Who

T'ral, Myziri, Oz'keyn | Esanth, Sahizath, Hirikoth

What

Lynx investigates a ship linked tenuously to Sven's murder and the trail leads right to Black Rock.

When

It is afternoon of the nineteenth day of the sixth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Protectorate

OOC Date 25 Mar 2016 07:00

 

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Hirikoth daydreams this: the small boat smashed to splinters, horrified men clinging overboard to cargo crates, and the clipper Spellbound sinking from a fatal wound, that horrible figurehead sliding into the deep.


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Rift

Narrow along the north edge of the rift, it gradually widens until it's a few hundred feet at the widest. Before narrowing again at the base of a rather large imposing cliff, at least fifty feet below the top. The edges of the rift are made up of solid granite and are covered in moss and other small plants that thrive in the humid air, protected by outcroppings of stone, and tucked away in little pockets. Even along the floor of the rift, small areas of vegetation seem to thrive in the seemingly inhospitable rock. Pools of water flourish in the depths of the rift, teeming with aquatic life, from small pockets of plants to small varsities of animals, including some small fish. One of the pools bubbles and then spills out into a small stream that flows northward, after a few hundred feet it disappears underground.

It is the nineteenth day of Winter and 57 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.


Lookouts are set. It's chilly. Rainy. Though the worst of that has cleared. Another lovely Winter on the Southern coast. The Lynxriders are settled into positions scouted earlier in the seven. This is the fourth day of surveillance. They settled during the worst of the deluge and now sit watching the mouth of a sea cave and it's approaches from different vantage points. T'ral sits in silence, the soft tap of rain on his oilskin a lullaby. It is difficult to keep his eyes open. He chews the inside of his mouth. A communique sent through Esanth flickers out on a tight encrypted band to the dragons stashed hither thither and yon. « Red One. No change. » T'ral has eyes on the path leading down to the cave. Myziri and Oz'keyn are nearest, with their own vantage points.

Myziri's usually down with the special drills, but this time 'round it's kind of a drag. She's cold, and though she's found a marginally dry vantage point, there's a little drip that keeps hitting the top of her helmet and sliding down her neck beneath her jacket, which is damned uncomfortable. But they've got a plan, and premature movement would likely ruin it; she's already got demerits what with her and J'ran's antics at almost this very spot oh so recently, not to mention missing threadfall because of it. So she practices patience with ill grace and hunkers down, waiting for the signal to move, sending her own report via Sahizath « Red two. All's quiet still. »

Oz'keyn waits with the wingsecond, not a word, not a sound. And no complaints. He has a small curl of klah bark in his mouth, between teeth and cheek, chewing on it now and again. Far below, in the deeper layers of cold water, Hirikoth waits. Her wings tightly held to her ribs and flank, only moving as she needs to, the phantom green conserves her energy and air. From time to time, she chooses a shadowed spot to tip her nostrils up to take a breath. To the other dragons of the wing she offers no words across the link, only a deep thrumming excitement of a predator.

Men, two of them, tramp into Myziri and Oz'keyn's line of sight. They are wearing slickers and the crackling of their movement sounds quietly over the rain. T'ral, watching the cave entrance, waits still. A flurry of wings and a shrill cry snap the bluerider's eyes wide, set his heart thrumming. The men walking the rift, hard eyed and keen, stop and look around. They fan out a few paces, squinting through the drizzle where the bird sprung from. The bluerider shifts minutely in his perch, squeezing muscles to get blood grown sluggish moving. The bird's cries echo to silence and the men, with wary looks, press on. From his vantage, T'ral relays through Esanth. « Red one. All clear. »

The appearance of the two men occurs just as Myziri is contemplating actually moving away from that drip, drip, drip that's driving her crazy; she immediately freezes, managing not to flinch when that bird cries out. The relay to Sahizath is immediate « Red one. We've got activity. Two men. » Quick glance is flashed over to where Oz'keyn hides, but otherwise makes no move - she barely breathes, in case it causes the lush bush in front of the niche where she hides to tremble and reveal her presence.

Oz'keyn has waited with her in patient silence for a time, now. Stoic but not unfriendly. He meets the wingsecond's eyes for a brief moment, just a slight inward nod of acknowledgement. Below, Hirikoth lies in wait.

« I see them. » T'ral's voice is a tinny synthesized similacrum, rendered choppy on the tight band Esanth relays. « They're headed into the cave. Stand by. » And stand by they do. It's the better part of too-miserable-damn-long before the prow of the bow appears at the cave entrance. « I see the boat. They're headed into the cove. » The two men shove the boat clear of the cave's maw, one staying aft to fend her off the rocks. The other sets about assembling the mast and rigging, partially collapsed to get into the cave. Ropes hiss and hardware sings. The sails luff under sluggish cove-damped winds. Crackling, « Second positions. » With the sky dreary and gray, moving riders will make silhouettes against the glaring cloudcover if they're not careful. « Hirikoth. » T'ral loses sight of the men when the wind catches and takes them beyond a bend in the cliff.

