2017-08-16: Whacking At Beehives

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  • Log: Whacking At Beehives
  • Cast: Cassidy Cain, Morgan Newkirk, Noah Hawthorne
  • Where: A Baskar encampment in the borders of Lacour and Adlehyde
  • Date: August 16, 20117
  • Summary: Takes place immediately after Revenge Is An Act of Passion. Morgan Newkirk confronts Cassidy Cain about the reasons behind her reckless assault against Vorthuzahl and Noah Hawthorne gives her the sword the Metal Demon left behind, which turns out to represent a few unpleasant reminders - at least, enough that Morgan's recognition of the thing prompts an abrupt and mysterious exit by the relic hunter.

<Pose Tracker> Cassidy Cain has posed.

TWO HOURS AGO...

Matohska Farun, chief medicine man in the Baskar encapment perpetually situated in the borders of Lacour and Adlehyde, stares at the trio that has managed to stumble into the perimeters of his domain, recognizing them immediately. The last few weeks have seen this specific group visit him and his people occasionally, most of the time with inexplicable injuries, and while he has learned to sometimes expect Cassidy Cain, given her connection with a few of his relatives out west, the same cannot be said of her most recent cohorts. He is familiar with the dark-haired man in particular, remembering the numerous crates of grass they brought into the tent when the blonde conwoman had asked him to see to his grievous injuries.

As he is informed that it is the woman, herself, who needs medical assistance, and on a lesser level the Beastman accompanying them, the expression on his leathery face doesn't change.

But really, this wouldn't be the first time he is considering increasing the going rates for his services.

AN HOUR AGO...

The encampment continues to be embroiled in its nightly rituals in this part of the desert; animal skins are dried and hung, meat and vegetables are being prepared in the several cookfires dotting the space, and the smattering of guttural chatter fills the evening air, accompanying the smell of fat dripping on charcoal and the hint of grass and dung. Amidst Matohska's community, it doesn't smell like the desert, reminding one instead of far off plains laden with whatever green is left in Ignas.

These activities continue even when a sharp scream of protest cuts the companionable din, rising from the main medicine tent.

"Nae! Put the needle away, Matohska, I dinnae need...nae! Get it away!"

There is another incoherent shriek and the sounds of a scuffle. The large Baskar aide standing guard outside of the tent exhales from around his pipe, tobacco smoke wafting from the bowl, and shakes his head.

He gives off the impression that this has happened before.

Half an hour passes when Matohska finally emerges from the tent, opting for the more colorful aspects of the Baskar dialect as he rants and kicks at a nearby crate in a frustrated fashion. Not that he could be blamed, his cheek pulses with a red handprint and the ridges around his right eye looks swollen. After a few more minutes of this, he takes a deep breath, reverting back to his usual unflappable face, and turns back around to duck inside of the tent.

Cassidy's outraged hollering and the scuffling start back up the moment he returns.

"NAE! Matohska, you ken better! How do you nae....nae I said! Stop!"

There's a loud crash.

"GUARDIANS PRESERVE ME, CAIN, YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON I'VE ACTUALLY HAD TO HURT IN ORDER TO HEA-- OW! STOP BITING ME-- !"

Wordlessly, the Baskar child applying some surprisingly advanced healing magic on Morgan's own injuries offers him a piece of beef jerky.

When blessed silence finally returns to the tent, Matoshka stomps out of it, cotton balls stuffed up his nostrils in an attempt to stave off the bleeding. Despite his state, he is as calm as he has always been, as if the earlier ranting display had not happened, and informs both men that the blonde hellbeast has been sedated and seen to.

NOW...

Like Jude's and Noah's prior experiences being under Matohska's care, Cassidy has been moved to another tent, this one overseen by an elderly Baskar woman holding court with an impressive collection of vials holding mysterious liquid, powdered, shredded, dried and metallic contents. She is situated by her preparation table, a mortar and pestle grasped within her long, well-practiced fingers. The glow of a nearby lamp elongates the shadows of the shapes within, sparsely furnished as it is - a couple of rickety chairs, a rug spread out underneath. The cot that holds the pale-tressed thief is pushed against the very back, the air within laced with sweet smelling smoke - hints of dried lavender, cinammon, and something else that is indiscernable.

