Reporting A Murder

[Tolleson]

((The morning after Elliot gets the crap beat out of him))

It was too much, too many, and everyone's hands were bloodied. The entourage that followed Elliot to the Rememdium had not been few. In fact, the entire town seemed aware and upset, concern the first question and the last comment of conversations about Myrken’s shining knight. She would need to be alone with him, and that simply wasn’t happening.

Mid-morning came with a letter from Gloria, received with little apathy. Not that she didn’t care for Catch, but she had sat soaked, bloodied, bruised, and beyond exhausted at the bedside of the boy that might help her stop Rhaena. Numbness to everything spread so easily with mourning.

The doctors assured her he would be fine, consciousness would come, and she had best be seen herself. Swollen purple, yellow, and blue, half her face held the memory of Catch’s fist; blood long clotted and dried on her brow and red ringing her right iris – they cleaned up best they could, but the white linen eyepatch was hardly big enough to hide her involvement.

With little else they could do, she left directly for the Meeting House and a report for Rhaena’s right hand. Noses were held, looks given, and whispers whispered as the mess of a young woman made her way to the office. A water ruined and blood stained once white dress hung pathetically over her slender frame. Before it had been a stunning garment, fitted to her awkward height, embellished and nearly made to match that of the Man In White. But now the hem was muddy and torn and length if it was held, bundled in her arms as bruised ankles and awkward bare feet navigated the cobbled stone.

There was no requesting or knocking, she simply went to the door and opened it. If someone else was meeting with him, she would wait to speak. But for once, for this moment, haloed by her untamed, wavy flame-like hair, she was important and brought with her a presence, a stance that said as much.

“Giuseppe, m-may I speak with you?” Not that she would refrain if he said, ‘no.’

[Glenn]

"Always, Genny." Never a hair out of place. It was maddening for him and for those who had to put up for him and doubly so for both of them considering. The frustration piled up upon itself. To be honest, he was glad for her towardness. Oh, perhaps it would not do in the long term, but it was nice to see her confident. Maybe people did flourish in this strange, new world.

Maybe all it took was a few punches in the face? What a terrible thought. "There is some joke that you people make about seeing the other guy, yes? Is that a joke in thessilane? It is not a joke where I am from. It seems a very Myrken sort of joke. By that I mean, not funny and generally terrible." Not unlike a Dauntless joke, which more than anything else, lived up to its name. That made him think of Ariane Emory and for a moment, Genny's face was almost a pleasant escape.

"I do not like my Inquisitors harmed." He rose, finally, would reach a hand towards a cheek. "You tell me what happened and then maybe we see how much I dislike this or maybe we do not."

[Tolleson]

Giuseppe is certainly not unattractive, quite the opposite and surely one reason why he was in charge here and why she had been overlooked. All the better given the young Miss Cross and her disappearance. Another ally gone. All Genny need remember is that she and Giuseppe were allies when she was here, and in truth, to some extent they were, regardless. It may well have been a naïve and innocent notion had nearly prevailed within her. A thought, that by her presence alone, clearly lingered even if it was by ever so fine a thread; a notion that this could all be absolved without too much blood and death. A belief that Rhaena was no more her enemy or her ally than Catch. Merely a victim, a problem that just needed to be fixed.

But still, when he reached, she flinched. The reaction is slight, but her left eye finds immediate refuge looking to the side of him, somewhere upon the floor.

“I… its p-possible I haven’t heard that adage.” Though she certainly understood the gist of it, and in some round about way perhaps it was an accurate assessment of their relationship. Regardless, she wasn’t here to complain about the ache in her cheek or ruined clothes.

Everything was numb, but her feet actually felt cold. Having half of her stocky legs exposed left her feeling instantly vulnerable. A sudden seizing regret seemed to fill her as her skirts were let free and the destroyed hem fell heavy, still damp, to the floor.

“My… co-concern is not this,” the words were spoken in conjunction with a vague gesture from a pale hand that indicated her face as she turned, her eye lifting to find his line of sight.

“Outside on the… at the Dagger… there was a m-murder last night. Ser Elliot’s … friend, Niall.” ‘Friend’ hardly seemed right, not now, not anymore. They had been once, so long ago it seemed, so long that maybe she had imagined it entirely.

Her arms crossed as a shiver brought goose bumps, more in remembering the scene than for how cold her garments left her. The concern was how far this had gone, how long it had gone on, and that no one should have died; and the fact that more yet might.

[Glenn]

"No." It was a simple statement, a straightforward one. At one point he needed stories. At one point he would have threatened to kill her for this tale, and hurt her if she hesitated in its telling. Now, thanks to Rhaena, he was something else entirely. "No. What you have to say is important, but this is not how we do things, Genny; it is not. There are things I can still decide upon, and one is this. We are going to get you cleaned up and tended to. We'll see to new clothing. And as we're doing this, you can tell me, yes?"

