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a desert triumvirate of Hold, Weyr, and Mine. Thread's return and bandit raiding brought strife between weyr and hold, but the bandits' recent defeat has returned the region to an uneasy peace. Now, a shipwreck on a forgotten continent and the decision to settle this rediscovered land has opened up a world of opportunity to Vaioa, if only they can handle the dangers.








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Interrogation; SITE EVENT
Topic Started: Dec 22 2014, 11:19 PM (684 Views)
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Chrys was uneasy, and the presence of two Bronzeriders did nothing to alleviate her anxiety. As if having a Bandit captured and holed up in the Wher quarters wasn’t bad enough, but the Squad Leaders didn’t want to question him until the Weyrleader was available. It made the hair on Chrys’s neck stand up. She wanted that particular scum of a human being far, far away from her and those she loved. But at least it would be over soon.

Still. Chrsk clicked along next to her, wary but silent. He knew better than to act out toward T’ven and T’ech, and he knew Chrys had said that they were friends, but it was also evident that she was anxious. Dragonriders made her feel queasy. And bronzeriders in particular made her so ill at ease that, this time, she could not hide her feelings completely. She picked at the hem of her sleeves, bunching up the threads in the fabric, probably causing fraying but totally unaware. Chrsk’s breath huffing in and out matched with the clicking of his claws on the stone passageway was the only noise; Chrys was in no state to talk to any riders, and the two men were, apparently, lost in thought. Or else anticipating the event ahead.

Chrys’s stomach flipped as she rounded the corner. Just one room down, and then… what was going to happen? A small group of them would be present, not the entire Troop, but she’d been sent to retrieve T’ech and T’ven from where they had landed outside of the mine, and accompany them to where the Bandit was held. Where the Interrogation was set to take place.

Chrys cast the two men a sideways glance and then slipped into the room silently. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She glanced around, found Jerund, and gave him the smallest of nods as the Riders entered after her. It was time.

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Amber Wingsecond Aniese of Gold Rezeirth :: Marble Wingrider Vyra of Grey Theteth :: Granite Wingrider Karen of Blue Ienirth :: Weyrling Master Mai of Green Laeitath :: Candidate Master Kari of Green Seliath :: Sandstone Wingrider Natalia of Green Priyeth :: Sardonyx Weyrling A'den of Black Ezvanth :: Amber Weyrling Cayliss of Garnet Avraith :: Candidate Mirana :: Candidate Piper :: Journeywoman Healer Ylanna :: Weyrfolk Becca

Hurricane Wingrider Seneca of Blue Roryth

Sandstone Wingrider Dacielle of Copper Vylendrieth :: Granite Wingrider L'del of Grey Xakoeth :: Searchrider & Marble Wingrider M’ril of Blue Notalith :: Shale Wingrider K’dyn of Green Scherezath :: Baby Azora

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T'ech felt every hair on his body stand at uneasy attention, a prickling sense of unease crawling up and down his spine at the presence of whers. Oh this blue was about as controlled as they got, but he couldn't help shooting the loathsome creature a look of pure spite, fueled by the ache he felt in his hip and legs with every single step he took. He didn't like this place, these cramped caverns so far removed from the parts of the Vaioa he was familiar with. They were dank, smelled of whers, and constricting in a way even the lower caverns of the Weyr were not.

Why does that creature have to be with you? Tytoth growled.

His unease mirrored T'ech's. Amplified it. The resonance between them was a thin line, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. He perched atop the hold, his great head weaving back and forth uneasily on the end of a long, two-toned neck. Every once in a while a long, irate hiss arose from him and he flapped his wings in agitation before settling down to wait. Totally helpless to protect his rider while he walked into a den of monsters.

Because I am not missing what this degenerate has to say for anything in the world. Even if it means I have to be around these creatures.

The Wingleader shifted into the room and took a place against the wall, as far away from Chrsk as he could possibly manage. T'ech shared a look with T'ven. He was grateful to the Weyrleader for allowing him to be a fly on the wall for this meeting, but worried at just how the evening would proceed. They needed this information, and he had little sympathy for the captured bandit.

Still...what lengths would they need to go to to get what they needed?
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Perhaps we should have attended alone.