She is sleeping soundly, at least, nary a flutter of lashes that suggests that she is dreaming, not a word mumbled while under the Sandman's spell. She barely even moves, save for the rise and fall of her chest, most of her hidden under an afghan. She had turned over immediately after Matohska's apprentices had placed her on it, a side-sleeper to the last, tucked in with her knees half-drawn up and her cheek pressed into the provided pillow.

And like Matohska himself, looking as if those violent altercations in his tent never happened.

<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

It was suprisingly good beef jerky.

Just for the record.

The foxes tail and ears are still mostly white. Bandages wrap his torso, still slightly stained with red. Odd tattoos decorate his right arm which is visible. Simlar to symbology tattoos, as well as an odd one on the shoulder.

The fox just smirks as he ducks into Cassidy's tent. His movements quiet as the proverbial mouse. He can move fairly silent when he wants too.

He hadn't been quite as fussy a patient as Cassidy had. Not quite as much violence involved. Though he did insist that they:

A) Send someone 'cute'
B) That he didn't need any help.
C) That the blood on his clothes wasn't his. (It totally was)

Eventually he settled, mostly because he was getting way too lightheaded.

Shaking his head slightly the fox-man just sighs slightly. Leaning back against a tent-pole and with a smirk settling on himself. "Ya know," His voice low and amused. "Its amazin' someone that can be so much of a hellion when awake can sleep like an angel."

<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

Across the little aisle from the tent in which the ruckus is taking place are two wide, wooden chairs. In one of them sits a Baskar man in his late thirties, smoking a pipe. He's relaxed, eyes lidded, and watching the tent. In the chair beside him is Noah Hawthorne, shrugged down low, hands laced over his chest and a mint-soaked toothpick in his mouth. He's relaxed, eyes lidded, and watching the tent.

The sound of a hand connecting with something whipcracks through the night air, and the eyes of both watching men tighten in a subtle wince of sympathy.

"Cheek," Noah says.

"Mmhm," says the man next to him.

Less than a minute later, half-concealed beneath inarticulate shrieking, is the sound of something being knocked over, things clattering across the yurt floor.

"Splints," says the Baskar man.

Noah's brow quirks. Skeptical, he turns his head only enough to look at the man, and only briefly. "Splints? You sure? Not...oh..." He shifts the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "Canes?"

The Baskar man seems to consider that for some moments, and in the end shakes his head. "Splints."

"Hnh," says Noah.

Not long after this, Matoshka emerges temporarily to unleash wild violence on every innocent, inanimate object within ready kicking distance, and both seated men watch brows slowly rising, until Matohska steadies himself and charges back into the fray.

"It's not too late," Noah points out.

"No. He'll do it."

In the end, Noah loses ten gella on that bet. He remains where he is as she's transferred, and he's still there when he finally sees a familiar silhouette briefly appear before disappearing into the other tent: Morgan is easy to pick out of a crowd, what with the tails and ears.

The flap rustles as Noah pushes it aside, but he lingers just inside. If she's resting, he has no interest in waking her up. Matohska probably needs to recover before he's prepared to tackle her and keep her from doing something else counterproductive to her own health.

"Just further evidence there is no god, nor any angels to speak of," he quips, and folds his arms. Narrowed eyes study the fox man. "Still in one piece? How long did they tell you to rest up?"

<Pose Tracker> Cassidy Cain has posed.

"I heard that."

From where Cassidy lies, a single virid eye cracks open, near-microscopic shards of gold reflecting lamplight. She doesn't move from where she's tucked against her side, however, though whether she is incapable or unwilling, it is difficult to say. That isn't to say her present state has dampened her spirits, however, when a smirk curls on the corners of her mouth.

"Though that dinnae tell me anything new," she says, her voice hoarse with exhaustion and whatever row with which she had subjected poor Matohska. "Already knew Morgan was the romantic and Noah was the cynic."

It probably isn't surprising, either, that it doesn't take her long to put thumbscrews to her shattered stamina. She shifts underneath the afghan, rolling her body to rest on her back. With a deep inhale, girding herself internally for the pain that will undoubtedly follow, she moves to slowly sit up. The shift in position costs her, sucking in a sharp breath and barely managing to choke back a groan as javelins of fire skewer her from belly to sternum. A palm flattens against her chest, where the bandages are, suddenly reminded of what she had tried to prevent Matohska from doing.

