Who

Renalde, Zhaine

What

Is it a good or bad sign to get called out of the baths to speak to the new Lord Warder?

When

It is midmorning of the seventh day of the eighth month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.
It is the thirty-seventh day of Summer and 99 degrees.

Where

The Springs, Southern Barrier Hold

OOC Date 18 Apr 2015 04:00

 

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The Springs

If one took a simple grotto and expounded upon it with the exponentially large space coefficient that the hold seems to be built upon, one would have the vaunted hot springs of Southern's icehold: for here there is stone and steam, secluded pools and public ones. So much variety, from frigid to scalding and all the stair-steps in between: and steps of stairs leading downwards from the entrance to the main hall, winding in between the natural pools to terminate at a heavy, engraved door.


Renalde
A lean man, Renalde, and tall with it: he stands a proper six foot, with a clear, fair complexion and ruddy-blonde hair. His blue eyes are intense, often, and nary does a whisper of a five-o'clock shadow stand out on clean-cut jaw. Renalde wears a perfectly tailored suit of dark brown linen. A handkerchief is in one pocket for all occasions requiring one. He is an adult of about 49.

Zhaine
Ruggedly handsome and well aware of it, Zhaine is all brawn and bullshit, a mountain of muscle that's only equaled by his bad temper. At six feet, broad shoulders are solidly cut, his chest and limbs thickly toned to delineated perfection thanks to a life of hard physical labor. Messy mop of ebony locks typically fall a shade too long around his face, though he'll often wear them slicked back or tucked into a stocking cap, emphasizing a high widow's peak. Light scruff underscores a strong chin and arches over full lips that tend to scowl more than smile. Eyes are narrow and hued a rich brown that matches his hair, amber-lit depths capable of a fiery blaze when his ire is raised. A faint scar is visible at the back of his jaw on the right side, shadowed by perpetual stubble, but on the rare occasion that he's more closely shaven its jagged path hints at a violent history. He bears a strong resemblance both in looks and demeanor to his twin, Zarrah. Uniform: Dark grey tunic and pants. The word 'CONVICT' is emblazoned on the back. He is a young adult of about 20.

Clean Renalde has this thing. Where he likes it clean. Especially his places. And the hold? Totally his place now. So while the convicts were bathed regularly before, now Renalde has made it perfectly clear to the minecraft that they will bathe daily from now on. To make sure it happens Renalde is here, arms folded behind his back and just the faintest of frowns creasing his face. Perhaps it’s because this area is alway kept just slightly dark, and thus interferes with his ability to see clearly. Or maybe that’s just his resting bitch face coming out. Possible. Bathe convicts, BATHE.

Zhaine doesn’t mind being clean. It’s a rather pleasant state to be in, especially after a hard day’s work in the dirty, dusty mines. In a setting entirely made up of males, however, it isn’t nearly as enjoyable as it could be. Fortunately for the well-build northerner his muscular frame and perpetual scowl have kept anyone from messing with him so far. So when the order comes to bathe, he BATHES.

Small groups filter in and out, guarded by their wildling guards. For the most part, Renalde does not speak to the convicts, but the sight of the scowling man who seems to take such pleasure in the experience catches his eye. Leaning over to one of the guards Renalde murrmers and points. The guard argues for just a moment, but when Renalde wants something, he generally manages to get it. Thus it is that one of the guards is at Zhaine’s side. “Comeon. Lord Warder wants to speak to you.” Move fast, or he might get jerked around a bit.

Zhaine minds his own business, scooping up sweetsand and applying it liberally to his dusky-hued skin while wading waist-deep in the warm water. The springs, at least, are a luxury he intends to enjoy. Or so he thought. Approached by a guard he instantly scowls, though dark brows immediately perk at the message delivered. The Lord Warder? This could be very good or very bad. Splashing himself to rid the last of the sweetsand he wades out of the pool, pausing only to throw a towel around his waist before following the guard. Hard mask firmly in place over his expression and demeanor he carries himself erect and confident, automatically bracing for things to go badly.

