[Log] Unacceptable Forms of Persuasion
Who: Br'ce, Donavon (NPC), Luskian (NPC)
When: Day 25, Month 4, Turn 2, 7th Pass
Where: Stables, High Reaches Weyr
What: When Br'ce receives a mysterious note, he comes to investigate; like Aida, he doesn't know what he's in for.
It's an irritated-looking Br'ce that arrives at the Stables, clutching a crumpled-looking note in one hand. Unsigned, and with a simple injunction to come to the stables; dropped by his plate while he was eating dinner. "Hello? Hello?" he calls, sounding rather cross. "If this is some kind of joke, it's really not funny." It's been a long day, he wants to go /home/.
Most of the stables are empty by this point, just a couple of hands cleaning up for the night. At the far end, however, one man is leaned over the door to a stall, forearms on the top of the gate as he talks easily to an unseen person within the stall. At Br'ce's call, however, so loud in the near-silence, this man looks up, brows arching slightly as he half-straightens, turning to regard the brownrider flatly. Not the most inviting of greetings, but more than anyone else is offering: the pair of stablehands finish their tasks in silence, closing up shop and drifting outside on that note.
A small frown is directed at the stablehands, before Br'ce moves to acknowledge the man's glare. "I presume that you are the originator of this note?" The crumpled piece of hide is waved in the hair. "This is highly irregular. There are proper channels for this sort of thing." Gingerly he steps around a pile of manure, grimacing in disgust. "And I certainly don't appreciate being called down here. What is it that you wanted to speak to me about?" His manner is a curious combination of brusqueness and politeness--he's not annoyed enough to be directly rude.
The man, a dark-haired, straggly-bearded individual, leans forward to study the note Br'ce waves around, brows shooting upward. "Originator? Big word," he remarks, sharing a smirk with the man in the stall. That man glances up from inspecting the hooves of the runner within to agree, "Big word." Then, the first--Donavon by name--notes, "Nah, not me. Not Luskian here, either. But we know who did, so don't get your--" He trails off at a stern look from the stocky blonde man in the stall, lips pursing. "All right. It's about your girl. Aida," Donavon gets to the point, straightening and leveling a look at Br'ce, this one more sympathetic to his plight--in fact, it's downright concerned in its soberness.
There's another slightly repulsed look at the scraggly beard--"For Faranth's sake, man, either trim that neatly or shave", he mutters, repelled by the messiness, and Br'ce pulls his gaze back up. "Then whom, might I ask, is the one responsible for this note?" He demands, waving it in their face again. There's a sudden stillness in his posture at the mention of his girlfriend, a shuttered and blank expression slamming down. "Yes? What about her?" Mentally, he's going 'Really, Aida, I know you like people, but you have got to have some standards, at least.'
Donavon reaches up to rub his beard, opening his mouth, but a look from Luskian derails that train of thought in its infancy. Instead, contenting himself with one quick grind of his teeth, Donavon glances around lest other ears be listening and leans forward again earnestly, expression reassuming its worry. "She's... You haven't heard about her--vacation? It's, ah... Well, I'm not real sure how to tell you this, sir--" oh, he can throw in a polite title now, no trace of duplicity in the address "--but she's gone. Really, it's more like she's... taken." He glances downward then, as though he really were reluctant, ashamed even, to admit this to the brownrider.
Br'ce's face is a study in emotional flipflopping, his eyebrows going on a roller-coaster ride. First, they shoot up in surprise "Vacation? What vacation? I haven't seen her all day." Then they're going down again, this time in worry. Why didn't she tell me? They take on a slightly more quizzical cant as he wonders, and then up and together in anguish. Did I do something? The rest of the man's words start percolating in, and the brows fly down and in, giving him a look of ferocious intensity. "Taken? Explain yourself." he commands authoritatively.
"That's the point," interjects Luskian. Donavon is silent a moment, then notes, "It's... I'm trying to. Us being in the lower caverns, we see things. We hear things. And we happen to know what's happened to her." He levels another of those looks at Br'ce, brows knitting. His speech, in response to the brownrider's own proper manners, has gradually lost much of its more rustic edge as he conforms to his surroundings. "She's been taken: apparently, they grabbed her while she was on a walk--a /walk/! by herself!--" Donavon shakes his head sadly at this folly before continuing "--and now she's being held somewhere up in the mountains." "We couldn't find out where," Luskian hastens to add, "but we know how to get her back for you. We don't want nothing bad to happen to her, you see, and, well." He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug.
