05 23 2008 The Prisoner Questioned
05_23_2008 The Prisoner Questioned
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It's been a long night. Barlok spent most of it unconscious; crumpled on the floor of the jail cell. His knife was taking from him, but nothing else; and now, as the morning grows towards noon, he stirs groggily. Dark brown eyes open and stare uncomprehendingly around him. A feeble light trickles through the small window in the door... The man is thin, smaller than his manic strength of the night might imply. Blood is caked on one cheek, and his woolen shirt and cloak are stiff with the stuff. His face is scruffy with unshaven beard, and very white. After the fight the night before there were wounds to be tended. The Breeguard hauled off Barlock while the elderly healer woman came back in and tended to Cordelia's cut arm. And then, tried to see to Seeker's cut arm but the man had gathered up his things and gone out almost at once. Whatever business he had kept him away for the remainder of the night. Now, at nearly the nooning hour, Seeker has returned to the Breeguard Headquarters. His own left arm is wrapped with a scrap of cloth that is not much of a bandage. His shirt still stained with both his own blood, and some of Barlok's on his right thigh. Grim of face and not looking like he's had much sleep, the Dunadan pauses to speak to one of the guards before coming down the hall. The half-Breelander woman (or so she claims) is out of bed today and out of the Healing Houses, against the wishes of the healers there, likely. Pale, but determined, Cordelia enters the guard headquarters shortly after Rhifaroth's arrival--and stops short for a moment on seeing that bowman. Then she walks forward, determination renewed. Barlok moves his mouth, then winces, lifting a hand to feel at his face. The question is plain on his face - half lit by the square of light that falls from the window - what happened? How'd I get here? He tries to stand, gasps, and sags back - then tries again, making it up, but leaning against the wall. After a minute or so, he makes his way towards the door. Giving answer that no one else has been in to see the prisoner yet, the Breeguard motions towards the cell Barlok is in, "Do we call fer a healer fer him?" A glance as the young woman enters. Seeker shakes his head negatively to the guard, "I shall take care of that." His own gaze slips back to the young woman, "How are you holding up?" "Thank you. Well. And yourself?" Cordelia's answers are somewhat clipped and her face a little pale, but today at least she is not about to admit any weakness. "It seems once again I owe you my life. For that..thing..." A jerk of her head indicates the jailed Barlok. Barlok's eyes flicker at the sound of voices, but he continues on his course with single-minded (and exhausted) determination, finally arriving at the door, and pushing at it. It is shut very firmly, and locked as well. The man grabs the square of the window, giving the entire door a shake. But it still doesn't move; and the effort turns him pale again. Rhifaroth smiles faintly to Cordelia, "I'm tired, but nothing a little sleep won't mend." and to her last he merely nods, "You are welcome." Then a gesture down the hallway, "Shall we see to our ... guest?" Just then Barlok rattles his door firmly for a moment, then gives up. Seeker turns and walks down the short passage to look in through the window, but stays back at least a step from the door. Cordelia's eyes follow the bowman's gesture down the hall, her expression somehow carefully neutral when the prisoner rattles his cell doors. She walks behind Seeker, but is careful to stay well out of the prisoner's reach through the cell doors. A face comes into view, and Barlok steps back a prudent foot - then wobbles and leans, with an attempt at casualness, against the wall. He frowns at Rhifaroth, dark eyes darting to the motion behind him - but he can't quite see Cordelia yet, and his attention returns to the ranger. "Who're you?" he asks bluntly. Watching the man in the cell as best he might through the small opening, there is no answer to Barlok's question. Instead, a question in turn, "Perhaps you shall tell us who you are. And if you have been fed. Are you hungry - thirsty?" The archer's voice is cool, pitched low. The woman seems to like being out of sight of Barlok, and she moves to keep her face in shadow if she can. She's also a bit nervous, or at least her hands are fluttering uselessly as she stands behind Rhifaroth. But, after all, the man /did/ try to murder her just a day ago. Who is he.. There is silence. Barlok's eyes dart around his cell, slide back to Rhifaroth, flick beyond him and settle finally again on the ranger's face. "Thirsty," he admits, grudgingly. His eyes slip down to the floor - nothing there, no food, no water. "Where... Bree?" A sideways glance for Cordelia coming up to stand behind him. He doesn't seem to like that. Smoothly, he steps aside to his left and partly turns to look at the young woman, his face unreadable. But his eyes at once glance back to the man in the cell as though wishing to see Barlok's reaction to seeing Cordelia. "You will have food, water, and a healer tend to your injuries - but only if you will answer our questions. Do you understand?" Cordelia, on the other hand, doesn't like being suddenly in the open, and it shows in her expression. Still, there's nothing that she can do about it now, so