. The courtyard, large enough for a couple dragons so long as they'll share space well is empty. The hold in general seems empty. Perhaps whatever schedule they run on here has them all away somewhere. There is space enough amidst the sparse trees for dragons to rest. But this far up the treeline is rapidly approaching.
Actually, if it were not for the sounds of barking dogs somewhere inside it would seem entirely deserted. Well, and plumes of smoke that rise, likely, from the chimneys indicating where the kitchen is located. Surely the arrivals are expected. Surely the dates were made clear. Surely.
This is, at any rate, the fervent hope of the rider clinging to a gold dragon that winks into the air from between, he icy wind blowing off her wingsails to mingle with the slightly warmer spring air above the mountains and the tiny cothold below. Tialith circles once, as Roa twists to look over her shoulder at the pair of passengers from Harper Hall that ride with her. The gold does a full aerial circle around the courtyard before swooping down to land with a heavier thump than usual. Being gravid does not do much for one's grace and poise. Settled, the queen crouches and extends a forearm. The weyrwoman quickly undoes her own straps so that she can turn around to assist the harpers with theirs.
Ruvoth pops out of *between* and soars loose on the air for a while as his rider scouts below, thus far without a word to the healers behind him. He has only a moment to squint, to decide-- but Tialith's presence is spotted quickly and a slap of hand upside banal neck tells the bronze to catch himself on a beat of his wings and start for the ground. Like Tialith, he lands in the courtyard, kneeling low instantly and with more grace than his mate so R'vain, with a grunted, "We're here," can twist around to offer a hand down to his passengers.
Waving off Roa's help, Ysidro moves to unfasten himself; he's done this a fair few times before, and slides down without any real trouble to take his first good look around the cothold. That look, plainly, is unimpressed, and his lips purse, but he says nothing and instead waits stiffly on the rest of the party to arrive by Tialith's side, turning to observe Ruvoth's landing but not offering his own greeting just yet. He's been notably quiet throughout the trip so far.
Meleoth strives in this, as in all things, to be beautiful. The arch of his wings dives through the sky straight out of the black nothing, cold and darkness cloying about his sails. He semi-circles one wide arc toward the ground and lands not within but just before the courtyard, head high, neck arched. He is a pale bronze and a large one, mature and certain, glorious. His rider's... just this guy, see. He pries open the buckles of his straps and half-twists to make certain of the arrivals, green and blue, that should be following.
Chiavelth appears high in the sky - higher, in truth, than is advised for most riders and dragons. A mere speck of pale green in the blue sky, she circles a number of times, slowly, before diving suddenly to a lower level. From there, she circles a few more times, surveying the area closely. Between her ridges, Cassiel hunches close to the green's neck, her inspection every bit as careful. Yet the pair doesn't land. Instead: << We will land in the courtyard, >> Chiavelth announces, the implication that someone is going to have to make space clear.
One of R'vain's passengers readily accepts the Weyrleader's assistance, a smiling white-haired man bearing a Master Healer's knot somewhere beneath the thick layers adopted for between. "Thank you, Weyrleader," Ceregar quips, finding his way down the bronze's side with little difficulty to land with both feet on the ground, inhaling the mountainous spring air with gusto, while Journeyman Neiran still struggles out of the straps. "Your assistance is not required," he murmurs softly to the Weyrleader, despite all appearances to the contrary - and he gracelessly succeeds in freeing himself and getting down on his own. On solid ground, he picks at his own coverings adorned for between, expressionlessly staring at the grass while his Master folds his arms across his chest and takes in the air, both waiting for the riders to lead the way, in their own fashion.
A blue speck appears, lower and larger, near where the smaller green plunges down. He flanks her, keeping close and following her circling, but as she is yet to land, neither does he make any move to do so. He shadows her, the tips of the blues wide and swirling wings nearly brushing Chiavelth's.
That might be a shadow that breaks off from the larger shadow near the entrance to the hold. Some sleek of foot hold child sent to fetch the holder when dragons started to arrive. It might have been, but it's impossible to tell really. There's still no movement from within or without except for those who arrive. Well, that is not entirely true. Overhead one of the windows is open and in the fluttering of a curtain there is the suggestion of someone. More than one someones really. Likely more of those hold children who have never seen but a blue or green, if that, coming here on Search.
Kazimir waits for Ysidro to be clear of the path, then makes his puttering, softspoken way down Tialith's gravid side. Softspoken because he talks himself through it, muttering all the way about how he could have, with a little polite notice, have taken a runner out here, it's not so far nor so high nor the weather so bad, and really, this is an awful lot of trouble, this queen (with a pat for her shoulder lest he offend her) should be at home getting some rest. Finally his shoes hit the ground and he shuffles over to the other harper's side, falling silent, mouth pursed.
Ruvoth would be the one making room for Chiavelth, once the healers have made their way to the ground and the Weyrleader's followed them, his boots hitting the ground with heavy thumps. The bronze slinks off after that, leaving his rider and guests to fend for themselves as he himself pins back his wings and takes up a place tight against the courtyard wall.
Standing near Tialith, the weyrwoman looks up, a hand over her eyes as a large bronze shape and then two smaller ones appear. "There they are," she murmurs and the gold crans her neck high and croons up towards one of the three shapes. It's not clear who until her glowing gaze follows Meleoth as he descends. Roa looks back towards the two harpers and then over towards the weyrleader and his slinking dragon. Tialith does not move. She has landed. No more moving is required of her.
Once Ruvoth has moved aside, Chiavelth circles once more before finally winging in to land. The small green has little difficulty alighting in the cramped space, tucking her wings close once she's reached the ground. Once she has, Cassiel pulls her battered helmet from her head, tucking it and gloves into her belt while still mounted. A cautious gaze takes in those gathered, and with a deep breath, she dismounts in a single, smooth motion, walking towards the center of what should be a clear space even after another dragon lands. "Cassiel," she says simply, voice pitched to carry. "Green Chiavelth's."
B'sano watches the smaller dragons come into view, downwing for the courtyard, and land. Meleoth watches too, rearing up now his rider's gained footing on the ground, spanning his wings. The pale bronze becomes a statue like so, his rider completely in shadow - until B'sano heaves a great sigh and treads on through the gates. "B'sano," he calls out, since Cassiel's set the tone. "Meleoth's, of Telgar Weyr."
There is no more room in the courtyard and this is a problem for the circling blue. To land means to let the green out of his sight, and to stay aloft means, well, not landing, which his rider is insisting he do. After a few more times circling the courtyard, the blue lands just outside, the sounds he makes unhappy. The long, lean rider that jogs through the doorway moments later is pulling his own worn helmet off his head, dark eyes looking around at those gathered. "J'lor," he says with a faint quirk of his mouth. "Vellath's."
It is not until all have landed and it seems everyone has gathered that an old man appears. He leans on the arm of a much younger man, familial resemblance likely making the young man the grandson Clery has designated his heir. Their steps are slow and Clery has a bit of a limp to him that his grandson compensates for easily. The lad is somewhere in his early teens, or at least appears so, with neatly trimmed brown hair to match the mustache, neatly trimmed as well, that he wears. Clery's hair is white as is the beard and mustache he wears. Both of them have the same sort of startling blue eyes possessed by Corin and Miniyal. For those who know them.
Clery and his grandson hang back, waiting to see if they'll be approached or if it is their duty to approach. Either way they'll not interfere until receiving some sign that they should. If the modest little cothold's keepers are overly awed by the company come calling they give no outward sign.
"R'vain, High Reaches," rumbles the Weyrleader in question, trying not at all to be audible all up and down the length of the courtyard, and in fact giving B'sano a bit of a cross look for his having done so. Cassiel, he doesn't yet look toward at all. The red man half-turns instead to offer a paw out to the healers, maybe suggesting they introduce themselves, or else start walking, so that maybe this convention can-- convene.
As the introductions begin, Ysidro looks rather bored, tapping one foot impatiently--he's familiar with pretty much everyone present, at the very least in name. Still, he does offer a brusque, "Master Ysidro," even while he glances toward the doors.
"And," pipes up the Masterharper, perfectly happy to be outdone, "Kazimir." Evidently he feels no need to mention anything else about himself. He turns his head aside and glances at Ysidro, expression briefly a little surprised (are you here? so you are) and after that busies his eyes with flittery little looks all around the Hold. Very low, for Ysidro alone, he does note, "It might seem we're intended to keep a little company with the holder today."
"Master Ceregar," the healer remarks, sweeping a hand through salt-and-pepper hair while he follows in R'vain's wake. That introduction is echoed by a less audible, "Journeyman Neiran," as the younger of the healer pair follows in turn in the wake of his Master. Ceregar's warm hazel eyes take in the other attendees as if this were a picnic they were having, and there some prize for remembering names and faces and making the most friends. At the very least, his bearing and the calmer set of his mouth gives the scenario the dignity it surely deserves. Neiran, too, takes in those assembled, but more surreptitiously than greedily, always one step behind and to the right of Ceregar, hands hidden in his sleeves. Except for when they appear to fix windblown hair when he thinks no one is looking.
"Roa," the weyrwoman offers, her attention sliding over towards Cassiel and most decidedly nowhere near her blueriding companion. "High Reaches. Tialith's." She takes a small step away from the gold and her shadow. "Are we all assembled, then?" She turns her attention to B'sano and offers him a low nod, but it is to the Masterharper that she speaks. "What is the most prudent way to proceed with this, would you say? Ah. But, perhaps we should all head inside, first."
Even in her battered, decade-old riding gear, Cassiel is badly underdressed for the winter of the Northern Continent. Still, she gives no indication of discomfort from the chill, standing with her weight mostly on one foot. "If no one's going to die of hypothermia here, I think I'd prefer to stay outside," she says with a dip of her chin towards Roa. There is, perhaps oddly, the faintest hint of a smile when she looks to the young Weyrwoman, but it's soon schooled away again, gaze flicking between those gathered.
All the attention Roa's not giving J'lor, R'vain will provide instead. After his gaze goes passing green over all of the crafters and exiles arrived, he settles his focus on the bluerider, eyes a little narrow, a little twitching. "Th'dragons can't go in," he observes in a low growl. "Don't matter t'me we stay out, or don't."
When it might seem appropriate then, Clery and his grandson approach High Reaches' leaders. He falls under their care and so he'll have his words with them and allow the others to await this at least. "Greetings." His voice is clear and crisp like the air up here with no signs age has diminished that at least, even if his body shows some signs of wear and tear. "Only have the one room, I fear, large enough. Got people out working." Doing what? He doesn't say. He either assumes people know or don't care. "Hanrey here will see to anything you need while here. Got the hall cleared and he'll remain outside away from the door." Hanrey makes a half bow, as best he can while providing the support his grandfather seems to need. And pauses before moving since it seems they might be meeting outside. So he hesitates, but his grandfather shakes his arm so he just shrugs. If they want to meet outside so be it. "If you require anything just raise your voice." Offered in a deep booming voice that hints it has only just settled down from puberty. Unless bidden to stop the pair turn and make their way back towards the hold doors.