It was kindness. It wasn't Rhaena Olwak's desire for beauty and cleanliness. It was something else entirely, something from him to her. "Brown's been targeting her for months. it would not surprise me to see him do the job. A dagger to her heart and for no good reason save for her scars and her attitude and the fact she couldn't be controlled. Proof of loyalty. Cruel." He shrugged, but then. "Is it murder when a knight slays a dragon, Genny?"

[Tolleson]

No. No?

It certainly seemed more apt that he threaten her, this was Giuseppe and the memories of a fading Myrken were still vivid in her mind. But here he made kind gestures and offers to clean her up and dress her pretty. Another of Rhaena’s dolls, perhaps, a puppet in a growing cast. The offer was nearly infuriating, especially at a time like this. But how had she expected him to react, death was a job description for him.

“T-that is unnecessary,” her acrid tone verging on defiant, before she once again would lose the ability to look him in the eye while maintaining tenacity.

Color, an angry but more healthy one, rose behind the field of freckles in her one, pristine cheek. But the biting words that would have followed were stayed at the mention of ‘Brown’. Elliot Brown, a name no longer used by the poor boy unconscious in the infirmary. It is a slight and subtle thing, but she relaxes and remembers. There is a reason, a purpose, stay free and stay alive.

“Niall… was no dragon,” her words much softer now, restrained. It’s a rather silly statement, but better to speak silly words in riddle than chide a remorseless man for his lack of apathy, especially when he sat on the other side of it. Still it was interesting to hear the agenda out loud. If someone like Niall could be considered such a threat and killed so easily, where was the limit?

“B-besides… it was his s-squire, and… no, I don’t know how it happened. I… it happened just… well it was before… I had only just come off the road and saw Catch.” This was the honest truth. From a distance, late in the evening, his large silhouette had been the only one she’d recognized outright.

[Glenn]

Had she gone too far? Talking back. Looks, a tone. Giuseppe had risen and now he was towards a small cabinet, opening it up. Was he to pull out a crossbow? Some poison that he would force her to ingest? Had her defiance earned her a final punishment? Blackness would fly towards her without any warning. "They're too long for you, but i was rather at the time, yes? Just roll up the legs." Clothing, his clothing for that matter. The man in black's garb that he no longer had any need for. "As for the rest, I'm not giving you a bath, so you'll have to work that out on your own. Perhaps if you asked nicely, but I think you will not."

Then a little laugh, more for her tone than anything else. "Niall was quite the dragon. Magical. Powerful. Impossible to reason with. Hard to understand. As close as Sir Elliot will find at least." Then, though she went on and really, at some point it all started piling on itself. "Slow down, Genny. What did Cherny do? What did Catch do?"

[Tolleson]

She had gone too far and now it was an absolute certainty. Genny had been immensely paranoid, a side effect of poor sleep or perhaps, given recent events, a rather healthy outlook. Not that she was half the troublemaker Niall had been. Still, her eye followed the Man in White to the cabinet, her muscles tensing. A sharp inhale with the opening of the door, preparing for the need to fight, take flight, or maybe even sneeze.

A black something flies at her and a squeak escapes as her entire body flinches, sudden death imminent. Reflexively her arms curl in front her torso, a defensive posture that simply causes the fabric to tumble down. Her hands, realizing there is no threat in the garments, snap down to catch the fabric before it can hit the floor. Almost immediately her fumbling limbs are tangled in the fabric, snapping back, clutching it tightly to her chest, as if to quiet her racing heart.

He continues to speak and the garment is held out, righted, let to unfold and then examined. The britches make a perfect curtain, behind which she finds refuge, lest he see how startled he’s made her. It isn’t until he makes mention of a bath that a wide eye and lifted brow peeks above the lowered waistline. The expression is askew, an understanding of the joke without words to dignify it with a response. Over all the effect is somewhat lost, given that she wears an eye-patch.

“Cherny was t-the one who… killed Niall,” the tone is as flat as she can manage, but she isn’t nearly so comfortable with the words. The clothing is lowers as she speaks. “Catch… well,” a look down and away, not tricked by his kindness. Not ready to betray her friend though he had hit her, spit on her, and blamed her for all of it. “E-… Ser Elliot has… he… I sent him to the R-rememdium last night. He hasn’t…” There is genuine concern in her voice as her eye returns to the man across from her. “He doesn’t wake, though t-the doctor’s think he will.” Maybe, though she trusted them despite all of the blood and how much of Elliot’s face had been left on the madman’s fist.