She won't know if he's successful, or if he listened to her alternative, until she peels off the bandages, and she doesn't want to do that here.

Knees bend, legs drawing upwards so she could drape tired arms upon them, fingers tilting to rake them through her blonde hair. If she feels guilt in any way for having treated the Baskar shaman the way she did, she doesn't show it. Instead, she rubs the fog from her eyes to squint at Morgan, her stare lingering in that direction; her expression is inscrutable.

Gradually, however, those eyes find Noah standing inside of the tent. "You're a sight for sore eyes," she tells him, bracing an elbow against her knee, cheek pressed on the cup of an open palm. "Thought you'd be right at the Kislev-Aveh borders by now. Got delayed or sommat?"

<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

"Oh I'm fine. They told me ta rest up for a few days but..." A wicked grin from the beastman. "...I'll take that under serious advisement." Which means resting isn't something very high on his to-do list. But he'll think about it. "Thanks to you showing up though," He smirks towards Noah. "Most of my internals stayed that way."

Most at least.

The Fox is more battered than he likes to admit though. It shows in the cant of his shoulders, the breathing that is just slightly labored, the gingerly way he moves his arm.

Which is thankfully still attached.

Then Cassidy cuts in and he chuckles, though that laugh turns into a bit of a wince. "Well someone has to balance out this bastard," He drawls out as he jerks his head towards Noah. He takes a deep breath though as he watches her shift, sitting up in her bed. Sharp eyes check on her injuries as he leans his weight against the tent pole carefully.

There is a slight creak in the wood.

The man is just built a bit more sturdy than more it seems.

The curious gaze is then transfered towards Noah though and he quirks an eyebrow. "That bit of border-running you all were up ta, eh? I talked to Josie about that a bit ago." A pause. "Why tha' hellfire ya wanna get to Kislev that bad anyway?"

<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

They shouldn't let her get out of bed that way, but Noah's not the mother-hen type: he keeps his arms folded where he stands and watches as Cassidy insists on moving around. If she tears something open again, it's not his job to fix it. Same goes for Morgan. He'll take it under serious advisement, and Noah knows perfectly well what that means.

Babysitting: not really Noah's thing. Certainly not any more than Morgan and Cassidy are into being babysat.

One of his brows coasts upward, and there's a little simmering veil of amusement in his eyes as he puts in, "I can be romantic. ...If I feel like it." Hazel eyes tick from Morgan to Cassidy and back again, humor waning. His shrug is small enough it'd be difficult to see in broader surrounds. "Badlands. It's a job. I told you: 'scrabbling in the dirt.' But I had other dirt to scrabble in first. I didn't smuggle that 'artifact' into eastern Ignas for no reason. It took me longer than I expected to sort out my personal business. I'm meeting up with the pair I'm traveling with tomorrow."

He shifts his weight, spreading his boots to plant shoulder-width apart, settling into his place. "I thought I'd swing by Forever to make the most of things before taking on an entire army-- " By which he means 'just a patch of one, and ideally a thin patch,' but why get caught up on the fine details? "-- but it looks like that's a thing of the past, now. ...Which reminds me."

Arms unfolded, he turns and brushes through the tent flaps. Thirty seconds later he's back, with a cloth wrapped around an object, and this he takes to the foot of Cassidy's cot, carefully seating himself so as not to upend the thing.

Unfolding the cloth reveals the hilt of a sword.

The sword is broken.

The silver gleaming exterior has flaked off and crumbled to black dust. Underneath is an old, ceremonial sword that was clearly broken many, many years ago - the edges where the blade was broken are too smooth to have happened during the combat. It also is without question a human made sword.

<Pose Tracker> Cassidy Cain has posed.

There's a laugh; to her credit, it is genuine. That sharp, cutting smile returns, honeyed brows lifting upwards as Cassidy regards Morgan at where he leans. The bulk of him is enough to shift the tent sideways just a little, prompting a glower from the Baskar alchemist working quietly by her preparation table; a woman so silent that it is easy to forget that she is still there, working away on her poultices.

