Who

Bailey, Sammael

What

Bailey questions Sammael in regards to what he knows of his erstwhile cellmate.

Bailey and Sammael? Threats of violence, of *course*.

When

It is midmorning of the twenty-fifth day of the first month of the third turn of the 12th pass. It is the eighty-fifth day of Summer and 25 degrees. It's really damn cold out.

Where

Ice Fields Brig, Southern Barrier Hold

OOC Date

 

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Ice Fields Brig

Uncomfortable, isn't it?


Why is Sammael being held back from the rest of the convicts? He doesn't know. He just knows that he's seen more of the inside of his cell than he ever has previously, but that might be because of the rise in violence that's come over the convict with the fact that his cellmate is missing and it's not like anyone is going to tell him about it. Mid-morning comes and finds Sammael pacing the length of his cell like a caged animal. Greasy blond hair hanging around his face, the swagger etched in violence with each step. The face is cold, hard, but beneath it lurks the lava of a rage, complete. Every so often, he stops and curls his hands around the bars, withering the guards with a hate-filled stare as they walk past. Then he's back to pacing.

It probably has SOMETHING to do with the fact that Sammael's erstwhile cell mate has been held on suspicion of catastrophic injuries to a certain overeager weyrwoman of Southern. The other one — the classically undereager one, unless it has to do with things involving klah cookies or carving someone's liver from their living body — arrives shortly in front of Sammael's cell. She's dressed similarly to their last meeting, except her hair is unbound this time — it falls around her face and flows down her back, adding all the femininity that she previously sorely lacked. "This is the one," she can be heard saying after a side-glance inwards. "Yes. I'll speak to him in the interrogation cell." OMINOUS? Probably not intended to be that way. She just doesn't want to have to exist in the squalor of a convict cell, even momentarily.

Half-turned in mid pace, Sammael catches sight of Bailey and all of that fiery femininity and for the briefest of seconds the convict has a momentary appreciation for a woman that's easy on the eyes. It's the hindbrain's response before reality blankets like a whip and causes the tightening of eyes and thinning of lips that cause the pointed upper lip to stand out in the frame of downy blond beard. Grubby and rank, the convict ambles over to rests his forearms against the bars to lean into them. "Will you now?" Menace soaks the textured baritone, but the young man backs away quickly enough when a guard emerges with a set of keys. But first: "Wrists." To fit through the slats to get the shackles on. They take no chances with the threat of barely restrained violence hovering in the air. Sammael complies, but it is not an easy compliance. Not by a long shot. Eventually, the convict is hauled out, eyes of blue fire watching Bailey from beneath the tilt of head that angles the shelf of brows to partially occlude the eyes. Interrogation cell, it is. Each step resonates with the impotent power of a leashed predator.

Bailey enters the interrogation room first. It's a spare location, kept carefully clean, though stains have sunk into the stone of the floor that don't bear well intense scrutiny. Best to avoid looking at them, really. Especially that one in the far corner — that covers a full quarter of the room. There is only a table bolted to the floor with a chair bolted in front of it — the subject chair, that Sammael will likely be secured to soon enough. There's a loose chair on the other side, and the weyrwoman nudges it back with a toe, her nose crinkling as she examines the surface of the seat while she waits for the guards to finish with Sammael. She doesn't look at him — she doesn't seem to pay him any mind whatsoever — while they secure him. She's in formal riding leathers this time, snug to the skin, and though she still stands under the pretense of no knot, it doesn't take a starcrafter to do the math on what a woman who can call the instant obedience of the guard must be.

Sammael may look like a thug, but beneath the glowering rage lurks a sharp mind and so it doesn't take much for him to connect the dots on who this woman might be. He's silent and (seemingly) obedient as they push him roughly down into the hair and secures the shackles of hands and feet so that there's very little place he can go. Still, he sprawl in the chair like he owns it, a predator's smile curving his lips and the eyes holding an empty look that speaks to that animalistic intelligence he holds. With his hands gathered together and draped between his legs, the young man is a picture of sullen defiance and insolence. Most importantly: he is the picture of a man who doesn't look as if cooperation is on his list of things to do. With his chin angled down, the look on the hard features of his face is menacing but also curious. That this has something to do with Ulrik is a given, but until he knows what… well, the silence is everyone's answer. Finally the guards retreat, leaving Bailey alone with the shackled convict.

The second guard gives Sammael a hard look before he leaves - but leave he does, with his companion, leaving the rage-engine convict with the coldly cynical goldrider. Bailey turns to Sammael, her grey eyes flat and flinty with a measure of cold disgust. "Your friend," she enunciates quietly, the words spit with a certain level of venom… only after saying the brace of words, she stops and shakes her head. Folding her arms under her bosom, she turns, showing him her back, breathing distinctly deep for a time or two. It is not immediately obvious if she's working to control herself a) not to cry or b) not to kill Sammael where he sits in a fit of misplaced rage, but really, it's anyone's guess.

