faderift | OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

WHO: Open to all.
WHAT: The War of the Lions comes to a head with tense peace negotiations scheduled for a grand Winter Palace ball
WHEN: This is forward dated to ~~Firstfall 30~~ Wintermarch 15. Set following the events of Part I, located here.
WHERE: The Winter Palace, Halamshiral, Orlais.
NOTES: Please make sure to read the OOC post for more info!

It is a wonderful night, isn’t it? A beautiful party. The Empress has outdone herself. The entire evening has been remarkable, whether from the perspective of one enjoying the spectacles provided by the Inquisition, or the nuances of the Game, or even the more superficial entertainments of the evening - the music, the food, the dancing. All of it is wound together into an evening that will surely be memorable for some time to come.

And then everything begins to become rather more complicated, although admittedly still very memorable.

The first sign that things might not be as they should be comes when the doors to the main hall slam shut, and are rapidly sealed. The realization that all is not well might not spread through all areas of the Palace with equal speed, but it cannot be said that the element of surprise is neglected throughout. The Freemen of the Dales have come, and the Freemen will see to it that they finally claim what is theirs.

THE MAIN HALL.

Two things become rapidly apparent. First, the evening is not going how Celene had intended. Equally apparent is that this is not what Gaspard planned, either.

They both of them find themselves in close quarters with men and women that are armed - human, elf and dwarf alike, though the latter are in small numbers and the humans dominate the group. There are a good many elves, though, more than one might expect to find in the company of former chevaliers. Some of the invading party have slipped from the guise of servants, others are more obviously marked as Freemen of the Dales who have only just arrived.

In terms of numbers, armor and weapons, the arrival is alarming, and nervousness is palpable in the hall. Worse still, they are not alone. The apparent leader of the Freemen, a man with mustachios that would make a walrus weep, stands shoulder to shoulder with Red Templars, the red lyrium glow seeming all the more strange in the ambient light of the party. There are cries of panic from some, the gasps and outrage of many as they realize what is unfolding, and the sickening realization that despite there being a good many skilled warriors in the room in the form of noble men and woman from across Orlais, they have no weapons to retaliate with, as per the rules of entering the Winter Palace. The atmosphere is one of sickening dread. (And at least one noble is stress eating every lemon tart in sight. Can you really blame them?)

Celene, for her part, issues an order for her people to remain calm, before an elven man turns to hold the point of his sword to her throat. She does not speak further, but continues to hold her head high.

Walrusface - or, more correctly, Charles Walthier, a man of some sixty years and considerable reputation before he departed for the Freemen, steps forward. There is a ripple of chatter, and one of Gaspard’s men approaches in indignant protest, an outburst in Orlesian about conduct not befitting a chevalier. The man is cut down by a red templar before he can draw breath to continue his tirade.

Before any further heroics or speeches can be attempted, Celene and Gaspard are both swept out of the ballroom. It may be tempting to follow. But most of the doors are now barred, and the last four Freemen to leave behind the Empress and Pretender turn to fire flaming arrows at high draperies scattered throughout the hall. The only open doors lead to balconies with drop-offs that range from dangerous to suicidal, but they're nonetheless swarmed by the best-dressed frantic mob you've ever seen.

SERVANT QUARTERS.

From further away, a regular chant can be heard from the main hall: Freemen, Freemen, Freemen. At a signal, some servants are casting aside their disguises, and clusters of armed men and Red Templars are entering, some from rooms, others from hidden passages. They're ready to fight those who try to get between them and the nobility. Some of them are also willing to talk to those who seem willing to listen - about casting off the yoke of the Orlesian nobility, about reclaiming the Dales for the common man and elf alike. But none are particularly willing to let the servants and guests in the common room mount a rescue of the screaming nobility in the ballroom and gardens. If you want to try, you'll have to sneak out.

Or you can barricade yourself in a room and let the nobility look out for themselves. No one will know.

THE GARDENS.

The scents of jasmine and roses fill the air. So do screams. Evidently the Freemen and their corrupted Templar assistants have no concern about lawn preservation, hedge maintenance, or making sure exquisite fountains aren't ruined. What isn't trampled might be torn down or lit on fire. And in the midst of the chaos, an elf climbs up onto a pedestal alongside a statue of embracing lovers - lovers with oddly familiar noses - and holds a marble should for balance while he interrupts the common rallying cries of Freemen! with For Calpernia!

