(no subject)
A holding cell
Recruits took garbled messages to both men: "The Weyrwoman is awake!" "A rider killed someone!" but the core of the message ("Guardsman Willen needs you at the barracks, sir, now!") came through intact. And Willen is sitting in the barracks, as promised, eying a frightened-looking drudge warily. Every few minutes she starts to speak. "I just--" "STOP," Willen cuts her off. "But I--" "Nnnt!" "I want--" "Shht!" They are waiting for Authority.
Krummolt is looking haggard, drawn and suspicious. He seems to have a five o'clock shadow over his entire head, revealing an unflattering degree of baldness and gray hairs, usually much harder to pinpoint. The gleam in his eyes and the staff in his hand more than make up for any possible loss of intimidation value; he now looks to be balanced right on the brink of violence and madness. As he arrives, however, he speaks with unusually quiet restraint. "Thank you, guardsman. Please guard the door." He pauses, and adds, "Remind me to commend you for quick and clear thinking later so I get it written down."
So is the rest of the Weyr, sadly. T'ii's arrival is precipitous: he catches himself against the barracks door, then flings himself forward and in. Where Krummolt bears five o'clock shadow, T'ii shows about a week and a half's worth of beard: still pale-fine and uneven, when combined with hair in desperate need of a cut and wide, wild eyes, he manages to look less of a leader than usual. "What," he gasps out at Krummolt, just enough behind the captain to not know that the older man has only just gotten here, himself, "what'd she say who did it who did iiiiiiit?" His voice climbs dangerously, then breaks off abruptly as he lurches toward the drudge, and looms over (at) her.
Willen rises immediately to his feet as Krummolt arrives, snapping off a quick salute. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. She's tried to talk to me a few times, but I haven't let her. I was there for what she said in the living caverns, though, if you want a report after." He bows to T'ii as the Weyrleader arrives, and exits, to guard, as promised. The drudge looks up, eyes flashing from Krummolt to T'ii with fear writ clearly in them. She sways in her seat, unsure whether to stand, her shoulders shrinking down and away from T'ii's looming.
Krummolt nods distractedly as Willen goes out, but his eyes stay on the drudge, guarded and hooded. He looks like he probably will need that reminder from Willen later. He spins his staff around through 270 degrees and grinds the end into the ground so he can lean upon. "Let's find out," he answers T'ii without looking away. "I only just got here m'self. Well, girl? Start with your name, then tell us what you saw and heard." His tone is not exactly encouraging, but he actually seems more tightly controlled than T'ii; to those who know him, this might actually be a danger sign that he is on the verge of explosion, but it makes him look like, well, the less wild one of the pair.
T'ii knows. But T'ii can't see past his own desperation, his own wild quest for justice. "What did she sayyyyyyyyy," he repeats, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet, eyes focused on the drudge. "/Now/."
"'m..." The drudge starts to speak, then breaks off. She wets her lips, swallows, and tries again. "'m Karia, sir." Her voice is quiet, and she keeps her head bowed, looking up at Krummolt through her eyelashes, her shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow to fall at any moment. "I was -- I was cleaning the infirmary this morning, sir, because that was my job. I was assigned it. And there was no one else there, on account of the girl having gone out for a minute. And -- and I heard a sound, and I looked over, and it 'as the Weyrwoman, sir, and her lifting her hand, and I just stared, sir. And she looked around, looked at me straight, and said, 'Where is he? He killed her, where is he?' And I said, 'Who, ma'am?' cause I didn't know what else, and she says, 'E'ndish.' And then she closed her eyes again, sir, and I yelled, I did, and went for help. And that's when they brought me here." She is not, on reflection, quite as young as she seems: a lack of height and cringing manner subtract a half-dozen years from her early twenties.
Considering that Krummolt and T'ii both probably look more than their actual ages, and both are more than Karia's, it is perhaps no surprise that the drudge seems younger by comparison. Krummolt's knuckles go white around his staff as he listens to her speak, his jaw clenching and his body starting to radiate tension. When she finally gets to a name, however, he seems to pause, and he blinks, bemused. "E'ndish?" he repeats. "A...You...You're sure that's what she said? E'ndish, the rider?" There is a faint shift in his manner, a gleam growing in his eye as he leans forward, intent.