Br'ce narrows his eyes at Lukian, brain kicking into overdrive. "Grabbed her? They /grabbed/ her?" Fists open and close hungrily as he takes several steps forwards, almost reaching out to grab Luskian before he restrains himself, forcing his hands back down to his sides. "What do you know? Where did they take her? Who took her? When was she taken?" the questions come out rapid-fire, a flush of anger slowly creeping up his neck. Another sudden halt at Luskian's last words, as they penetrate. Immediately the loud anger is flushed away, replaced by an icy, haughty demeanor instead. "I see." Muscles work in his neck as he grinds his teeth. "And what, exactly, must be done in order to get her back?" This is starting to sound like something out of one of his novels. At least it means it's a somewhat familiar situation for him.
Donavon shares a look with Luskian, worried, before reaching a steadying hand toward the rider's shoulder. "Look, look," he says soothingly. "We're trying to help, to do all we can here. We don't know where, like we said, or who. But from what we know, she's fine now--they're promising to take good care of her because, well. Desperate times, I guess, but not yet desperate measures. That's why we're here, because somebody's got to tell you what's going on so we can all sort it out nicely." He pauses, giving his companion another look. Luskian picks up the thread, saying slowly, "What they want is for you to step down. Give up your knot. That's all."
One hand swiftly rises to knock away Donovan's hand. "Do /not/. Touch me." Br'ce spits Donovan with a cold stare. "And how exactly do I know that she is uninjured? For that matter, how do I know that you even have her? That she hasn't just gone on an unannounced vacation?" An incredulous look is directed at Luskian. "Step down? Absolutely not. Wing 3C is only just starting to become a cohesive unit once more. A change of leadership will set their coming back on active flying for another month, at least!" Nostrils flare as he breathes out heavily. "Look, I have money. How much do you want? I don't have that much in cash, but if you give me a few days, I can scrape together more, I have some things I can sell off." he offers, grudgingly.
Donavon lifts his hands, a placating gesture, as Br'ce brushes him away. "Sorry, sir. We just want to talk reasonably here," he says evenly, managing a half-smile for the rider, wry. "Your marks are no good, though. This isn't about money; it's about... It's about bigger things than that," inputs Luskian, with a glance to his friend for back-up. Donavon nods quickly, taking up the thread. "This is about honor, and duty, and Tradition, you see," the bearded man begins earnestly. "3C isn't even seeing action now, and they won't, either, until they're ready, so you've nothing to fear there. The extra practice will do them good, in fact. But really. This is about Igen--J'cor and Yevide, I mean, and what they did to our home. They've taken it over, they've disregarded our traditions for their ambition. And... And being their wingleader is supporting that disregard for everything we believe in. You're a good man--we know, everyone knows that. We know you're better than to support Igen's selfish scheming. All we wanted--all we wanted with Aida--was to get your attention so we could talk to you. She's fine and... We have this." Donavon nods to Luskian, who delves into a pocket and pulls out a neatly folded blue scarf, the one often worn about Aida's waist. It's clean and in perfect condition, perhaps testament to Aida's own well-being.
Br'ce narrows his eyes at the two, folding his arms and scowling darkly as he listens to their words. "There are better ways to get my attention than from kidnapping. This is an unacceptable form of suasion." He scowls blackly. "I'm not any happier about the situation than most people, but we've a duty to obey our leaders. No matter how they got there, we owe them our respect." Note, he's not protesting anything that they've said so far. "I feel I can do more good from the inside, than from resigning." The production of the scarf has an electrifying effect on Br'ce, immediately getting all of his attention. "Give me that." he snatches the scarf out of Luskian's hands, carefully inspecting it, turning it over, breathing in the smell, and looking for the minutest trace of any bloodstains or clues as to Aida's fate. Alas, it looks just like a scarf to him.
"Have you ever heard of civil disobedience?" wonders Donavon, brows knitting. "It's where you oppose unjust authority peacefully--not hurting people, but not just going along with them, either. That's our business," the man asserts. Luskian hands the scarf over willingly, frowning slightly at Br'ce's behavior. "She's fine," he reasserts quietly. "And we /want/ her to stay that way, really we do. Doesn't our--our greater duty to Pern as a whole and its... way of life outweigh the duty we owe to a pair of imposters? You're not from High Reaches; you don't--you can't understand the way we feel. Would you like to see Benden treated like this? It's dishonorable, is what it is. A disgrace to the Weyr." He shakes his head mournfully, frowning.