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Malcolm is in conversation with Duchess Trellier, her loud and unfortunate gaggle in tow, speaking around her blatant support of Celene. She's a charming enough woman who keeps wondering, agape, at the idea that the Inquisition doesn't have dedicated artists to write of, sing of, or draw the exploits of their deeds, and he's about to suggest that they haven't quite those kind of funds (hint hint) when there's a disruption through the hall. Almost out of nowhere come Freemen, out of the woodwork and out of the servants. They slam shut doors to the ballroom, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees the glint of Red Templar armor marching in. The artists recoil in horror when the screaming starts, and the Duchess takes a shaky step back, her hands over her mouth.

"Stay down," is his only quiet warning to the Duchess and her entourage before he hurls the glass of wine in his hand at the nearest Freeman and doesn't stay still enough to see it hit him across the face with a shatter of glass and a grunt of pain from the shards and the alcohol in his eyes. Malcolm launches himself for a candelabra nearly as tall as himself, bringing it up candles-first at a woman with a sword apparently trying to make up for her compatriot's distraction. She leans back, nearly falling down the stairs to avoid the flames jabbing at her, and he takes that moment to swing around the heavy base into her, knocking her into her companion in a heap.

Letting the candelabra drop, he unhooks the tuft of leather around his neck and shoulders, diving for the downed Freemen, picking up the woman's sword and sticking them both without hesitation. The leather he hefts up in his off hand as a makeshift shield. It won't do much against swords, but when a couple arrows are let loose, two thunk into the leather, the tips of them edging through the fur lining and biting into the flesh of his arm, but he can deal with that later.

These Freemen, and more importantly the Templars, need dispatching before attention can be turned to rescuing those trapped inside, and he can't do it alone.

Corvo, despite being an assassin, vigilante, what have you, is not very prone to violence. He tries not to kill when it's not necessary--but right now, in this situation, it is suddenly very necessary. He spends a moment glancing around, before grabbing another bottle. But unlike Malcolm, he keeps a hold of the neck, shattering the end of it and thrusting it into an attacker's face.

He edges closer to Malcolm, right as a group of Freemen also approach. Bottle in one hand, Corvo raises the other, the Outsider's mark flashing to life as a heavy wind whirls from behind him, pushing the Freemen back. With them distracted, and another flash of the mark, Corvo moves in a blur (which isn't as good as blinking, really, this Thedas magic is Bullshit), ripping the bottle into the faces of whoever gets within reach. Whether or not it actually kills them is incidental--if they don't fall, he gives them a solid kick in the stomach to help them along.

But a bottle is a bottle, not a proper sword, and it breaks quickly enough. This is enough encouragement to get Corvo retreating back to where Malcolm was, casting a glance at the door. "We could get that door open, but not with these idiots in our way." He steps on the hand of one of the idiots in question, squatting down to pick up his sword. Bulky thing, brutal and old. More at home hanging on a placard, he felt. Certainly, it wasn't his much more sensible folding sword. But he wasn't allowed that, was he?

From out of nowhere, one of the Freemen in front of Malcolm has a sword rammed into his side. A rough slash and his guts are on the floor, then the bash of a shield onto another-- a shield which some might swear was on the wall not five minutes ago-- which topples the second man to the ground and allows Cade time to rush between Ser Malcolm and the assailants, positioning himself protectively as though he were in full Templar regalia. Which he is.....
...not.
The blood is never going to come out of this silk.

Fully ready to throw down, Cade nonetheless holds and awaits command from the Seeker, blocking him from the encroaching Red Templars. Does he know them? Going by the surprised chuckle from one or two, they know him.

No matter the opinion of the Chantry or anyone else on magic, or more specifically mages, he'll be damned if he doesn't admit that magic is incredibly useful. Malcolm is vaguely aware of the blur out of the corner of his vision, slashing and beating at some of the other enemies of peace. Doesn't recognize the man when he materializes properly, nor does he find the voice easy to place. It's so difficult to keep up with every new face in the Inquisition, after all.

Cade, on the other hand, is a surprise. Not in that he's here, glued as he was to the sides of any he considered a commanding officer, but with the quick thinking and quicker brutality of the attack.

The numbers of those still on their feet are rapidly dwindling between the three of them. Though those who were concerned with killing or kidnapping nobles now have their attention on the trio. He wishes he had his bow, but in these closer quarters, a sword and makeshift shield will just have to do until he can snag a little armor off and get Milady. He casts an eye up to the Duchess and her troupe, still huddled but safe. In fact, he's pretty sure one of the artists is either sketching or taking notes.

There's the barest moment to breathe as they all regroup. To Corvo: "Keep the Freemen off our backs. Particularly any with arrows or throwing daggers." He doesn't like leaving one person to the task of many, but any Templars are formidable, much less Red Templars. And while Cade would surely follow any order given, for the moment, Malcolm understands the appeal of taking things personally. "We've got the Templars."