[Glenn]

"Cherny did it?" Some surprise there and this was a man who was so rarely surprised, for whom it was even rarer for him to show it. It hurt his business to show it. Still, that Cherny was the one was telling, was brilliant either, and then Elliot ended up in Remedium. Was it at Catch's hands? That's what she implied. "That's amazing." He smiled at her, though it was a wane thing. "It is just unlikely, yes? All of it. Hard to believe, but from you, like this, of course I ..."

Here he paused. It was a chain reaction. A voice in his mind. A voice in a mind elsewhere in Myrken. Images shot back to him. "Oh, I see," a rubbing at his eyes. This was rare. Usually, they were alone but this was such a dire thing. The look on his face was one of frustration, unpleasant. "Genny. There are few who can properly heal young Brown. I've been asked to seek one out, Zilliah. He is fond of the boy in his own fickle way. Do you know him?" There were some things not in the fae's file. One was the connection with the young Inquisitor. "I am not all that fond of Brown, but I suppose he does mean well and he deserves the best care we can provide, yes? Would you be willing to seek out the fae? He may help you as well."

[Tolleson]

The subject is still a bit too fresh, a bit too morbid to give good cause for Genny to smile and share in the surprise. Though, she would nod either as an answer to the rhetorical question or agreement. Perhaps both. Strange how this new Myrken had changed people.

But eventually she will share that meager smile, a mirror of his, in good faith. It is an empty thing, a small gesture to occupy the space as he speaks, he stops, and begins again.

Not oblivious to it she would realize within a moment what she was witnessing; the very same way Glenn had spoke with Rhaena – though he had never been so conspicuous. All she need to was reach out, touch his mind and listen. But he could fight back and had a direct link to Rhaena, it was too much a risk for so little a reward as hearing the other side of this conversation.

“I do… I know of him,” odd that he didn’t know that she was good friends with him, considering she’d been warned on multiple occasions to stay away from him. The void in that information gave cause to muse how these words would have never left the mouth of Glenn. Had he left her file incomplete, perhaps on purpose? He was clever.

She listens carefully, nodding, accepting her assignment though there were about a hundred other things she would prefer to do before helping Elliot. How about that, she and Giuseppe were not so different after all.

“Yes, I… yes.” Nodding, she agrees and begin to idly fold the clothes he’s given her. Not intending to change before the aforementioned bath.

“I am sure h-he can… though I don’t imagine h-his clothes will fit nearly as well,” there is a small kindness, a half-hearted smile on her half ruined face. A joke.

[Glenn]

"There are..." Did she not understand this? It could be unpleasant, what he was asking now. He didn't want to do it. She didn't want to do it. He'd shielded her from Rhaena though and more than that, he'd shielded her from a lot of the worst things she had asked of him. Others had to do things. She had not. This, this was an act of mercy, to see a young man, a victim, someone who did his best even if it was not his decision, healed. There was so much worse out there, every single day.

"Well, do be careful. I suggest not mentioning myself or Rhaena. If Zilliah cares about Brown and wants his face healed, this is good. If not, try to convince him. Do not put yourself at risk. Withdraw if it seems hopeless." He looked of, thinking. "Even as we speak, a carriage is coming. It'll take you to that bath if you want one. Otherwise, you may use it to fetch the knight." A little sneer held in at that word.

No, Glenn had not mentioned it in a file. There were files on most people, but the inquisitors? Well, Glenn had wanted that knowledge, yes, but he wanted it for himself and for no one else. It was not the sort of thing one made records on. "Good luck, Genny."

[Tolleson]

No, she understood, or at least seemed to. And she knew there were some things that had to be done, if she refused the last two months of gathering allies, questioning widows, and working with Agnie were a waste. Frankly, there were worse things than helping a boy so maimed. She had been there to witness it after all. Dull as it might be now, the ache in her cheek was no slight pain. Gods only knew what Elliot would face, if he woke up.

Hopeless, with Zilliah. There is little concern; perhaps it makes her look brave or apathetic in this moment. He might not enjoy having a visitor so abruptly, especially when he’d told her that very soon she would need to stay away.

“B-best to fetch … Elliot straight off,” though she should change, her clothes still clinging and damp. But the Meeting House was large, surely there was a broom closet or an empty room. There had certainly been enough restructuring that something could be found; even if they had recruited more new inquisitors and had several new additions including a strange little office for Agnie.

“T-thank you,” the words are intentional and earnest as she turned to face the door. A glance back and there is the slightest look of worry, the same worry that saw this man in black lying unconscious in the Rememdium nearly a year earlier. “Truly. And… and be careful,” you know with what, the unvoiced thought was written plain across the concern in her face before she turned. In one arm a wad of black and the other a wad of sopping, dirty white, her stocky white legs slowly gaining motion and propelling her to the door where she would have to kneel to take the handle in an already full hand.