Sammael quirks one brow at her quietly enunciated word, the jaw tightening hard enough to grind the molars and flex the muscle. Still, the convict knows when to keep his silence and keep his silence he does, waiting for the woman to reveal her cards. He, privately, figures it's the latter given the woman's previous behavior and that manifests itself in the muscles that ready to action, instinctively. Even though he has no where to go and she could slay him on sight, chained up like a feline as he is. The only sound that comes from this encounter so far is the slight rustle of the chains as the readiness to danger shifts the body enough that the chains slip against each other, the chair and the table.

Bailey turns back to Sammael, her face properly schooled to neutrality. "Did you know about it?" she questions, companionably, in a voice like honeyed vinegar: it seems so sweet until you dip underneath. She doesn't give any context to her question, but watches him with the unblinking intensity of a falcon examining a particularly interesting rabbit. The goldrider is so still as to almost seem a statue, waiting quietly for any hint of complicity from the grubby convict chained to the chair before her.

With a rattle of chains, Sammael lifts his hands and places them on the table, making a warding gesture lest she think he's planning something nefarious. The fingers — calloused — fold over themselves while he regards the goldrider coolly. His head tips to the side, defiance humming through his very core, but there's something else here too. Harder to define. "I had heard something happened," his textured baritone dips lower, more of a murmur, "But I know that Ulrik did not do the things I have heard said he did. Not h— " Abruptly, he cuts himself off and presses his lips together, regarding the woman from beneath the shelf of brow. Does Sammy have secrets? Maybe.

Grey eyes are inscrutable as they scrutinize the convict. Finally, Bailey approaches the table, settling herself down gingerly on the stained stool which serves as the only seat opposite of the convict's location. "Yes. Something did happen." Her voice, colorless, does not give indication of anything — for that comment. Moving forwards, the redhead's voice struggles to contain a depth of raw emotion: "He was found standing over a body with a knife." Her lips cannot help but draw into a semi-sneer, an expression that gives only the outermost showing of the true depths of her disgust and repulsion.

"The Weyrwoman's body. I've heard the tale, out in the snows with one of the miner's the day after it happened." Sammael's tone is equally lacking in the inflection that would give away thoughts. Bailey and Sammael would make a killer poker team… literally, ahem. He twists his wrists, rattling his chains. Likely on purpose, but the tight grip of one hand to the other that presses the bones of knuckles white to the skin gives away the sheer force of will it's taking to mask all the rage within. Impotent rage. "The man's done some stupid shit. Leaving his cell was not the wisest act, but that's the only act he's guilty of. I know that he did not hurt that woman. He wouldn't. Not her." Anyone else? Well, who can say? It's all so iffy. Except Sammael's confidence in this matter — that is not iffy. Blue eyes train on Bailey, keen intelligence noting each nuance of movement, each miniscule shift of expression.

Quite literally. Bailey watches Sammael with eyes that slowly narrow. Someone else would give in to the obvious ring of truth to the man's words, but this one — this one does not. She's seen too many con-men, too many skilled overmuch in the art of lying. "I assume you were there. How did he leave his cell?" Will Sammy give up his cellmate? Bailey's voice is challenging, her very stance poised as if ready to reach across the table to bitchslap the fuck out of him. Her eyes narrow even further, bare slits in a momentary contortion; then she leans back, staring hard at Sammael. "Why would he not hurt Hannah?"

It is wise of Bailey to not immediately all under the spell of truth, and something that Sammael notes with, perhaps, a hint of respect for this tenacity against the allure of truth. "I was not there when it happened." He was tucked away in his cell as he should have been. A good little boy or so his rattling chains would indicate as the man shifts in his seat. Sorry, he's got nary an inch of fat on his body and his ass hurts on this ever-so-uncomfortable chair. "He grabbed a tool, back when we saw Hannah," familiarity with the name, "and the Healer burst from the tunnels after being chased through them." Beat. "AT knifepoint." How much will Sammael give up to save his friend? Enough. "That's when I distracted the guards and let him snatch a tool that'd help us… in bribing the guards to look the other way." The final question is posed and this jumps to the heart of the matter, which causes Sammael to shift again, eyes drawing away from Bailey. His own personal demons chip away at the soul within, though it shows only in the way he allows himself to trace his thumbnail on the scratched surface of the table. "Because." Eyes drift closed, tired, to collect his thoughts. "I can only suspect at why." Those overly-long lashes that no man should have the right to claim to lift, allowing him to stare at her from beneath their fringe.