There is something manic in the gleam of T'ii's eyes, some ill-repressed and teriffying glee that glitters there, sharp-edged and needy. "/E'ndish/," he voices, wheeling to Krummolt; he reaches for the older man, for his former near-mentor, and attempts to shake the shoulder of someone a good foot taller than he. "E'ndish," he repeats again, breath coming fast and beginning to hitch. "We can do it, we can /find him/," he crowds, voice pitching upward in hysterical jubilation: he strangles a wild laugh, but only just barely.
Karia is almost holding her breath, terrified by the imposing nearness of Krummolt. "I -- y-yes, sir, that's what she--" But T'ii is crowing then, and Karia shrinks back, wrapping her arms around herself and dropping her eyes to stare at the floor.
Krummolt doesn't attempt to prevent T'ii from shaking him, but he doesn't really move very far under T'ii's shoving, either. Once Karia confirms it, Krummolt turns to look down at T'ii, eyes blazing. "Yes, we can," he agrees. "We should -- of course, he's a rider, so it's really all your jurisdiction, but I'd be /happy/ to lend you all the support you could want, bringing him in...what...what will you do with him? Exile?" Story decanted, he seems to drop Karia from his attention like, well, any one of his ex-lovers.
"Exile!" T'ii's voice goes shrill, then drops down to the bottom of his register, suddenly menacing. "You are going to hold him down, and I am going to /beat him/," he announces darkly, Karia forgotten, "until /no one/, not even his own mother, would ever recognise him. We will make him /beg/, Krummolt. He will /bleed/ for what he did to Chey." He reins in for a split second, some mental interferance reminding him: "And that other girl, the dead one for dinner. /Then/ we will exile him."
Karia's mouth is open, now. But not to speak. She is not stupid. She is just staring at T'ii.
Krummolt stares at T'ii for a moment. Then he grins. "Daddy Krummolt's little boy is all grown up, it seems," he says, lifting his staff from the ground. Then he glances back to Karia. "You stay here, for now; I'll tell Willen to get you anything you need, but 'til we've got him, I don't want word leaking out, and we might have more questions. But thanks." He turns back to T'ii and claps the Weyrleader on the shoulder proudly. "Lead on."
Karia isn't going to argue. No sir. "Yes sir," she squeaks.
Infirmary
Echoing and austere, blank stone walls are vaulted high to overshadow the row of white-curtained cots along the back wall. Ancient metal gleams steel-bright in the form of sinks and examination table, lit relentlessly by bright glows and reflecting the colours of bottles and jars shelved above. Padlocked cabinets hide the more dangerous drugs and implements, whilst healer paraphernalia litters one solid oak table with sweetly-fragranced herbs and tattered scrolls. A small hearth contains a fire usually banked low, several cauldrons set ready nearby to for heating water. A dark staircase twists up from one corner to the dragonhealer's lair; one low door leads into the lower caverns, another to weyrhealers' quarters. Barn-sized doors open inwards with creak of hinges from the ground weyr.
Chey lies on her bed, quiet and still as death. Her face is gaunt and sunken, and what muscle she once had is fast wasting away. The healers have done what they can, but she surely does not have much more time.
A dark silhouette appears in the door of the infirmary. The guards are posted only outside and the healers temporarily not present. Krummolt steps in, carefully and quietly drawing the doors closed behind him. The guards to no protest; why would they? Staff still in hand -- it always is, these days -- Krummolt approaches Chey's bed and stands over her for a moment, looking down. His eyebrows are drawn together, but his face is otherwise expressionless as he gazes down at the former guard, current Weyrwoman, daughter of an old comrade in arms. Then Krummolt looks up, around the infirmary to be sure: no one is here. No one will see. No one will here. No one will even suspect. His left hand lifts and he lays it almost tenderly on Chey's face. The massive, powerful hand covers her mouth easily and pinches shut her nose as Krummolt stares down at Chey's unmoving form.
T'ii has been foiled: the weyr searched high and low, and the murderer-turned-victim nowhere to be found; a call has gone out, but it is still unanswered. There is still a dangerous gleam in his eyes, underneath the frantic glee that ligths them as he pushes in from the ground weyrs. A constant sight in the infirmaries, even without his rank: the guards do not question, and as the doors swing heavily shut his voice rings out: "/Chey/," he glees, he gloats, "we've nearly got him, we've /nearly got him!" Krummolt's presence registers, but his action does not, not yet: T'ii sees what he wishes, and his voice is wild-bright as he calls out to his fellow, his comrade: "Krummolt! You came to tell Chey the news--" he grinds to a stumbling halt a few paces away, eyes wide, expression confused. "Krumm-olt?" he queries, his voice gone high and tight again. "What're you what're you why's your what're you--?"
