Motives

Re: Motives

Postby Waldemar » Mon Nov 26, 2012 11:31 am

There is some tension in the man's pose, though given the ghastly outcry from within the room perhaps that is understandable. He is not impassive, his expression polite throughout her too-long scrutiny, but he reveals further, nothing beyond what he wishes to be seen. A respectable gentleman.

She moves past, and he might leave. He might escape, taking deliberately unhurried steps away from the room and its shrieking occupant. Given that he has been caught leaving the room, though, it is probably a little late for such an attempt.

Then she speaks, speaks to him, and the matter is sealed. To leave now would be impolite, would be inappropriate, would be suspicious. So he takes a step or two after her, behind her, enough that he might watch over her shoulder as the Constables strive to subdue their raging prisoner. Which one, she asks, and so vague a question takes a moment to be understood and answered.

"The boy." No anger in his tone, no bitterness. A mere statement of fact, though accompanied by a glance along the corridor. "The one that lived."
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Re: Motives

Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Nov 26, 2012 12:49 pm

A miller stands at her shoulder, and if there exists a more incongruous way than this to approach a murderer's bedside, the swordswoman cannot imagine it. She with a brush of fingertips to wrist, so that the subtle hiss-click of tiny mechanisms will be the quiet accompaniment to a woman's furious shrieks; he with his austere angles and quietly-spoken explanations.

The one that lived.

The sort of thing that's said, here. Not as often as you'd hope it might be.
And they wonder at her loathing for the place...

"Cherny." With not a backwards glance, but then that's hardly necessary. All the less so, in fact, when what occurs directly in front of her is a writhing of well-bound limbs and with strength enough that she is briefly in mind of other times, different places; a bone come right out of its joint and the thrashing, frightening things that will do to raw nerves and a terrified mind. Long ago. Entirely irrelevant. She sheds it with a shift of her posture, a shoulder leaned lightly up into the doorframe. "A good boy, that one. Quieter than the others," but the tone clearly approves. "Quick on his feet. Reliable, too. From that alone we might learn a woman's capacity for madness."

A little tightly-spoken, that last. A little. And she's drawing herself upright again after it, pushing back from the door to cross that room's threshold; has a backwards glance for this miller, a cursory once-over that culminates in a shoulder's slight shift. "They'll allow him visitors at any hour, I think." As Constables wrestle with limbs and sweat and spit, she's dragging a loose stool a half-foot back from the violent scene; settles herself there now. "Assure them that they'll answer for it if they don't."
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Re: Motives

Postby Dulcie » Mon Nov 26, 2012 3:17 pm

The main entrance to the Rememdium slammed open, the force of it nearly knocking the door off of it's hinges and sent whoever was near to the door scampering off. The wild woman stalked into the place of healing with nothing short of rage in her eyes, their color lit up with a bright amber hue as she paused to sniff at the air, looking for someone that she could demand questions of. It was a shame that she had frightened them off so early.

"I want the one who has harmed my mate." The woman snarled with a voice that was not altogether human, the words booming down the hall of the Rememdium, tinged at the edges with the growl of the wolf within her that was begging to be freed so that it could claim justice upon the one who had done the harming. She would have no questions or interrogation for the one that she sought, that much was certainly clear to any who encountered her.
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Re: Motives

Postby Caile » Tue Nov 27, 2012 8:14 am

She was incoherent, hysterical, screaming and thrashing still but the man retreated and the pain began to register and so she began to fall quiet. Her breathing was quick, shallow and sweat had broken out along her body from exertion and the beginnings of a fever. Another approached her then but it was not male and she had spent the last of her energies struggling against the fate the miller had cursed her to and expressing her displeasure at his audacity.

Now she just tried to bring enough air into her bruised and battered lungs, closed her eyes against the stone walls and willed herself to remember the forests, to take her mind there at the least in escape but it proved impossible, her body weighed her down, heavy and present, the pain anchored her to these walls and a very soft, very quiet whimper escaped before she could clamp her teeth down against it.
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Re: Motives

Postby Waldemar » Tue Nov 27, 2012 4:38 pm

The woman knows the boy's name, and that is another surprise - though on consideration, perhaps not all that surprising. She is in some way official, and so she'd have reason to know the details surrounding this mad archer and her victims; and... hm. Well, there are a limited number of places where she might've encountered the boy, and she's certainly not visited the mill. So, an educated guess.

"You spend time at the Broken Dagger, I take it?" His tone is very much short of approval, for the establishment rather than its clientele. "But yes, quiet. Diligent, too; his injury has caused me difficulties."

