northclifflogs | Event: June 1312

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Event: June 1312

WHO: the town of Northcliff Pass and their new friends
WHAT: the Shepherds have returned
WHEN: early June
WHERE: the town square
NOTES: oh this gonna get real gnarly yall

The month has been quiet, cheerful even, with the snow melting away in its entirety and giving way to the beautiful sunny weather with which Northcliff Pass is blessed this time of year. It will last a few months like this: high-70’s, a light breeze, flowers blooming and birds singing, until it’s time for winter to reclaim the mountain again. But in the meantime, all is bucolic.

It’s a pity a damper is thrown onto it when, one evening, the two Shepherds return from the pass. They’d been gone long enough for everyone to more or less put them out of mind-- people do come and go, after all-- but when they come back they have a third traveler, and he looks rather worse for wear.

The Watch bell is rung, and all townspeople are summoned to gather in the fountain square. The Shepherds stand in front of the town hall with their shivering charge between them, waiting stoically for the townsfolk to gather.

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More than anything, at least at first, Lance is mostly grumpy that they had the audacity to ring the Watch bell and make everyone think there was an emergency. Which... there is, in a way, but not the kind he's equipped to deal with.

He's not entirely equipped to stand in the way of temple officials here to do their job, but he doesn't look at all happy about it, eyeing the pair with open suspicion.

They're back. Detlef comes over to Lance and glances between him and the Shepherds. The Watch can't really deny them access to a village, but maybe if they start something there's something else that can be done? He's not sure. All he knows is that he's been more careful the last several weeks but there's always a chance he'd slipped up without realizing it and he's in trouble as well as their victim.

"Have they said anything?" Who is the man? Detlef doesn't want to watch someone die. He doesn't know that there's any choice, though.

Colin has an awful feeling about what this is going to be. He steps in beside Lance and Detlef with arms tightly folded. No one he knows enjoys watching these things, but it could always be him next, if he's not careful.

“Have they said anything?”

“Not yet.” The quiet, deceptively gentle-sounding observation comes from a few feet away, where the vicar stands fully dressed for evening vespers. A handful of parishioners have followed him from the chapel to the village square, their curious murmuring turning into a more anxious buzzing as they glimpse the Shepherds and their charge. Adhemar regards the prisoner with dutifully neutral eyes.

Let him die, he supposes privately, and let them move on.

It takes several ounces of restraint for Deron not to mention anything about the Watch bell. Maybe they ought to get a different bell for when the profane are dragged in - which isn't common enough for its own bell, he'll grant, but still. He's without any of his falcons today, and whether that's a coincidence or by design is anyone's guess; he is, however, rubbing the leather bracelet around his wrist, absently fiddling with the feather and beads on it.

Practice has him take up a spot in the gathering crowd that allows him to do his job; should someone start something, the Watchmen will have to intervene. Should this man run, the Watchmen will have to intervene.

Ugh.

Leala is one of those who has followed Father Adhemar from the chapel - though 'followed' is not the best term. Once she had figured out what was occurring, Leala had all but pushed her way to the front, looking in earnest. She has to see who they have, has to know-

-and the figure is not familiar, thank the gods. It's enough of a relief for her to sigh. Not her brother, bewitched, and so she will take it.

"Does anyone recognize them?"

A sullen figure stands at the back of the crowd, likely flanked by Kit, and about as glad to be here as he is to be anywhere else in Northcliff (which is to say, not very).
Puffing at his cigarette, Ben looks very much as though he wants to say something, but is restraining himself for the time being.

A glance to Detlef, and a tense shake of his head: no one has said much, and it seems they're waiting for a crowd to gather before they do.
But here it is, it's gathered: Lance's eyes flit across the crowd to land on the familiar ginger head of his son, whom he cautioned to stay at the back and is glad he's being obeyed. This kind of thing doesn't happen often, but when it does, it...

sure happens.

He's opening his mouth to still Leala when one of the Shepherds clears his throat and begins to speak.

The larger Shepherd steps forward, raising his walking stick, and his voice is as severe as his bearded face. "For the crime of Profanity," he announces, "of causing blight in the early crops and sickness in the cattle of Greymeadow, for inciting violence among the townsfolk, and for public lechery, the accused is to be put to death as example to all who would defy the good laws of this world."

He lowers his stick with a thud, looking out at the gathered crowd with cold, searching eyes.

The second Shepherd, a thinner man with wiry muscle, holds fast to the wrists of the accused, who seems on the verge of collapse from exhaustion and weeping.

So he slept with someone that someone in power wanted, is what Detlef gets from that. The rest is likely trumped up charges and pure coincidences. He has no proof, but it's what he's leaning toward and yet... what? What does it mean that the guy is probably innocent? The village isn't going to rescue him. That's why they've brought the man to where no one knows him - there's no personal stakes in fighting the will of the Shepherds until it's one of yours and even then they're taken far away.

But Detlef didn't wind up in Northcliff Pass because he was smart.

"You've proof he did those things, I'm sure. The blight and the sick cattle."