Krummolt jerks back from Chey's cot with a guilty start. Whether he has held Chey breathless long enough for his purposes is hard to tell yet, but the guilty look as he turns away from his dirty deed, his hand springing open, is entirely enough for Krummolt to convict himself. He stands frozen for a moment, then lunges, bringing his staff up, in a berserk, desperation dive at the Weyrleader, swinging a blow straight for the smaller man's head. A wild, manic gleam comes into his eyes as his lips peel back on a demented, silent snarl of rage and panic.
Oh, hell no. T'ii remembers being a guard well enough to know that his only shot at keeping his head is to fall back: he hesitates just long enough that he has to fling up an arm to protect his head: it doesn't deflect the blow, but the resounding crack is the sound of his arm being broken, rather than his skull crushed. There is a high, sharp sound of pain as he staggers backwards, and then his eyes unfocus for an instant. Then he is stepping over, over and around to try to stay out of Krummolt's reach: with his good hand, he catches the edge of a nearby cot and flings it at the crazy-man's knees.
Krummolt attempts a rebounding swipe after his first cracks on T'ii's arm, but the impact and the backward stagger cause the followup to whiff through the air, the blow poorly aimed by reflex. He recatches his balance, then goes lunging after T'ii before a cot intercepts him, making him stumble as his shins take a beating and he half falls over the cot. Pushing upright again, he circles to try and cut off T'ii from the door to prevent the Weyrleader's escape. One end of the staff dips down below the edge of the cot and then sharply up, sending the cot flipping up and into the air and T'ii as Krummolt comes around to be sure he is cut off and prepares to follw up this projectile with deadly force.
This time, T'ii is expecting it: he dodges the cot, steady on his feet even as he fights through the pain -- he's got Bandeleth paying attention again, bringing his influence to bear. A tray of instruments is batted toward the guard captain this time, wicked sharp and dangerous, if small. He spares Chey a backward glance, then ducks his head and rushes Krummolt with a roar. It is a kamikaze run, a hail mary pass: but he has a secret weapon.
Krummolt lifts his arms to ward the pointy things away from his face, but they pepper the grizzled captain's arms and chest. Several simply bounce off, quite a few take little gouges from Krummolt's clothes and flesh and rather gruesomely, a scalpal and three needlethorns actually manage to get hung up in Krummolt's clothes and flesh enough to stick to him. It does, however, throw him back on his heels for a moment, back near the door, as he braces to meet T'ii.
You sense that Bandeleth strikes into your mind, hard and fast: there is no kindness here, only a ruthless rip that lays your soul bare. Sensory input is stripped away, a command laid down to override your will: your body is no longer your own. You are unable to move. And then--
The Weyrleader's rush is timed perfectly: his broken arm is tucked tight to his body, his good shoulder positioned to take the brunt of the impact as he plows into the immobile guard. He puts all of his weight into it, then pulls abruptly up and back, hurling himself aside as he looses balance and crashes to the floor. But it's enough, just enough to send Krummolt stumbling backward.
Krummolt's mind is a disturbing place to be. It is a red wash, burning with anger, a flaming shield over an icy ball of self-centered fear and unrepentent narcissism. Images flash through his brain: the sight of Chey falling, seen from above. A group of miners in Crom. Cheyanna joining the guard. Tian on the Sands, seen from the galleries. The laughing face of a girl. Merisol's body, jammed into a crate. The same girl from earlier in the bed of another man; Krummolt closing the door behind them. A frightened looking girl locked into a cell, alone with Krummolt. A series of flashes of naked bodies intertwined, some of which morph into dead bodies. All these thoughts come bubbling to the surface of Krummolt's mind through the rip Bandeleth provided, spilling out unbidden as a wash of blood. Suddenly rent from his consciousness, Krummolt is unprepared to defend himself, and T'ii's shoulder drives him backwards forcefully; large as he is, for a brief moment, there is no resistance in him.