He's got no idea if his leather is going to stop any spikes of red lyrium shot at him, but a Seeker has a few tricks up ones sleeve - Break In Case Of Templar.

The Royal Protector takes orders from the Empress alone, in Corvo's world. But this is not his world, and these are not the enemies that he's accustomed to dealing with. And the Empress here is not his own--her life is not his sole responsibility. So he just nods to Malcolm, sparing a glance at the young man who acted far more armored than he was. Well, Corvo could hardly say anything, in his leathers.

"I understand." Is all that needs to be said, before Corvo turns around to face the Freemen. The sword he's...'borrowed' from one of them is more clunky than what he's used to, but he takes a few practice swings, then a practice thrust into a Freeman, kicking the man off the blade. The point isn't to kill, or avoid killing, the point is simply to get everyone to stop attacking. On that point, Corvo continues to use a mix of magic and sword play--thrown daggers can be swatted out of the air easily enough, but in order to get the arrows, he has to bend time, slowing it down long enough to grab the arrows, dropping most, using another one to stab into a gap in a man's armor.

The Freemen were expecting chevaliers, soldiers, maybe a few daring nobles. A mage that wields magic and a sword with deadly accuracy is, apparently, new. Not that it stops them from attacking him, but Corvo does get to enjoy the surprised looks on their faces.

Of course, this isn't the first time Cade has fought his brothers-in-arms. His eyes are cold and distant, his reflexes quick as he deflects the swing of a sword and slams his shield forward again, with enough force to stagger the red Templar, even if it doesn't knock him over.
The red lyrium's influence trickles in little by little, small wordless voices echoing around in his mind, the magic in his own veins alerting him to the wrongness of it. He lunges forward to drive his sword into the nearest plated body, then whips around to slash at another, out of his mind with sheer adrenaline.
He doesn't dodge in time to avoid receiving a healthy slash across his side, but he barely seems to notice, too thoroughly overtaken by his singular drive to keep fighting until he physically can't anymore.

It's not the wisest choice to let Cade fight Red Templars, but as a Templar himself, the only person better to fight them is, well, a Seeker. In his full armor with familiar weapons, Malcolm might have considered trying to take them on himself, but fumbling about as he is, a little assistance is going to go a long way. There's going to be collateral damage, if nothing else than in the form of Cade paying no nevermind to any injuries he's bound to get. Therefore it's on Malcolm to make sure the young lad doesn't get himself killed on his order.

The unfamiliar man continues to be a stabbing, magical blur. He'll have to thank him later. Now it's diving into the fray with clanging swords and more than a little dodging on his part. When one Templar raises a hand to gather up a shot of red lyrium, Malcolm smacks it aside with his leather and tries to bash in an armored face with the hilt of his sword. It glances off the armor instead, and Malcolm is tossed aside not terribly unlike a rag doll into an expensive vase. His head's ringing when he forces himself wobbly to his feet, knowing he needs to keep moving or he'll be slain. He might not be driven into a blind madness by his adrenaline, but he has to throw himself once more into it, sword flying and a building focus of will building behind his eyes.

Corvo, for his part, does as well as he supposes can be expected, with a borrowed sword and going against armor--when was the last time anyone wore armor in his world? Certainly not within his lifetime. It had been a blessing he hadn't realized, as Corvo's sword bounces against armor, while he has to do his best to dodge their swords, lest he be skewered. He can't dodge every hit, but he manages to move quickly enough to avoid any hard-hitting blows. Cuts and bruises can be attended later.

Even as he's fighting the Freemen, Corvo tries to check in on the other two--if just to make sure they hadn't fallen. Because, while he could probably handle the Freemen, trying to handle both groups at once? That might be. An Issue. The cowering nobles in the corner didn't help matters, either (they rarely did).

The other two, to be frank, did not look good.

"Are you alright?" He calls, even as he tries to think of options to take, should they fall. If it were just the duchess, he could grab her and make a run for it. But he doesn't have it in him to leave the retinue to meet a grisly end. Which means he'd probably be the one facing a grisly end. Well. At least the Outsider would find it entertaining, probably.