A sharper look for the prisoner at that last; the woman has fallen quiet to a greater or lesser extent, which is something of a relief. And, well, it's as good a time as any for introductions, so he ducks his head in a polite bow to the badged woman's back.

"Marek Waldemar, sera. The boy works at my mill; I was just checking on his progress, in fact."

He might've said more, but there appears to be some manner of commotion from the front of the building - a crash of abused wood, snarled words and various raised voices in various tones of outrage and dismay. He half-turns in the doorway to peer irritably along the corridor, not moving further into the room, but not venturing out into the hall either.
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Re: Motives

Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed Nov 28, 2012 3:46 am

She is in some way official: know it from the insignia, if not a garb which owes more to the winter's chill than any sense of formality. And does this man distinguish between Militia, Constabulary and Committee? Quite possibly not, and what's settled down upon this stool has no intention whatever of remedying that lack. Certainly not when his tone sours a little - that tavern, after all, how disreputable; for all that she halfway agrees the swordswoman cannot prevent this small, small curl of a smile. "Doubtless," she murmurs, in answer to the tavern or the difficulties or perhaps simply both.

Waldemar, the man says, which means nothing. Mill, the man says, and then she realises."The new one. Built up amongst the hills, yes?" Significantly refurbished half a year ago and still the topic of some talk amongst certain of the Militia; the sort of talk that would've faded into disinterest by now, except that the creeping winter leaves men increasingly indoors and increasingly idle. With little but mugs and bowls to fill their hands they fill their thoughts instead, and with all sorts of fancies, and more than once it had infected the morning recess between one drill and another...

Imagine, though, young Cherny walking all the way to the tavern from that. Just imagine.
It's a wonder this is the first time he's been hurt.

It's a wonder this man's bowed to her, as well, courteous little gesture that this was. Something in his manner, in his carriage; he is infinitely more the landowner than the farmer, and this is something more than she might have anticipated from him. Still: "Ariane Emory." Marshall? The title seems unnecessary, redundant. Much like stirring from her seat, and she abstains from both. "As for the boy - better wounded than murdered, mn?" The stablehand. Jason, if he'd been not nearly so sturdy; if there'd been no physician right there. "But there is no better place for his care than this, and as you see - " a nod towards quieting Constables - "our villain's not likely to have a second chance at hi - "

A pale-eyed glance cuts back towards the corridor, even as two of those Constables move to intercept the sudden approach of furious violence. And while the swordswoman speaks not a word, it's clear that she slightly leans upon this stool; with a boot-toe caught against the open door's edge, and quietly curious eyes.
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Re: Motives

Postby Dulcie » Thu Nov 29, 2012 12:37 pm

"I will have this one who hurt Ocean Walker." She snapped at the Constables who started walking her way. The way they moved lit up every animal instinct within her. They wanted to stop her from having her vengence, from protecting what was hers, and they meant to do that right now. But they had given themselves away when they had left the door of the archer, and she now knew exactly what her destination was.

She shifted into a crouched position, growling at the constables with a show of her teeth that was by no means a human tradition, those perfect rows of white teeth already having begun to form into fangs.

"You are not as strong as me." She'd warn them. "I do not wish to hurt you, but maybe I can not stop if you do not move." It was fair warning that she gave, her amber eyes locking on the door that desired down the hall. She would have her revenge, and she would ensure that the archer never hurt another human or one she loved again. There were rules that the wild woman had to play by certainly, but those rules had been broken when the archer started harming innocents.
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Re: Motives

Postby Cinnabar » Thu Nov 29, 2012 6:18 pm

To be a Constable of Myrken Wood is not for the faint of heart; yes, a lot of it involves the same sort of petty criminality one might find in any place where people gather together in numbers, but there are always the other times. When a routine assignment goes wrong. When something impossible reaches out of the shadows the world takes a sharp turn for the wrong.

So what should be a typical - for Myrken - assignment guarding a mad archer has already had a touch of the strange this evening; now there's this woman causing an affray, with such white teeth and such golden eyes, and that's more than enough to have any Constable worth his badge on high alert. Both officers stop, well out of reach of the wild woman, their posture making it very clear that the way is barred. There's a certain firmness to the voice of the more senior man, salt-and-pepper stubble under his steel helmet, pale blotches of old burn scars creeping up his neck from the collar of his tunic. He speaks clearly, voice lifted to be heard by the intruder and those in the room the men guard.