Myziri doesn't make comment on T'ral's acknowledgment, and is silent after Sahizath relays Esanth's words as well. Only when the wingleader announces second positions does she start to move, with another glance and a signal to Oz'keyn, making her way carefully toward Sahizath's undercover position, the darkling green blending nicely into the dense foliage within which she has settled. It's slow going, in order not to be seen, wending a path through what cover there is and keeping well away from the edge of the rift at the same time. Finally, after what seems hours of crawling through wet fronds and muddy patches, she reaches Sahizath; making sure there's no one around to see, she mounts and waits for Oz'keyn. « Arial surveillance commencing. »

Oz'keyn follows without a sound, perhaps more quiet than his size would ordinarily suggest. It may be that he has done this before. He presses his hand against Sahizath's hide for just a moment before he mounts up. He situates himself in a balance of safety and not unduly touching the wingsecond.

Hirikoth draws in a deep slow filling breath before vanishing into the sea. Extra membranes shield her eyes from the salt in the water, dulling their glow of pure malice.

« Red One and Black Two headed to second position. » T'ral's mission is recon of the cave. They hadn't gotten a good look inside yet. The only thing likely to be of interest in there is now gone, but he and a brownrider creep carefully along the cliff face, wincing against cold spray that dashes on the boulders, "Tide's going out right?" T'ral murmurs very low. The other rider snorts. Out on the water the boat cuts an arc back across the cove and T'ral and C'lel freeze. Their muted oilskins will look like rock from afar. That's the hope. Out in the water, the boat's sails belly and she catches a good head of speed, nosing out into open water and setting sail for the dark smear on the horizon of sea hold: Black Rock.

Straps are passed back quietly for Oz'keyn; once he's secure, Sahizath takes to the skies with an almost straight-up launch; those lowering clouds and drizzling rain are finally good for something now - she diseappears quickly in the cloud cover and with her speed catches them up easily to the boath. The green soars just above the seacraft in counterpoint to Hirikoth's submarine surveillance; between the two of them, surely they'll be able to follow the boat's passage easily. « All is well here. We follow ». She's in her element, is Sahizath; poor Myziri and Oz, however, are likely thoroughly saturated and even colder than they were before since it's kind of like flying through soup.

There's debris in the cave. People have been living there. Esanth and Ameth share the images their riders find. They make quick work of the site, noting it's location and size. It's not long before they're moving carefully to meet their dragons, waiting for a squall to blow through and hide ascent. « Red One and Black Two. We're clear of the cave and on the way. » Surveillance… not so exciting. But, paydirt, paydirt is. Rather than approach the seahold, out in open water the boat sets a sea anchor and a lantern in her bow burning something bilious that gives her light a green cast. A signal?

Oz'keyn seems to possess either a great dull patience or an appetite for punishment. It could be that the miserable weather might offer a welcome reprieve from the normal climes of High Reaches. Perhaps the klah bark has fortified him a bit; he's crunched it down before climbing up on the darker green. He shares his focus with his lifemate, hunting in tandem as they do.

"Oz, you see that?" Myziri keeps her voice soft, though loud enough to be heard over whooshing wing noises, and points to the boat - it's seen through a haze of mist and cloud, of course, but that light gives it away regardless. « Circling. Boat anchored off the coast. » Sahizath does indeed circle, like a buzzard over a man dying of thirst in a desert. "Looks like Hirikoth's up - Sahizath hates the feel of saltwater." She shivers, keeping her eyes on the prize.

As the hands drop the anchor off the vessel, Hirikoth takes a moment to snatch a breath of air. Touching minds with Sahizath, she attempts to orient herself better for an approach. But first she will have to conceal her next deep pull of breath, since she will need to make this last.

"Aye," Oz'keyn remarks in a rasp just louder than a whisper. "'nother ship's comin' out, I think."

Esanth and Ameth strike due east, flying in the ragged bellies of low clouds, they circle wide and wider, before turning to wing north towards Black Rock. Images sent by the dragons are mostly misty white and gray of clouds and the deep green and dark blue of Southern's winter landscape. « Clear to the east. » Riders out west, cutting a similar arc norward relay another, « All clear to the west. » Whatever's going down won't have witnesses. Save two riders and two dragons and hard eyed crewmen. A ship headed out from Black Rock beats a slow path upwind, her sails furling as she drifts closer. The men aboard the small boat, begin to bustle and shift crates.