Shalagoth sat on the warm sands before the hold, wings folded, tail curled close as he tilted his head to peer up at Tytoth. The large bronze blinked, shifted his gaze to the dark entrance of the Hold T’ven disappeared down moments before. His thoughts wandered, memories of Tytoth leading Vaioa flashing from his rider’s recollection. Level-headed, dependable, wry perhaps, but never irate, he had been a good weyrleader. Shalagoth’s forked tail flicked once, he did not recognize the bronze perched atop the hold today. If T’ech’s dragon displayed such anger, how then must the rider feel? Shalagoth gave a low rumble as he felt the gentle press of T’ven’s thoughts blooming in his mind.

T’ech was nearly killed by a wher. Perhaps you can understand Tytoth’s anger thinking how that might affect us had we been in their place.

T’ven walked between wherhandler and wingleader, might have felt towering if not for the press of stone so close to the top of his skull driving him to hunch down out of reflex. Faranth these halls felt close, the ceiling wouldn’t brush at his hair, but it felt liable to cave in on him at any moment. He swallowed, looked down to T’ech for a moment, and then shifted to peer at Chrys. Stiff silence held between their small group. One more glance he spared for the wher, noted for a flash of a moment the glare of loathing T’ech sent its way. Delightful, this would be a fantastic meeting if this unease was the prelude. Shalagoth’s voice echoed back to him, the dragon’s warmth easing T’ven’s tension.

Thread has tried to kill you. I hate it but I do not froth at it. Whers bite, trundlebugs stink, firelizards sing, why would I be angry when they act according to their nature?

You would feel different if you saw me mauled by a wher acting ‘according to its nature’. They’re not supposed to attack humans.

They’re not? I thought they were exactly for that. Protecting and guarding where dragons cannot. It is why we have the troop to keep back the bandits right?

Sure but this wher savaged T’ech, he hadn’t done anything. Handlers keep whers from being too violent.

Shalagoth remained silent for long moments. T’ven followed Chrys through the low light of the hold’s caverns. He could feel the dragon’s mind at work, the confusion over the matter. T’ven listened as the bronze scrambled for new perspective, attempted to put himself in Tytoth’s place. Perhaps recreate the situation from what T’ven knew, understand the anger, figure out the attack. Shalagoth snorted.

No. Something is not right. What you know of whers, what I can decipher…Tytoth killed the wher. Better I think had he been able to punish the handler.

You can’t judge him. You weren’t there. I know for a fact you would have acted the same had a wher been about to kill me. You’ve killed them before, remember?

Flashes of fire in the night, rushing wings overhead, snarling beasts and frantic shouts from candidates and weyrlings. Dust settling, crunch of firestone, taste of ichor and screaming whers. Shalagoth’s wings rustled, tail flicked as he dug a clawed foot at the sand.

I…I would rather not remember.

Loss of control, fury, anger, scent of death and red eyes in the dark.

I do not want to be that again.

Fists coated red and bruised knuckles, nose and cheekbone crunching beneath his blows, a hatchling shrieks, a form beneath shudders and burbles as blood fills its mouth. And everywhere the anger, fury blinding and driving him as he strikes again and again and…T’ven shuddered, found his hands deep within his pockets and trembling at the memory.

Agreed. Never again.

Chrys’ glance broke T’ven from his shared thoughts, and he managed a stiff nod as she slipped into the room. Her movements silent he waited to follow for a moment, shared a look with T’ech, and then entered. He moved to introduce himself to the three handlers he spotted within, but one that seemed to be trembling spun away and clipped into his shoulder as he made a beeline for the exit. T’ven winced as the man’s words boomed in his ear.

“Just heal?!? Aye? After what they’ve done? Well fine I could have learned plenty, learned so much. But your precious babe is all set on the path to recovery! Javiask let’s get gone.”

Javian’s hands flailed before T’ven’s eyes as the disheveled healer shoved his way past the towering Weyrleader. From some dark corner a snuffling alerted T’ven, the bronzerider turned and spotted a pair of bright green eyes shuffling his way. Heavy wet breathing announced the creature; T’ven could hear the drool as Javiask whuffled past. The tanklike brown paused a moment near the wall, peered up at the small man there. Tongue lolling from his mouth, but Javian gave a whistling click and the wher bumbled away and out the door. Javian moved to follow, but turned to look back into the room, held onto T’ven’s arm a moment as he leaned to glare at Jerund and Varuel.

