• Closed • [The Crown: Courthouse] Objective Truth

Hart and Plague (as DuKette), pretty please.

The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.

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• Closed • [The Crown: Courthouse] Objective Truth

Postby Caius Gawyne » Tue Feb 27, 2018 4:28 pm

Cylus 5, 718
"By the Seven, there's no need to rough him up." Caius growled above the slamming of doors, darkened irises focused on the particular pleasure the Purifier in front of him was taking in twisting the dark-haired young man's arm behind him, "You can get the fuck back outside if you'd like to watch someone suffer, Ser Eren."

The Courthouse wasn't the official jail, no, for Low-town had the honor of that disgusting place, but for the sake of holding prisoners for trial and as a temporary place of incarceration for lighter crimes such as public drunkenness and indecency, the lower level of the Courthouse was possessed of several cells. For the execution, these had been emptied, both to keep Sarah isolated as well as to actually keep those convicted of a non-magical crime safe. It was into one of these cells the Purifiers dragged Hart, one of them—Ser Eren the Lord Arbiter had called him by name —pausing to bind his hands without an ounce of gentleness or concern for his discomfort. If anything, the armored older man took particular enjoyment out of this part of his employment, though he did his best to keep it from view.

Since the dark-haired man's hands appeared to be part of the problem, the other Purifier had the presence of mind to tug a beautifully embroidered kerchief from behind his breastplate and cover Hart's hands with it before the first had finished his too-tight binding, both of them depositing Hart roughly onto the stone bench that probably also played at being a horribly uncomfortable bed if necessary. Comfort was clearly not a priority.

Behind them, the somewhat delirious Knight was brought into an adjacent cell. He didn't appear injured. To Caius, honestly, the man may as well have been high—the young Gawyne far from unaware of how that looked or even what that felt like given his life experiences and his wife—but clearly this was something different, something else entirely.

Magic had been used, brazenly in the glare of the flames, either by Sarah herself or someone else, either this man or someone they'd missed entirely. The not knowing ate away at the Lord Arbiter's already melting insides, visions of executions past teasing the edges of his waking sight and fanning the fire in the cavity of his chest given how everything had unraveled beyond the doors behind him—Sarah dead at the hand of someone he'd made himself responsible for. One hand strayed to press the heel of his palm against the icy scar that lay hidden under the fine fabric of his clothes, reminding himself of Ziell's Favor, of his deeply rooted desire to be some semblance of peace despite the chaos, even though the price for that peace seemed so sarding expensive and bloody lately.

It was suddenly oppressively warm inside for the northern noble, for the Ezere. The biting wind gone and left with only the stale, still air of the Courthouse holding cells, smoke and ashes clinging to everyone's nostrils with the scent of burning flesh. The Purifiers moved, snapping the young Gawyne back to the task at hand, Ser Eren stepping past him to head back out and fetch the mage hunter Caius had asked for, the Lord Arbiter aware of his own limitations when it came to properly assessing a mage. He could have asked for any Detective, honestly, but at the same time, in this moment, he had his preferences, if only because the man before him's actions simply didn't feel familiar after all the magic he'd witnessed since Vhalar.

Clearing his throat, Caius realized he needed to speak to the dark-haired young man before him in the meantime. Hand straying from his chest to curl ink-stained fingers around the hilt of the saber he'd returned to his hip, he tucked away the fear and nervousness at being in such a small space with someone potentially so dangerous and summoned the authoritative air expected of his lineage and title,

"In case you haven't figured it out, you're under arrest for suspicion of magic." He felt the need to state the obvious, perhaps to give himself a moment to focus, irises shifting in hue from a dark grey to an almost icy, pale blue while he spoke, tone of voice firm, "By the King's decree, you're hereby given the right to a fair trial to prove otherwise, so instead of wasting my sarding time driveling on whether you are or aren't one or whether you are or aren't innocent—since we'll all know soon enough—let's start with what in Warren's name you did to that girl's mother and a Knight of the Crown, shall we? Oh, and your name. That's probably useful, too."

