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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Disadvantages to social gatherings in Orlais; no matter your standing, having a weapon so obvious as a staff and one that happens to be quite so obvious as Morrigan's own, is forbidden. Fortunately, much like bards might, mages have other tricks up their sleeves or hidden in their bodices.

Uproar in a crowded room? No one will notice if the arcane advisor goes amiss. (Not quite, it will be noticed later, the rumours will grow so many heads and tails and other extraneous, unnecessary limbs as to render it monstrous but for the moment when shock and panic rule the day? They have their own petty little lives to worry for.) Nor will they notice an error burst of mana, a puff of purple smoke in a darkened corner where once a woman in a dark gown stood.

The crow circles, caws loud and shrill over the screaming then lands with that same burst of smoke.

"Be silent!" Morrigan snaps to whatever lady that might be, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. "You help neither her nor yourself. I shall silence you myself if I must." And then to Alan, hello we meet again with even fewer social graces than previously: "How severe? I confess, healing is not entirely my area of expertise yet..." Does she need to finish?

"But he — he, my sister,"

Odette claps a hand over her mouth in a horror that rivals the anger pinched about her eyes, and falls silent. The Arcane Advisor has a reputation. One that even she's clever enough not to test.

"One in the stomach." A nasty wound, but a slow one. If they can get her to a professional, there's still time. If there's still a professional not busy burning to death, or arms deep into other bodies. "Punctured. I think she missed the other organs."

He presses his hand tight over one wound, and the fallen woman shakes, sputtering blood. Steam rises from the rough cauterization. It's all he knows to do, either.

"Servants' quarters are crawling. Still, could have someone."

His words are a little muddled, more distant than when they spoke before. If everything wasn't happening all at once, he might spare a moment to consider Morrigan's ease with the shape — might wonder at where she came upon those tricks of hers.

But Odette's squealing again now in protest (She? She? It was an assassin! He's right there!), and all he has time to do is trust in it, the blackbird sign. All he can think is stupidly, over and over, Elene.

"Were he the assassin your throat would be cut as well I would imagine, to put an end to that infernal noise." With a withering stare that was once reserved for Alistair and Oghren, she contemplates a hex but that might do more harm than good should anyone come across them and the odds of that are rapidly increasing. "Had I come in another shape though we might be best moving her that way." Spidersilk is strong enough, sticky enough, that she's used it more than once for things other than what nature might have intended but when she doesn't know when - it isn't a case of if now - they'll have to deal with Freemen or Red Templars in their path, she'd be better served saving her mana.

"The servants might be as likely to finish her and the sister off, and us with them," Morrigan murmurs in a low voice to make sure to avoid further hysterics from Odette. "Yet, we cannot remain. We get her away or she lies here on the floor."

Half a moment to think that if this were not the Winter Palace then she would have a few things of her own still hidden away. But it is what it is, they must make do as she points at Odette. "See if there is a bottle of anything for her, better she feel less. And be quick about it."

That gets her moving, useless as any Orlesian noble tends to be which is only amplified in a time of crisis but she looks to Alan over the woman's body for the moment, sighing sharply through her nose. "If it comes to it, I might be able to bind some of it. Though not a single mage with the Inquisition tonight will have weapons or their supplies. That...complicates matters considerably."

“We may need it. I sealed the skin, but it won’t hold well.”

He rises with a huff of effort to lift Bernadette over his shoulder. His expression grits: It’s clearly more than he’s prepared to carry long. Morrigan’s right, though. The servants are a mutual risk. The Inquisition’s presence brings danger, and sympathies for the Freemen are likely to run high.

“— There are kennels.” A safer bet, though the path will still take them through danger. He wonders if anyone’s already set the dogs loose, and more darkly, whether the Freemen dealt with that early. “There was a girl there earlier — we brought her back to her mother, but I know how she got in. They're expensive stock, there'll be medicine. Maybe even a healer for emergencies.”

Unlikely a mage, but even a dog surgeon would be better than nothing. He's heard the nobility talk of Halamshiral's hounds; half seem better off than the servants. As Odette scurries away, he shakes his head to Morrigan.

“Let's take the knife. If the other one returns, she shouldn’t be armed."

Edited 2017-01-12 19:54 (UTC)

"I trust you will take no issue with spiders should that rememdy that particular situation at least?" Unlike certain elven rifters she could mention who almost strike her in battle. Moving to share the burden of Berndaette that neither of them will be exhausted or unable to fight, she considers it then nods.

It isn't Ferelden where hounds are beloved to a degree that it should be disturbing when examined closely but hounds are loyal where people are not. If any are left? She smiles, grim but it's something.

"Agreed. I am sure some of the Inquisition on guard duty would have brought their own tonight too. We may be fortunate." That's such a strong may, isn't it? Going for the knife, she tucks it into her bodice where it'll be easy to grab but more difficult to spot against the glittering fabric (not entirely intended but maybe Leliana is owed more credit than Morrigan might have thought when it came to fashion, even if she will insist on this being Kieran's idea to her grave) as she considers Bernadette.