she stands there, staring at Barlok, brows knitting together. Though she looks as if she is about to speak, she doesn't. The eyes are never still, flicking here, darting around the limited space. Barlok licks his lips. "What questions?" he asks craftily, then Rhifaroth moves and his eyes land on Cordelia. There is an instant of utter stillness, and his eyes grow dark, almost black. One hand moves automatically, feeling for a knife that is no longer there, and for a moment, he embodies the intensity and focus of a predator - then his hand slaps cloth and not blade, and he blinks back to the present. And, astonishingly enough, chuckles. "Guess I missed," he says. "Pity ain'it?" Watching the man in the cell, Rhifaroth doesn't catch Cordelia's own reaction - though it wasn't much of one anyway. But this nameless man's reaction he observes with interest, "Questions... like who you are. Why you attacked this young woman? Where the dwarf is that was with this woman. If you assist us, perhaps I can convince these good Breefolk not to string you up by your neck." A nice, preditory smile right back to the other. The archer adds, "On the other hand, if you don't answer our questions, I can have you held down and let this young woman cut off bits of you that she dislikes most." Though she may be uncomfortable, Cordelia is not about to let Barlok get the best of her--so she sneers at him and then looks up to Seeker. "I'm not practiced with weapons, but it's never too late to learn. Though I'm sure I'd have to hack a bit at this thug to get the hang of it." Barlok's lip wrinkles. The threat of being handed over to the woman doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He shrugs again, shifting his position, and wincing. Unobtrusively, the hand against the wall drop and presses - help to hold himself upright. "Got paid," he says economically. "By whom? To do what?" The archer asks. It takes barely an instant for Barlok to decide - honor among thieves? Perhaps, but not here. "Big fellow," he says. "Said, foller th'dorf. Bonk it on th'head. Bring it out in th'trees and hand it over. Paid me good, he done." "So...you /were/ the one," Cordelia nods at Barlok's answer. She isn't able to keep a tremor out of her voice. "Was th'one what?" Barlok asks curiously. The grey clad archer listens to this man, standing to one side of the door's small opening. Rhifaroth glances at Cordelia but then looks back to the prisoner, "Describe this man. What was his name? How does that concern coming back for this woman?" "That attacked us," Cordelia answers in a sneer, then nods to Seeker's questions. "Why did you come back and try to kill me?" Barlok licks his lips again. "What about that water?" he demands, but answers willingly enough. "Ain't nothing on me," he tells Rhifaroth. "Big, I said. Bit of a funny accent, called himself Tom." His eyes flicker to Cordelia again, and he shrugs once more. And turns very pale, resting his head against the wall for a bare second, before forcing himself straight again. "He tole me to. Said I shouln't have let 'er live." Rhifaroth is not moved, "Describe the man, then you may have water to drink. He was big... had a bit of an accent. Hair and eye color? Bearded or not? Long unkept hair, short, what? Clothes? Weapons? Tidy and clean, filthy? Anything particularly memorable in mannerism or scars?" In a move that mirrors Barlok's movements, Cordelia puts one hand against the nearest wall for support. She's pale, very pale, and the Dunadan's questions aren't helping any. But, then again, she's been through a lot lately, and hearing that someone wanted you dead isn't exactly happy news. "And somethin' to eat," Barlok replies. His eyes close for a minute before snapping open. "Dark. Had a big scar on his face." His eyes drift shut again, and stay that way this time as he continues talking. "Brown... brown eyes. Hair - thick and short. Wearin' .... dirty stuff." His hand, palm against the wall, fingers spread out, is white with the strain of his weight. "Kept touchin' his chin, flicking at it like. Said, get th'dorf. Get th'dorf. I brung it out, like he said, never kilt it. Looked funny though.... weren't walkin' straight. Thought it were sick or sumthin'. Din't even kill th'girl, got mad. He said go back, she seen you..." He sags, then with a great effort, manages to sit down of his own accord, rather than fall to the floor. Dark eyes glitter up at the window, then he shuts them and is silent. Again, no response at all from Cordelia to any of this, save that her cheeks have no color in them at all. There is a curt nod, "That will do nicely. I shall have food and drink brought to you, and a healer. There may be more questions later, but for now, rest." It is something to go on, if not as much as hoped. Himself very tired, and having noted Cordelia's own paleness, the Dunadan turns as though to go back down the hallway. Even though his left arm sleeve is bloodied above the elbow, he offers that arm to the young woman, "Come on. I'll walk you back to the Houses. You should not be on your feet yet." Pushing away from the wall, Cordelia nods and takes the bowman's offered arm, not even flinching at the bloodied shirt. She leans heavily on him--she's been on her feet far too long--but she also turns to stare at the prisoner as if in shock at his words. "Yes, thank you," she tells the Dunadan, remembering her manners at the last.
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