Caius didn't bother with his own introduction or a lengthy sort of sentence, instead choosing to watch the other man carefully as if looking for something, anything important. He managed to mask the fear hidden behind his words, the nervousness that clawed at his insides like the reanimated claws of an undead bear. Perhaps he should have waited for assistance or perhaps he should have left the dark-haired young man to DuKette alone, well aware of the mess he'd left outside. Chances are, however, Elizabet or another Sword would step in and handle what he'd abandoned for the issue in front of him.

So long as it didn't dissolve into further chaos, the young Gawyne could still manage to catch the boat to Bellesoir later that trial—he had much more pleasant, personal matters awaiting him if he could sarding manage to survive this first.

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[The Crown: Courthouse] Objective Truth

Postby Hart » Thu Mar 01, 2018 11:53 am

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"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

Hart tried not to resist, though it was difficult not to. He wasn't a fighter, he'd never been a fighter and he didn't think he would ever be, but there was only so much a person could take before they began struggling. There was only so much of this Hart was willing to relive.

The twisted arm wasn't the worst of it, nor his hands being bound roughly, too tightly, in front of him. No. It was how they dragged him through the crowd and into a cell and tossed him onto the bench.

He couldn't help thinking about the Alliance. Thinking about how they'd dragged him from the streets, much like this.

He kept himself calm by reminding himself that this was different from then.

The knights, or at least the king's knights --he didn't know about the pitch knights-- would probably not do the things the Alliance had done to him. This cell was light and more spacious than the closet the Alliance had held him in, though being locked in still made his breath catch, made him feel constricted. But he knew where he was, at least; he hadn't then.

And this time, a whole lot of people had seen him taken, including people who knew him; he wasn't by himself.

The man left in the cell with him was the one he'd seen before. The one who had been on the stage, who had thrown up as if sickened by what he was doing, though he'd done it regardless. The one who had told the guard, Eren, to stop hurting him.

He wasn't quite sure who this man was, but whoever he was he wasn't like the people in the RCA.

As soon as the man had finished speaking, Hart said, "The woman. The girl's mother." He winced as he spoke because he knew he should just answer the man's questions, but he hadn't seen the woman brought in.

He'd seen the knight who had touched him; the knight was in a cell nearby. And there had been another man he thought had been brought in. But not the woman, and at her absence Hart didn't quite feel panic, though he did feel something. Responsibility, except it was stronger than that. Obligation, no, it was stronger still. It was almost a fixation. Whatever he felt was strong enough to make him need to question someone who would likely not like to be questioned back, "Would you mind telling me where the girl's mother is?"

Despite the anxiety he felt at being confined, Hart stayed where he'd been put and didn't complain. He couldn't help, however, to roll his shoulders as if to loosen his binds. The man with him was standing while Hart was seated, demonstrating his position of power; he had his hand on his saber as if readying himself for something; and Hart was bound while the man was not. Hart knew what they could do to him. They thought he might be a mage, and he wasn't entirely certain he wasn't. He knew imprisonment. He knew punishment and helplessness and pain.

But he decided he couldn't let that divert his attentions.

"If you will," he said, trying to speak as calmly as he could, "Would you bring the girl's mother to me? I didn't mean to touch the knight. I think if you-- if you just take him elsewhere he should be okay. I don't think I've hurt him. I think if he gets away from me and stays away, he'll be fine."

"My name is Hart Qy'ihadi," he said. He could have used another name, introduced himself as Hart Venora, and the name and his Venoran likeness might have protected him. But he didn't. "I'm not a citizen of Rynmere." If he had been a citizen, that might also have protected him.

But the mage had likely been a citizen and it hadn't protected her. They'd burned her at the stake. Hart knew citizenship or a noble name wouldn't stop them. If they wanted to hurt him, they would hurt him.

"If you bring the girl's mother here she should be alright for a while longer," he said. "Long enough, I think, for you to find someone to comfort her, her husband, a loved one."

He was still twisting his shoulders, his wrists working against their binds, though he knew the binds weren't getting any looser. He would likely only end up rubbing his wrists raw, but he kept doing it regardless, a nervous tic.

"If you don't, if she stays away from me, what I've-- what I've done won't work and she will feel again. Do you understand? She'll feel what she should have felt watching what you did to her daughter. I touched her and she stopped-- stopped crying, fighting, screaming. She stopped feeling it."