"You're in a house of healing, miss. Full of sick folk, and hurt ones, and those looking after 'em." An attempt at reason, at diplomacy, for all that both officers already have their stout wooden truncheons in hand. "How's about you turn round and walk out, and we'll not have to take it any further, eh? You don't want to be causing an upset."

Doors are opening in the corridor behind them, patients and healers alike peeping out at the sound of disturbance; the younger officer, all broad hands and broad shoulders and badly-broken nose, half-turns to bark at the onlookers. "Back in your rooms! Doors closed!" The edge in his tone is rewarded with a flurry of clicking latches, and more than one scrape of furniture being hurriedly dragged across the floor.

"It ain't about strength, miss." The older Constable again, truncheon hefted to a readier grip. "Whatever you've got in mind, this ain't the place for it. "
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Re: Motives

Postby Waldemar » Thu Nov 29, 2012 6:22 pm

The miller is content to step aside as the Constables file out into the corridor, a couple of paces retreated into the room - but back to the doorway a moment later to observe, though taking care not to obstruct the view of Ariane Emory, Lady of the Badge. His frown deepens as the strange woman makes her demand, issues her threat, and there's a discreet sidelong glance to the Marshall, as if to determine how much attention she's paying him compared to, say, the building confrontation in the corridor.

Enough that he can look back out into the hall, what might be an oath murmured beneath his breath; walking cane shifted from one hand to the other, the now-freed fingers stretching and flexing for a moment before lifting to his face, his eye. Consider a man who squints one eye as the other peers through circled thumb and forefinger as if through some subtle lens or imaginary spyglass. Just for a moment, an instant, and perhaps it is a mistake; perhaps he only rubs at his brow in perplexity, or combs shaking fingers through his hair in nervous habit.

Whatever the case, there is a moment of terrible stillness; of widened eyes and sharp breath drawn in startlement or shock. In the moment after he is moving back from the door with all haste, lurching until he returns his cane to the correct hand. Dark eyes sweep the room briefly to settle on the prisoner, and his hesitation has an air of cold and clinical calculation; just for a moment, before he looks up to the swordswoman, stick lifting to point at the door; moderately stout timber, enough to provide privacy, perhaps even block some sound from without.

"Sera, please decide which side you wish to be on. And then close it."

It might last a few seconds, if they were lucky.
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Re: Motives

Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Nov 30, 2012 2:11 am

"Ser Waldemar. Best that you vacate this - "

That much. The swordswoman manages that much before the corridor has filled with aggressors and Constables, by which point adding a miller to their number is tantamount to feeding him a misplaced truncheon. This is how time becomes a luxury: when Myrken Wood intervenes in one man's life by shooting an arrow through his flesh, intervenes in another's by shackling her to a hospital bed like a thing sacrificed to the cause of vengeance. It'd be interesting, if there were any time left for considering such things at all, and instead it can only be this: that a swordswoman is straightening from her seat with a small stretch of the shoulders and stowing a thin bag somewhere safe.

How small it seems up there.
How naive, the notion that she might have done some work while - well, doing some other work.
How inevitable that in Myrken it comes back to blood yet again, and this is a cold rebellion in her thoughts; it has her not to the door but to the archer's bedside instead, where she crouches just short of biting-range to murmur: "If nothing else, consider this: that you've murdered one child, wounded so many others that this," a jerk of her chin towards the corridor, "is surely only the first of their kin to come here hungry for your life, and still - and still - there stand men out there who mean to place themselves between you and that. Do you wonder why?

"In a moment, sera, I would like to hear your answer to that question."

The miller, then. Rubbing at his eyes. Supplying terribly helpful advice.

"This is the worst place for you," but a shrug's already conceding to inevitabilities, and here's a chair dragged over towards him. "This, under the handle. Should the door be breached you step aside, ser: her interest is the prisoner, and I suspect she'll go through you to reach him but only if she must." A brush of fingertips to the tiny mechanisms clasped to her wrist, and when she steps past the man it is to seal the door closed in her wake with a hand which slightly glitters.

"Sera," and she has eyes for the woman at last; for eyes which gleam and a body which readies itself with such furious intent, and the sight is burningly familiar. Had she not worn that look herself, once or twice? No: more than that. So many times more than that. "That thing," a nod back towards the closed door, "is bound. She could not leave even if she were able to walk. You have a claim on her, mn? And you are not the only one.

"I think that today, we do not turn the Rememdium into a slaughterhouse."
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Re: Motives

Postby Dulcie » Sat Dec 01, 2012 8:38 am

The constables made good points, and though the wild woman felt rage in every inch of her body she still held her form, which meant that perhaps she still had some degree of control left. Control that was was being chipped away by the absolute hatred that pounded in her racing heart. She snarled at the Constables, a sound so inhuman that some of those patients might have felt a chill down their spines and readily shut their doors at the Constables request. There were rules. There were always rules, and these foolish humans stood in the way.

