[ closed ] go ahead and cry little girl, nobody does it like you do

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, Lex Luthor, Alistair, Bellamy Blake, Thranduil, Herian Amsel.
WHAT: Comte Vauquelin has information and records for the Inquisition. A small group including his daughter go to collect it. Everything is fine.
WHEN: End of Kingsway.
WHERE: Orlais, the Vauquelin estate.
NOTES: Violence, character death, assholes.

Comments

for alistair

[rowancrowned]

Near a week spent in close, close companionship with the warden has at least solidified Thranduil’s opinion of him into something that can be explained in a few words: somehow tainted, otherwise enjoyable to be around. The caveat of ‘for a Man’ is stamped on that in big, red letters, but when is it not?

He won’t remember what they were talked about later, once he struggles to recall the memories in the estate. It was a fun conversation, Thranduil will recall, his lips curled in a smile, but then the arrow, and he cannot imagine his horse is well trained for war. Herian is somewhere in front of them, and the ladies two, but he and Alistair are the only two out of the group with big, physical swords. They haven't fought together, which hinders them, but Alistair knows this world better, so it is to him Thranduil looks in those precious split seconds--

The mage is leading. She needs to fall first, and she is an elf, he cannot kinslay.

"Orders?" He asks, because every moment is precious, but a moment of thought here might save them all.

I'm sorry I'm here

[byblow]

"What?" Alistair says.

So there goes that moment.

But after that moment passes he does look at Thranduil—a quick sideways glance and obvious click of understanding effort his attention returns to the mage. Orders. Right. It isn't Thranduil's fault; Thranduil doesn't really know him.

Anyway: "Try to keep count of the archers," he says. The mage is the bigger and louder threat, but from what Alistair knows of the Dalish—it wasn't their mages they sent to Denerim. Herian is making her attempt at placating them. Alistair likes the Dalish as a people well enough to keep his hand off the hilt of his sword, for that long. Only his shield (small but serviceable thank you) to fend off potential arrows where he's risked sticking his head out from around his chosen tree. "We can swing around behind him." The mage. "They'll be able to hold him, if they can't stop him. The boy's a Templar. You can tell because he doesn't smi—"

No banter allowed. He's cut off by an arrow embedding in the upper edge of his shield.

i forgive u, here's my dumbest icon to prove it

[rowancrowned]

Alistair certainly gives off an aura of being fairly competent- the structure of the Wardens is still fairly shady for Thranduil, so he's not sure if all the shine on his armor is just for show or if means anything beyond skill with a polishing rag- but he's apparently unused to command, and Herian's never led anything other than her refugees.

(That Thranduil might himself be useful here is dismissed- he'd never trained with these people before, doesn't know strengths and weaknesses and wishes for the competence of his elves before refocusing on what's before him.)

"Understood." He unsheathes his swords- who needs a shield?- rolls his wrists, and as always, tests the boundaries of his strained fëa before stepping out from behind the tree and making for the first archer.

There's an economy to his movements, his choices. A grace born from wanting to accomplish a goal in as few movements as possible. He advances; drops into a roll to avoid an oncoming shot, ends up back on his feet. The wrongness of the situation screams at him as he raises his sword to another elf-- and neatly cuts their bow in half. The halves fly back with the newly loosened tension off the bowstring, one hitting the archer neatly in the forehead. It's easy to take advantage of that, to be inhumanly fast and end up with his arm about his neck, using his body as a shield- please, let these elves not be so deprived as to shoot their own clansman- while he chokes the Dalish man out. No kinslaying.