“You need a healer call for Ethekiel, he can tend to this mess, any above a beginning apprentice can. You need my skill when this one proves obstinate and tightlipped you better be equipped with an apology.”

T’ven blinked, looked down at the clawlike hand clinging to his sleeve, bit at his cheek a moment as the vicelike grip dug in, but Javian released and spun away with a loud huff. The journeyman mumbled to himself, words dark and brow furrowed as his hands returned to making extravagant motions in the air.

“No lets bind the wounds and hydrate the man, coddle him with food, maybe get him a drink, oh sure we’ll get all the answers then, nope can’t let you poke there, peel here, spill that for some truthful words, get out of here Javian what are you thinking. I’m the crazy one for wanting to make him talk faster since he’s responsible for this shaffit and that fardling…”

The words continued to flood from the healer, T’ven caught something about ‘experimenting’ and a word about nerves? The Weyrleader shook his head and watched the journeyman go, eyes a bit wide at the charade.

By the first shell what had that been about?

Shalagoth had no answers. T’ven ran a hand across the back of his neck and turned with a frown to look down at the remaining wherhandlers. If the wher troop always conducted itself this way he couldn’t fault his predecessors for never wishing to do business with them. His gaze swept over the shorter brownhandler remaining, a somber look to that man, had it been possible he might have guessed he could see the weight of responsibility holding the handler down. The other…he had to bite at his cheek to keep from grimacing after the first glance.

A twisted visage met T’ven’s gaze, an ugly scar worming down the left side of the man’s face, white milky eye staring back. For a moment the handler’s lip quirked up, a smirk? The movement of lip exposed teeth due to a gap left from the scarred flesh. T’ven felt his gut turn, but he met Varuel’s gaze and he found his voice strong as he spoke to both troop members. The Weyrleader ignored the chair between them at the moment, its back to him, whatever wretch bound there invisible to him for the moment and facing the squad leaders.

“T’ven of Bronze Shalagoth, here with T’ech of Bronze Tytoth, I appreciate your patience while we made our way down to the hold. I’m also pleased to see you were able to apprehend the man. I trust you had no injuries?”

Varuel’s voices clipped in before Jerund could answer, a cackling chuckle exiting his lips before any words formed. Tone drawling he leaned back against a table behind him. “Heh, dimglow blighter made one of our officers bleed but I’ve had lovers that leave nastier bites. Pitiful display really, though I must commend the fardler for trying to punch a crackdusted blue. How’s that hand aye shaffitlicker?”

“Feck you! Where’s my drink? You promised a good red.” The bandit’s voice cracked out and the chair wiggled. T’ven turned to look down, and his brow rose at the sight. More a boy than a man, a soft young face, though recently weathered. His hand was bandaged and he didn’t wear a shirt at the moment, probably had to do with the bandaging wrapping round his chest. Lips looked dry and bloody, large bags hanging beneath his eyes.

“I ain’t even promised you a lick of my boot. We got you water, how about you settle so my little friend can ask you questions.” Varuel clapped a hand onto Jerund’s shoulder at ‘little friend’ and then nodded towards T’ven, “Then you can tell Mr. my head fardling hurts from hitting all these crackdsuted doorframes of Shalalala and my fluffy haired twin of Tytoutery what lovely shaffit you’ve been rooting through hmm?”

T’ven’s frown deepened, and a finger tapped along his forearm as he folded his arms across his chest. Normally he didn’t care for looming over people, but he definitely stared down this greyhandler now. Nearly opened his mouth to retort but a hissing breath caught his attention. T’ven’s eyes moved, spotted a shape moving at the other end of the room, and then two piercing red eyes. A lump caught in his throat as he noted just where those eyes hovered. That was a wher. A wher that might very well be able to look him in the eye. Silent as the grave she shifted to her feet, head hovering just behind Varuel as her glare moved from T’ven, to T’ech, and then to the bandit in the chair. Her teeth gleamed a moment, rancid breath making the bandit cough before she turned away.