Br'ce grits his teeth. "It still doesn't justify /kidnapping/. There are more peaceable ways of resisting illicit authority. This too, shall pass. Don't you give me any of that lip, either. I may be originally from Benden, but my /home/ is High Reaches." He takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. "Look, you don't need to resort to such violent means. Return Aida, and I'll speak to J'cor and Yevide. They are reasonable people, and I'm sure that your concerns would be taken in. If necessary, I can obtain some leverage through threatening to resign. They're not /bad/ leaders. Things could be worse." he's going for the reasonable approach, trying to reason and bargain with the two.
"That's why we're asking you to resign," Donavon explains long-sufferingly, though one hand curls tightly around the stable door, a gesture of mounting frustration at this way of dealing. Luskian, with a glance to his companion, voices, "That's peaceable, isn't it? We only wanted your attention, to have a chance to explain this to you. We'll--" But Donavon's patience is giving out, and he takes a step forward, his expression serving to cut Luskian off. "They can go not be /bad/ leaders at Igen. They don't belong at High Reaches. When the Council refuses to stop them, when our own leaders bring them in--that's when we resort to the only ways we have left to fight. You know, well as we do, where the right is on this. And now you've heard our terms: you step down and we give you the girl back. Or you don't, and we give you what's /left/ of the girl back. Up to you, /wingleader/. The time's past for being /reasonable/."
A thrill of fear runs through Br'ce, showing on his face and the fact that he back up a step. "You wouldn't dare!" he exclaims, looking uncertainly at Donavon. "She's never done anything to you! Anything at all. She's innocent in this whole affair!" A pleading glance over at Luskian gives him no reassurance. "You'll regret this. This is not a proper way to conduct affairs. History shows us that such extreme techniques always rebound against the users, sooner or later." he threatens, not entirely convincingly.
Donavon only lifts his shoulders slightly, brows arching as if to say, 'what do you know of what I dare?' Luskian's expression is blandly unhelpful as well, as he makes no move to mitigate Donavon's threats. "Ooh, history. Luskian, I'm scared," he mocks Br'ce's own threats. A snort. "Anyway, we've explained things to you, we've talked reasonably to you, and now we're flat-out telling you. Step down, wingleader. Step down and you'll have her back safely, on our word as Reachians."
Br'ce grinds his teeth impotently, staring at the two of them for a moment longer. "All right. I will concede. This path that you are taking can only end in ruin. Mark my words, you will regret this." The scarf is unconsciously crumpled in one white-knuckled hand. "She had better be completely unharmed, and not mistreated. No--no--..." He fumes, unable to even speak of the possible atrocities. No ravishing my Aida!
Donavon offers Br'ce a bright smile. "Wouldn't dare," he mimics the man's earlier words, earning a frown from Luskian. "Donavon," he cautions once. To Br'ce: "We won't, we already promised. You've no call to doubt our word." Somehow, he manages to even sound mildly hurt by that accusation. Donavon is not, however. Quirking another smirk, he notes, "Well, if that's all, I believe our business is at an end. We'll see you soon--the sooner you speak to J'cor, the sooner you'll have her back. And I realize this goes without saying, but this? Should be just between us three. The rest of the Weyr thinks she's on vacation: no need to get them worked up over nothing." Apparently, kidnapping and blackmail is 'nothing.'
Br'ce resists the overpowering urge to deck both of them in the middle of their smug, smirking faces--oh hell. Half-turned away, he turns back to launch one roundhouse punch, aimed square for the side of Donavon's smirk, a half-snarl on his own face.
As soon as Br'ce starts to turn back, Luskian is moving, reaching quickly across the stall door to loop one brawny arm around not Br'ce but Donavon, restraining the smaller man. In the process, the punch connects solidly with the man's cheek, sending him reeling a step back with a snarl to match Br'ce's. It's fortunate Luskian doesn't let Donavon escape, only quickly opens the door and plants himself firmly between them. "Whoa, whoa now," he says firmly, a hand still on Donavon's chest while the other man glares hatefully at Br'ce, dark eyes narrowed. "That's enough. We've all made our points, so we can each just go on our ways now, all right? Right?" Luskian continues sternly, glancing between the pair.
Br'ce just glares at Luskian and Donavon both, returning the hate with interest. Shoulders heave up and down as he takes deep breaths, finally turning away with an inarticulate snarl and stalking away. Heedlessly splashing through a puddle of some unidentifiable liquid-y substance in his anger. Resisting the urge to clutch his bruised knuckles. Ow, ow, ow. He savors the pain, however. In a weird way, it makes him feel better. Outside pain to match the inner pain. Ow, ow, ow.
Donavon still looks like he'd like to chase Br'ce down, but after a couple of deep breaths, he plasters that smirk back into place--now a little lopsided--and brushes off Luskian. After Br'ce leaves, the pair linger several minutes, then venture out themselves, heading in opposite directions across the bowl.