The doors behind Krummolt fling open as he falls: there is a roar that shakes the very walls, that shakes the weyr itself -- at least this tiny piece of it -- and there is a blurr of motion. Just slow enough for the eye to follow, a swathe of amber vengeance strikes: Bandeleth sweeps Krummolt off his feet, and hurls him at the wall. There is a sharp crack, and the guard slides down to slump, still. But he breathes. T'ii watches with wide, terror-struck eyes -- he has rolled to a crouch, supported by his good hand. His face is pale under the scruff, and his hair is even more wild -- but his expression hardens, and he rises to his feet. His steps are slow, measured, and the manic glee is absent from his eyes as he approaches Krummolt.
Slumped in a heap against the wall and with his stick flung across the room, Krummolt looks far less dangerous. Old, broken, and fallen in a position no conscious man would sustain, he bleeds from several places. He has fallen so his large belt knife is pointed up, visible at his hip.
The Weyrleader's expression may have been pity, once. It is certainly born from it, but now it is pity stretched thin, twisted into digust. Disgust, fanned into anger. He bends down, fingers reaching to accept the knife's invitation: they nearly touch before he is brought up hard and sudden, his body and expression both twisting as he swings toward the infirmary doors. "/Please/," he begs, looking from the bronze without to his fallen Weyrwoman within. "/Pleas--/" He inhales sharply, hand balling into a fist as he nods once, and turns back to the fallen guard. "You son of a /bitch/," he howls as he plows his fist into Krummolt's face, breaking the old man's nose (and T'ii's hand) with the force of it, "I /trusted you/." He staggers, off-balance, and stumbles back. "Call the guard," he says to the air, then swings around wildly. "/Call/ the /GUARD/," he howls again, this time directly at his lifemate. His face is blotchy, his breathing ragged, and he is sobbing silently.
Krummolt groans from his not-very-conscious state. He remains unconscious, bleeding from his broken nose now, too. But he is merely out, not in a coma. He will wake up soon. Finally, the guards -- who wisely got well out of Bandeleth's way -- come in and look around in wide eyed amazement.
"Arrest him." T'ii's voice is ragged, broken. "He is to be formally charged with the murder of Merisol, and attempted murder of Weyrwoman Chey." He holds each guard's gaze, one by one, then turns to limp back to Chey's bedside. As the healers descend upon him and the guards (with a single healer apprentice escort) drag Krummolt away, he bends down to whisper in Chey's ear: "We got him."
Recruits took garbled messages to both men: "The Weyrwoman is awake!" "A rider killed someone!" but the core of the message ("Guardsman Willen needs you at the barracks, sir, now!") came through intact. And Willen is sitting in the barracks, as promised, eying a frightened-looking drudge warily. Every few minutes she starts to speak. "I just--" "STOP," Willen cuts her off. "But I--" "Nnnt!" "I want--" "Shht!" They are waiting for Authority.
Krummolt is looking haggard, drawn and suspicious. He seems to have a five o'clock shadow over his entire head, revealing an unflattering degree of baldness and gray hairs, usually much harder to pinpoint. The gleam in his eyes and the staff in his hand more than make up for any possible loss of intimidation value; he now looks to be balanced right on the brink of violence and madness. As he arrives, however, he speaks with unusually quiet restraint. "Thank you, guardsman. Please guard the door." He pauses, and adds, "Remind me to commend you for quick and clear thinking later so I get it written down."
So is the rest of the Weyr, sadly. T'ii's arrival is precipitous: he catches himself against the barracks door, then flings himself forward and in. Where Krummolt bears five o'clock shadow, T'ii shows about a week and a half's worth of beard: still pale-fine and uneven, when combined with hair in desperate need of a cut and wide, wild eyes, he manages to look less of a leader than usual. "What," he gasps out at Krummolt, just enough behind the captain to not know that the older man has only just gotten here, himself, "what'd she say who did it who did iiiiiiit?" His voice climbs dangerously, then breaks off abruptly as he lurches toward the drudge, and looms over (at) her.
Willen rises immediately to his feet as Krummolt arrives, snapping off a quick salute. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. She's tried to talk to me a few times, but I haven't let her. I was there for what she said in the living caverns, though, if you want a report after." He bows to T'ii as the Weyrleader arrives, and exits, to guard, as promised. The drudge looks up, eyes flashing from Krummolt to T'ii with fear writ clearly in them. She sways in her seat, unsure whether to stand, her shoulders shrinking down and away from T'ii's looming.