Naturally, Detlef is saying what many people are thinking. That being said, his natural stoicism does nothing to suppress the mortification on Colin's face. He reaches out to take Detlef's arm and step him back.

"No-no," he murmurs to him, not only for the sake of the younger man, but out of sheer terror that the Shepherds will mistake him for the one who spoke.

Quick as the snap of a dog's jaws, Lance is upon Detleft, bodily hauling him away from the crowd with a look of blind --is it terror, is it rage?-- on his pale face.

"Do you have a death wish," he hisses as he pulls him toward the guardhouse, glancing to the bemused Shepherds with a nod of apology.

He doesn't fight Lance's pull, looking away from everyone as he's lead away.

"No, but..." Detlef trails off until they're a little bit away, enough that they can't be overheard. "They could take any one of us, profane or not, with the same accusations, haul them to where they're alone in another village and then we die because there's no one who will care, there."

He knows what it feels like to be terrified and alone. The only difference is that he'd run fast enough. ...And also he'd definitely been guilty, whereas this man may or may not be.

When Detlef tries to speak, Lance gives him a little shake: not now, you idiot. He waits until they're inside the guardhouse, where he slams the door and looks like he's about to have another heart attack.

"Stop," he whispers, dead serious, "stop it. Shut your mouth." As harsh as the words are, the glint in his eyes is one of fear not anger. "Drawing their attention is how you-- you guarantee that happens. Do you want an inquest here? Because that's how you get one."

He's standing with his back to the door, hands shaking slightly as they hold it closed. "If-- if they ask after you, we're going to have to deal with it."

Edited 2019-06-20 21:54 (UTC)

Ashamed, he looks down.

"I don't want an inquest," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm..." Scared, tired, tired of seeing people put to death and standing by helplessly. Tired of being scared, too.

"I didn't, I didn't think. If they ask after me..." He doesn't know what to say there. Getting more people in trouble was the last thing he wanted, but he doesn't want to face them alone. "I could claim drunkenness?"

Listening closely, Lance seems to relax as Detlef caves, a bit of color returning to his pale face. To the stablehand's suggestion, he gives a small nod.

"I can... if you want to sit in there, I'll let you out when it's all over," he murmurs, gesturing toward one of the cells. Really the only difference between them and the rest of the room is the bars separating them, but the bench has a blanket on it and there are definitely worse places to bide one's time.
Either way, it seems to be optional.

"I don't... I don't think you should go back out."

Edited 2019-07-01 23:22 (UTC)

The cell's a little terrifying. Last time someone knew about what he could and did do, he'd run. Now the person who knows he indulges in the Vice is gesturing to a place with bars but Lance hadn't told anyone. He's even protecting Detlef a little some, so he swallows and nods.

"I shouldn't." His voice is quiet. "He's going to die, but... he was going to from the moment he was taken from his village. That's their power. He doesn't even have to be..." Detlef trails off and waves a hand, not saying the word.

As Detlef persists, Lance simply shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear it: in fact, the more he hears, the more of a liability they both are, and now is not the time.
He guides Detlef to the cell and opens the door, but lets the stablehand go in of his own accord, and when he closes it again, he doesn't lock it: it's for appearances, and there's no harm in Detlef leaving, as long as he doesn't make another scene.

As the Shepherd's voice picks up in fervor outside, Lance's eyes go distant, and he listens.

He hears the plea and closes his eyes, bending forward to rest his forehead in his hands. There it is, isn't it. How can anyone support this, or feel safe like this? Maybe it's just that they lie to themselves and think that as long as they behave, they'll be fine. And maybe it's a little true. Keep your head far enough down and you won't be a threat.

But he's getting really tired of trying to not be a threat.

Ashen-faced, Lance hears the killing blow, and lowers his head. Then, looking to Detlef, he sighs through his nose.

"I'll be back shortly," he murmurs, and turns to go back out and make his presence known.

"Of course," he says quietly. There's no order to stay, it's probably fine if he leaves too, but Detlef's just gonna linger here for a while and try to think and not think at the same time. He's getting fairly... not good at it, but proficient, at least.

Detlef gets dragged off and Colin is left looking faintly ill. He tucks his hands under his arms and stares blankly in the direction of the Shepherds' feet, waiting for the rest of what they have in store for this poor, terrified soul.

For her part, Leala looks shocked - pale white, eyes wide. She's frozen for only a moment, though, before immediately clasping her hands together and bringing them up to her face. Her head bows and she starts praying quietly, asking for forgiveness and mercy for Detlef's poor judgment and that the gods do what they find just.

If anyone else thinks of saying something against the Shepherds, the look on Deron's face ought to quickly advise against it. His eyes are narrowed, scowl deep on his face; he looks like one of his hunting birds, ready to strike on the crowd of watchers. Deron is a pious man and everyone knows it; he's plenty likely to drag the next naysayer out by the throat.

The Shepherd doing most of the talking narrows his eyes as someone is dragged from the crowd, but upon seeing that it's by the Watch, takes little more notice of it.
Satisfied that he has the attention of the onlookers, he turns to walk back to the accused, dragging his head up by the hair to face the crowd.

