Who: Jet, C’aol, Daeserath
When: Month 9, 202 AT
Where: Honshu Weyrhold
What: Jet carries out an attack on C’aol.
The Weyrsecond of Honshu is not a man who wanders empty places often – he isn’t one to go on lone hikes in the surrounding area, or to frequent seedy locations. He’s not so anti-social that he lurks alone, usually he has one or two of his wingmates with him when he is outside of the Weyrhold. Still, there’s a habitual flow to his day to day life. Up early, training in the bowl, or outside of the Weyrhold with his wings. Training follows sweeps, of which he doesn’t take part in so much as organize those in his wing to do. Then he’s within the Weyrhold, documenting his day and going over various ledgers and tasks that are assigned to him. With the aftermath of the explosion, C’aol’s days have less routine than the man would enjoy. Instead of taking part in the training of his wing, he’s down by the granaries to receive a quote for it’s rebuilding. “I realize you wished to speak directly to the Weyrlord,” he tells the craftsman in front of him as they stare down at plans that are thrown out on a makeshift bench. “But I can make decisions the same as they can.” Other than the two of them, the work area is quiet, made more so by the devastation of fallen lumber and a half-crumbled silo. Daeserath is back at the Weyrhold, admiring the telltale glow of a green soon to rise with a predator’s intent.
The business of getting the crafter out of the way is a quick thing, a well-chosen rock launch from somewhere in the vicinity with enough force to strike the back of his head and send him down, the throw one not enough to cause major damage, should he be found in time. Less than three seconds later, an arrow sings through the sky from another direction, embedding itself firmly just below C’aol’s left knee. Should he spin around to seek out just where it came from, that’s just perfect, for the second strike just shy of his collarbone, metal gouging through flesh and wrapping itself up in muscle and other tissue, clipping the edge of said collarbone strongly enough to fracture. The third flies free mere moments later, sliding straight through his right thigh, settling deep without creating an exit wound.
C’aol’s back is turned to the crafter when he hears the thump of the man going down. He turns to frown at the noise and only has a moment to blink in confusion at the crumpled body before he hears a different thunk as an arrowhead barrels down from the sky and impales his flesh. The pain draws the color red and as the adrenaline kicks in, he turns to try and find the one who has harmed him – only to have another, and then another, strike hit him in quick succession. Daeserath bellows in the distance as C’aol fails to remain standing. He manages to fall to his side, his injured legs useless as they crumple beneath him. He does not land on the injured side, leaving the arrow sticking out of his collarbone pointed skyward. Blood begins to pool around him, draining his face of color, as the shakes of shock begins to shiver down his spine.
The firelizard appears first, swooping into view to hover over C’aol and let flame spill forth from his bronze muzzle at a distance that doesn’t threaten to char flesh. Yet. Footsteps follow, a cloaked, hooded figure making their way towards the fallen Weyrsecond on quick feet, the soles of their boots free of any identifying marks that might leave traces in the earth. There’s no telling whether the figure is male or female, for the hood of their cloak and a generous scarf obscure their features, and they do nothing but stare down at him once they reach his side, letting moments pass where it must look like the very real shadow of death looms over him. Until a gloved hand reaches for the shaft of the arrow embedded in his thigh and slowly twists, winding its screw-like metal head deeper into flesh. The bronze finds a perch on their shoulder, two sets of eyes watching him now, one whirling red. “If I ever hear that you’ve so much as looked at a woman in a manner she finds displeasing, next time I aim for your heart.” The voice is unmistakably female, fury drawing it to a low, burning heat. “You live at //my// discretion. You hurt one more woman – just one more – and your life is forfeit.” A rough ripple of laughter follows. “I don’t think you’ll manage it. Believe me, I hope you give me reason to end you. Until then…” She swings the tip of an engraved blade to his throat. “Or would you rather I do it now? Save us both the trouble?”
C’aol is not afraid of death – nor of the hooded and cloaked figure looming over him. Confusion is written across his sweating brow, his words come out like a pant as he grapples to remain conscious through the pain. “Who. Dares. Judge. Us,” he surges up with a great effort, bolstered by Daeserath’s anger. The reason keeping the bronze from his immediate side is the lasst grasp of control his rider has – wanting an answer, risking his life to get one. He manages a laugh as that blade is angled at his throat, blood spat to the side as he collapses to the ground once more. “Hold your blade,” he manages to push past the pants to say soundly, “They //always// wanted it.” Daeserath’s roar sounds closer, the bronze released from his hold. “He comes,” he warns her and then lets himself be swept into unconsciousness. The bronze appears from Between some distance off, his visual for the location of his rider not strong enough to have him appear above his body. His roar of frustration and anger clears any remaining silence as he lands and tries to push past the barriers of fallen debris to get to him and the figure looming over him.
Laughter swings the tip of the blade upwards to a cheekbone instead, but it’s the words that follow that send it sinking into skin until it hits bone, the sword’s point dragged down and drawing blood after it until it hits the curve of C’aol’s chin. “To //your// mind. To get what //you// wanted.” With little care for what damage she causes now, Jet idly slices into his shoulder across from the arrow, like she’d pin him to the ground. “You wouldn’t be the first rapist I’ve ended. I imagine I’ll be back in a few months to finish the job.” Nothing of who she is, or why she acts as she does, passes her lips. “I stand in judgement of you and your monster until you draw your last breath.” As he loses consciousness, fury gets the better of her and she twists her blade just as she twisted the arrow, yanking it free and sending Blaze aloft as she sheaths her sword and runs, not back the way she came, but in another direction, away from Daeserath and Honshu without the assistance of green wings, yet the hoof beats of a runner’s gallop sound soon after.
Daeserath’s distress sends many dragons aloft – riderless as they circle the Weyrhold in uncertainty. C’aol’s not left long to bleed into the ground, with other rider’s coming to his aid as soon as dragon’s were able to blink from Between. Honshu may be getting too used to tragedy as it delivers healer’s to the bronzerider’s side to triage the worst of his wounds. It will take Amorenth’s power to bend Daeserath to her will and hold him from wrecking the nearby forest in frustration for the ‘black figure’ who harmed //his// rider. C’aol’s transfer to the Weyrhold by wagon is not graceful and the healer’s are hard pressed to staunch the blood that continues to seep from his injuries. It will be hours of surgery to remove the arrows and try to repair all the damage of torn flesh, sinew, and blood vessels. Daeserath plants himself outside of the infirmary, his eyes a swirl of red anger that no one can dispel. C’aol will be in a coma for some days and when he awakens, who will he tell about his attacker, will remain to be seen.