Varuel grinned. “Oh yes we’re going to be friends little brave bandit, I think my little lady would love to get intimate with you. First though, Jerund would you like to pop this cherry and get to the foreplay?”
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More than anything, Jerund wished he had Jerusk with him. Between four people and two whers already present, with Chrys and the riders on the way, in a room not very spacious to begin with, it was a little cramped. Jerusk wasn't needed here. Still, his presence would have been a comfort.

But comfort had no place in this room.

Those seemed to be Javian's sentiments, at least, and he spared no details in describing his ire. Jerund listened to the spindly healer rail, weathering his complaints without so much as a word in response, or even a frown. It didn't matter, as long as he did his work. And he did. Though his loud talk of wasted opportunities was unsettling, Javian patched up their young captive.

The trembling healer had just finished up when the door opened and Chrys slipped inside, with two men behind her. Jerund met her eyes for a moment, a look of recognition, before turning his focus to the riders, a flicker of excitement flaring within his chest in spite of the somberness of this occasion. This was the Weyrleader--and former Weyrleader--what an honor. Jerund's posture straightened a little more as he glanced between them, noting with some surprise that he was eye-level with T'ech; he would have expected a former Weyrleader to be a little... grander--and perhaps less jittery, though Jerund could hardly blame the man in these circumstances.

Not quite as jittery as Javian, at least, who thankfully took his leave.

T'ven, however, looked the part of bronzerider, towering over them, a powerful presence. Jerund opened his mouth to greet them in turn, and to answer the man's inquiry, when Varuel cut him off with a grating cackle. Pressing his lips around a weary sigh, Jerund remained stoic though every word that spewed from the man's twisted mouth, enduring even the rough, unwelcome hand on his shoulder--but his eyes flew wide open at the bastardized names. At that, he stepped away, crossing halfway toward the riders as an excuse to distance himself from that loathsome greyhandler. The blatant disrespect--unbelievable.

"Weyrleader, Wingleader, thank you for coming." Jerund nodded to both of them; popping the cherry could wait a crackdusted second while he gave the riders a proper greeting--or at least what he hoped was proper. Then he looked at Varuel, nodded again, and turned to face the bandit where he sat. Apprehension began knotting in his gut.

He had so many questions, and no idea where to begin.

He met the lad's eyes. "Let's start with a name." No--not a lad, a full-grown man--but shards, he looked young. "Who are you?"
O'zen : Bronze Lenth
Lowen : Beryllium Lerriloth
Jerund : Brown Jerusk
Hama : Green Hamask
Eevai : Garnet Iopeth
Sh'ol : Graphite Hellioth
Kh'sev : Grey Saiyeth
Bervaidi : Blue Bervask
Syrsha : Brown Kalayth
Rosinthew : Candidate
Khola : Weyrfolk
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"You promised him what?" T'ech's voice cracked like a whip through the awkward tension, his anger ripping through the curtain of anxiety the close proximity of whers had draped over him. "Don't give him water. Don't give him anything. This is shaffit."

Jerund's only reply was a sullen glare but T'ech had heard enough. Varuesk's glowering, her handler's grandstanding, everyone's else's passiveness in the face of this unapologetic degenerate's presence and the threat of torture looming at the edge of everyone's mind. It was too much. T'ech broke away from T'ven's side, fisted the young man by the shirt, and heaved him to his feet, the chair he was bound to awkwardly balanced behind him.

In any other situation it might be funny, a man as small as T'ech attempting to be any sort of intimidating, but the former Weyrleader was a dragonrider. Turns of fighting thread had hardened his body and given him strength far beyond what his small frame suggested. He was scarred, wearied, and when he turned the full force of his fury on someone, it carried a weight behind it that his younger self would have cowered from.

"I don't care what your crackdusted name is, boy. I want to know everything you fardling know right now, or I'll have you fed to my dragon." A dull roar echoed faintly down the hallway, Tytoth echoing that statement. A dragon would never, but this silly fool wouldn't know that. He knew only whers. The idea that a beast would have honor was probably ludicrous to him.