To Kazimir, Ysidro murmurs in return, "I'd rather just get on with what we came here for." Still, for all his glances to the doorway, his always-impatient manner, when Cassiel speaks up, he nods once, acquiescing easily. "Some chairs would be appreciated," he does remark, but that's his only request for the moment.
To the cotholders, R'vain drops just a nod. The Harper Master's remark gets his support with only this-- "We'd be 'bliged."
"Whatever that is," says Kazimir, voice in full spacey-old-fellow mode, soft and aside to Ysidro, eyes elsewhere, any number of elsewheres - Cassiel, J'lor, those shadows in the courtyard that moved and then stopped moving. "I wonder."
"I think we'd like," says B'sano, letting his unimpressive voice take over a moment's silence, ringing through the cold, "to begin with the representatives of Healer Hall. Cassiel," and here the former weyrleader of Telgar inclines her a hesitant but respectful nod, "I believe they'll have questions; as do we." Strangely 'we' bears a significant look at Roa.
Ceregar's brow lifts, as does the corner of his mouth in a mild smile of amusement that's directed at Cassiel when she announces her preference of the outdoors. Before Clery can depart, the old holder is given a fuller smile, with all sincerity. "Thank you," he says with a nod, a less gravely echo to R'vain. The Master folds his arms comfortably again, focusing on B'sano. As it seems they'll be in the limelight first, he looks over his shoulder towards Neiran. Neiran seems surprised to be looked at just then, and his gaze goes to Roa, brows up.
Hanrey is not allowed to pause his steps because Clery is underway. So he just looks over his shoulder. "Chairs will be brought right out, sir." Addressed to R'vain and not to any harper. They'll make of it what they will. Still, the holders make their way back inside and eventually Hanrey, leading a few of the older young children, appear with chairs and even a small table to set down pitchers and mugs with what will be discovered to be klah. Should anyone partake of it. Once things are set up they are off again and it's quiet and still once more. Other than those dogs. And the curtains above where children continue to try to peek out at dragons and the people they were all told to stay away from. The shadows settle down, none breaking off or reappearing. Although the doorway to the hold leaves a convenient space for someone to stand. As do a few other corners of the courtyard. But all is still, yes. Even in the shadows.
"Is that?" J'lor queries coolly, "what we would like?" He looks over at B'sano, features bland, brows lifted just a little. And then he turns away and approaches Cassiel, his tone and features gentling as he does so. "Healers first. What do you think? It's all right?"
Ah. Looked at. Roa looks back and then towards the greenrider, offering a small smile of her own. "Outside, then," she agrees softly, pushing her hands down into her pockets and leaning back against Tialith's flank. And then, as everyone seems to be looking at her, she peers back at Neiran and then B'sano. "I'm not sure it particularly matters if the healers or the harpers go first. Whatever-" but J'lor has already spoken and the goldrider only nods slightly. Yes. What he said.
"Healers first sounds fine," Cassiel says to both J'lor and Roa, though her glance to the former is more reassuring before she turns to look towards the pair of healers. "I'm not sure what you expect to be able to see of broken bones some months later. Bit of scarring from other things. And some things don't leave marks on a body." Dispassionate, she starts to shrug out of her jacket, rolling up her sleeves to reveal some pink scar tissue around her wrists, and a puckered scar in the center of each hand.
"We would like," remarks Kazimir in a somewhat sweetened tone, as if he's about to describe the delightful colors of distant dragons in a cloudless sky, "to acquire evidence toward truth." All of a sudden his focus finds J'lor. The moment is fleeting. After that he's looking down at his feet. "Perhaps we can go sit down, Master Ysidro. I think there must be something to drink in that pot. We can listen to the healers - " He looks up then, and this time it's Cassiel who falls under his brief, natterly scrutiny. "I suppose we might have more questions after that's done than before."
"Of course, Master," Ysidro tells Kazimir with a nod; he's already moving to seat himself. The drinks, though, are ignored in favor of pulling out the generously sized notebook he's included in his bag, and watching the healers and Cassiel raptly.
"We appreciate y'help," says R'vain, awkward as a two-legged stool, finally getting a look pinned on Cassiel as she starts revealing old wounds. Then another look at J'lor, and this is easier to do. "It matters." Roa gets his gaze then and from her he flicks a heavy look at the chairs, offering her one with a lift and fall of one broad shoulder. The healers are left to their devices, safe enough with so many to guard her-- or them.
Ceregar waits for everyone to seem in agreement, and then turns to make a gesture at Neiran that suggests he step forward. Neiran obeys, silently approaching Cassiel. The greenrider is given a nod of greeting, and he murmurs, "my pardon." The pardon is apparently for the near-touch of his hand as it hovers under Cassiel's extended wrist, as Neiran stoops somewhat to examine it. Without having moved from his spot, Ceregar announces, "I was told that we are here to verify that her injuries were received not by accident or by some foul play other than what is being indicated...is there something else we should be attempting to do? I imagine we could discern a window of time in which the injuries were sustained," he offers, spreading his palms wide, open to discussion.
J'lor takes a step backwards with a small nod. He'll stay as near to Cassiel as he's allowed, arms crossing over his chest, eyes watchful. But he holds his tongue.
"Nails," Cassiel informs Neiran flatly. "It would be a bit unusual to get a nail through each palm. Not to mention, these were ripped out through the heads. As in the nail stayed in the wood." There's an almost clinical detachment to her description, gaze on the young journeyman. "There were a lot of broken ribs. You'll forgive me if I didn't keep a good count, I hope. One shoulder repeatedly dislocated. Broken nose. Broken fingers," she adds, while her hands are displayed.
It's not until after Cassiel has volunteered these notes for the healers that Telgar's sole representative here speaks. "Timeframe," says B'sano, heavily, resigned, "would be very helpful."
The weyrwoman looks over towards the healers and then towards the offered chair. Her fingers splay wide on her dragon's hide and for a moment, it seems as if she might refuse to sit in order to stay beside Tialith. But then she pushes herself straight, pads over to the chair and settles, ankles crossed, her figure nearly swallowed up in her heavy winter coat. She ducks her head down, the lower portion of her face hidden against her collar, as Cassiel speaks.
Ysidro has, apparently, designated himself notetaker for the day, since he's without his usual pair of journeyman minions. He's scribbling down just about everything said, a scrambled account that's probably nonsensical to anyone but him--it has been, after all, a while since he's had to do this himself. While his pencil flies across the hides, he shoots glances up to watch the goings-on intently as well.
Kazimir watches, reflective; his gaze is idle, sometimes unfocused, like his mind might wander to other places and times. But he has no hides, no stylus. If the sanctity of his mind remains unweathered by age, he would, somewhat famously, have no need of notes.
R'vain has run out of words, after so few. He stalks stiffly around the back of the chairs, his mouth drooping, to the klah; he'll be the first, evidently, to pour a cup. He takes that over and stands just behind Roa's shoulder with it, for all appearances just using the stuff to warm his paws.
Ceregar frowns when Cassiel speaks mechanically of her injuries, but has presence of mind to nod at B'sano. Neiran's eyes dart over the scar tissue laid bare, studying still while Cassiel details her trials. "Fortunately there was no longitudinal splitting in the collateral ligament structures which could have allowed complete dorsal displacement of the middle phalanx." That is murmured to himself, as his hovering hand, palm-up, drifts down once again and he straightens. More pertinently, and audibly, Ceregar asks, "and your ribs have completely healed? Two months have passed, then, at least. More for many and overall trauma. Neiran, how are the scars?" The thin healer looks away from Cassiel's hand, to his Master. "It is not hypertrophic. Appearance is indicative of initial phases of scarring." Interpreting this, Ceregar lifts his eyes to Cassiel, pity there whether the greenrider would wish it or not. "Are there any other scars you could show us? It would help in creating a time frame."
A noise breaks through the serious, disturbing conversation. The dogs have long ceased their barking, but from that open window comes laughter, as if the children have grown bored at peeking at adults who only talk and have taken up their games once more.
Cassiel nods to the healer, withdrawing her hand and lifting the back of her shirt to reveal a latticework of lash marks. Some are fading away, but others look as though they'll leave more lasting scars. She shivers, her only concession to the chill. "There was sleep, food, and light deprivation as well," she notes in that same, toneless voice. "General bruises from beatings. And the rapes." Chiavelth, more indicative of the greenrider's feelings on her matter than her voice, moves forward, hovering even as J'lor does.
One of R'vain's hands parts from his cup of klah to find the back of Roa's chair. His knuckles tighten there and he leans a little into his arm, but his Weyrwoman's likely to be the only person present to recognize more than maybe a stiff lower back in the gesture. For her, there's the shaking she might feel through his paw, lightly trembling the chair-back.
The bluerider's crossed arms tighten and his back shoves straight in a manner that he and his daughter both share. Irritation aligns the spine in this family. His jaw tightens and as J'lor cannot help but glare while the healers and Cassiel speak, he bows his head so that his booted feet are the only recipients of his displeasure.
The weyrwoman only shifts in her chair a little bit, perhaps to make herself more comfortable. It is probably only coincidence that the readjustment has the back of one shoulder oh-so-lightly resting against R'vain's clenched knuckles. Mostly hidden in her coat, Roa watches in silence.
Now is when Ceregar approaches, his age at last showing in the depth of the grooves that appear on his face when he frowns. Hazel eyes flick over the marks there, and there's silent communication between Journeyman and Master when they look at one another. Ceregar takes the initiative to nod gravely at the young woman, affording her some measure of increased respect because of what she's been through. "Thank you. You may lower your shirt." To the assembled crew, he looks - face still lined. "I can confidently state that this woman was sorely abused - I do not think that further examination is necessary to prove it; I think all would agree that it is self-evident. Judging by what she has shown us, her injuries were sustained between three to five months ago." Neiran retreats to his master's side, though his eyes remain on Cassiel, his lips a thin, drawn line. Ceregar turns to the Harpers. "Will more be required from Healer?"
It might be that Kazimir turns a glance on Ysidro, on this. Perhaps that the note be taken is essential, in this one small case. But the Masterharper is quiet, and in the end he's looking longer on the Reachian weyrleaders than anyone else.
"I find it hard to believe that - " B'sano, however, falls short there, tightening his mouth. His gaze strays from Cassiel to J'lor and, evidently unable to keep his regard -there- for long, looks on Ceregar. He swallows, fitting helpless hands into his pockets. "Harper would be best able to answer that, I imagine."
Cassiel lets her shirt down as Ceregar speaks, shrugging back into her battered, worn jacket with some alacrity. Chilled by the cold air, she also tugs on her gloves again before turning to look towards the Harper pair, chin rising and shoulders straightening ever so slightly.
The bluerider tucks his chin down and then lets it up again in a small nod that's still given only to his shoes. But then he lifts his eyes to study Cassiel, the corners crinkling into something that might be approval or sympathy. Then, to the harpers, "I was there when she returned and I witnessed her wounds being tended. I can speak as well, should it be helpful."