Renalde allows himself the luxury of the man’s approach, evaluating. Nothing goes unnoticed, and for all his properness when it is the female form naked, there is none such reserved for the male. Every bruise and cut is marked and catalogued in his brain. Only once he has settled in front of the man does Renalde finally speak. “Your name convict?” Start with the simple things. There’s a quiet arrogance behind Renalde’s words - but well earned. He’s good at what he does.

Zhaine is a mountain of perfectly cut muscle, broad of shoulder but lean of waist. His skin is naturally toned with a slight olive hue but otherwise relatively unmarked, at least compared to many of his fellow prisoners. The only scar of real note is mostly hidden by the scruff along his jaw. Glistening with moisture and leaving a slightly dripping trail behind him Zhaine pauses in front of Renalde, his demeanor one of idle patience not due to any subservient ranking but that he has allowed this man to claim some of his time. Sharp scrutiny is born with ease, the northerner confident in his own skin and more than a little aware of his imposing image. “Zhaine,” he answers, brandy-bright regard steady on the older man.

It would take more than size to shake the confidence that Renalde has. He holds no candle to the physique of the Northerner. He doesn’t need to. Renalde has taken upon himself the cloak of authority that is the Lord Warder without hesitation. “What has brought you to the hold as such Zhaine?” The words are delivered without judgement as eyes as blue as the ice without fix upon Zhaine. The convict may, depending on how the rumor mills work in the mines, have heard that this particular Lord Warder has a connection with the convicts, namely, that his son had once posed as one. His bluerider son. It was quite the scandal once upon a time.

Alas, Zhaine has no such ear for gossip and rumors. More a loner than social he doesn’t care much about anything beyond the few that he’s loyal to and his own immediate needs. He doesn’t answer the Lord Warder at first, a lazily wandering eye taking the man’s measure. The guard behind him applies a sharp jab to the back, making the prisoner jerk forward out of reflex. Lips flatten into a tight line beneath a short moustache, the shadows increasing across his brow. Drawing his gaze back to Renalde he answers with extra emphasis for the guard’s benefit. “They say I killed a man.”

Renalde's expression turns glacial as he turns those eyes of his on the guard. His town lowers as he speaks in measured tones, words which book no argument. "You will cease your actions against this man while I speak with him." The jab, and any other encouraging motions are included in the ban and Renalde keeps the guard’s gaze until the man nods curtly and drops his gaze down to the ground. Calmly Renalde turns his attention back to the convict. Mildly, "You do not agree with them?" There is no hint of disbelief in Renalde's careful question. This interrogation is free of all judgement. For now.

Interesting. Zhaine can’t resist a slight rise of dark brow in the guard’s direction, knowing it appears smug but not caring. An authority figure who actually doesn’t stand for petty abuse? That’s a new one. Dark eyes graze the new Lord Warder with a spark of curiosity. At his question the prisoner lifts a hand to rake fingers through slightly overlong lengths of sodden ebony, smoothing down the slight wave inherent to thick layers and emphasizing a marked widow’s peak. “Oh no. I did,” he admits without any note of remorse. “Bastard brought it on himself.”

That curious gaze washes without effect across Renalde. Rather he listens to the man's words, impervious to the lack of feeling, at least, outwardly he shows no sign. Instead his hands move to clasp behind him, like a teacher who is gathering information before he makes a decision. Still no judgement. "And this is your belief because this man did what? " Why was the reason for the killing?

Straightening his spine Zhaine’s broad shoulders rear back slightly, making the most of his height and giving the intensity of his dark eyes higher ground from which to blaze. Bold tenacity hardens his voice as he replies, “He was harming my sister and tried to kill me when I stopped him.” His shaded jaw clamps tight, fingers curling slightly at his sides with the memory and fury it still engenders. “He died of his own foolish stupidity.”