"Or maybe we'll have you staked out for thread. Do you know what thread does to a man? Have you seen it?" He flipped the leather of his eye patch up and let the shriveled remains of his right eye socket speak for itself. "Do you think I can't go out and find us another bandit?"
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Jerund never got his answer. He shot the former Weyrleader a sharp look at his intrusion, but T'ech seemed entirely unfazed by it. In fact, the man whom Jerund had, only seconds prior, thought of as jittery and unimpressive lunged forward and heaved the bandit, chair and all, to his feet, shattering Jerund's first impression. He took an involuntary step back, brown eyes widened with surprise, and watched as T'ech hurled threats at the boy.

The bandit looked just as shocked, staring down at T'ech with what Jerund guessed was a mixture of indignant anger and genuine fear. He wiggled in the man's grip, grimacing as he got his first look under T'ech eyepatch. Jerund relaxed slightly; the boy seemed to be taking the threats seriously.

Good.

He glanced at Varuel and Varuesk. These two were supposed to be the antagonizers, but T'ech--though his interference was unexpected--might work just as well.

"Ah--feck off!" The bandit tried to wrench himself out of T'ech's grasp; failed. Instead he settled for a defiant glare at the wingleader. "I know you can't get another that easy," he said, spitting out every word, "or you'd've had one of 'em months ago!"

Jerund blinked, disappointed but unsurprised by the lad's resistance; if his former actions were anything to go by, he wouldn't give in that easy. And he'd made an accurate point, unfortunately.

The bandit continued, speaking with a little more confidence now. "I want protection. I can help, I can tell you anything you need to know, but I gotta walk away from this a free man, you hear? And I don't mean free to roam 'round no Eastern Ring island, either."

"Then talk," Jerund interjected before T'ech could speak, seeing his opportunity. He placed a light, mollifying hand on the man's arm, a silent request to lower the bandit, though the action appalled him; as woefully disrespectful as it was to command anything of a Wingleader, Jerund did not intend to let the man take over this interrogation.

Once all four chair legs rested on the floor again, Jerund gave the bandit an expectant look.

"I want protection," the young man repeated insistently.

"I heard you," Jerund said flatly. "You will have it. But first, you talk."

The bandit was quiet for a moment. When he did speak, there was a note of resignation in his voice. "Well, I ain't got no ties to them anyways, anymore," he murmured, more to himself than Jerund. "What do you want to know?"

Jerund paused, considering. "We need numbers. How many wherhandlers are there?"

"Uh... about twenty, twenty-five, I think." The bandit shrugged. "Dunno the exact number. The whole community's more like eighty--men, women, children an' all. You oughta know," he said, narrowing his eyes at Jerund. "You raided 'em a few turns ago. You troopers were lucky the handlers were away, then."

Jerund raised his eyebrows. "They've been around that long?"

"Oh, yeah. Few turns. Took 'em some time to build up a force, though."

Another question sprang to mind, one voiced by Hama at a meeting long ago. "Where did they get all those whers?"

"Found a few eggs, bred 'em ourselves, is what I'm told. Few lucky sods bonded with wild whers. For the most part, though, the Lord of Rubikon gave us what we needed."

Jerund felt as if his world had canted sharply sideways. He took a step back, shooting a shocked look at Varuel, Chrys, and the riders, then recovered enough to demand, "What?"

The bandit chuckled now, apparently amused by the ripples his revelation had caused. "Oh, yeah, Lord Warryn's neck deep in it. He gave us whers and safe haven on his lands, and in return, we leave his people alone, strike at his rivals, and give him a cut of the profit. Hard times'll make a man desperate, you know? Thread made living hard." A wry look crept into his features. "Some say Terema took him as her lover, too."

"I swear, if you are lying to me--" Jerund hissed, feeling rage bleed into the hollow space left by the recession of his surprise. It was treasonous to suggest that a Lord would ever do such a thing--but then, somehow, it fit with everything Jerund had learned over the past few turns. No attacks in Rubikon, save for against Vaioans. His inability to find work there. The Lord's refusal to pay tithes. The watchwher's attack on T'ech, attributed to the aged beast's dementia. Jerund glanced at T'ech. Was it really an accident, as Warryn had insisted?

