To Act in Haste

[G'brihl]

m1.d7.t2.p9

Perhaps it was a lack of sleep that clouded his judgement.  More likely it was because he couldn't get the rolling thunder of the drums out of his head as they pounded out their bleak, heart-wrenching message.

Gabrihl had met Masterharper Robinton once.  Many had, of course, because in spite of his duties he had endeavored to be known to the members of his Craft, even right down to the lowest of apprentices.  And, like many others, Gabrihl had been all but smitten with the man; not in the romantic sense, for he had been far too young at the time for such feelings or to even realize that he was attracted to men, but there was a certain magnetism about Robinton that made it difficult not to love him.  He was bright, vivacious, cunning and canny, and though he was not tolerant of wayward apprentices who thought they could get away with something just because of their talent at singing or playing an instrument, neither did he neglect to give honest praise if it was warranted.  He thought rarely of himself and always of others, gave of himself tirelessly, and always endeavored to leave the world around him just a little bit brighter.  Masterharper Robinton was a man to be aspired to.

And now he was dead.

It left a hole in the center of his chest.  Robinton was--had been--the sort of man that, as a youth, Gabrihl had hoped to grow up like.  Some part of him had still clung to that notion, because Robinton was every bit as intelligent as Gabrihl but seemed to suffer none of his troubles.  If only he could learn to be that at ease with people, with himself...

As he was dragged down into the bowels of Fort Hold, even Gabrihl had to admit that he'd acted hastily.  It was the wee hours of the morning, the sun not even coloring the sky yet, and it had seemed like the perfect time to escape.  The guards would be cold and huddled inside for warmth; Zaman and Rioghan could alert him to danger.  Yes, it was the dead of winter and many of the roads were still too thick with snow to be easily passable, and anyone foolish enough to venture out would risk frostbite as the very least of their troubles... but all he needed to do was make it out to Harper Hall.  They could shelter him, and he could tell them what was going on here, even if he barely knew what was happening himself.  Gabrihl knew that someone had taken over the Hold, had heard rumors that Lord Groghe was dead, had seen corpses being moved until the ground thawed enough for them to be buried, but people were being kept so tightly locked down that it was all but impossible to determine anything for himself.  The Runners were all but imprisoned in the station, though much of their isolation was self-imposed, but the thick undercurrent of fear that permeated the Hold was impossible to miss.

There was no way that Masterharper Robinton's death was a coincidence.  Not after Harper Hall had drummed the Hold to see what was going on, so whoever was in charge of this... this invasion, must have sent someone after the Harper.  So Gabrihl was going to escape, he was going to go find help, and he was going to somehow convince the Masters at Harper Hall that the rules of autonomy no longer applied.  Fort Hold was besieged, and if someone didn't act accordingly...

He'd dressed warmly.  Harper Hall was not normally a long trip to make, but Gabrihl had no idea how bad the roads were, what sort of weather might blow in on him, and so it was best to not take chances.  His winter shoes were well padded, the spikes on their soles designed to help keep purchase on slick and icy ground.  He had packed rations, all the while plotting just how he was going to make it out of the Hold unseen.  The main gate would be barred, and there was no way he could open it on his own without attracting too much attention.  But if he could get up to the walls, he might be able to find a place low enough to drop down onto the other side.  The snow would help to cushion his fall, and by the time the sun rose and anyone noticed he was gone, or spotted his tracks (if there were any to be seen; wind or snow or both might cover them behind him) he would be well on his way to the Hall.

Only it hadn't quite worked out as planned.  Oh, he'd made it out of the station and into the darkened courtyard, using Turns of familiarity to guide him through the poorly lit night toward the gate.  The upside of such heavy darkness was that the guards would have a hard time seeing him at all, but that also meant it was all but impossible for him to see them either unless they happened to be carrying a torch or a glowbasket.  Most of them were huddled in the guard towers against the cold, so as long as he was quiet... he'd crept toward the stairs that led to the top of the wall, knowing he'd have to be doubly careful here because the spikes on his shoes could make quite a lot of noise.  Crept up the stairs, sidled over to the wall, looked over...

Couldn't see a damn thing.  Couldn't tell how high up it was, or if those dark lumps at the bottom were snowdrifts or piles of stone.  One would cushion his fall, and the other would break his legs, so it was very important to be able to make the distinction.  Had just enough time to think about sending Zaman down to see when the door to the nearest guard tower opened, light spilling out onto the top of the wall.

"--need a piss, and doan' you lot be drinkin' all the--hey!"