Krummolt nods distractedly as Willen goes out, but his eyes stay on the drudge, guarded and hooded. He looks like he probably will need that reminder from Willen later. He spins his staff around through 270 degrees and grinds the end into the ground so he can lean upon. "Let's find out," he answers T'ii without looking away. "I only just got here m'self. Well, girl? Start with your name, then tell us what you saw and heard." His tone is not exactly encouraging, but he actually seems more tightly controlled than T'ii; to those who know him, this might actually be a danger sign that he is on the verge of explosion, but it makes him look like, well, the less wild one of the pair.
T'ii knows. But T'ii can't see past his own desperation, his own wild quest for justice. "What did she sayyyyyyyyy," he repeats, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet, eyes focused on the drudge. "/Now/."
"'m..." The drudge starts to speak, then breaks off. She wets her lips, swallows, and tries again. "'m Karia, sir." Her voice is quiet, and she keeps her head bowed, looking up at Krummolt through her eyelashes, her shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow to fall at any moment. "I was -- I was cleaning the infirmary this morning, sir, because that was my job. I was assigned it. And there was no one else there, on account of the girl having gone out for a minute. And -- and I heard a sound, and I looked over, and it 'as the Weyrwoman, sir, and her lifting her hand, and I just stared, sir. And she looked around, looked at me straight, and said, 'Where is he? He killed her, where is he?' And I said, 'Who, ma'am?' cause I didn't know what else, and she says, 'E'ndish.' And then she closed her eyes again, sir, and I yelled, I did, and went for help. And that's when they brought me here." She is not, on reflection, quite as young as she seems: a lack of height and cringing manner subtract a half-dozen years from her early twenties.
Considering that Krummolt and T'ii both probably look more than their actual ages, and both are more than Karia's, it is perhaps no surprise that the drudge seems younger by comparison. Krummolt's knuckles go white around his staff as he listens to her speak, his jaw clenching and his body starting to radiate tension. When she finally gets to a name, however, he seems to pause, and he blinks, bemused. "E'ndish?" he repeats. "A...You...You're sure that's what she said? E'ndish, the rider?" There is a faint shift in his manner, a gleam growing in his eye as he leans forward, intent.
There is something manic in the gleam of T'ii's eyes, some ill-repressed and teriffying glee that glitters there, sharp-edged and needy. "/E'ndish/," he voices, wheeling to Krummolt; he reaches for the older man, for his former near-mentor, and attempts to shake the shoulder of someone a good foot taller than he. "E'ndish," he repeats again, breath coming fast and beginning to hitch. "We can do it, we can /find him/," he crowds, voice pitching upward in hysterical jubilation: he strangles a wild laugh, but only just barely.
Karia is almost holding her breath, terrified by the imposing nearness of Krummolt. "I -- y-yes, sir, that's what she--" But T'ii is crowing then, and Karia shrinks back, wrapping her arms around herself and dropping her eyes to stare at the floor.
Krummolt doesn't attempt to prevent T'ii from shaking him, but he doesn't really move very far under T'ii's shoving, either. Once Karia confirms it, Krummolt turns to look down at T'ii, eyes blazing. "Yes, we can," he agrees. "We should -- of course, he's a rider, so it's really all your jurisdiction, but I'd be /happy/ to lend you all the support you could want, bringing him in...what...what will you do with him? Exile?" Story decanted, he seems to drop Karia from his attention like, well, any one of his ex-lovers.
"Exile!" T'ii's voice goes shrill, then drops down to the bottom of his register, suddenly menacing. "You are going to hold him down, and I am going to /beat him/," he announces darkly, Karia forgotten, "until /no one/, not even his own mother, would ever recognise him. We will make him /beg/, Krummolt. He will /bleed/ for what he did to Chey." He reins in for a split second, some mental interferance reminding him: "And that other girl, the dead one for dinner. /Then/ we will exile him."
Karia's mouth is open, now. But not to speak. She is not stupid. She is just staring at T'ii.
Krummolt stares at T'ii for a moment. Then he grins. "Daddy Krummolt's little boy is all grown up, it seems," he says, lifting his staff from the ground. Then he glances back to Karia. "You stay here, for now; I'll tell Willen to get you anything you need, but 'til we've got him, I don't want word leaking out, and we might have more questions. But thanks." He turns back to T'ii and claps the Weyrleader on the shoulder proudly. "Lead on."
Karia isn't going to argue. No sir. "Yes sir," she squeaks.
