Judge, Jury and...

Re: Judge, Jury and...

Postby Jirai » Wed Jun 19, 2013 12:19 pm

Gloria has been useful. She was meant to be - that was why she had been invited here, after all.

She was also rather irritating.

"Sera Wynsee." Rhaena's voice rang out as the younger woman spat at the knight. Disapproving. "You forget yourself. You may not accompany her; you have done your job as her advocate and done so quite well. Now you have other responsibilities that need tending. See to them."

And with that, Rhaena Olwak stood and swept towards the door.
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Re: Judge, Jury and...

Postby Waldemar » Wed Jun 19, 2013 12:38 pm

The girl-advocate rushes across the room, and the lady Olwak's armoured attendant moves to intervene, to block her path with a wall of steel and words; the miller keeps walking, uneven steps accompanied by the dull thumps of his walking-stick, and he takes position beside the Constables as they prepare the storyteller to return to her cell - cold iron on her tongue is a temporary measure, and will only last for so long. His attention is upon the prisoner, the creature, watchful for any last-minute trickery, so he hears little of that conversation between advocate and knight at first; let them argue.

It is only when the girl spits in the knight's face - and the attendant sharp gasps and protests from those who witnessed it - that he looks up, frowning at the pair of them. And then frowning more deeply as he peers closer at the armoured youth's features.

He'd assumed that the urchin had misdirected his letter, handing it to the wrong Elliot out of spite or incompetence, and had resolved to box Cat's ears the next time he saw the imp. But this figure is the Brown boy, though comporting himself so differently as to be near-unrecognisable. No more slouching insolence, no more rambling, ill-considered words or sullen glares. Now he is all upright posture and steady gaze and fine, noble words. What could fashion such a change? What is a miller to assume?

His head snaps towards the storyteller, features darkening, hand jerking up as if to swipe his knuckles across her too-perfect face. But he recalls the Constables, the lady Olwak, and contents himself with a nod and a couple of growled words to the escorting officers.

"Lead on."

He has his own responsibilities to which he must attend.
Nothing so bold as a miller's shirt, that every morning collars a thief.
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Re: Judge, Jury and...

Postby Glenn » Wed Jun 19, 2013 1:10 pm

The young knight has grown used to such reactions. Perhaps, though, he had expected something different with Gloria. For one, he had just complimented her in a very large way. More than that, she had shown herself to be good and noble here, even if a bit misguided. Most of all, though, she had wore the brooch. She came well-spoke of, much like young Cherny who had been a joy to speak with. Oh she was not comely by any means, but there was a place for such people and she was gracious enough to know it. That meant the world to Elliot Brown and he admired it greatly.

He had grown used to such reactions, the hand of his Enemy swiped harshly across the entire province, but here it was still a surprise. She spat upon his face and he simply took it, smiled at her, turned his cheek. She spoke. Rhaena Olwak spoke, and then he came before her again, still with a smile. "You have great spirit, Miss Wynsee. It is to be admired. I am glad to meet you after all this time." Earnest, kind, warm words, even as her spittle ran down one side of his face. "To stand up for what you believe in is no small thing. To have the discipline to serve in one's station despite one's belief is far more, though. You are young still and I have every faith that you will learn, clever and spirited as you are." He offered her an arm. Rhaena was leaving. There was no way that she could get to either her or the storyteller without getting past him. He was offering her a dignified exit, concern in his eyes, his cheek still marred. "Lady Olwak has spoken. Come along."
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Re: Judge, Jury and...

Postby Rance » Wed Jun 19, 2013 2:02 pm

Spittle still gleamed on the corner of her lip. Her eyes were dark, unwilling to listen -- Rhaena Olwak was all but ignored in the wake of this introduction. The copy of the the Mathymatics would remain abandoned, alone.

She tried to give a final look toward the Storyteller. A long, clinging stare -- too much to ask, too much to know, too much to speak of that would never be resolved as each one of them turned the tumblers on her opportunities to do as she would, as a Jerno would.

That, Storyteller, was the face of a girl who sought to be better than she was born, with the downturned edges of her lips and the red-rimmed eyes, the gaping hole sucking inside her heart's guts empty for its want of rites and fulfillment -- Why this Dream you have given me, she might have asked. Why this head, my head? What must be done to prevent it, to keep it from manifesting?

But those possibilities, those need-to-knows, were suspended indefinitely.

Elliot Brown and his words were a waterfall, the overturning of a coffer of sand that hissed across the floor and had no true audience. Only when he was done, and the curve of his arm was offered to her, did she move -- she sought out his gauntlet with her gloved hand, to open his fingers if she might. With her bare hand, she wrenched the tiara-and-vine brooch from her collar, tearing tattered wool with it. She would place it like a beggar's coin in his palm.

"You've changed, Elliot Brown. I don't know when, or why, but it is not a better change. You are a lie," she said, her whispers a restraint for the revulsion clicking in her throat. "Sell it, if you want. Discard it. I don't want it. I have learned all I needed to know from you. I certainly hope you learned all -- all you needed to know from me."

Why the masquerade? The armor, the high-spoken words, the change...

Then, with his palm exposed and the brooch in it, she spit again -- not with disdain, or confusion, or disgust, but in the way one child might seal a deal with another, right into his glove. And then she'd take his hand in hers, tighten her elbow, and shake it. The saliva was warm between their palms, slimy, and she felt the molding of the brooch bite like tiny teeth into her skin.

"To the Veldt with you, and -- and with her," a tilt of her chin toward the door where Rhaena Olwak departed.

They could have their shining-steel and fine-gowned barbarism. They could have their Storyteller, their Golben, their false fairness and blood-balanced justice -- and a seamstress, what would she have? Nothing, except being some heel-crushed fool, deceived and betrayed on all sides. She would remain until they were gone, glad to be rid of the pin on her collar. Of Elliot Brown, greedy boy that he was. Of Rhaena Olwak, the governor's lady, mind-prying snake in pretty skirts.

Glad, begrudgingly, to be rid of the Storyteller, if not in the way Jernoah would have desired it.
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Re: Judge, Jury and...

Postby Dulcie » Fri Jun 21, 2013 1:08 am

What is a Golben? The Storyteller wondered. But Rhaena had not ordered her drawn and quartered, or hung by the neck, or wrapped in iron and tossed in the lake. None of those things had been demanded. Only this Golben. She would learn soon enough what it was, and while it could be anything it did not sound to be death. At least not an immediate one.

The constables walked towards her with that bridle and she'd stiffen slightly, tilting her head up proudly. This wouldn't be the place for a scene, and there would be time to formulate a plan once she got to where she was going. Gloria came running over and there was much talk, much debate, all of which resulted in a furrow of her brow, looking at the young woman with a mix of emotions on her face, her head shaking slightly in negation when Gloria requested to come with her.

Rhaena would go sweeping out and the constables and Waldemar would come sweeping in, so close now with the bridle, but with Rhaena gone she'd dare just a few last words for Gloria as the constables pressed in.

"Your advocacy touched my heart my child. You do not need to have my fate, I am already in your debt for what you have done."
She'd say softly, gaining herself a rough clamping of that bridle about her head, the young constables afraid that her words might have been another story. She'd struggle slightly, hating the taste of iron in her mouth, but it would be done in short order before they would pull her from the courtroom.
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