"Without being near me it will all come back to her. And without someone she loves to help her with the burden of what she's seen, I don't know if she'll be able to bear it. So please, help her. I'll answer any questions you have."

OOC: The other man Hart thought was brought into the jail was Narav. I think Khymarah mentioned he was arrested as well? I left it as vague as I could because I wasn't exactly certain where Narav is or if Hart would be able to see him (if the cells are solid stone or bars, etc.).
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[The Crown: Courthouse] Objective Truth

Postby Plague » Tue Mar 27, 2018 5:54 pm

"Smacks of Empathy."

DuKette swept into the room scowling. Behind him, the murmuring woman was hoisted easily by an equally upset Dagget. Caius noted he still walked with a characteristic limp, a souvenir left to him by Edalene. Hart was already turning toward the woman, extending his bound hands when DuKette slapped them away, dislodging the handkerchief. Instead she was sat firmly on rough wood chair, Dagget looming over her with both hands supported on the back, either side of her shoulders. Before entering he had slipped black leather gloves over his hands, the sound of straining leather a quiet hush in the wake of his arrival. DuKette was a small man, shorter than any other in the room with the exception of the woman. His red hair was wild, like frozen flames caught in the act of flaring away from his skull. In contrast, his moustache was neatly waxed and curled up on both ends, little secret smiles of crimson. A black patch of leather served to cover one eye entirely, but the other was cut emerald, cold and discerning.

The knight in the cell lolled his head into the iron and intoned a soft, long moan. It was difficult, by the cadence, to tell whether it was in agony or pleasure. Beside him, Narav lay silently in a corner, one arm flung over his eyes. Weapons had been removed and now the young man was a shadow in shadows, trying very hard not to be seen. The pound-pound-pounding of the Empath's rampage through his brain was finally abating but the tangled mass of emotions in conflict were enough to keep him silent. DuKette afforded both only a glance before nodding to Caius. The Lord Arbiter looked tired in the lantern light here, flickering darkness living in the drooping skin beneath his eyes and the long creases of his frown. They all carried it, Hart noticed, the darkness. Not a one of the Mantis men seemed to be sleeping well. They had dragged the sunless days in with them, clinging to their features like a curse.

Men who burned their own kind must all be this way, he realized, touched with the charcoal.

"An Empath, then?" Caius asked, searching Hart for some sign that he was currently reaching out to control them. In the dark, Narav shrunk back further against the bars, muttering a rhyme quietly and repetitively, just loud enough to be mumbling.

"Perhaps." DuKette crossed in front of Hart and leaned down. That one eye was more than sufficient to feel probing and Hart felt the need to scoot away from such a scouring glare, but with nowhere else to go he simply had to bare it. Standing, the Mage hunter drew out a palm sized black stone from one of his many pockets, pressing it against Hart's forehead. Although the forest green living in the heart of the dark stone shifted and moved, it did so languidly and seemed to continue even after DuKette removed it from Hart's skin.

To Hart, it had felt an odd thing, like a squirming energy that did not quite touch him, instead moved through him and back...the ripples of some phantasmal lake. DuKette made a disappointed clicking sound with his mouth and returned the stone to his pocket, stepping away from Hart and holding out a hand to the woman. "Do it then, be quick about it."

Caius rubbed his chin, too wise now to immediately question DuKette. As Hart rose to attend to the woman, DuKette jerked his head at the two in the prison. "Dagget, see tae their removal, aye? Take her when she's free of it." Crossing over to Caius, he slipped two fingers into another belt pouch and retrieved a small circular item, wrapped in rough cloth. Caius eyed it warily, but was at least thankful it wasn't one of his glimmering daggers.

"Could be hidin himself wit Empathy, but I dinnae think likely." Gingerly he toyed with one of the corners which wrapped around the small object before closing his fingers around it and putting both hands behind his back. "Got a question for ye," He called out to Hart, "Marked by an Immortal? Or did ye have your powers always?"

He waited for Hart to answer and for Dagget to march the others out of the room, leaving only the three of them in confidence. "Fraid ye'll need tae strip," he said casually, drawing a look from Caius, "Only way tae feel out magic sometimes, seek out the witchmark."