Infirmary
Echoing and austere, blank stone walls are vaulted high to overshadow the row of white-curtained cots along the back wall. Ancient metal gleams steel-bright in the form of sinks and examination table, lit relentlessly by bright glows and reflecting the colours of bottles and jars shelved above. Padlocked cabinets hide the more dangerous drugs and implements, whilst healer paraphernalia litters one solid oak table with sweetly-fragranced herbs and tattered scrolls. A small hearth contains a fire usually banked low, several cauldrons set ready nearby to for heating water. A dark staircase twists up from one corner to the dragonhealer's lair; one low door leads into the lower caverns, another to weyrhealers' quarters. Barn-sized doors open inwards with creak of hinges from the ground weyr.
Chey lies on her bed, quiet and still as death. Her face is gaunt and sunken, and what muscle she once had is fast wasting away. The healers have done what they can, but she surely does not have much more time.
A dark silhouette appears in the door of the infirmary. The guards are posted only outside and the healers temporarily not present. Krummolt steps in, carefully and quietly drawing the doors closed behind him. The guards to no protest; why would they? Staff still in hand -- it always is, these days -- Krummolt approaches Chey's bed and stands over her for a moment, looking down. His eyebrows are drawn together, but his face is otherwise expressionless as he gazes down at the former guard, current Weyrwoman, daughter of an old comrade in arms. Then Krummolt looks up, around the infirmary to be sure: no one is here. No one will see. No one will here. No one will even suspect. His left hand lifts and he lays it almost tenderly on Chey's face. The massive, powerful hand covers her mouth easily and pinches shut her nose as Krummolt stares down at Chey's unmoving form.
T'ii has been foiled: the weyr searched high and low, and the murderer-turned-victim nowhere to be found; a call has gone out, but it is still unanswered. There is still a dangerous gleam in his eyes, underneath the frantic glee that ligths them as he pushes in from the ground weyrs. A constant sight in the infirmaries, even without his rank: the guards do not question, and as the doors swing heavily shut his voice rings out: "/Chey/," he glees, he gloats, "we've nearly got him, we've /nearly got him!" Krummolt's presence registers, but his action does not, not yet: T'ii sees what he wishes, and his voice is wild-bright as he calls out to his fellow, his comrade: "Krummolt! You came to tell Chey the news--" he grinds to a stumbling halt a few paces away, eyes wide, expression confused. "Krumm-olt?" he queries, his voice gone high and tight again. "What're you what're you why's your what're you--?"
Krummolt jerks back from Chey's cot with a guilty start. Whether he has held Chey breathless long enough for his purposes is hard to tell yet, but the guilty look as he turns away from his dirty deed, his hand springing open, is entirely enough for Krummolt to convict himself. He stands frozen for a moment, then lunges, bringing his staff up, in a berserk, desperation dive at the Weyrleader, swinging a blow straight for the smaller man's head. A wild, manic gleam comes into his eyes as his lips peel back on a demented, silent snarl of rage and panic.
Oh, hell no. T'ii remembers being a guard well enough to know that his only shot at keeping his head is to fall back: he hesitates just long enough that he has to fling up an arm to protect his head: it doesn't deflect the blow, but the resounding crack is the sound of his arm being broken, rather than his skull crushed. There is a high, sharp sound of pain as he staggers backwards, and then his eyes unfocus for an instant. Then he is stepping over, over and around to try to stay out of Krummolt's reach: with his good hand, he catches the edge of a nearby cot and flings it at the crazy-man's knees.
Krummolt attempts a rebounding swipe after his first cracks on T'ii's arm, but the impact and the backward stagger cause the followup to whiff through the air, the blow poorly aimed by reflex. He recatches his balance, then goes lunging after T'ii before a cot intercepts him, making him stumble as his shins take a beating and he half falls over the cot. Pushing upright again, he circles to try and cut off T'ii from the door to prevent the Weyrleader's escape. One end of the staff dips down below the edge of the cot and then sharply up, sending the cot flipping up and into the air and T'ii as Krummolt comes around to be sure he is cut off and prepares to follw up this projectile with deadly force.
This time, T'ii is expecting it: he dodges the cot, steady on his feet even as he fights through the pain -- he's got Bandeleth paying attention again, bringing his influence to bear. A tray of instruments is batted toward the guard captain this time, wicked sharp and dangerous, if small. He spares Chey a backward glance, then ducks his head and rushes Krummolt with a roar. It is a kamikaze run, a hail mary pass: but he has a secret weapon.