"If you please, sir," Ysidro tells B'sano, decidedly coolly, "belief is not an issue until the trial. Now." He turns back to the two exiles. "Let's start at the beginning, please, Cassiel," he requests then, eyeing his notes a moment, then looking up to study the woman with an intense frown as he flips to a fresh page, pencil poised to begin again. "Tell me everything you remember about the day you were captured. And thank you, J'lor; we'll get to that shortly."
Kazimir inhales, then relaxes his breath with a long sigh. He lifts his chin and regards Cassiel now with what seems to be the entirety of his attention, his aged eyes unsettlingly careful in their sudden focus.
"I was returning one of the boys," Cassiel begins, gaze steady on both Ysidro and Kazimir. "Near Greenfields. We landed about a mile and a half away from the hold, behind the cover of a bit of a hill. Chiavelth stepped over to check out a herd of sheep there while I pointed the boy in the right direction. Whoever it was came up behind me, hit me upside the head. When I woke up, I was naked in a cavern somewhere. I didn't know where at the time. There was no food, no water, and a single, flickering glow."
The Reaches' Weyrleader lets out a thick, angry snort of a sigh through flared nostrils and shoves himself up from Roa's chair, his fingers sliding out from behind her shoulder-- but at least the shuddering's stopped, if his obvious agitation has not. He settles now for crossing his arms, crutching the klah mug against the inside of one elbow, his unhappy mouth drooped into a frown.
"What's the boy's name?" asks Ysidro, pencil pausing its rapid note-taking for a moment to gather that fact. "And Chiavelth saw nothing--did nothing? How was she controlled?" His expression remains concentrated, though not particularly forthcoming with any emotion. "How did your attacker know where to find you?" A pause, then: "How long were you in the area, and on the ground, before you were attacked?" He shoots a sideways look at Roa, to note dryly, "Can Tialith confirm Chiavelth's answers, please?" The irony of that request, in contrast to their last encounter, is not lost of him.
A head pokes out the door, low enough to the ground to be either a child or a very short adult. It peers over at those gathered before a hand reaches out to grab onto the just visible shoulder and pull whomever it was back inside and presumably away from those meeting in the courtyard.
It is not lost on the little weyrwoman either, as her head lifts and a single brow arches. There are so very many things that might be said. So many possible jabs to make. Her lips even part, as if to share one, but then Roa's eyes dart very quickly towards the watchful bluerider and away, and she only nods. "She can. Cassiel? Will you allow it?"
"I don't know the boy's name," Cassiel shakes her head. "Didn't care. J'lor should know," she notes with a glance towards the bluerider. "I got Chiavelth's warning in the same breath as whoever it was grabbed me. She tells me there was a queen who kept her back, and she also tells me she was warned not to speak of it. We were on the ground maybe half an hour, and I don't know how they knew where to find us." She settles a dry look on the harper. "It would help if you could keep questions at least grouped by subject, if you're going to shoot them off rapid-fire," she drawls before looking to Roa, hesitating and then nodding. "You're welcome to try, little one," she murmurs, the appellation slipping out without thought.
"I think it might also be pertinent," says Kazimir, his voice still in space-cadet mode even if his regard has settled down and become quite sharp, "to ask, formally, what the boy was being returned from, and why."
R'vain, upon J'lor's name being spoken, looks at the bluerider all over again. This time there's pale fire in that emerald glare, and a twitch present in his upper lip. Maybe the rage suggested isn't for the bluerider, but it might not be easy to tell.
Automatically, Ysidro looks to J'lor, frowning still while he awaits that answer. To Cassiel, with a hint of apology, he notes, "I spit them out as they come to me, or I forget. Which queen was it that contacted her? Do you have a name, or can you at least describe her... voice so we can identify her ourselves?" Another pause while he scribbles out further notes, finds another page. Then, businesslike: "Now, tell me what you remember of your captivity."
"Pellen," J'lor offers easily in regards to the boy's name. His attention slides away to find, on accident, R'vain's intent and burning stare. He holds the younger man's gaze for several beats, his own offering no more than his attention, and then his eyes must trip down to study Roa. The little one in question, his lips lifting faintly as Cassiel dubs Roa with her childhood nickname. But he remembers himself and drags his gaze away soon enough, back to the Harpers where it belongs.
These subtle looks back and forth, the words unspoken - all are very interesting to the eyes of the healers, though one watches more dourly than the other. Both are equally silent, though Ceregar shifts closer to his old apprentice's side, and raises a hand to place it upon the Journeyman's narrow shoulder. Fingers squeeze once, gently. Neiran straightens his chin, continuing to watch each speaker in turn with detachment written on his features, the Master's hand remaining on his shoulder.
The weyrwoman's chin jerks upright at the nickname and she blinks several times before looking to the coiled and resting Tialith. The gold lifts her own head to watch the little green, a low and quiet rumble leaving her throat and causing small vibrations in the ground around her.
Tialith> To Chiavelth: The gold's touch is reigned n, but there is a weight behind her thoughts. Pressure, honed and contained. I have been asked to listen and to judge. It is a question as well as a statement. The queen, for the moment, seeks permission.
"At first, it was just no food or water, variable light," Cassiel explains wearily. "Then they started playing with sleep. I'd fall asleep, and suddenly I'd be woken up by a bucket's worth of freezing water thrown on me. They asked the same questions again and again. Who is this new leader? What are his plans? Why were you above Nabol? Why did you rescue E'sere? What is he planning?" She lets out a slow breath, though her eyes remain open and fixed on the harpers. "They started with a few slaps. A punch here. He never let me hear him tell them to do it. He would tell them they knew the schedule for the day, to play nice, and leave. Kicks to the ribs came next. Then lashes. Then the broken fingers. The nails. The shoulder. At first, he kept them from doing more than that. More than simple torture. As time wore on and I didn't give him answers...he 'didn't watch' the guards as closely. Last came the rapes, once I was too weak and injured to fight back. Finally, out of the blue, they took me out. He was sending me home, he said, as a warning and an example to rest of the exiles." She looks to the dragons, voice going softer. "It was Vianeth, she says. And," she concludes, looking to Kazimir, "I was returning the boy because he didn't impress. We'd taken a few boys from the mainland rather than risk hatchlings dying for lack of choice."
Tialith> Chiavelth's voice is soft, subtle, but not lacking in confidence. Vianeth, she says simply, providing a sense of the gold's mind, an image.
The little weyrwoman nods as Vianeth in mentioned. "Chiavelth says the same, Tialith says she isn't lying." She looks, now, to B'sano.
The name is added prominently to the top of the page, along with his hold of origin, as Ysidro continues meticulous, if messy, note-taking. Everything that follows is written down, too, studied with a careful eye before he looks back to Cassiel. "You told S'lien nothing?" he asks then, more quietly himself. "Where did they keep Chiavelth throughout this, and did she have any further contact with other dragons? And--" a glance down again, checking, then back to the greenrider, frowning still "--we need to know about these guards. You say S'lien never explicitly told them in your hearing that they were to injure you? Did you ever catch a name, or anything identifying about these guards--where they were from, information about their backgrounds or other relations... Physical descriptions of each of them, and which acts they individually participated in. We need to find them, and speak with them, and the more we know the easier that will be."
Roa's glance gets B'sano's attention and he returns her look, mouth thin, with a single nod. Then Telgar's former weyrleader looks to the harpers - to Kazimir, more than Ysidro, though the younger master seems to have the questioning in hand.
"Let's deprive you of food, water, and sleep for a week with some irregular beatings and see if you can name exactly who did what and when, Master Ysidro," Cassiel replies, voice as cold and bitter as the air around them. "Chiavelth says she was in an old weyr. I told S'lien nothing. One of the guards was named Karel; I don't know the rest. They were guards. One bald, two with dark hair, one blond. Built like guards. It was usually either too dark to see well, or they brought so many glows I was almost blinded. They all participated. In all of it."
Cassiel's crispness has R'vain going stiff and dark all over again, his gaze hauled away from J'lor to the greenrider and then to the klah cradled in his elbow. His nostrils flare. And flare again, once with each breath. His mouth twists and his jaw tenses, but he says nothing.
"If you might let Chiavelth transmit what images you have of these men to the other dragons here?" Roa asks quietly. "High Reaches has guards who might be able to assist in locating them, or at least getting the word out. And B'sano could keep a lookout at Telgar for them."
B'sano, on his name, offers up a nod and dry voice. "Assuming I - well." A glance at Roa; he had been watching Cassiel somewhat and Ysidro a great deal, before. "I will do my best."
"I don't expect," Ysidro notes briskly, "every detail, but the more of them you can give me, the more likely we'll be able to track them down. Could you identify them again if you saw them, or heard their voices?" Pause. Scribble, scribble. "An old weyr in Telgar Weyr? They brought her food? How did they keep someone from seeing her and you when she arrived, and when you left again? Did you leave from Telgar's bowl?" A nod to Roa then, acknowledgment of the woman's words. "Ideally, we could have an artist make a sketch from those images...?" he suggests. And, to B'sano, only a look is given, and not a very pleased one, even by Ysidro's brusque standards.
"We left from the bowl. She hardly ate. And Chiavelth, being a dragon, doesn't remember a whole lot about her time there," Cassiel replies, sounding increasingly irritated with the questions. "I might be able to recognize the voices. I couldn't be sure I'd get it right by sight. One eye was often swollen almost shut."
Tialith> Chiavelth provides a few fuzzy images. As Cassiel noted, they're blurred with trauma and with flickering shadows, not to mention the constructions of the mind to protect itself.
"Then I assume it was night when you left, otherwise certainly /someone/ would have seen?" Ysidro tilts his head slightly, taps his pencil against the pad thoughtfully. "Tell me, please, about your return to the islands now, Cassiel."
Overhead a set of shutters are flung open and one of the hold's residents can be seen shaking out a series of rugs. It is, thankfully, far enough away that at least no people will wind up with a bit of dust and dirt on them. Unless the wind changes. It is, luckily, not being done over where any dragon lurks. The beating of the rug against the hold wall echoes quietly, evenly.
"Even so," growls R'vain, suddenly, "someone shoulda seen. Even in th'dark of dawn. Someone saw. Someone knows." Those freckled nostrils flare and it's B'sano now he fixes his gaze on, eyes widening so the fire in them can burn uninhibited. "Telgar ain't even /asked,/" he determines of a sudden, the thuppery sounds of the rug-beating convenient and timely background to his gravely, quiet outburst.
"It was night," Cassiel nods. "And we returned to the islands afterwards. I didn't tell S'lien what he wanted to know, and you're not getting any further information about our islands, either."
"Telgar hasn't been asked," B'sano says suddenly, his mild reply for the Reachian Weyrleader; and while he does not posture in any way to defend his response, outside the courtyard gates Meleoth's wings span a little wider, his gargoyle pose stretched a little stiffer. "And if it were, what would be answered? A green dragon left the Weyr in the night." He does not trouble himself to explain the insignificance presumed in such a witnessing.
"Cassiel," J'lor's chide is quiet, gentle, but a chastisement none the less.