Others in the troop had suggested it, and he had dismissed them with irritation. Now, it seemed, they were right. His anger began to gutter.

"I'm not lying," the lad insisted. "Warryn hates the Weyrs, and your troop is a fecking pain in his tailfork."

"Who is Terema?" Jerund asked, feeling hollow again.

"Our leader. She rides a big black wher with part of his lower jaw missing." Jerund nodded; the description fit that of the woman who attacked the candidates. "She has a couple of officers that run things," the bandit continued, "but everyone reports to her."

"Your base--where is it?"

"Somewhere on Rubikon lands. Little ways from the Hold."

"Could you find it on a map?"

"Near enough, I guess," the lad said.

Jerund looked around at his companions. "Can someone get a map?" He sighed. "Maybe some water, too. I think we're going to be here for a while." The brownhandler's flat stare returned to the young bandit, where it took on a flinty quality. "If you are lying about any of this, you will be staked out in the desert next Threadfall."

The bandit replied with a gusty sigh. "I'm not lying."

Jerund said nothing. They would find out whether he spoke the truth soon enough. If he were right--if Lord Warryn were behind all this, and the rogue handlers' base was where he said it was--he would get his pardon. Until then, he wasn't going anywhere.
O'zen : Bronze Lenth
Lowen : Beryllium Lerriloth
Jerund : Brown Jerusk
Hama : Green Hamask
Eevai : Garnet Iopeth
Sh'ol : Graphite Hellioth
Kh'sev : Grey Saiyeth
Bervaidi : Blue Bervask
Syrsha : Brown Kalayth
Rosinthew : Candidate
Khola : Weyrfolk
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Oh the wher troop had found plenty of bandits, they'd just killed them all. T'ech bit back the retort as Jerund - he was so level-headed and calm that he was wasted on a wher - stepped in to take over. Just as well, because the Wingleader's fisted hands itched to make a mark on this young man's sneering face. But it seemed he'd at least penetrated that protective outer arrogance and cut through the miles of drawn out bullshaffit that would have been Varuel's interrogation. Thread was as effective a threat as a pulled tooth or glass under your fingernails, he supposed.

They'd get what they needed from this imbecile and then send him to the islands to rot away with the rest of his kind, lucky enough to escape the death penalty. On his shoulder, his golden fire lizard hissed and shifted uncomfortably, picking up on the uncharacteristic violence in her master's mind. But Samus hadn't been there when Tytoth had been shot down by bandits and T'ech rendered unconscious, near-death for over a month. Samus couldn't understand that they'd taken the lives of several of Vaioa's riders, harmed their candidates, and severely wounded one of their best Wingleaders.

A golden fire lizard was clever, but she couldn't understand any of this. What she did understand was that T'ech was never like this, never bloodthirsty or unfair. Something was wrong and she couldn't fix it. She appealed to Tytoth for help but the bronze was in as much of a froth as his rider. Despairing, the little gold dropped off the bronzerider's shoulder, resolving to reappear when her master had calmed down and not a moment before.

And it was lucky she disappeared when she did because T'ech's uncharacteristic bloodthirstiness became fully murderous the instant the name "Warryn" left that bandit's lips. Warryn who had begged his pity for the poor state of his hold. Warryn whose people scurried around like kicked dogs while he languished in comfort.

Warryn had taken the leader of the bandits as his lover.

Warryn had ordered that watch wher to attack him.

Tytoth roared in outrage, all spitting fury, thundering wings, and lashing tail. But T'ech was cold fury incarnate. He flashed T'ven a seething glare and, when the man didn't immediately respond, his face hardened into something cold, something distinctly out of place on his gentle features. "I'm taking Granite to Rubikon at dawn, T'ven. The other Lord Holders will want to hear what this degenerate has to say, but Warryn will answer for this."

He didn't wait around to hear his Weyrleader's answer, didn't rightly care what he had to say on the matter either. If he was disciplined over this, then so be it. Warryn had misled them all, had crippled him, had withdrawn his support from the Weyr that protected him over some petty grudge. He'd consorted with murderers, funded them, encouraged them. A man like that did not belong in a position of power and if T'ech had to drag him from it by force then that's what he'd bloody do.
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