"Then give it to me and I will take it outside. You will not need to watch it anymore." She'd take a step forward, almost slinking forward in that crouch like position, the movement only hinting at the power that rested in those legs and in that body.

She was about to say more when the Constables were joined by a woman, that amber gaze coming to fall on her as she makes references to things that the wild woman did not understand.

"I do not know your words. Sera, bound, slaughterhouse" The words sounded strange rolling off her foreign tongue. "I do not wish to hurt your people. I want the one who has harmed my mate. I will claim it for all the others. They do not need to have trouble with bringing it death. It will be quick." She didn't advance any further, but she stayed in that same position she was in, teetering on the edge of control.
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Re: Motives

Postby Cinnabar » Mon Dec 03, 2012 3:02 am

The intruder presents her counter-offer, and the older Constable shakes his head.

"Can't do that, miss. We've our orders." That step forward has both officers tensing, alert, getting ready for the lunge forward that was sure to follow. "Just walk away."

The arrival of the new Marshall is a welcome development, bringing as it does an extra - and by all accounts, extremely capable - body onto their side of the balance. It also means that the she can take command of the situation, having a good deal more authority than a couple of Street Constables. So there's some cautious repositioning, enough to give the Marshall a clear space in which to fight if it comes to that.
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Re: Motives

Postby Waldemar » Mon Dec 03, 2012 4:26 am

The woman departs, the door is closed, and almost immediately there is a scraping of furniture on floorboards as the miller follows her advice, bracing that chair beneath the door handle and kicking hurriedly at its legs to be sure it is wedged.

That and the forces of law and order outside should buy a little time, for whatever good it might do. He's still for a moment as he listens to what scraps of the conversation can be heard through the door, and it is enough. His gaze returns to the prisoner with a frown and a weary sigh.

"You, sera, choose your targets very poorly."

One last glance for the door's flimsy barricade before he steps over to to the archer's bedside once more - the other side, with the bed between himself and the door. When he speaks his voice is quiet, level, thinking aloud as much as addressing the prisoner.

"Out there, sera, a vengeful beast looks to spill your blood. The beast might be stopped by those outside, driven off before she tears you apart." Perhaps, though his tone indicates strong doubts as to the likelihood of that. "Or I might end you now, thus removing her reason for being here and sparing everyone - bar yourself, of course - considerable unpleasantness."

The question then is how.
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Re: Motives

Postby Caile » Mon Dec 17, 2012 10:32 am

Her reaction was violent and sudden. One moment she was quiescent and the next she had lunged forward with such a force that she managed to dislocate one of her shoulders. She screamed, both in anger and in pain and the force of her movements rattled the bed she was upon knocking loose one of the bars she had been restrained to.

There was to be no reasoning with her, maddened, hate-filled creature. Rabid. She was injured near death and yet still she fought and thrashed uncaring of her own injuries or the pain that accompanied them. She would not speak to this man, to any man and should one approach closely enough they would find her teeth embedded in their flesh.
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Re: Motives

Postby Carnath-Emory » Sat Jan 19, 2013 11:44 am

"Kals. Yes?"

Which she could never have known, were it not for a string of unlikely coincidences; a Governor's advisement, a chance tavern meeting; the raw savagery inherent in the woman's stance. Benign coincidence, so that the gaze which examines this woman; which gauges, moment to moment, the chance that she might very suddenly lunge.

"We spoke - a day ago; perhaps two. It surprised me. I'd thought they'd have him a-bed for weeks. But that Kals," and she's slow with her nod now; with a glance past the woman's shoulder towards two very cautious Constables. "He is the very bogatyri." The eyes snap back to Kacela; there is the slightest edge of a grin. "As strong as he looks."

A pause must follow this, a pause during which she's turned a second glance upon those Constables; it weighs, it quietly considers.

"Slaughterhouse. It is where an animal is carved into meat for cooking. Bound," and she lifts both hands, caught together at the wrists. "Is for tied. Like this." And when the hands part again, it is with a glance which means to catch those Constables' eyes; one of those hands tilts to wave them both back. Well back.

"There is a question which I would ask of this thing in there, this killer of children. Come with me. Listen, as she answers it. And if she does not..."

A half-turn towards the door; words trail into silence, replaced by the beckons of a hand. And why not?

Kacela, she imagines, understands her meaning very well indeed.
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