"Dinnae ken," she says, gamely, in seemingly good spirits in spite of her injury. "Think Noah's more interesting if he's unbalanced. Should have seen him down in the Hollows, Morgan. Everything that you dinnae think could happen happened. I seriously lost my shite, it was fookin' incredible."

At Noah's amusement, the thief rolls her head towards his direction, her own growing. "Ay, well, I ken you can. Dinnae put much past you, Noah." Mention of the Badlands, however, has her stare wandering away from both men to watch the far side of the tent with quiet interest, the fingers of her free hand curling loosely on her lap. Thoughts of unfinished business crowd the cotton still clouding her half-awake mind, but these are ones that she dismisses quickly, looking up when the relic hunter decides to regale Morgan of his plans at the border.

"Who's Josie?" she wonders at Morgan. "You get married again?"

At this point, it's a legitimate question.

"I have it on good authority that it's a lot more unstable now thereabouts," the blonde tells Noah. "Sommat about someone whacking at that beehive with a stick. Hope you dinnae intend tae leave home without grenades, luv." Of course she would bring it up. "They tend tae be able tae simplify a situation verra quickly."

Following the wake of the dark-haired man when he slips out of the tent, presumably to fetch something, those green eyes fall back on the Beastman, levity fading away. Her lips press into a thin line. "Morgan," she begins with utter seriousness. "Why the bloody hell did you-- "

The flap pushes back in; at Noah's ingress back to where they are, Cassidy looks up and shifts sideways on the cot, swinging long legs on the edge to make room for the man as he sits down and unwraps his bundle. With the object bared to the dim light of the tent, cloth falling away to reveal its distinct crossguard, she says nothing for a long moment, staring at the object that he had brought.

It isn't because it is broken, or even because she realizes that a Metal Demon, enemy of humanity, had been wielding a blade forged by human hands. A set of pale fingers stretch out to drape over the hilt. She has never seen one in person before, but she has seen sketches and diagrams, those ever-present shades stirring in the forbidden spaces at the back of her mind. One word dances in the forefront of her thoughts, the weight of her seemingly innocuous knife-blade suddenly making itself known to her.

Solaris.

She is suddenly reminded of one of the old, classic tragedies Theresa loved to quote. About a noble who had designs to be king, to the point of seeking out three crones in a cave, who read his future within their cauldron in the guise of three prophecies. Three signs. Were she a more superstitious person...

"Dinnae make sense," she finally says, fingers moving to the smoothed edge where the blade had been broken. "Pretty sure it dinnae break while we were fighting him. This for me?" Her smile returns. "There's bloody poetry in there, methinks. Using sommat he once owned tae carve his heart out next time."

<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

The fox scratches his nose a moment with a smirk on his face. "Married? Naw. You wern't there ta give me hell and preside over the ceremony. So ain't gonna deprive ya of that. Besides, that woman can drink me under the table and shoot better than most people I know." A pause. "Espicially you." A longer pause. "I mean there is a reason you use explosives."

"Anyway, its not a whole army. I mean at this point you've gone over what? Six or ten miles of the line and found the weak point?" He asks of Noah as he steps out. Reaching under his coat the fox pulls out a small flask, shaking it to hear some kind of amber gold ambrosia inside swish around before he pulls the stopper out with his teath to take a pull.

The old fashioned painkillers are the best.

Over the battered silver decanter he watches that humor fade from Cassidy's eyes as that question comes. A smirk crosses his face before he just gives her a shrug in answer.

Which isn't really an answer.

The return of Noah derails that train of questioning for the moment as he brings back the prize from the sudden attack. He frowns slightly towards the item.

"I've seen hilts like that before." He adds with a nod towards it. "But the blade looks snapped clean off. Maybe cut with a tool, not jagged enough to have snapped in combat. Where the hell did a Demon get hold of that one."

But then Cassidy is moving to take it and he shifts that deep gaze back towards her. A quirked eyebrow. "...alright. So normally I'd be all subtle and dance round the subject till I figured a way to ask all delicate like. Tonight I'm full of painkillers and feel like I've been strapped ta the nose of a Gebler dropship fer a few dozen miles. So I'll ask. Tha' hell do ya two want to kill each other so bad?"