((Sorry for the Delay, all!))
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[The Crown: Courthouse] Objective Truth

Postby Caius Gawyne » Tue Apr 17, 2018 2:25 pm

Caius' heart was pounding in his narrow chest, the flames of fear burning far hotter than that fucking pyre just outside. For Fate's sake, why did every fucking execution have to go so poorly? He put on the air expected of his station as a noble of the House of Gawyne and his title within the Order of the Mantis, but damn the Fates, he didn't feel it. Irises churning with emotion instead of darkening with confidence, the northern noble smirked as the young man kept asking for the burning mage's mother,

"She should be sad. She needs to feel those things—grief is a necessary process." Caius snapped, frustrated and flustered by the young man, by Hart's pleading concern for a woman who'd let her young girl make such a choice, "Her daughter's a sarding mage. Was. Now, she's making the choices of her next path beyond the confines of mortality. Her comfort is now in knowing the Kingdom is safer, and of course we'll sarding get her to her family. Bogs, do you think we're all monsters or something?"

Tired wasn't the word. Exhausted wasn't either. The northern noble was simply distant, worn thin, but he loved. He loved to stay sane and Hart's words dug under his pale skin and picked at sore places, fingers poking at nightmares. Darcyanna was his comfort but also his burden. Heavier than any execution, the weight of his feelings of responsibility toward the Kasyni and her needs were only waved like a torch in front of every tense nerve and alert sense he had when this close to a man who could have been a mage or something else, something worse.

He opened his mouth a second time to deny the dark-haired man, glancing for a moment at the woman, at the Knight, and at Narav, his ire lingering on the creature he'd done a favor for by dragging from the darkness of prison when the Burnett's names fell from his lips, only to have the bastard go and stab the burning mage and make a fucking show of himself. Some Lord Arbiter Caius was, surely, and that young man wasn't helping his image. Not that it was entirely his fault—Empathy was far more subtle than Defiance, but no less terrifying. Everything was a mistake, and yet he couldn't let his shoulders sag in front of the shorter, livelier red head as DuKette appeared, already coming up with theories.

He watched the stone and listened to the Mage Hunter, curious but also wary. The young Gawyne was quite aware that his understanding and knowledge were elementary in comparison to the strangely more experienced man, and he committed the questions asked calculatingly to memory while he waited for answers. These were things he needed to weigh if he was expected to fulfill his role as Lord Arbiter properly.

"His fingers aren't an Empath's, so that's something." Caius offered observantly once Dagget had led the others away and left the trio alone. Without hesitation, he reached for Hart's bound hands and splayed one for DuKette to see the absence of the colored thread-like lines that had marked Sarah's fingers, that had belied her youthful innocence and marked her as a mage. He tried to be gentle, but the bindings didn't help.

Carefully, subtly, the Lord Arbiter lingered with his touch for a moment, his too-warm, ink-stained fingers brushing over Hart's hand and he didn't look at the red-headed Mage Hunter right away, gaze distant for a trill or two at the strange rush of sensation his Immortal grandfather Ziell's favored gift of insight gave to him,

"I don't see anything else, though—" Caius was confused, for instead of a taste or a smell, he was for a moment overwhelmed by a sudden surge of intense jealousy—a heated flare of frustration that this man had brought comfort where he had not, that this man thought he knew better than those in charge, that this man—shaking his head, the young Gawyne blinked, attempting to quiet the kind of fury such jealousy flared to life in the molten cavity of his chest, but he chose to say nothing, keeping his observations to himself, aware that not everyone shared his level of comfort with his relationship with at least one of the Immortals who'd marked him.

"—is he an Immortal's favored instead of a mage, then?"

As if suddenly aware that he was talking around the dark-haired man instead of at him, the young Gawyne smirked at DuKette's request, Hart's hands being bound, "You mean I'm to help him. Thanks for that." Sarding glorious job, this mage hunting business, but he kept his commentary from spilling out of his mind, irises a bright emerald green in a strange mix of amusement, fear, and annoyance.

Caius wasn't going to let Hart talk his way out of it, however, and so he moved to assist the captive in removing whatever articles of clothing the red-headed Hildari required,

"It's probably in your best interest to speak up. I'm the nice one to-trial and I just lit a pyre."
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