Nowhere to go, and the last thing he'd needed was to risk a broken leg when they'd likely just leave him lying out in the snow to freeze to death, so he'd turned to bolt, expecting daggers or arrows and hoping against hope that they were too drunk to hit him or that he'd find a spot to jump.  Maybe if he slipped into the shadows he could hide and try again the next night, and he was a runner, so he could outdistance these drunken slobs with--

Zaman had shrieked a warning just before the bolas slammed into his legs.  He'd gone tumbling headlong into the snow, already trying to twist around and free himself even as he ordered his firelizards to flee (he could use them to send a message maybe, didn't know why he hadn't thought of that before though he hadn't had much time to train them, and that was assuming he lived long enough to do so).  The guardsmen were quick to descend upon him, and though he'd fought, Gabrihl was outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed.

Which was how he found himself being dragged through the lower halls of Fort Hold, struggling against the five or six armed men who were holding onto legs and arms and torso to cart him along.  They'd learned quickly to avoid his feet and the dangers of the spiked shoes he wore, but though he was writhing as fiercely as any tunnelsnake caught in a trap, Gabrihl just couldn't manage to get free.

"Just stick a knife in his gut," one of the men grunted as they rounded a corner.  "That'll stop him right quick."

"We ain't s'posed to kill no one les we hafta, dimglow," another, apparently the leader of this motley crew, answered peevishly.  "We'll stick 'im in a cell an' if Mikhen decides in the mornin' that he's to die, then we'll kill 'im."

Mikhen?  So, that was the name of their leader.  Gabrihl rather thought he ought to know who that was, but before he could do more than consider it the men holding him opened up one of the cells, hauled him back, and then heaved him inside like a sack of tubers.  He hit the floor hard enough to leave him winded, listening as the door slammed shut with a cold sense of finality.

Silence.

Even after he managed to regain his breath and suck in a much needed gasp of air, Gabrihl made no immediate attempt to rise from the floor.  He hurt in a few places from the man-handling he'd received, but by and large he was more angry with himself for not taking the time to plan properly.  He'd let his emotions get the better of him, and now he was stuck in a cell with little more to do than wonder if he might die in the morning--and, suddenly, he was aware that he wasn't the only occupant of this cell.  It was too dark for him to see who he shared it with, but the pair of lambent eyes that suddenly winked into being in the air above him was confirmation enough.  Zaman, eyes whirling brightly, settled calmly on his side, but Rioghan was in quite a tizzy and hissing at whoever it was that occupied this small, dark space with him.

"If you announce yourself," Gabrihl spoke quietly, but the low timbre of his voice had little trouble carrying in the cell.  "I could possibly prevent her from attacking you."

(OOC: I'm assuming at this point that Julianya would also be locked up, and in the same cell as Jaymesin.  If I need to edit this in any way just let me know.)

[J'sin]

"She can try," a voice replied from the darkness, "But I doubt she'll get very far."  Male, by the sound of it.  Young, but old enough to be considered an adult; native to Fort, by the accent, but educated and confident, and with another pair of bright eyes winking into being in that direction.

"Still, if we're to share a cell, then I suppose introducing myself is the least I can do.  My name is Jaymesin, and this is Brick."

There was another hiss in the darkness, a little deeper in pitch than Rioghan's. 

"Welcome to the cellars," the voice continued.  "I'd offer you a drink, but... well, you really don't want to drink the only liquid around at the moment.  Feeding time happens twice daily, and you've missed dinner.  The grand tour says that I'm sitting on one of four beds, and the bucket is three half-paces to your left."

In the opposite corner to Jaymesin's voice, then.

"And if you would be so kind as to introduce your own self, good sir, then I might not have to assume that you're one of them being sent to win my trust."

(OOC: I'm not sure if Julianya's here either.  If I need to edit this, let me know too.)

[G'brihl]

The voice was a familiar one, and Gabrihl immediately found himself pouring through his memories to try and pinpoint where he'd heard it before.  Surely it wasn't so long ago, for him to recall hearing it before.  When his fellow cellmate introduced himself as Jaymesin, Gabrihl was only moderately surprised, though he wasn't quite sure if that surprise was that one of the Lord Holder's sons was being kept imprisoned or that he hadn't been killed, given the rumors of Groghe's demise.  If Mikhen the Usurper was intent on claiming the Hold for his own, and was not afraid to model himself after Fax to do so, then he rather expected much of Groghe's bloodline would be killed off, particularly any sons that would have legitimate reason to contest his claim.