Cade hasn't fallen yet, instead rushing to Malcolm's defense when the Seeker is thrown. He stands over him until the latter gets to his feet again, and then prepares to rush into battle alongside him.
But somebody calls out, and for a split-second Cade responds to it. He turns his head toward Corvo and the nobles just long enough to leave himself open for several spikes of red lyrium, launched from the nearest corrupted Templar, to plunge into his thigh. He cries out in surprise as his leg gives way, and, still operating on adrenaline but becoming more and more aware of the burning pain spreading out from the wound, he holds his shield above him to deflect continued blows as he tries to make a scrambling and clumsy retreat. He finds himself pressed against the base of a pedestal sporting some stupid vase or another, and focuses mostly on shielding with the occasional stab at his assailant, who harries him in hopes of going in for the kill.
Remarkably, Cade doesn't seem too bothered by this-- at least in the grand scheme of things-- and manages to gain enough leverage that he can raise himself slightly and plunge his sword into the overconfident Red Templar's gut.
All's well that ends well. Probably.

"Peachy," he all but growls from keeping up swordplay with a Templar he's embattled with. Even without armor, with a borrowed sword, Malcolm's been at fighting for a long time. Most of his life, in one way or another. He still has a preference for bows, but he made a point early on to be as deft with several other weapons as he can make himself. Beating him down and keeping him down are no easy tasks.

Cade is cornered, harried, and he doesn't have the attention to attend to more than that. He lures his Templar further away from Cade, just in case, slashing and parrying until his blade locks with the opponent's. His teeth grit, and those more magically attuned can feel an increase in pressure in the room before it releases in a rush. The Templar falters, then stumbles, something strangled coming out of him like a scream. The sword drops, and he is scrambling at his armor, at his flesh. It's no short-lived event as the lyrium within (and without) of the Red Templar burns, a power Seekers are told is divine, holy will passed on those most wicked, though privately he doesn't know if it's true.

The Templar drops, silent, at last, to show better Malcolm's tensed and hyperfocused form. Despite the vulnerability, he closes his eyes, takes in a deep, centering breath, and releases it.

And moves to rejoin the fight, aiming to aid Corvo with the Freemen. He will push past exhaustion until all enemies in the room are dead, tied up, or have fled. "This palace is under Inquisition protection!"

Well. There's gratitude for you. Or, maybe, it's kind of his fault for distracting them and getting that poor kid injured. Corvo rededicates himself to his own fight, and not worrying about the others, but--that scream chills his blood, and he glanced over again to watch with wide eyes (ducking a sword in the process). He has no idea what the other man is doing, but it looks...kind of horrifying. Sokolov would have a field day.

And now he has Malcolm's...very enthusiastic help. Despite any apprehensions about What in the void did he just do to that man, it's appreciated, as Corvo has just about run out of mana, and therefore out of his nifty party tricks.

He does manage to pause and murmur, "Just asking," because he's that kind of jerk.

Then back he goes into the fight, focusing on timing his dodges and slashes, parrying when he has to. There aren't many of them left, enough that Corvo feels that it's not out of place to be optimistic about their chances of not all being brutally murdered. There's still a chance, but it's not a good chance. "We have to get those doors open," He huffs, even as he's punting a Freeman in the chest. "The people inside don't have much time left--if they haven't stampeded each other in a panic." Which, Corvo muses as he drives his sword through the man's neck, is as much a danger as the fire.

Cade's every instinct is shouting at him to rally, to get back up into the fight, but the pain from the red lyrium in his leg is debilitating. He's never been stabbed like this with a small blade or object, never had it embedded in his completely unarmored flesh, and he's certainly never dealt with anything magical of this nature. Nausea is building as the lyrium courses through his blood, a lot of which is in fact spilling out onto the tile as he stares at it. It's like being on fire and freezing all at once.

And then Malcolm does THAT THING, which would make anyone's blood run cold with the scream alone, but on some primal level Cade understands what it is and how it pertains to the victim being a Templar. Terror streaks through him, he feels blind and deaf and like he's dying, all the pain at least subsiding as his already-pulsing adrenaline surges. He has to get out of here, or save Seeker Reed, or kill someone, or maybe all three simultaneously.

Cade makes a grab at the spikes sticking out of his leg in hopes of wrenching them out, but upon failing that, just screams in anguish and decides to re-strategize. He goes for his sword instead, barely able to hold onto it with all the blood on his hand, and he tries to lift it and get up again. That doesn't work either. The actual Cade is now safely packed away in some pleasant little psychological lockbox, and berserker Cade is doing his very best, even if that's.... not much. He looks scary at least.

Edited 2017-01-23 07:15 (UTC)

You're welcome, Corvo, geez. Malcolm doesn't respond to the minor sass, knowing he gave sass previously, and is instead on the fight. He gets a few more arrows in his leather shield--and arm--before sprinting at the offending archer and slamming bodily into them, tumbling to the floor. Several arrows snap, and in the scuffle he almost misses the sensation of a dagger being slid into his side. Malcolm doesn't let a little thing like being stabbed stop him, usually, and finishes the job.