Restless, Bailey rises from her seat, unable to have this conversation seated. She roams towards the far side of the cell much as a caged feline may, stalking until she's situated on the far side of Sammael, staring up at the corner in an effort to not show weakness in front of the man. She inspects the line of the walls meeting, and takes the explanation with all the salt in the tears that have been wept for Hannah — far more than a mere grain, one would trust. Her jaw tenses at the lattermost part of his statements, and in two steps she's closed the distance between them, moving from standing still to aiming a single gloved hand to tangle in his hair — if he's not quick enough to avoid the grip of the goldrider, she'll pull his head back by that grip in the lank, greasy hair, tightening her fingers in hideous physicality of the snarl of her words: "Because isn't good enough. My weyrwoman almost died, you…" She's leaning over him by now, one way or the other, the rage in her voice offset by the backdrop of panic and fear that apparently haven't quite left her since the last time she left Sammael.

No, Sammael is not quick enough to avoid her hand - that or he doesn't want to avoid Bailey's hand that tangles in his hair. All of her movements have culminated in this point between them and she's got the advantage. It doesn't really matter if he jerked away from her, his world has narrowed to at most two feet in either directions. "Because," it's clear that against the fear and panic that forms the broken foundation of a crumbling city is the uncertainty of loyalty and something deeper. Something that quakes beneath a river of Sammael's own personal pain and shit. Tortured. "Because for whatever reason, somehow, someway, the two of them — Ulrik is halfway in love with her. Or if not, that, then he's getting there. He cares for her, and he was trying to protect her which is why he was out in the first place. Stupidly, stupidly trying to do what a man in our situation can't." The look he turns on her is a mingle of emotions, and none of them good.

Those fingers spasm again given Sammael's words, Bailey leaning in despite herself, anguish and fear and rage and pain and distrust the perfect storm in her eyes. But she listens — she listens past his words, gauging him and his trustworthiness to a fault. The goldrider flinches — or may as well, her reaction of shuttered eyes enough, at this distance, to be well and enough the same — when he gives words to Ulrik's motives in the case of Hannah. She doesn't loosen her grip on his hair — she doesn't release him, not yet. A long, long moment finds her quiet and still, as if replaying some event in her head, looking at a memory under a new lens, a new viewpoint. She rouses from her reverie after a moment, her free hand lifting to trace a gloved finger in a line from Sammael's chin over the scruffy line of his vulnerable throat, down to the base where it hollows at the intersection of his collarbone. Her voice is throaty, her eyes unreadable. "If I find out you have lied to me, convict, I will rip your throat out." The fact that she doesn't give him gruesome detail on what she'd do if it's not true probably indicates that even jaded Bailey can see the stark truth in the words.

Caught, held. Ulrik is going to owe Sammael big for this, for having to be caught in the clutches of this woman, vulnerable throat exposed. Yet it is not fear that meets her eyes when she drags her finger down in obvious menace, it is defiance and rage. And a yearning so deep as to be part of his very bones. It is a black desire, so dark as to wish for death as part of this yearning is death. So briefly flashed, this, before it's gone and only the rage that drives internal engines is exposed. "You can try." The rough, textured baritone is pulled free as defiance spits from blue eyes that burn like fire. So hot, the gaze, that it's cold. He even manages to not swallow, the Adam's apple holding immoving except for that one act of yanking his head back. Despite the menace felt and the malevolence that shudders between them, something else sparks in those eyes and touches a wolfish glimmer before it's gone and nothing else exists but Sammael's rage. "It's the truth." Tired is this admission.

Grey against blue, searching - but yet something else, a fundamental understanding that transcends the physical interaction, that transcends this situation in which they find themselves. Bailey recognizes that desire for death, that black and bleak love for the desolation of one's soul: hers is a bright spot of anger against it, a static-crackling incandescence that yearns to scorch, to blacken, to demolish all of the foes that would dare stand against her loved ones. She releases his hair and his throat all at once, after he has tendered his declaration that it is the truth, and turns to pace towards the door. "That will be all," she states, her Benden accent untuned and toneless, giving him her back yet again.

Steadily does Sammael meet her gaze, unblinking, unashamedly. His rage burns bright, but his soul is a darkened husk taken on a sunny spring day by the sea. Once released, he jerks his head back that rattles the chains at wrists and ankles as the convict resettles himself. If he were a bird of prey, his shackles would be the ruffled feathers that get soothed down. When she dismisses him, the man holds his silence for too much has been said already. Too much truth given. Dismissed, yes, but Sammael's burning hellfire engine is not so easily discarded. Not because he does something so uncouth as to laugh at her nor for any overt action against her and the situation, but because of the very presence of two souls that aren't that far apart, held on opposite ends of a fucked up teeter totter. In another life… Alas, it is this life, and so when she turns her back on him, he audibly plants his elbows on the table and leans forward, the silvery, metallic clinking of chains sounding loud in the silence. Those blue eyes bore into the tender spot between shoulderblades. A soft, soft sigh escapes the convict, and that is the end.

The guards come when she calls them. They treat her tenderly. The same cannot be said for Sammael. Therefore the life they find themselves — therefore the roles they play in this strange and complex game of life.

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