Ysidro gives R'vain a look, thoughtful, for a moment. Then, a glance back to Cassiel, lips pursing. "J'lor?" he calls on the bluerider instead, when the other exile refuses. "I'd like to know in what condition Cassiel arrived on your islands, who else was present to see her return, which healers attended to her afterward, and what they determined then."
The bluerider nods once. "A sizable portion of the island was present. Some of the weyrlings. Some others. Chiavelth crashed on the beach, nearly starved, her thoughts frantic. Her color was terrible. Cassiel was..." he swallows sharply. "There was not a single piece of her that was not damaged in some way. We have a woman who was a healer on the mainland, and she saw to Cassiel. Her ribs were broken, her nose, her fingers. There were blisters on her feet that had to be lanced. Her ribs were broken and had to be set. Her shoulder had been dislocated, her hands were a bloody mess. There were bruises on her face and her..." There is a brief glance towards Cassiel, a hint of apology for what comes next, "...breasts and thighs. Dried blood and some fresh on her thighs as well. Lash marks on her back. Bite marks on her neck. We treated her as best we could. There was nothing else to do at that point."
B'sano, disapproved of by Ysidro and affected by J'lor's testimony where perhaps he was not by Cassiel's, examines the ground before his feet.
Kazimir keeps on watching Cassiel. Perhaps her reactions to J'lor's words are fodder for the notes taken in his mind.
Cassiel remains still and silent, adjusting the fit of her coat to keep it closer around herself against the cold.
"And the names, please, J'lor?" requests Ysidro, though his rough voice is quieted as well. "As many as you can recall--the more named witnesses we have and can speak with to confirm what you saw, the stronger your case. Did this healer... Was she able to make any sort of record of the treatment--documentation? I realize--" a glance to Cassiel "--that that would be far from your first concern, but."
"No," is J'lor's quiet response. "No names, we took no records. We haven't many hides and it didn't occur to us that it might be necessary. I could have the healer write a statement, if you like."
Ysidro is silent a moment, studying J'lor, tapping his pencil against the pad. "That would suffice, in lieu of anything else," he finally answers, with a nod, though his eyes stray to Roa. "It would be better, admittedly, if we could speak with her personally to gather an immediate firsthand account from a healer's view, but." His shoulders lift slightly, then, he looks down again. "I think that satisfies me, though, for the time being. If anyone else has any questions?"
Roa meets Ysidro's gaze, but offers nothing more in return except for her attention but this: "Perhaps, when this goes to trial, it could be discussed."
"If it goes to trial," provides Kazimir, predictably. The Masterharper then rises, scootching himself forward so his feet meet the ground and he can get up from his chair. "If the healers have no further questions, and if Telgar is satisfied?" That immeasurable little look of his lands on B'sano a moment, then drifts outward to the pale bronze posed past the courtyard gates. "I believe we have held our guests long enough. Cassiel, and J'lor." And now the short Harper from Keroon goes shuffling over toward the bluerider. He stops just barely too short to offer a hand. "Thank you."
The bluerider looks, for a moment, simply surprised. But his hand lifts and settles around the Harper's. "Kazimir," he offers in return, "my thanks as well."
R'vain practically bolts three long-legged paces forward as he gets a grip on what the Masterharper's doing. "You," is all the Weyrleader gets out, because you don't go on and growl that Kazimir can't go walking up to someone the likes of J'lor to say thanks and good-bye. So the bronzerider just tucks his lower lip under furious teeth, rolls it back out, and looks down at Roa, then over at Neiran and Ceregar for their pronouncement.
Ysidro, after nodding once more to Roa, remains seated to study Kazimir's back a moment, then settles about putting his things up before he rises as well and heads over to J'lor. If the Masterharper won't, Ysidro will: he offers his hand to the bluerider, along with a small, very rare smile. "Good to see you again, J'lor. Take care of yourself, and the rest of them, out there." Pause. "And give E'sere my best, please." R'vain's outburst? Thoroughly ignored.
Cassiel nods to those gathered, offering the faintest of smile's in Roa's direction, before turning and climbing back up onto Chiavelth. No more is said by the greenrider, nor no further acknowledgments made.
Neiran is, predictably, bearing a passive expression. His Master's hand has been still on his shoulder this whole time, though his face has shown his reactions to the turns of events more visibly. The woeful frown of an older man newly dismayed by the world has predominated, though when R'vain looks at him, he schools his expression into one of polite interest, as though someone had bumped into him. Pardon me? Is something amiss? Healer Hall is going to stay out of this tangle of etiquette.
The weyrwoman returns that tiny smile and then pushes slowly into a stand. Tialith uncurls, yawns, and stretches as much as the space will allow. She looks suddenly to R'vain as her rider does. As he has his little moment. Her brows are raised and Roa looks, simply, surprised.
The bluerider glances over towards the weyrleader, a single brow arched high. Him! "I do not think exile is contagious, R'vain," J'lor chides languidly. "And I'd like, before we depart, a brief word. If I may."
No one in the cothold makes any move to come out say goodbye. No one, likely, has any indication things are being wrapped up. The rub beating stopped long ago and the window was closed once more. This left just the occasional shout of children at play to be heard by those outside. The shadows by the hold door might have darkened on occasion, but it remained half open as it had since before their arrival. Perhaps it's just some weird custom of the people here.
It's a good thing Ruvoth will be carrying the Healers home (respectively to the Hall and the Weyr) and not the harpers, because there's a real chance that his somewhat ruddy expression would, with Harper company, translate to a lecture of the 'do you have no common sense at all' variety. Neiran's blank politesse wins points by distraction. "We should get ready, S'pose." And he prowls over to put the cup, having drunk no klah, down by the pot-- then turns, because J'lor's spoken to him. Something sort of strangly tumbles around in the back of his throat, but a jerk of a nod agrees and toward the bluerider, R'vain prowls next.
As the meeting breaks up, Chiavelth takes off, circling three times before disappearing between.
At J'lor's words, Ysidro takes a couple of steps back from the bluerider to give him room to speak, while the harper listens attentively.
Ysidro receives, for his listening, a long look from the bluerider. "Privacy, man," he says quietly as R'vain approaches.
Right, /that/ makes R'vain look less tense. In the way that wrapping a rope around his neck and hauling his chin up by it would.
Kazimir, more trusting (?) than Ysidro - certainly moreso than the Reachian Weyrleader - nods to J'lor, having said all he had to say, and turns to shuffle off toward Tialith.
The request has gotten the weyrwoman's attention and she stops, in her movement towards Tialith, to look over her shoulder. But then she turns away and moves more quickly towards the queen to adjust her straps and make sure she's ready for the harpers once they're ready to depart.
B'sano, for his part, is torn: Chiavelth is his first charge, Vellath his second. In the end he considers the latter, evidently, more in need of escort, and goes to mount up Meleoth, slow about it.
"We'll await you by your bronze, Weyrleader," Ceregar calls to R'vain blithely, smiling, at last removing his hand from Neiran's shoulder. He looks slightly down at the younger man, and wordlessly the two turn to leave the courtyard, their role here finished. More pertinently, though, it gives them time alone, to discuss what's just occurred. Or perhaps not just that, judging by the smile on Ceregar's face, and the way he holds Neiran at arm's length and then swoops in to steal a brief hug, when they're but figures near the man's bronze. Whatever they're saying is inaudible, but the Journeyman is actively regarding his toes.
Ysidro's look is a just a little sulky--he's a harper after all! he should be included!--as he turns to slip back toward Roa. While he doesn't, at least, linger to eavesdrop further, he makes no rush toward Tialith, his pace slow and measured; he's rather blatantly not ready to go just yet.
Once there is a bit of space between himself and everyone but R'vain, the bluerider steps forward. A hand had tucked into his pocket, but now both reach forward to clasp one of the red-haired weyrleader's paws into a firm handshake. It is one R'vain will have to go significantly out of his way to avoid, as J'lor seems quite intent on giving it. His words, what few of them there are, are soft.
J'lor murmurs very quietly, "I'm sorry. I don't think I ought to give it to her directly. Riann, by the way, is lovely." Pressed against R'vain's palm is a thick clump of folded hides. A letter made dense by folding it small enough to fit into a palm.
"Oh." R'vain has no voice soft enough to be that inaudible, but he accepts the handshake, and in a moment returns it with both hands clasped in return around the bluerider's. His expression is serious, and his brows sink a little, but when he pulls his paws back from the other man he keeps them clasped before him, like a boy just chastised. "...A'right," he adds, and when he turns around he's got a paw in his jacket and the other busy trying to resettle the way the leather hangs across his shoulders, tromping off toward Ruvoth and the waiting Healers without another word.
"Ah, J'lor? One last question, and I'll let you be." Ysidro is almost to Tialith now, but he reveals the reason for his delaying in his pause to ask that final thing of the other man once he and R'vain end their little private discussion. Bland-faced, studying the bluerider's expression instead of offering his own, he asks, "Has anything of this nature ever happened to one of your people before?"
J'lor, his words delivered to R'vain, begins to head back out of the courtyard, but then he pauses and turns, studying Ysidro in silence for a long moment. "You live at Harper, do you not? You have access to the archives there. You can find your own answer to that question. Good night and good to see you again." He looks, then, over to where Roa waits, restless, for the harpers. "Weyrwoman," he murmurs, and the title holds no more than a tease. "Clear skies to you." Then he's through the door, and in moments another dragon glides upwards to join Chiavelth.
The weyrwoman in question blinks slowly at that address. Then she shakes her head, eyes rolling and shoots her weyrleader, rather than the bluerider he spoke to, a quizzical glance. But questions must wait for later. She busies herself scrambling up Tialith and settling Kazimir as she waits on Ysidro.
"Good night, J'lor," Ysidro lifts a hand after the man, then turns back to Roa to be escorted home. Though, he has a few remarks for her, too, noting easily, "Thank you for bringing me along, weyrwoman--good to see you again, too. Though, I imagine my wife is getting anxious to have me home for dinner--you should join us, perhaps, if you've the time." The invitation slipped in easily as he turns to the dragon, mounting himself to be returned to the Hall.
There's B'sano's cue: on it, Meleoth leaps skyward, and like the exiles before him, is gone.
"That's very kind of you, but I cannot tonight," the weyrwoman murmurs regretfully, "Tialith is a little worn and I have engagements at the weyr. Sometime soon, though, I should enjoy that. Thank you." With that, once all are settled and aboard, Tialith too launches into the sky and vanishes.
With the meeting clearly over, Hanrey appears. Again he leads some of the hold's older children out and they will, as unobtrusively as possible, begin to gather chairs and beverages unpartaken of. None of them speak or even really look at those who linger before departing.
Time: Evening on Day 4, Month 3, Turn 3
Players: Roa, R'vain, J'lor, Cassiel, Neiran, Ceregar (NPCed by Neiran), Kazimir (NPCed by Benden), Ysidro (NPCed by E'sere), B'sano (NPCed by Benden), Clery (NPCed by Miniyal), various sneaky holder-folk (NPCed by Miniyal)
Scene: Cassiel and J'lor come from the island to give their statements.