Physical stature. Pift. Renalde arches an eyebrow, unimpressed with the posturing of the man in question. "Such answer would then answer my next, as to why you were not cast to thread as is the typical punishment for the taking of life in these days." The words sound like they are more for Renalde's ears than for the large man. "Tell me," Abruptly he shifts tone, eyes moving past the man to settle on some of the other convicts still in the water, "What skills had you prior to your weakness in rage? "

Zhaine bristles at the reference to weakness, shifting from one foot to the other and hooking one thumb into the edge of the towel at his waist. He isn’t about to attempt to rectify that particular phrasing when it’s coming from the Lord Warder, however, so instead merely levels brandy-bright gaze on the other man. “You name it,” he answers curtly. “In a minor holding you learn to do whatever needs doing.” There’s no hostility to his tone but a repressed sense of anger limns his demeanor.

It’s probably for the best that Zhaine doesn’t correct Renalde. That might be enough to finally get a real response from the chilly master of the hold. “Unfortunate.” Apparently Renalde was looking for something different. “And they? Have you heard of any skills which might be put to use among the other, less violent of your companions?”

Curiouser and curiouser. The question actually gives Zhaine pause, dark head crooking slightly as he continues to regard the other man. “Perhaps. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Perhaps.” The word is overlaid with a sense of ‘not telling’. Whatever Renalde’s plans, he has no intention of sharing them with a murdering convict. Instead he’ll leave the word and draw his eyes back to the man before him. Just the slightest of shakes to his head. Whatver he WAS aiming for, hasn’t been met, and Renalde will not keep the man from the rest of his cleaning. “Very well then.” Decision made, if not shared, “Return to your bathing.”

Zhaine isn’t one to brag even if self-confidence is his in abundance. “Do you want to know or not?” he asks, the question blurted out before filters can halter his tongue. Dark brows perk slightly, matching the tilt of his head.

“Son.” Overtones of patronizing layer that single word. Renalde has half turned, and only pauses for a moment in his characteristic ‘walk-away-abruptly-conversation-over’ manner. “What I wish to know I could learn from one less close lipped. While you have limitless time to contemplate if you wish to ever be released into meaningful service to the world again, I have other duties to attend to.” That ice-cold look is measured. Renalde measures much of a man’s worth by his productivity, and this conversation? Not so much. The guard reaches forward and puts a hand on Zhaine’s arm, though he makes no other physical move while Renalde is still standing there.

Zhaine stews inwardly, temper boiling worse for having to contain it. But contain it he does, even if it leaks in the tense set of all that bared muscle and sternly closed cast to dark features. Holding his tongue while Renalde speaks, he only responds in an undertone as the man turns away and the guard attempts to assert his authority. With a jerk of his arm from the guard’s touch he mutters, “Typical.”

When it comes to anger? Renalde simply doesn’t have any. It would take more than an insolent response to get a rise out of him. Turning the rest of the way he’ll make tracks out of the area, satisfied that his ‘request’ to the master of the miners in resident had been followed through on. (THAT getting ignored might have given rise to his ire.) There’s just the slightest of limps in the way he walks as he exits the area, even more than two turns later, Renalde still shows the lingering effects of his once-broken leg. No, he’s no physical match for Zhaine.

The guard waits till Renalde is gone before allowing some of his irritation show. “Back in the water.” It’s snapped at the convict, and if Zhaine isn’t quick about it, the guard will not hesitate to force the issue. Lord Warder is no longer in the room to make sure he plays nice.

Zhaine’s temper is such an integral part of him he wears it on his sleeve like a shield. He used to wield it like a hammer as well but events in the past turn have honed his control somewhat, the daunting prospect of a hollow and worthless future thickening his pessimistic outlook. Now it just simmers beneath the surface like a storm ebbing to break. Thankfully his work ethic and physique are such that he can at least apply himself to gain some satisfaction.

Watching the Lord Warder leave he notes that limp, adding it to the peculiarity of the man. Then the guard is barking orders again and earns himself a dark scowl from the irritated convict. Zhaine moves back toward the water but at his own leisurely pace, lips kept in a tight line by thoughts that linger on the curious man who holds the lives of so many men in his hands. Loyalty was not something Zhaine gave easily and the man had seemed no different than every other self-important holder he’d ever met but he had also managed to provide something of a curiosity in an otherwise drab existence and for that Zhaine was intrigued. Patience would reveal more. With a life-sentence ahead of him, the ex-northerner and accused murderer had time to spare.

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