Hm. Well, he doesn't seem to be immediately dying, so that's good. And now he's got a dagger to go with his sword, that's a plus. It just happens to be lodged between two of the lowermost ribs. Maybe he shouldn't remove it, but he doesn't want to keep fighting only to have the movement slice something really unfortunate open that it wasn't already. (This one's going right in his boot, though. Safe keeping.)

"Right," he grunts, looking around quickly before making a move to the door. His shielded hand presses to the wound, but he tries to ignore it. The door is barred shut, and if it only took one person to bust through, someone probably would've done it by now. "Cade--"

But, in directing his gaze toward the disgraced Templar, his eyes widen at the sight. He hadn't realized Cade was in that poor a shape. Dear Maker, he's going to get infected with red lyrium, he's going to become one of them--"Cade!" They'll have to find a healer, and they'll have to do it fast. But there are people in there trampling one another, possibly being slaughtered, possibly burning to death, so he makes the only choice he can. He stays by the door, thinks a quick prayer to the Maker, and starts slamming his body shoulder-first into the door.

Corvo understands that the door is the priority. One injured man doesn't hold the same importance of the dozens of people who are dying on the other side of that door. All the same, that kind of math weighs heavily on his soul, the idea of who is more important to save, who deserves to live. But there's little he can do for the injured man, not without healing potions, and even his clothes are a stiff leather, unsuitable for trying to stem bleeding.

Then, with a start, he realizes that he's surrounded by multiple dead men who are more appropriately clothed. He glances at Malcolm, deciding he can handle it for an extra minute as Corvo kneels down and grabs a dead Freeman, turning the corpse over to cut out the cloth--And he spots the familiar bottle of red liquid. So close to Sokolov's elixir, yet different. He swipes it from the dead man, and hurries to Cade, handing the vial to him, with a manly nod.

Now, the door.

Corvo straightens, turning towards this new enemy, and appraising it for a moment, looking over where the weaknesses might be. And, of course, takes a moment to look very dashing and cool. Oooh, aaah. Then he runs at the door, jumping when he gets close enough, pushing off against the door with a solid kick. There's a loud crack, as Corvo lands, skidding against the marble tile. He looks up to see if he managed to break it, only to realize he'd certainly broken something--but he'd done it a little too well. One of the heavy beams that had been holding the door closed has been knocked loose, and about to fall. Right where Malcolm was.

Corvo doesn't bother to take the time to try to articulate a warning. He runs forward again, and in one smooth move, grabs Malcolm's shoulders and pushes him against the wall, keeping himself close enough to also avoid the board as it shatters to the ground (inciting the group of nobles to squawk and fuss, though they remained unharmed. He's forgotten about them, oops). Once he's sure that the danger is passed, he realizes that while Malcolm probably doesn't want to get a large board across the noggin, he might also object to being sandwiched between the wall and the large assassin. Quickly, he steps back, clearing his throat and smoothing down his clothes. Smooth, Corvo.

"Well. I guess we're going to have to be careful about those boards." The smoothest.

Fortunately, red lyrium has to be ingested-- and a lot of it-- for somebody to become a proper red Templar, but that doesn't mean it isn't exceedingly unpleasant to have in his body at the moment. Cade's attempts to get up somewhat resemble a fish flopping around on a dock, being driven by survival instinct and no logic whatsoever, unaware that he's not putting weight on this leg anytime soon.
He looks dumbly at Corvo when the man hands him a potion, but, like a good boy who does what he's told, he uncorks it and drinks the contents without a second thought. At the sudden wash of relief, even if his leg is still impaled by lyrium spikes, he abruptly loses consciousness and slumps onto the floor. His body knows what to do at such a time, and the potion is helping it fight off the infection.

Ohhhh Mister Corvo ooooooh, how very dashing. Malcolm's startled back a step or two by the kick and subsequent cracking noise, and startled even moreso by having the breath smacked out of him by back meeting wall. A rush of air goes by him just as he rushes air back into his chest when the beam hits the floor, and the vibration of impact and adrenaline courses through him.

By the grace of Andraste, Corvo's certainly tall for a human. Maybe they just make 'em big where he comes from.

"Maybe if someone wouldn't do fancy tricks off the door without warning," he says with a sigh, relaxing his shoulders for a moment before stepping away from the wall. "Thank you." Because he's not a complete arse.

A look back to Cade confirms he's out cold. But the door is most important. "Together, this time, and we'll get it open yet." Instead of almost getting crushed by beams. What a terrible first date that would be. He's in no shape to be doing any flying kicks right now, but hey, if Corvo wants to finish the job himself, he's more than welcome to say so.

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OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

outside the ballroom

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