Clery's cothold is a whole lot of nothing. Whatever its importance is, it's impossible to tell by looking at it. What it is, is out of the way. Nestled near the base of a mountain, but with outer courtyard clinging to a cliffside it provides a nice convenient out of the way place for those with secret purposes to meet. Although it is doubtful enough truly know about it for it to have been used in the past.
The hold proper is small, looking to house maybe a family or two outside the extended one which run it. The courtyard, large enough for a couple dragons so long as they'll share space well is empty. The hold in general seems empty. Perhaps whatever schedule they run on here has them all away somewhere. There is space enough amidst the sparse trees for dragons to rest. But this far up the treeline is rapidly approaching.
Actually, if it were not for the sounds of barking dogs somewhere inside it would seem entirely deserted. Well, and plumes of smoke that rise, likely, from the chimneys indicating where the kitchen is located. Surely the arrivals are expected. Surely the dates were made clear. Surely.
This is, at any rate, the fervent hope of the rider clinging to a gold dragon that winks into the air from between, he icy wind blowing off her wingsails to mingle with the slightly warmer spring air above the mountains and the tiny cothold below. Tialith circles once, as Roa twists to look over her shoulder at the pair of passengers from Harper Hall that ride with her. The gold does a full aerial circle around the courtyard before swooping down to land with a heavier thump than usual. Being gravid does not do much for one's grace and poise. Settled, the queen crouches and extends a forearm. The weyrwoman quickly undoes her own straps so that she can turn around to assist the harpers with theirs.
Ruvoth pops out of *between* and soars loose on the air for a while as his rider scouts below, thus far without a word to the healers behind him. He has only a moment to squint, to decide-- but Tialith's presence is spotted quickly and a slap of hand upside banal neck tells the bronze to catch himself on a beat of his wings and start for the ground. Like Tialith, he lands in the courtyard, kneeling low instantly and with more grace than his mate so R'vain, with a grunted, "We're here," can twist around to offer a hand down to his passengers.
Waving off Roa's help, Ysidro moves to unfasten himself; he's done this a fair few times before, and slides down without any real trouble to take his first good look around the cothold. That look, plainly, is unimpressed, and his lips purse, but he says nothing and instead waits stiffly on the rest of the party to arrive by Tialith's side, turning to observe Ruvoth's landing but not offering his own greeting just yet. He's been notably quiet throughout the trip so far.
Meleoth strives in this, as in all things, to be beautiful. The arch of his wings dives through the sky straight out of the black nothing, cold and darkness cloying about his sails. He semi-circles one wide arc toward the ground and lands not within but just before the courtyard, head high, neck arched. He is a pale bronze and a large one, mature and certain, glorious. His rider's... just this guy, see. He pries open the buckles of his straps and half-twists to make certain of the arrivals, green and blue, that should be following.
Chiavelth appears high in the sky - higher, in truth, than is advised for most riders and dragons. A mere speck of pale green in the blue sky, she circles a number of times, slowly, before diving suddenly to a lower level. From there, she circles a few more times, surveying the area closely. Between her ridges, Cassiel hunches close to the green's neck, her inspection every bit as careful. Yet the pair doesn't land. Instead: << We will land in the courtyard, >> Chiavelth announces, the implication that someone is going to have to make space clear.
One of R'vain's passengers readily accepts the Weyrleader's assistance, a smiling white-haired man bearing a Master Healer's knot somewhere beneath the thick layers adopted for between. "Thank you, Weyrleader," Ceregar quips, finding his way down the bronze's side with little difficulty to land with both feet on the ground, inhaling the mountainous spring air with gusto, while Journeyman Neiran still struggles out of the straps. "Your assistance is not required," he murmurs softly to the Weyrleader, despite all appearances to the contrary - and he gracelessly succeeds in freeing himself and getting down on his own. On solid ground, he picks at his own coverings adorned for between, expressionlessly staring at the grass while his Master folds his arms across his chest and takes in the air, both waiting for the riders to lead the way, in their own fashion.
A blue speck appears, lower and larger, near where the smaller green plunges down. He flanks her, keeping close and following her circling, but as she is yet to land, neither does he make any move to do so. He shadows her, the tips of the blues wide and swirling wings nearly brushing Chiavelth's.
That might be a shadow that breaks off from the larger shadow near the entrance to the hold. Some sleek of foot hold child sent to fetch the holder when dragons started to arrive. It might have been, but it's impossible to tell really. There's still no movement from within or without except for those who arrive. Well, that is not entirely true. Overhead one of the windows is open and in the fluttering of a curtain there is the suggestion of someone. More than one someones really. Likely more of those hold children who have never seen but a blue or green, if that, coming here on Search.
Kazimir waits for Ysidro to be clear of the path, then makes his puttering, softspoken way down Tialith's gravid side. Softspoken because he talks himself through it, muttering all the way about how he could have, with a little polite notice, have taken a runner out here, it's not so far nor so high nor the weather so bad, and really, this is an awful lot of trouble, this queen (with a pat for her shoulder lest he offend her) should be at home getting some rest. Finally his shoes hit the ground and he shuffles over to the other harper's side, falling silent, mouth pursed.
Ruvoth would be the one making room for Chiavelth, once the healers have made their way to the ground and the Weyrleader's followed them, his boots hitting the ground with heavy thumps. The bronze slinks off after that, leaving his rider and guests to fend for themselves as he himself pins back his wings and takes up a place tight against the courtyard wall.
Standing near Tialith, the weyrwoman looks up, a hand over her eyes as a large bronze shape and then two smaller ones appear. "There they are," she murmurs and the gold crans her neck high and croons up towards one of the three shapes. It's not clear who until her glowing gaze follows Meleoth as he descends. Roa looks back towards the two harpers and then over towards the weyrleader and his slinking dragon. Tialith does not move. She has landed. No more moving is required of her.
Once Ruvoth has moved aside, Chiavelth circles once more before finally winging in to land. The small green has little difficulty alighting in the cramped space, tucking her wings close once she's reached the ground. Once she has, Cassiel pulls her battered helmet from her head, tucking it and gloves into her belt while still mounted. A cautious gaze takes in those gathered, and with a deep breath, she dismounts in a single, smooth motion, walking towards the center of what should be a clear space even after another dragon lands. "Cassiel," she says simply, voice pitched to carry. "Green Chiavelth's."
B'sano watches the smaller dragons come into view, downwing for the courtyard, and land. Meleoth watches too, rearing up now his rider's gained footing on the ground, spanning his wings. The pale bronze becomes a statue like so, his rider completely in shadow - until B'sano heaves a great sigh and treads on through the gates. "B'sano," he calls out, since Cassiel's set the tone. "Meleoth's, of Telgar Weyr."
There is no more room in the courtyard and this is a problem for the circling blue. To land means to let the green out of his sight, and to stay aloft means, well, not landing, which his rider is insisting he do. After a few more times circling the courtyard, the blue lands just outside, the sounds he makes unhappy. The long, lean rider that jogs through the doorway moments later is pulling his own worn helmet off his head, dark eyes looking around at those gathered. "J'lor," he says with a faint quirk of his mouth. "Vellath's."
It is not until all have landed and it seems everyone has gathered that an old man appears. He leans on the arm of a much younger man, familial resemblance likely making the young man the grandson Clery has designated his heir. Their steps are slow and Clery has a bit of a limp to him that his grandson compensates for easily. The lad is somewhere in his early teens, or at least appears so, with neatly trimmed brown hair to match the mustache, neatly trimmed as well, that he wears. Clery's hair is white as is the beard and mustache he wears. Both of them have the same sort of startling blue eyes possessed by Corin and Miniyal. For those who know them.
Clery and his grandson hang back, waiting to see if they'll be approached or if it is their duty to approach. Either way they'll not interfere until receiving some sign that they should. If the modest little cothold's keepers are overly awed by the company come calling they give no outward sign.
"R'vain, High Reaches," rumbles the Weyrleader in question, trying not at all to be audible all up and down the length of the courtyard, and in fact giving B'sano a bit of a cross look for his having done so. Cassiel, he doesn't yet look toward at all. The red man half-turns instead to offer a paw out to the healers, maybe suggesting they introduce themselves, or else start walking, so that maybe this convention can-- convene.
As the introductions begin, Ysidro looks rather bored, tapping one foot impatiently--he's familiar with pretty much everyone present, at the very least in name. Still, he does offer a brusque, "Master Ysidro," even while he glances toward the doors.
"And," pipes up the Masterharper, perfectly happy to be outdone, "Kazimir." Evidently he feels no need to mention anything else about himself. He turns his head aside and glances at Ysidro, expression briefly a little surprised (are you here? so you are) and after that busies his eyes with flittery little looks all around the Hold. Very low, for Ysidro alone, he does note, "It might seem we're intended to keep a little company with the holder today."
"Master Ceregar," the healer remarks, sweeping a hand through salt-and-pepper hair while he follows in R'vain's wake. That introduction is echoed by a less audible, "Journeyman Neiran," as the younger of the healer pair follows in turn in the wake of his Master. Ceregar's warm hazel eyes take in the other attendees as if this were a picnic they were having, and there some prize for remembering names and faces and making the most friends. At the very least, his bearing and the calmer set of his mouth gives the scenario the dignity it surely deserves. Neiran, too, takes in those assembled, but more surreptitiously than greedily, always one step behind and to the right of Ceregar, hands hidden in his sleeves. Except for when they appear to fix windblown hair when he thinks no one is looking.
"Roa," the weyrwoman offers, her attention sliding over towards Cassiel and most decidedly nowhere near her blueriding companion. "High Reaches. Tialith's." She takes a small step away from the gold and her shadow. "Are we all assembled, then?" She turns her attention to B'sano and offers him a low nod, but it is to the Masterharper that she speaks. "What is the most prudent way to proceed with this, would you say? Ah. But, perhaps we should all head inside, first."
Even in her battered, decade-old riding gear, Cassiel is badly underdressed for the winter of the Northern Continent. Still, she gives no indication of discomfort from the chill, standing with her weight mostly on one foot. "If no one's going to die of hypothermia here, I think I'd prefer to stay outside," she says with a dip of her chin towards Roa. There is, perhaps oddly, the faintest hint of a smile when she looks to the young Weyrwoman, but it's soon schooled away again, gaze flicking between those gathered.
All the attention Roa's not giving J'lor, R'vain will provide instead. After his gaze goes passing green over all of the crafters and exiles arrived, he settles his focus on the bluerider, eyes a little narrow, a little twitching. "Th'dragons can't go in," he observes in a low growl. "Don't matter t'me we stay out, or don't."
When it might seem appropriate then, Clery and his grandson approach High Reaches' leaders. He falls under their care and so he'll have his words with them and allow the others to await this at least. "Greetings." His voice is clear and crisp like the air up here with no signs age has diminished that at least, even if his body shows some signs of wear and tear. "Only have the one room, I fear, large enough. Got people out working." Doing what? He doesn't say. He either assumes people know or don't care. "Hanrey here will see to anything you need while here. Got the hall cleared and he'll remain outside away from the door." Hanrey makes a half bow, as best he can while providing the support his grandfather seems to need. And pauses before moving since it seems they might be meeting outside. So he hesitates, but his grandfather shakes his arm so he just shrugs. If they want to meet outside so be it. "If you require anything just raise your voice." Offered in a deep booming voice that hints it has only just settled down from puberty. Unless bidden to stop the pair turn and make their way back towards the hold doors.