Krummolt lifts his arms to ward the pointy things away from his face, but they pepper the grizzled captain's arms and chest. Several simply bounce off, quite a few take little gouges from Krummolt's clothes and flesh and rather gruesomely, a scalpal and three needlethorns actually manage to get hung up in Krummolt's clothes and flesh enough to stick to him. It does, however, throw him back on his heels for a moment, back near the door, as he braces to meet T'ii.
You sense that Bandeleth strikes into your mind, hard and fast: there is no kindness here, only a ruthless rip that lays your soul bare. Sensory input is stripped away, a command laid down to override your will: your body is no longer your own. You are unable to move. And then--
The Weyrleader's rush is timed perfectly: his broken arm is tucked tight to his body, his good shoulder positioned to take the brunt of the impact as he plows into the immobile guard. He puts all of his weight into it, then pulls abruptly up and back, hurling himself aside as he looses balance and crashes to the floor. But it's enough, just enough to send Krummolt stumbling backward.
Krummolt's mind is a disturbing place to be. It is a red wash, burning with anger, a flaming shield over an icy ball of self-centered fear and unrepentent narcissism. Images flash through his brain: the sight of Chey falling, seen from above. A group of miners in Crom. Cheyanna joining the guard. Tian on the Sands, seen from the galleries. The laughing face of a girl. Merisol's body, jammed into a crate. The same girl from earlier in the bed of another man; Krummolt closing the door behind them. A frightened looking girl locked into a cell, alone with Krummolt. A series of flashes of naked bodies intertwined, some of which morph into dead bodies. All these thoughts come bubbling to the surface of Krummolt's mind through the rip Bandeleth provided, spilling out unbidden as a wash of blood. Suddenly rent from his consciousness, Krummolt is unprepared to defend himself, and T'ii's shoulder drives him backwards forcefully; large as he is, for a brief moment, there is no resistance in him.
The doors behind Krummolt fling open as he falls: there is a roar that shakes the very walls, that shakes the weyr itself -- at least this tiny piece of it -- and there is a blurr of motion. Just slow enough for the eye to follow, a swathe of amber vengeance strikes: Bandeleth sweeps Krummolt off his feet, and hurls him at the wall. There is a sharp crack, and the guard slides down to slump, still. But he breathes. T'ii watches with wide, terror-struck eyes -- he has rolled to a crouch, supported by his good hand. His face is pale under the scruff, and his hair is even more wild -- but his expression hardens, and he rises to his feet. His steps are slow, measured, and the manic glee is absent from his eyes as he approaches Krummolt.
Slumped in a heap against the wall and with his stick flung across the room, Krummolt looks far less dangerous. Old, broken, and fallen in a position no conscious man would sustain, he bleeds from several places. He has fallen so his large belt knife is pointed up, visible at his hip.
The Weyrleader's expression may have been pity, once. It is certainly born from it, but now it is pity stretched thin, twisted into digust. Disgust, fanned into anger. He bends down, fingers reaching to accept the knife's invitation: they nearly touch before he is brought up hard and sudden, his body and expression both twisting as he swings toward the infirmary doors. "/Please/," he begs, looking from the bronze without to his fallen Weyrwoman within. "/Pleas--/" He inhales sharply, hand balling into a fist as he nods once, and turns back to the fallen guard. "You son of a /bitch/," he howls as he plows his fist into Krummolt's face, breaking the old man's nose (and T'ii's hand) with the force of it, "I /trusted you/." He staggers, off-balance, and stumbles back. "Call the guard," he says to the air, then swings around wildly. "/Call/ the /GUARD/," he howls again, this time directly at his lifemate. His face is blotchy, his breathing ragged, and he is sobbing silently.
Krummolt groans from his not-very-conscious state. He remains unconscious, bleeding from his broken nose now, too. But he is merely out, not in a coma. He will wake up soon. Finally, the guards -- who wisely got well out of Bandeleth's way -- come in and look around in wide eyed amazement.
"Arrest him." T'ii's voice is ragged, broken. "He is to be formally charged with the murder of Merisol, and attempted murder of Weyrwoman Chey." He holds each guard's gaze, one by one, then turns to limp back to Chey's bedside. As the healers descend upon him and the guards (with a single healer apprentice escort) drag Krummolt away, he bends down to whisper in Chey's ear: "We got him."