<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

This for me?

"What use do I have for a broken sword?" Noah hands it across, still half-swaddled in the square of cloth he packed it in.

"We've been keeping eyes on the line, yeah," is his vague answer to Morgan. Although he's got no interest in babysitting, neither does he care to dangle a dangerous venture in front of the man with the fox brush. It doesn't take much to pique Newkirk's interest.

Sometimes that goes both ways, though. I've seen hilts like this before, says Morgan.

There's no glance upward, no hitch in Noah's movements, but just like that, he decides it's time to go.

"Old as hell," he offers, pushing himself up off of the cot once Cassie's got the object of discussion fully in her possession. Hazel eyes track over the thief's wounded silhouette, then Morgan's more cavalier stance. They return to Cassie in the end, beneath brows that knit together. "You want to watch who you show that to, probably." A beat, and then he splays his hands palm-upward. "It did get dropped by a ten foot immortal creature from space, made of liquid metal." He winks, turns. Speaks as he starts for the tent flaps. "Or at least don't go flashing it around until you're back in fighting shape."

He ought to tell them about what happened at Forever. That it collapsed into a sinklhole; that the oasis is no more. He ought to stick around to find out what that whole thing was about in the first place, since he's just nominally involved himself, and the more he knows, the better he can keep an eye out for any consequences that might trickle down his way.

He should, but he clearly has no plans to.

His shadow lingers at the place the tent canvas splits in two, half-turned back to them. "Early morning for me. Time to sleep it off. You two need anything, you send somebody to come get me, but otherwise..."

<Pose Tracker> Cassidy Cain has posed.

"Look," Cassidy begins, inclining her head at Morgan. "I could expend the effort tae be precise, but you cannae deny that making the things that're trying tae kill you explode is so much more satisfying than teaching them how tae smoke through their foreheads. Life's too short, mayhap even shorter for the likes of us. Too short, methinks, tae deny yourself these little every day satisfactions." She punctuates the last with a winsome smile, before easing back on the small mountain of pillows behind her. She manages to stifle a groan when her aching body and tired bones find the comfort it provides.

This does remind her to fish out her pack of cigarettes; the silver lighter flips into her fingers, though there is a brief pause as she looks at the precious engraved affair. With a quiet mutter, the cap tilts, lighting her cigarette with it. Cheeks hollow out at the hungry inhalation, lungs expanding as it fills with tar and smoke.

The drink that Morgan pulls out from his person catches her attention. A hand lifts, palm up. She had been ready to have a serious conversation with Morgan just a few moments before; as shameless as ever, that does not stop her from wordlessly trying to share. Because he is right: the old fashioned painkillers are still the best.

With the object handed over, she is already wrapping up the shattered blade with the cloth, in the midst of doing so already while Noah dispenses his warning. "Ay?" she muses, looking up at the relic hunter. "Well, dinnae look that special tae me, but there's nae much use for this save for a souvenir. Maybe a reminder tae sharpen up my aim, like what Morgan here's trying tae hint at in that verra subtle way of his." She reaches for her jacket, hanging on the edge of the cot, to shove it in the inner pocket there.

Not that anyone would have much of a chance to inspect it, once she's done with it. She has plans for it, judging by the gleam in her eye.

As Morgan turns to ask about Vorthuzahl and the bad blood between them, Cassidy busies herself with carefully hiding the shattered blade in her jacket. Meeting the Fox Man's eyes across the way, she smiles blithely. "Bloody bastard tried tae steal from me, once, and you ken how I get, when people try tae. Though apparently we stole from him too, though I dinnae know what the fookin' hell he was talking about. What the shite is a dragon stone?"

At Noah's intended egress, her eyes fall on his back, pausing. The thoughts are there, information that he could probably use. But with his sudden desire to depart, she doesn't stop him. A hand lifts instead, to wiggle in his direction.

"Ay, Noah. You watch yourself, now." She rests her hand on her jacket. "And thanks."

She says nothing else until the flap is down and he is gone, before turning to Morgan and quirking a brow. "Was it sommat you said?" she wonders rhetorically, pointing at where the relic hunter disappeared with her chin.

TO BE CONTINUED...