To Kazimir, Ysidro murmurs in return, "I'd rather just get on with what we came here for." Still, for all his glances to the doorway, his always-impatient manner, when Cassiel speaks up, he nods once, acquiescing easily. "Some chairs would be appreciated," he does remark, but that's his only request for the moment.
To the cotholders, R'vain drops just a nod. The Harper Master's remark gets his support with only this-- "We'd be 'bliged."
"Whatever that is," says Kazimir, voice in full spacey-old-fellow mode, soft and aside to Ysidro, eyes elsewhere, any number of elsewheres - Cassiel, J'lor, those shadows in the courtyard that moved and then stopped moving. "I wonder."
"I think we'd like," says B'sano, letting his unimpressive voice take over a moment's silence, ringing through the cold, "to begin with the representatives of Healer Hall. Cassiel," and here the former weyrleader of Telgar inclines her a hesitant but respectful nod, "I believe they'll have questions; as do we." Strangely 'we' bears a significant look at Roa.
Ceregar's brow lifts, as does the corner of his mouth in a mild smile of amusement that's directed at Cassiel when she announces her preference of the outdoors. Before Clery can depart, the old holder is given a fuller smile, with all sincerity. "Thank you," he says with a nod, a less gravely echo to R'vain. The Master folds his arms comfortably again, focusing on B'sano. As it seems they'll be in the limelight first, he looks over his shoulder towards Neiran. Neiran seems surprised to be looked at just then, and his gaze goes to Roa, brows up.
Hanrey is not allowed to pause his steps because Clery is underway. So he just looks over his shoulder. "Chairs will be brought right out, sir." Addressed to R'vain and not to any harper. They'll make of it what they will. Still, the holders make their way back inside and eventually Hanrey, leading a few of the older young children, appear with chairs and even a small table to set down pitchers and mugs with what will be discovered to be klah. Should anyone partake of it. Once things are set up they are off again and it's quiet and still once more. Other than those dogs. And the curtains above where children continue to try to peek out at dragons and the people they were all told to stay away from. The shadows settle down, none breaking off or reappearing. Although the doorway to the hold leaves a convenient space for someone to stand. As do a few other corners of the courtyard. But all is still, yes. Even in the shadows.
"Is that?" J'lor queries coolly, "what we would like?" He looks over at B'sano, features bland, brows lifted just a little. And then he turns away and approaches Cassiel, his tone and features gentling as he does so. "Healers first. What do you think? It's all right?"
Ah. Looked at. Roa looks back and then towards the greenrider, offering a small smile of her own. "Outside, then," she agrees softly, pushing her hands down into her pockets and leaning back against Tialith's flank. And then, as everyone seems to be looking at her, she peers back at Neiran and then B'sano. "I'm not sure it particularly matters if the healers or the harpers go first. Whatever-" but J'lor has already spoken and the goldrider only nods slightly. Yes. What he said.
"Healers first sounds fine," Cassiel says to both J'lor and Roa, though her glance to the former is more reassuring before she turns to look towards the pair of healers. "I'm not sure what you expect to be able to see of broken bones some months later. Bit of scarring from other things. And some things don't leave marks on a body." Dispassionate, she starts to shrug out of her jacket, rolling up her sleeves to reveal some pink scar tissue around her wrists, and a puckered scar in the center of each hand.
"We would like," remarks Kazimir in a somewhat sweetened tone, as if he's about to describe the delightful colors of distant dragons in a cloudless sky, "to acquire evidence toward truth." All of a sudden his focus finds J'lor. The moment is fleeting. After that he's looking down at his feet. "Perhaps we can go sit down, Master Ysidro. I think there must be something to drink in that pot. We can listen to the healers - " He looks up then, and this time it's Cassiel who falls under his brief, natterly scrutiny. "I suppose we might have more questions after that's done than before."
"Of course, Master," Ysidro tells Kazimir with a nod; he's already moving to seat himself. The drinks, though, are ignored in favor of pulling out the generously sized notebook he's included in his bag, and watching the healers and Cassiel raptly.
"We appreciate y'help," says R'vain, awkward as a two-legged stool, finally getting a look pinned on Cassiel as she starts revealing old wounds. Then another look at J'lor, and this is easier to do. "It matters." Roa gets his gaze then and from her he flicks a heavy look at the chairs, offering her one with a lift and fall of one broad shoulder. The healers are left to their devices, safe enough with so many to guard her-- or them.
Ceregar waits for everyone to seem in agreement, and then turns to make a gesture at Neiran that suggests he step forward. Neiran obeys, silently approaching Cassiel. The greenrider is given a nod of greeting, and he murmurs, "my pardon." The pardon is apparently for the near-touch of his hand as it hovers under Cassiel's extended wrist, as Neiran stoops somewhat to examine it. Without having moved from his spot, Ceregar announces, "I was told that we are here to verify that her injuries were received not by accident or by some foul play other than what is being indicated...is there something else we should be attempting to do? I imagine we could discern a window of time in which the injuries were sustained," he offers, spreading his palms wide, open to discussion.
J'lor takes a step backwards with a small nod. He'll stay as near to Cassiel as he's allowed, arms crossing over his chest, eyes watchful. But he holds his tongue.
"Nails," Cassiel informs Neiran flatly. "It would be a bit unusual to get a nail through each palm. Not to mention, these were ripped out through the heads. As in the nail stayed in the wood." There's an almost clinical detachment to her description, gaze on the young journeyman. "There were a lot of broken ribs. You'll forgive me if I didn't keep a good count, I hope. One shoulder repeatedly dislocated. Broken nose. Broken fingers," she adds, while her hands are displayed.
It's not until after Cassiel has volunteered these notes for the healers that Telgar's sole representative here speaks. "Timeframe," says B'sano, heavily, resigned, "would be very helpful."
The weyrwoman looks over towards the healers and then towards the offered chair. Her fingers splay wide on her dragon's hide and for a moment, it seems as if she might refuse to sit in order to stay beside Tialith. But then she pushes herself straight, pads over to the chair and settles, ankles crossed, her figure nearly swallowed up in her heavy winter coat. She ducks her head down, the lower portion of her face hidden against her collar, as Cassiel speaks.
Ysidro has, apparently, designated himself notetaker for the day, since he's without his usual pair of journeyman minions. He's scribbling down just about everything said, a scrambled account that's probably nonsensical to anyone but him--it has been, after all, a while since he's had to do this himself. While his pencil flies across the hides, he shoots glances up to watch the goings-on intently as well.
Kazimir watches, reflective; his gaze is idle, sometimes unfocused, like his mind might wander to other places and times. But he has no hides, no stylus. If the sanctity of his mind remains unweathered by age, he would, somewhat famously, have no need of notes.
R'vain has run out of words, after so few. He stalks stiffly around the back of the chairs, his mouth drooping, to the klah; he'll be the first, evidently, to pour a cup. He takes that over and stands just behind Roa's shoulder with it, for all appearances just using the stuff to warm his paws.
Ceregar frowns when Cassiel speaks mechanically of her injuries, but has presence of mind to nod at B'sano. Neiran's eyes dart over the scar tissue laid bare, studying still while Cassiel details her trials. "Fortunately there was no longitudinal splitting in the collateral ligament structures which could have allowed complete dorsal displacement of the middle phalanx." That is murmured to himself, as his hovering hand, palm-up, drifts down once again and he straightens. More pertinently, and audibly, Ceregar asks, "and your ribs have completely healed? Two months have passed, then, at least. More for many and overall trauma. Neiran, how are the scars?" The thin healer looks away from Cassiel's hand, to his Master. "It is not hypertrophic. Appearance is indicative of initial phases of scarring." Interpreting this, Ceregar lifts his eyes to Cassiel, pity there whether the greenrider would wish it or not. "Are there any other scars you could show us? It would help in creating a time frame."
A noise breaks through the serious, disturbing conversation. The dogs have long ceased their barking, but from that open window comes laughter, as if the children have grown bored at peeking at adults who only talk and have taken up their games once more.
Cassiel nods to the healer, withdrawing her hand and lifting the back of her shirt to reveal a latticework of lash marks. Some are fading away, but others look as though they'll leave more lasting scars. She shivers, her only concession to the chill. "There was sleep, food, and light deprivation as well," she notes in that same, toneless voice. "General bruises from beatings. And the rapes." Chiavelth, more indicative of the greenrider's feelings on her matter than her voice, moves forward, hovering even as J'lor does.
One of R'vain's hands parts from his cup of klah to find the back of Roa's chair. His knuckles tighten there and he leans a little into his arm, but his Weyrwoman's likely to be the only person present to recognize more than maybe a stiff lower back in the gesture. For her, there's the shaking she might feel through his paw, lightly trembling the chair-back.
The bluerider's crossed arms tighten and his back shoves straight in a manner that he and his daughter both share. Irritation aligns the spine in this family. His jaw tightens and as J'lor cannot help but glare while the healers and Cassiel speak, he bows his head so that his booted feet are the only recipients of his displeasure.
The weyrwoman only shifts in her chair a little bit, perhaps to make herself more comfortable. It is probably only coincidence that the readjustment has the back of one shoulder oh-so-lightly resting against R'vain's clenched knuckles. Mostly hidden in her coat, Roa watches in silence.
Now is when Ceregar approaches, his age at last showing in the depth of the grooves that appear on his face when he frowns. Hazel eyes flick over the marks there, and there's silent communication between Journeyman and Master when they look at one another. Ceregar takes the initiative to nod gravely at the young woman, affording her some measure of increased respect because of what she's been through. "Thank you. You may lower your shirt." To the assembled crew, he looks - face still lined. "I can confidently state that this woman was sorely abused - I do not think that further examination is necessary to prove it; I think all would agree that it is self-evident. Judging by what she has shown us, her injuries were sustained between three to five months ago." Neiran retreats to his master's side, though his eyes remain on Cassiel, his lips a thin, drawn line. Ceregar turns to the Harpers. "Will more be required from Healer?"
It might be that Kazimir turns a glance on Ysidro, on this. Perhaps that the note be taken is essential, in this one small case. But the Masterharper is quiet, and in the end he's looking longer on the Reachian weyrleaders than anyone else.
"I find it hard to believe that - " B'sano, however, falls short there, tightening his mouth. His gaze strays from Cassiel to J'lor and, evidently unable to keep his regard -there- for long, looks on Ceregar. He swallows, fitting helpless hands into his pockets. "Harper would be best able to answer that, I imagine."
Cassiel lets her shirt down as Ceregar speaks, shrugging back into her battered, worn jacket with some alacrity. Chilled by the cold air, she also tugs on her gloves again before turning to look towards the Harper pair, chin rising and shoulders straightening ever so slightly.