"We might be able to avoid the worst attention if we go quietly; I have hexes. To confuse and inflict more quiet hurts than other spells. What of yourself?"

"If you've none with rats."

Spiders in the palace. He almost hopes they need to.

"A little ice and fire," And that's seldom felt as great of an oversight as it does tonight. The last thing they need are more things burning, and teeth and claws won't do them much good without dropping the Comtesse. He leads them back towards a set of heavy curtains, away from the main hall. "Some misdirection. Might be able to manage lightning."

He just doesn't trust it to these close quarters.

"If we're separated —" The current path is unobstructed, but they hang a left, and the smell of smokes grows stronger. Shouts, clangs from behind. His pace quickens. "— There's a guestroom. Yellow hangings, and a passage in the closet. It leads out to the dogs."

There's a split second of warning: A glint of silver, the hum and snap of a lever being loosed, and a crossbow bolt flies at them, from a gallery above.

"None whatsoever."

Where did he learn that, she wonders but when they get out of it (if they both get out of it) then that will be among the first question to seek him out to ask. When she suspects they'll be more themselves outside of this place.

Though she could truss the woman up and scuttle along with her on her back. A spider Morrigan is rather a large spider, and no one would ever have to know what she carried so long as they cut holes sufficient for breathing. If it gets to that stage. After this, the invitations along with her place at the court are very much likely to vanish into thin air, she has a feeling.

About to spy, the breath is instead punched out of her as if she's been struck but the bolt misses her by inches, too close for comfort as it whistles past her ear to strike the wall behind her with a solid thunk. Too many a time has she seen the damage these can do, the holes punched through armour and flesh, the way men and women and beast alike simply fall down with a gurgle as she staggers back.

Narrowing her eyes, she raises her free hand to aim a misdirection hex and-"Blast and damnation-" Misses herself on the first attempt. The perils of not having her stave when she requires it. Something of a risk to shut her eyes to draw focus for the second go but a hex buys time if it strikes true and time (or a bit of luck, some might say) is what they are in dire need of right now.

The hex lands in a groan of soft pain — quickly turned to shrill note of panic, as the gallery shooter stumbles against a wall brazier, his senses suddenly askew. He fumbles, squeezes out another faulty shot before dropping to bat at the flames now licking up his sleeves. It punches into a doorframe, off by nearly half a foot.

Alan twists his hand sharply, grimacing, and the fire jumps higher. The freeman drops, topples over the edge of the gallery rail to land with a sickening crack on the marble below. The stench of charred meat and hair rises, only to mingle abruptly with something else. Something wrong.

"Oh." Alan shifts to free both Morrigan's hands, as a red templar roughly the size and shape of a boulder smashes into the hall. "Oh shit."

Sparing a moment while Alan's spell works to glance to Bernadette, she catches her face in her hand just this side of sharp to assess her condition. Clammy, most certainly in shock and still bleeding from the state of her gown but alive and breathing from the rise and fall of her chest, steady enough for the moment. "You shall stay with us, Charbonnier, all this is for your benefit."

She coughs, but well everyone has heard the rumours of the empress and her pet apostate when it comes to blood magic, even in her state she wishes to avoid such terrors coming her way when her gown clings to her as it does.

"Not Venatori?" A whisper that's almost lost but she had expected-- Perhaps it matters little but all other encounters Morrigan has had with Red Templars have seen the Venatori working alongside them. To see them allied with others, with ordinary men not come out of Tevinter is unwelcome to say the least.

Still, it changes little, only that she feels the need to give a warning. "A word of caution: avoid that lyrium at all costs." What little Morrigan has heard about the red lyrium has been nasty. Worse than what it usually does to a Templar in the end to twist them into such a thing. The noise the comes from the creature sets her teeth on edge as it always does as she darts to give it something to strike it so Bernadette won't be in the firing line, gathering lightning between her palms as soon as she is able.

Bernadette's hand twitches in what's either faint acknowledgment, or just the jostle of limbs. Heat radiates from the spreading flames, and — somehow hotter — the Templar's bulk.

It (a man, Alan thinks, but there's little left to tell) snarls out,

"You will hear it!" And the closer Morrigan gets, the more likely it is that she will: a faint melodic absence, a missing note strung through the roaring chaos of the palace. Tempting. Deep. "Hear it, witch!"

Babbling. This one's long-gone. As it steps forward, a body drags at its feet, caught on one of the red spikes beginning to swallow up armor and flesh. It doesn't seem to notice the weight, head and sword suddenly thrown back, writhing with a bloody light. A crude barrier of lyrium forces itself from the floor before Morrigan, forcing a smothering realness into her path.

Alan drops low on reflex, continues to tote Bernadette along the hall. The briefest hesitation, as he spots it: The column above the sprouting veins of crystal, shot through with sudden spreading cracks. If they can bring it down, it might be enough to bury the wretched thing.

Or the two of them with it. A creaking groan from the supports — Ice gathers about his fists.