"Have you any final words?" the Shepherd asks.
"I--" gasps the prisoner, "I loved her. Please--"

The Shepherd shakes his head, and motions to the other, who withdraws a wicked-looking blade from a sheath on his belt and draws it across the prisoner's throat without preamble.

"Funny," comes a grumble under Ben's breath, "usually they burn them." He seems otherwise unbothered, his gaze hard as he blows out a stream of smoke.

Not even going to the trouble of hanging him.

If you're going to kill someone, you should at least have to work for it.

But then Ben speaks, and Colin feels cold. It could be much worse than a clean, lazy cut. It could be shrill screams and the smell of burnt flesh and hair. He gives Ben a pale, horrified look, but makes no sound. He wants to get out of here. Please let this be over.

Johanna watches with the rest of the crowd, her expression grim and terrible. She did not speak to them when last the Shepherds were here, it was easy to forget them. This, however, she will not forget. It is so very lucky that this caught her unawares, that she did not expect such a terrible spectacle to take place in this little town--had she known ahead of time...she would likely be dead as well.

The man sputters, chokes and drowns in his own blood, and eventually slumps to the ground. Johanna watches the whole ordeal, every moment, until the light leaves his eyes and he has passed from this world. She cannot feel her hands, nor her feet, and her limbs are weighted down with shock. It is lucky, that, or she might've done something rash before they permitted them all to leave.

Hopefully no one is standing too close to the scene of the accused's exsanguination. Gouts of arterial blood splatter aggressively across the cobblestones, albeit with diminishing returns.

"The gods shall always take back what is theirs," he observes quietly.

(Is he speaking to the corpse, or to the Shepherds? Who knows.)

"Thanks for that."

(puff)

"So this is Northcliff Pass, then--?"

Said below the average height of the crowd, and under the speaker's breath, the question's a tinge of what have I gotten myself into? to it.

It isn't every day you walk into town and find they've just slaughtered a pig in the town square in front of a crowd of murmuring onlookers.

At least, Vervain hopes that's what the smell is. And the sounds. And the...strange absence of the townsfolk everywhere else in town that had sent him searching for them still in his travel dust.

(It probably isn't a pig.)

Bewildered by the question, Ben turns to look behind him and wrinkles his nose at what he sees.
"Are you joking," he says flatly, and it's difficult to tell if the question is in earnest or not. An idiot walks up to an execution wearing a blindfold and asks where he is, it feels like a setup.

Looking disgruntled at the comment would require Vervain was gruntled in the first place--but all he's got at the moment is a vexed bewilderment.

"No--" His tone's polite enough for all that; Gram'd expect as much. "Only I'd not been asking anyone in particular."

Given the reception or lack thereof, he probably ought to shut his mouth there; but curiosity, as ever, gets the better of him. "What's happened?" he asks in an undertone, head angled in roughly Ben's direction.

A roll of his eyes and a scoff is Ben's response at first, but when it occurs to him that perhaps the fellow isn't joking, and actually can't see, he realizes how useless that motion will be.

"They just offed a Profane," he mutters, folding his arms tightly.

"They just offed a Profane."

Definitely wasn't a pig, then. Vervain's expression goes briefly slack with shock; less the they just executed a man in public sort and more they've got enough Profane around here to off sort. (Though there's enough of the former; he was scarcely old enough to watch the last time anyone had gotten wrong enough with the law in 'Thwaite to deserve execution over exile.)

"Gods protect us," he mutters at last, signing himself against evil as he does, "and wash away the poor creature's sins in blood."

"Mm." The grunt sounds unenthused, dismissive even, and Ben looks forward again at the now-dispersing crowd. "Good luck with that."
Now that they have permission to leave this vile place, he turns and goes without another word to the blind stranger.

"Oh," Leala all but squeaks. It's not the first time she's seen an execution, but it's the first time she's been this close- close enough to really see, to smell it, to feel-

All of her sways. She screws her eyes shut, trying to breathe, but she's definitely about to pass out.

Waen , for one, is glad he has left his dogs at the shop. They're well trained, but he's not sure how they would have reacted to this sight. Probably not as delicately as Leala who squeaks and manages to pull his attention from the gore in front of them. She sways precariously and Waen very nearly dives for her. He grabs her by the shoulder and, when she goes limp, wraps the other arm around her back.

At any other time holding her this closely and with his hands placed so precariously would be a bit on the improper side. As it is, Waen's expression just maintains it's unhappy severity as he waits to see if he needs to pick her up or if she'll bounce back.

She hasn't hit the ground.

As dizzy and ill as she thinks, Leala is distantly thankful for it. The ground wouldn't be particularly comfortable. Certainly not as comfortable as- as...

Oh.

"I wasn't expecting any of that," she offers, and the sway that had been present in her body is clear in the waver of her voice. "Thank you."

Not that she's moving just yet, mind you; she still hasn't gotten her eyes open.

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Event: June 1312

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