The bluerider tucks his chin down and then lets it up again in a small nod that's still given only to his shoes. But then he lifts his eyes to study Cassiel, the corners crinkling into something that might be approval or sympathy. Then, to the harpers, "I was there when she returned and I witnessed her wounds being tended. I can speak as well, should it be helpful."
"If you please, sir," Ysidro tells B'sano, decidedly coolly, "belief is not an issue until the trial. Now." He turns back to the two exiles. "Let's start at the beginning, please, Cassiel," he requests then, eyeing his notes a moment, then looking up to study the woman with an intense frown as he flips to a fresh page, pencil poised to begin again. "Tell me everything you remember about the day you were captured. And thank you, J'lor; we'll get to that shortly."
Kazimir inhales, then relaxes his breath with a long sigh. He lifts his chin and regards Cassiel now with what seems to be the entirety of his attention, his aged eyes unsettlingly careful in their sudden focus.
"I was returning one of the boys," Cassiel begins, gaze steady on both Ysidro and Kazimir. "Near Greenfields. We landed about a mile and a half away from the hold, behind the cover of a bit of a hill. Chiavelth stepped over to check out a herd of sheep there while I pointed the boy in the right direction. Whoever it was came up behind me, hit me upside the head. When I woke up, I was naked in a cavern somewhere. I didn't know where at the time. There was no food, no water, and a single, flickering glow."
The Reaches' Weyrleader lets out a thick, angry snort of a sigh through flared nostrils and shoves himself up from Roa's chair, his fingers sliding out from behind her shoulder-- but at least the shuddering's stopped, if his obvious agitation has not. He settles now for crossing his arms, crutching the klah mug against the inside of one elbow, his unhappy mouth drooped into a frown.
"What's the boy's name?" asks Ysidro, pencil pausing its rapid note-taking for a moment to gather that fact. "And Chiavelth saw nothing--did nothing? How was she controlled?" His expression remains concentrated, though not particularly forthcoming with any emotion. "How did your attacker know where to find you?" A pause, then: "How long were you in the area, and on the ground, before you were attacked?" He shoots a sideways look at Roa, to note dryly, "Can Tialith confirm Chiavelth's answers, please?" The irony of that request, in contrast to their last encounter, is not lost of him.
A head pokes out the door, low enough to the ground to be either a child or a very short adult. It peers over at those gathered before a hand reaches out to grab onto the just visible shoulder and pull whomever it was back inside and presumably away from those meeting in the courtyard.
It is not lost on the little weyrwoman either, as her head lifts and a single brow arches. There are so very many things that might be said. So many possible jabs to make. Her lips even part, as if to share one, but then Roa's eyes dart very quickly towards the watchful bluerider and away, and she only nods. "She can. Cassiel? Will you allow it?"
"I don't know the boy's name," Cassiel shakes her head. "Didn't care. J'lor should know," she notes with a glance towards the bluerider. "I got Chiavelth's warning in the same breath as whoever it was grabbed me. She tells me there was a queen who kept her back, and she also tells me she was warned not to speak of it. We were on the ground maybe half an hour, and I don't know how they knew where to find us." She settles a dry look on the harper. "It would help if you could keep questions at least grouped by subject, if you're going to shoot them off rapid-fire," she drawls before looking to Roa, hesitating and then nodding. "You're welcome to try, little one," she murmurs, the appellation slipping out without thought.
"I think it might also be pertinent," says Kazimir, his voice still in space-cadet mode even if his regard has settled down and become quite sharp, "to ask, formally, what the boy was being returned from, and why."
R'vain, upon J'lor's name being spoken, looks at the bluerider all over again. This time there's pale fire in that emerald glare, and a twitch present in his upper lip. Maybe the rage suggested isn't for the bluerider, but it might not be easy to tell.
Automatically, Ysidro looks to J'lor, frowning still while he awaits that answer. To Cassiel, with a hint of apology, he notes, "I spit them out as they come to me, or I forget. Which queen was it that contacted her? Do you have a name, or can you at least describe her... voice so we can identify her ourselves?" Another pause while he scribbles out further notes, finds another page. Then, businesslike: "Now, tell me what you remember of your captivity."
"Pellen," J'lor offers easily in regards to the boy's name. His attention slides away to find, on accident, R'vain's intent and burning stare. He holds the younger man's gaze for several beats, his own offering no more than his attention, and then his eyes must trip down to study Roa. The little one in question, his lips lifting faintly as Cassiel dubs Roa with her childhood nickname. But he remembers himself and drags his gaze away soon enough, back to the Harpers where it belongs.
These subtle looks back and forth, the words unspoken - all are very interesting to the eyes of the healers, though one watches more dourly than the other. Both are equally silent, though Ceregar shifts closer to his old apprentice's side, and raises a hand to place it upon the Journeyman's narrow shoulder. Fingers squeeze once, gently. Neiran straightens his chin, continuing to watch each speaker in turn with detachment written on his features, the Master's hand remaining on his shoulder.
The weyrwoman's chin jerks upright at the nickname and she blinks several times before looking to the coiled and resting Tialith. The gold lifts her own head to watch the little green, a low and quiet rumble leaving her throat and causing small vibrations in the ground around her.
Tialith> To Chiavelth: The gold's touch is reigned n, but there is a weight behind her thoughts. Pressure, honed and contained. I have been asked to listen and to judge. It is a question as well as a statement. The queen, for the moment, seeks permission.
"At first, it was just no food or water, variable light," Cassiel explains wearily. "Then they started playing with sleep. I'd fall asleep, and suddenly I'd be woken up by a bucket's worth of freezing water thrown on me. They asked the same questions again and again. Who is this new leader? What are his plans? Why were you above Nabol? Why did you rescue E'sere? What is he planning?" She lets out a slow breath, though her eyes remain open and fixed on the harpers. "They started with a few slaps. A punch here. He never let me hear him tell them to do it. He would tell them they knew the schedule for the day, to play nice, and leave. Kicks to the ribs came next. Then lashes. Then the broken fingers. The nails. The shoulder. At first, he kept them from doing more than that. More than simple torture. As time wore on and I didn't give him answers...he 'didn't watch' the guards as closely. Last came the rapes, once I was too weak and injured to fight back. Finally, out of the blue, they took me out. He was sending me home, he said, as a warning and an example to rest of the exiles." She looks to the dragons, voice going softer. "It was Vianeth, she says. And," she concludes, looking to Kazimir, "I was returning the boy because he didn't impress. We'd taken a few boys from the mainland rather than risk hatchlings dying for lack of choice."
Tialith> Chiavelth's voice is soft, subtle, but not lacking in confidence. Vianeth, she says simply, providing a sense of the gold's mind, an image.
The little weyrwoman nods as Vianeth in mentioned. "Chiavelth says the same, Tialith says she isn't lying." She looks, now, to B'sano.
The name is added prominently to the top of the page, along with his hold of origin, as Ysidro continues meticulous, if messy, note-taking. Everything that follows is written down, too, studied with a careful eye before he looks back to Cassiel. "You told S'lien nothing?" he asks then, more quietly himself. "Where did they keep Chiavelth throughout this, and did she have any further contact with other dragons? And--" a glance down again, checking, then back to the greenrider, frowning still "--we need to know about these guards. You say S'lien never explicitly told them in your hearing that they were to injure you? Did you ever catch a name, or anything identifying about these guards--where they were from, information about their backgrounds or other relations... Physical descriptions of each of them, and which acts they individually participated in. We need to find them, and speak with them, and the more we know the easier that will be."
Roa's glance gets B'sano's attention and he returns her look, mouth thin, with a single nod. Then Telgar's former weyrleader looks to the harpers - to Kazimir, more than Ysidro, though the younger master seems to have the questioning in hand.
"Let's deprive you of food, water, and sleep for a week with some irregular beatings and see if you can name exactly who did what and when, Master Ysidro," Cassiel replies, voice as cold and bitter as the air around them. "Chiavelth says she was in an old weyr. I told S'lien nothing. One of the guards was named Karel; I don't know the rest. They were guards. One bald, two with dark hair, one blond. Built like guards. It was usually either too dark to see well, or they brought so many glows I was almost blinded. They all participated. In all of it."
Cassiel's crispness has R'vain going stiff and dark all over again, his gaze hauled away from J'lor to the greenrider and then to the klah cradled in his elbow. His nostrils flare. And flare again, once with each breath. His mouth twists and his jaw tenses, but he says nothing.
"If you might let Chiavelth transmit what images you have of these men to the other dragons here?" Roa asks quietly. "High Reaches has guards who might be able to assist in locating them, or at least getting the word out. And B'sano could keep a lookout at Telgar for them."
B'sano, on his name, offers up a nod and dry voice. "Assuming I - well." A glance at Roa; he had been watching Cassiel somewhat and Ysidro a great deal, before. "I will do my best."
"I don't expect," Ysidro notes briskly, "every detail, but the more of them you can give me, the more likely we'll be able to track them down. Could you identify them again if you saw them, or heard their voices?" Pause. Scribble, scribble. "An old weyr in Telgar Weyr? They brought her food? How did they keep someone from seeing her and you when she arrived, and when you left again? Did you leave from Telgar's bowl?" A nod to Roa then, acknowledgment of the woman's words. "Ideally, we could have an artist make a sketch from those images...?" he suggests. And, to B'sano, only a look is given, and not a very pleased one, even by Ysidro's brusque standards.
"We left from the bowl. She hardly ate. And Chiavelth, being a dragon, doesn't remember a whole lot about her time there," Cassiel replies, sounding increasingly irritated with the questions. "I might be able to recognize the voices. I couldn't be sure I'd get it right by sight. One eye was often swollen almost shut."
Tialith> Chiavelth provides a few fuzzy images. As Cassiel noted, they're blurred with trauma and with flickering shadows, not to mention the constructions of the mind to protect itself.
"Then I assume it was night when you left, otherwise certainly /someone/ would have seen?" Ysidro tilts his head slightly, taps his pencil against the pad thoughtfully. "Tell me, please, about your return to the islands now, Cassiel."
Overhead a set of shutters are flung open and one of the hold's residents can be seen shaking out a series of rugs. It is, thankfully, far enough away that at least no people will wind up with a bit of dust and dirt on them. Unless the wind changes. It is, luckily, not being done over where any dragon lurks. The beating of the rug against the hold wall echoes quietly, evenly.
"Even so," growls R'vain, suddenly, "someone shoulda seen. Even in th'dark of dawn. Someone saw. Someone knows." Those freckled nostrils flare and it's B'sano now he fixes his gaze on, eyes widening so the fire in them can burn uninhibited. "Telgar ain't even /asked,/" he determines of a sudden, the thuppery sounds of the rug-beating convenient and timely background to his gravely, quiet outburst.
"It was night," Cassiel nods. "And we returned to the islands afterwards. I didn't tell S'lien what he wanted to know, and you're not getting any further information about our islands, either."