Mention of food made Gabrihl reflexively reach to check the runner's pack that had been secured at the small of his back at the start of this ill-conceived venture.  It was still there, surprisingly, and while the contents might be a little worse for wear, the food rations he'd packed would still be edible, even if they wouldn't last more than a day or two, especially if divided between two people and three firelizards.  Further mention that he was laying very near--far too near for his strict adherence to personal cleanliness--a piss bucket was enough to finally prompt him to move, pushing himself up to gingerly scoot in the opposite direction of the bucket Jaymesin had mentioned.

"Journeyman Runner Gabrihl," he obliged in introducing himself, even as he silently reached out to Rioghan to calm the excited green.  Then, as he expected Jaymesin wouldn't likely recognize the name, he elaborated.  "I received the firelizard egg you passed over at the Gather, and then the last one from the clutch, as well.  Not that it seems to have hindered your ability to possess one."  This a not so oblique reference to Brick, who Rioghan was now ignoring but Zaman was watching with large, slightly wary eyes.  He didn't think his brown brother would attack, but it never hurt to be on guard just in case.

Silence fell briefly as Gabrihl considered the predicament he'd gotten himself into.  There wasn't much of a way out that he could see; only the door, and no windows, which was actually a blessing given the frigid temperatures outside.  He did have his firelizards, and Zaman was at least fairly reasonable about delivering messages or fetching small items, which might come in handy.  Assuming he lived beyond the next day, which reminded him...

"Tell me, Jaymesin," Gabrihl mused.  "Does the name 'Mikhen' mean anything to you?  I feel as though I have heard it before, but I cannot place where."

[J'sin]

"Please to meet you, Journeyman Runner Gabrihl," Jaymesin said.  "Congratulations on receiving two eggs, a feat not even the Weyrwoman could match.  Father was pleased when he got the report, so he gave me an egg he happened to have lying around."

That egg had been intended for someone else, originally, but Jaymesin didn't care about that.  He was quite happy to let the silence extend while he fumed quietly that the son of a Holder only rated one egg while some Journeyman - not even a Master! - rated two.  He shifted on the straw, trying to find a comfortable position for his aching arm and failing dismally.

"Does the name 'Mikhen' mean something?"  Jaymesin said it drily, with a hint of irritation.  "Are you trying to be funny, Journeyman?  If so, you're failing dismally, but I'll answer anyway because you're the most interesting thing that's happened since I got here.  Mikhen is my oldest brother, the one that mother had father disinherit in favour of Haighe."

[G'brihl]

Was that envy, irritation, or general weariness that he heard in Jaymesin's voice?  Well, no one had told him to pass up the egg that had been drawn for him, and he had still managed to receive one on the strength of his Blood alone.  It was a bit ironic, really, that the only reason Gabrihl had ended up with a pair of them was because one of Jaymesin's younger brothers (or perhaps a half-brother; Groghe didn't seem to mind siring a bastard here and there) had felt he'd had something to prove, or some sort of wager to win.  And it was only pure luck that one of his tickets had been drawn, let alone both of them.  Perhaps it was best that he not mention that the egg that would have been Jaymesin's had hatched into a bronze...

So that was where he'd heard that name before.  Growing up in the Harper Hall as he had, Gabrihl hadn't ever seen much of Groghe's family outside of the Lord Holder himself and those children who had been capable enough at the Craft to visit the hall, or to become students there.  Mikhen, as he recalled, had a good twenty Turns on him, and Gabrihl couldn't remember ever having met the man face to face.  So it was a good old fashioned Blood feud that now had the Hold in lockdown, him locked in a cell, and Masterharper Robinton dead.  But why go after the Harper?

"I intended no humor, Holder," Gabrihl answered, a bit of a bite to his tone.  "I was raised at Harper Hall.  Mikhen was long gone from the Hold before I became a Runner, so all I know of him is what I have seen on a hide or heard in a rumor, and given... current circumstances, I was somewhat preoccupied to recall his identity on my own."

Silence fell over them again as Gabrihl fell into thought, Zaman moving to a familiar shoulder perch while Rioghan, Brick and Jaymesin all but forgotten for the moment, crooned soothingly to her pet.  So, Mikhen had taken over the Hold.  It didn't take long for him to decide that the rumors about Groghe's death were likely true, which did not bode well for the Lady Holder or for the erstwhile heir, Haighe.  Or for any of Groghe's Blood kin, really.  Mikhen was taking a page right out of Fax's playbook--to a degree.  Why hadn't he slaughtered the entirety of the Fort Hold brood to assure his claim as Lord Holder?

"I wonder what he intends to do..." Gabrihl mused aloud.  "With Lord Groghe dead, Haighe is now Lord Holder.  If he wished to secure his place, I am surprised that he has not tried to weed out the competition.  No offense," he added a moment later, aware that Jaymesin might not appreciate being likened to either a weed or to mere competition.