There is indeed a boat coming from Black Rock, running no lights at all and pointed unerringly toward that eerie green lantern light glowing through the mist and drizzle. There's a sudden flurry of activity on the smaller boat waiting patiently and a harsh but low shout, muted by the weather, goes out "Your ma's a whore!" It seems to be some sort of signal, for from the other boat comes a response "So's your sister!" The lantern is flashed in acknowledgment and the larger boat begins to sidle up beside the smaller one. « Do we continue to circle? » This Sahizath requiring instruction from Esanth and T'ral, of course.

Hirikoth shares a vision of her unwitting prey: the anchored boat with its crew moving on the deck, and the other, a battered three-masted clipper with square rigs. She sports a figurehead that looks to be half-woman, half-avian, her scowling face horrid as if caught in a painful transformation into one of the six-limbed native predators. Its whirling motif might allude to the subject of a ballad once popular in the last thirty turns, the Witch of the Coast. As the clipper heaves closer on a choppy sea, Hirikoth continues to watch without undue motion to give away her position. She offers no resistance, allowing the sea to rock her as it will.

« Keep circling as long as you have cloud cover. » There's a sharp squeal across the communique, Esanth's mental fatigue setting in. Reproducing his rider's thoughts to share is taxing. « We'll keep the perimeter clear. » The bluerider, brownrider and their counterparts pass, flying wide widdershins and deviating deasil around the rendezvous at sea.

Unlike Esanth, Sahizath must synopsize Myziri's thoughts, or perhaps it's that estimable stamina of hers; regardless, she seems able enough to continue circling, though Myziri is a bit impatient to be doing something. "Dammit, what are we waiting for?" she mutters; whether it's to Oz'keyn or not is hard to tell, since she keeps her gaze downward, trying to see through the mistiness. "Looks like they're getting ready to make a switch of some kind." The larger boat has drawn up alongside, and now members of both boats are busy securing the two together. Soon the smaller boat's crew is tossing sacks up to the larger boat, while a net is lowered over the side of the larger, 'Spellbound,' for crates to be hoisted.

Across the joined mindscape of the dragons, Hirikoth daydreams this: the small boat smashed to splinters, horrified men clinging overboard to cargo crates, and the clipper Spellbound sinking from a fatal wound, that horrible figurehead sliding into the deep. Hirikoth dreams with fervent desire this violent outcome, her mind-self more sharp of tooth, her eyes blazing, her body waving out of the water like a sea monster.

And just like that… ships that pass in the night (or the late and dreary afternoon) meet, offload cargo and part, headed to ports unknown. Rather, the small boat sits at sea anchor a while longer as the ship resumes her with a wallowing gait. SPELLBOUND. When she is out of sight in misty haze and distance, the small boat draws up her anchor and unfurls sails, pivoting nimbly to Spellbound's wallow and cutting a track back to the island. The images shivers Esanth's timbers, his mindscape has much in common with an ocean-going vessel, « Not today. » It's too bad that Hirikoth wasn't here a couple turns back, there was ship crunching aplenty. With the ships parting and information gathered, it's time to head home. « We're done. » Well, almost home. Esanth shares a vision of the place they'll meet to debrief before heading back to the warmth of weyrs and bubbling pots and kettles.

Myziri hates it when a plan doesn't come to fruition, nor when they come up with little reward. Sahizath continues her silent circling, though it's clear there's no real reason - nothing's going to happen, it seems, and getting wet and cold was pointless « Should we follow? » The moonscaped green's words are limned with hope; she, too, wishes to run the neferious nerks to ground and see some results. To Hirikoth, she sends an approving swirl of autumn leaves that bring a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg in their wake « I like your dream. Let's do that ».

Hirikoth's dream unravels on a man's cry of terror. Despite her energy, her hungering desire, she lets the destructive picture go untouched. The beauty of what could of been. She turns away from the receding vessels, disciplined enough to seek a sheltering outcrop before she surfaces for air. Up in the straps, Oz'keyn gasps in empathetic pain— the phantom held her breath for far too long.

Esanth's sending is brusque — all that ship-y destruction so lovingly rendered sets his teeth on edge — adding a cargo manifest and ship's log floating amidst the debris before it passes into fond memory for the greens. The message: they have the ship's name and from that they can discern her destination, her captain, her crew… Assuming it was duly recorded. Ships are valuable… someone will know her. And, if that northerly heading she's keeping holds true, they can have the information before she lays one single solitary eye on the northern continent.

Sahizath and Myziri both resign themselves, circling once more before heading to the rendevouz on silent wings, Myziri's twisting 'round at Oz'keyn's gasp. "You okay?" she queries; if he says yes, she lapses into brooding concentration, going over in her mind everything they saw so they can report accurately to T'ral.

"Yes, ma'am," Oz'keyn replies. "She's got her breath now."

The Lynxriders break off, headed to Old Southern to debrief. Home to report. And soon, back out to pay a visit to Spellbound's last port of call: Black Rock.

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