"Telgar hasn't been asked," B'sano says suddenly, his mild reply for the Reachian Weyrleader; and while he does not posture in any way to defend his response, outside the courtyard gates Meleoth's wings span a little wider, his gargoyle pose stretched a little stiffer. "And if it were, what would be answered? A green dragon left the Weyr in the night." He does not trouble himself to explain the insignificance presumed in such a witnessing.
"Cassiel," J'lor's chide is quiet, gentle, but a chastisement none the less.
Ysidro gives R'vain a look, thoughtful, for a moment. Then, a glance back to Cassiel, lips pursing. "J'lor?" he calls on the bluerider instead, when the other exile refuses. "I'd like to know in what condition Cassiel arrived on your islands, who else was present to see her return, which healers attended to her afterward, and what they determined then."
The bluerider nods once. "A sizable portion of the island was present. Some of the weyrlings. Some others. Chiavelth crashed on the beach, nearly starved, her thoughts frantic. Her color was terrible. Cassiel was..." he swallows sharply. "There was not a single piece of her that was not damaged in some way. We have a woman who was a healer on the mainland, and she saw to Cassiel. Her ribs were broken, her nose, her fingers. There were blisters on her feet that had to be lanced. Her ribs were broken and had to be set. Her shoulder had been dislocated, her hands were a bloody mess. There were bruises on her face and her..." There is a brief glance towards Cassiel, a hint of apology for what comes next, "...breasts and thighs. Dried blood and some fresh on her thighs as well. Lash marks on her back. Bite marks on her neck. We treated her as best we could. There was nothing else to do at that point."
B'sano, disapproved of by Ysidro and affected by J'lor's testimony where perhaps he was not by Cassiel's, examines the ground before his feet.
Kazimir keeps on watching Cassiel. Perhaps her reactions to J'lor's words are fodder for the notes taken in his mind.
Cassiel remains still and silent, adjusting the fit of her coat to keep it closer around herself against the cold.
"And the names, please, J'lor?" requests Ysidro, though his rough voice is quieted as well. "As many as you can recall--the more named witnesses we have and can speak with to confirm what you saw, the stronger your case. Did this healer... Was she able to make any sort of record of the treatment--documentation? I realize--" a glance to Cassiel "--that that would be far from your first concern, but."
"No," is J'lor's quiet response. "No names, we took no records. We haven't many hides and it didn't occur to us that it might be necessary. I could have the healer write a statement, if you like."
Ysidro is silent a moment, studying J'lor, tapping his pencil against the pad. "That would suffice, in lieu of anything else," he finally answers, with a nod, though his eyes stray to Roa. "It would be better, admittedly, if we could speak with her personally to gather an immediate firsthand account from a healer's view, but." His shoulders lift slightly, then, he looks down again. "I think that satisfies me, though, for the time being. If anyone else has any questions?"
Roa meets Ysidro's gaze, but offers nothing more in return except for her attention but this: "Perhaps, when this goes to trial, it could be discussed."
"If it goes to trial," provides Kazimir, predictably. The Masterharper then rises, scootching himself forward so his feet meet the ground and he can get up from his chair. "If the healers have no further questions, and if Telgar is satisfied?" That immeasurable little look of his lands on B'sano a moment, then drifts outward to the pale bronze posed past the courtyard gates. "I believe we have held our guests long enough. Cassiel, and J'lor." And now the short Harper from Keroon goes shuffling over toward the bluerider. He stops just barely too short to offer a hand. "Thank you."
The bluerider looks, for a moment, simply surprised. But his hand lifts and settles around the Harper's. "Kazimir," he offers in return, "my thanks as well."
R'vain practically bolts three long-legged paces forward as he gets a grip on what the Masterharper's doing. "You," is all the Weyrleader gets out, because you don't go on and growl that Kazimir can't go walking up to someone the likes of J'lor to say thanks and good-bye. So the bronzerider just tucks his lower lip under furious teeth, rolls it back out, and looks down at Roa, then over at Neiran and Ceregar for their pronouncement.
Ysidro, after nodding once more to Roa, remains seated to study Kazimir's back a moment, then settles about putting his things up before he rises as well and heads over to J'lor. If the Masterharper won't, Ysidro will: he offers his hand to the bluerider, along with a small, very rare smile. "Good to see you again, J'lor. Take care of yourself, and the rest of them, out there." Pause. "And give E'sere my best, please." R'vain's outburst? Thoroughly ignored.
Cassiel nods to those gathered, offering the faintest of smile's in Roa's direction, before turning and climbing back up onto Chiavelth. No more is said by the greenrider, nor no further acknowledgments made.
Neiran is, predictably, bearing a passive expression. His Master's hand has been still on his shoulder this whole time, though his face has shown his reactions to the turns of events more visibly. The woeful frown of an older man newly dismayed by the world has predominated, though when R'vain looks at him, he schools his expression into one of polite interest, as though someone had bumped into him. Pardon me? Is something amiss? Healer Hall is going to stay out of this tangle of etiquette.
The weyrwoman returns that tiny smile and then pushes slowly into a stand. Tialith uncurls, yawns, and stretches as much as the space will allow. She looks suddenly to R'vain as her rider does. As he has his little moment. Her brows are raised and Roa looks, simply, surprised.
The bluerider glances over towards the weyrleader, a single brow arched high. Him! "I do not think exile is contagious, R'vain," J'lor chides languidly. "And I'd like, before we depart, a brief word. If I may."
No one in the cothold makes any move to come out say goodbye. No one, likely, has any indication things are being wrapped up. The rub beating stopped long ago and the window was closed once more. This left just the occasional shout of children at play to be heard by those outside. The shadows by the hold door might have darkened on occasion, but it remained half open as it had since before their arrival. Perhaps it's just some weird custom of the people here.
It's a good thing Ruvoth will be carrying the Healers home (respectively to the Hall and the Weyr) and not the harpers, because there's a real chance that his somewhat ruddy expression would, with Harper company, translate to a lecture of the 'do you have no common sense at all' variety. Neiran's blank politesse wins points by distraction. "We should get ready, S'pose." And he prowls over to put the cup, having drunk no klah, down by the pot-- then turns, because J'lor's spoken to him. Something sort of strangly tumbles around in the back of his throat, but a jerk of a nod agrees and toward the bluerider, R'vain prowls next.
As the meeting breaks up, Chiavelth takes off, circling three times before disappearing between.
At J'lor's words, Ysidro takes a couple of steps back from the bluerider to give him room to speak, while the harper listens attentively.
Ysidro receives, for his listening, a long look from the bluerider. "Privacy, man," he says quietly as R'vain approaches.
Right, /that/ makes R'vain look less tense. In the way that wrapping a rope around his neck and hauling his chin up by it would.
Kazimir, more trusting (?) than Ysidro - certainly moreso than the Reachian Weyrleader - nods to J'lor, having said all he had to say, and turns to shuffle off toward Tialith.
The request has gotten the weyrwoman's attention and she stops, in her movement towards Tialith, to look over her shoulder. But then she turns away and moves more quickly towards the queen to adjust her straps and make sure she's ready for the harpers once they're ready to depart.
B'sano, for his part, is torn: Chiavelth is his first charge, Vellath his second. In the end he considers the latter, evidently, more in need of escort, and goes to mount up Meleoth, slow about it.
"We'll await you by your bronze, Weyrleader," Ceregar calls to R'vain blithely, smiling, at last removing his hand from Neiran's shoulder. He looks slightly down at the younger man, and wordlessly the two turn to leave the courtyard, their role here finished. More pertinently, though, it gives them time alone, to discuss what's just occurred. Or perhaps not just that, judging by the smile on Ceregar's face, and the way he holds Neiran at arm's length and then swoops in to steal a brief hug, when they're but figures near the man's bronze. Whatever they're saying is inaudible, but the Journeyman is actively regarding his toes.
Ysidro's look is a just a little sulky--he's a harper after all! he should be included!--as he turns to slip back toward Roa. While he doesn't, at least, linger to eavesdrop further, he makes no rush toward Tialith, his pace slow and measured; he's rather blatantly not ready to go just yet.
Once there is a bit of space between himself and everyone but R'vain, the bluerider steps forward. A hand had tucked into his pocket, but now both reach forward to clasp one of the red-haired weyrleader's paws into a firm handshake. It is one R'vain will have to go significantly out of his way to avoid, as J'lor seems quite intent on giving it. His words, what few of them there are, are soft.
J'lor murmurs very quietly, "I'm sorry. I don't think I ought to give it to her directly. Riann, by the way, is lovely." Pressed against R'vain's palm is a thick clump of folded hides. A letter made dense by folding it small enough to fit into a palm.
"Oh." R'vain has no voice soft enough to be that inaudible, but he accepts the handshake, and in a moment returns it with both hands clasped in return around the bluerider's. His expression is serious, and his brows sink a little, but when he pulls his paws back from the other man he keeps them clasped before him, like a boy just chastised. "...A'right," he adds, and when he turns around he's got a paw in his jacket and the other busy trying to resettle the way the leather hangs across his shoulders, tromping off toward Ruvoth and the waiting Healers without another word.
"Ah, J'lor? One last question, and I'll let you be." Ysidro is almost to Tialith now, but he reveals the reason for his delaying in his pause to ask that final thing of the other man once he and R'vain end their little private discussion. Bland-faced, studying the bluerider's expression instead of offering his own, he asks, "Has anything of this nature ever happened to one of your people before?"
J'lor, his words delivered to R'vain, begins to head back out of the courtyard, but then he pauses and turns, studying Ysidro in silence for a long moment. "You live at Harper, do you not? You have access to the archives there. You can find your own answer to that question. Good night and good to see you again." He looks, then, over to where Roa waits, restless, for the harpers. "Weyrwoman," he murmurs, and the title holds no more than a tease. "Clear skies to you." Then he's through the door, and in moments another dragon glides upwards to join Chiavelth.
The weyrwoman in question blinks slowly at that address. Then she shakes her head, eyes rolling and shoots her weyrleader, rather than the bluerider he spoke to, a quizzical glance. But questions must wait for later. She busies herself scrambling up Tialith and settling Kazimir as she waits on Ysidro.
"Good night, J'lor," Ysidro lifts a hand after the man, then turns back to Roa to be escorted home. Though, he has a few remarks for her, too, noting easily, "Thank you for bringing me along, weyrwoman--good to see you again, too. Though, I imagine my wife is getting anxious to have me home for dinner--you should join us, perhaps, if you've the time." The invitation slipped in easily as he turns to the dragon, mounting himself to be returned to the Hall.
There's B'sano's cue: on it, Meleoth leaps skyward, and like the exiles before him, is gone.
"That's very kind of you, but I cannot tonight," the weyrwoman murmurs regretfully, "Tialith is a little worn and I have engagements at the weyr. Sometime soon, though, I should enjoy that. Thank you." With that, once all are settled and aboard, Tialith too launches into the sky and vanishes.
With the meeting clearly over, Hanrey appears. Again he leads some of the hold's older children out and they will, as unobtrusively as possible, begin to gather chairs and beverages unpartaken of. None of them speak or even really look at those who linger before departing.