"Timber!" He shouts, and hopes she can guess his meaning.

Edited 2017-01-18 06:11 (UTC)

"You shall die forgotten." That's a mercy in her opinion rather than lingering on, reduced to a heap on the floor of the Winter Palace same as the Korcari Wilds would swallow many in the filth and muck on a wild chase when she shrieked as a girl. "I do not fear you."

All the same, that sense of wrongness is damn near overwhelming in a way that she's only ever experienced in the fullness of the Fifth Blight and the darkest parts of the Deep Roads, something that creeps and curls, hissing when she cannot let it but if the beast is pre-occupied with her then Alan has his chance to keep moving. There's a fear in her now that wasn't there ten years ago when she has something to lose. All she has sacrificed for him and if she falls now-- No. No she will shake that thought loose of her head before such foolishness swallows her.

A game it is then, at Alan's shout, and fitting too t'would seem as she slides back a step, judging the angle as best one can with such a creature so close. The lightning snaps in her hands before she hurls it, gritting her teeth when it jangles all the way up her arms, up through the base of her skull with nothing to direct and channel it so well. Not a neat pointed blast but a wider impact that crackles through the air as she bares her teeth at the Red Templar.

"What shall you hear when it ends, creature?" Can such a thing be taunted? It doesn't matter really, that's her mother in such a moment, slipping out in the shadow under her tongue.

"Revelation!"

A bellow of Orlesian, in a voice like many voices. It charges straight into the thick of the blast, smashing through its own wall in a dangerous spray of shards.

Red mist sears out in a jagged path, but can't fully rip its host free of the storm. A stray arc of current slams the templar back, leaves it roaring in something that must have once sounded like anger, or pain — now it doesn't sound like much of anything at all.

The silence drinks it in.

Then everything happens at once: Frost and lightning send stone flying, the column crashing down after with impossible finality. There's no time for the thing to scream or run, barely enough for the three of them to get free. The edge of the balcony above caves sudden and dangerous, and a couch worth more than many homes slides off only to shatter into heavy splinters. The bookcase is soon to follow.

Alan's through a door — the door with yellow hangings — they're half-toppled, stained with something dark, but he's inside and pulling Bernadette free of the door one-handed, kicking aside a fallen vase, anything to clear the path for Morrigan.

"The wardrobe," He staggers towards it, leaving a bloody smear on the wall where he props himself. "Nearly there."

Edited (realized that dialogue made no sense whoops) 2017-01-19 07:58 (UTC)

Just when you thought the normal Templars spouted nonsense, then come these creatures.

The Blight and most of the things they fought that were humanoid until they were twisted into something wrong, lurching, festering, were silent outside of shrieks or laughter that grated on a ragged edge. Maybe that it still has the wit to speak words of sense, words that carry such conviction, maybe that is what unsettles her most of all though she will pick through that later if she chooses to.

For now she leaps back lacking barrier spells or someone who might have a shield, unwilling to use the mana to become a spider with one hand over her mouth to stop herself from choking on the dust and debris kicked up.

Her hearing dulls to everything but the high ringing sound from the carnage they've managed to unleash that sets her off-balance, and she blinks in much the same stupid way she berated Alistair for once. It passes, it always does but her time in the field has been limited and nothing has called for anything such as this outside of the last time there was anything like a war.

Alan is-- Speaking? Calling? She shakes her head though that does nothing to help her hear better for the moment so her voice is too loud when she's almost there, looking him over. "What of you? Are you wounded?"

"I'm fine." He's not. There's a thick glint of ruby crystal jutting from his hand, smaller splinters peppering his side. "Are you?"

He stoops to lift Bernadette (odd how much better he's feeling, how suddenly stronger), and seems to notice the crystals for the first time.

A glance back up to Morrigan, teeth chattering, and he extends his good hand out to her. She looks — shaken. Something set askew in the frank confidence she'd worn before. He doesn't like it. An absurd, alien protectiveness surges briefly in his chest, quickly replaced by pain.

"It's just through this passage. The kennels."

The wounds sear, but it's the kind of heat that urges him to move and keep moving, the kind that invigorates even as it eats. They can still get through this.

"Alive." A start. A good start but she did not expect such carnage, such rampant slaughter and it's rattled her more than she likes. Having another to focus on is better, it forces her to push aside the inevitable onslaught as to how the evening she had thought would happen (bards, assassins, bitter accusations, three heads snarling and snapping) turned to this.

Her heart is loud in her ears when she gets a good look, when her eyes go wide in horror.

"Wait, you must--" She avoids the hand since she is not about to touch that herself; ancient magic, eluvians, the fabric of the Crossroads itself but something that can twist a person into a scarcely recognisable thing and jutting up through Emprise du Lion like the ribs of some dying thing wherever it will, no, she will avoid that. "Your hand." Her voice is sharp, demanding that he stop and look at what she's looking at.

If there was a moment I would miss that interfering old busybody, she thinks bitterly, this would be the very moment. To him she continues, when she can take a breath and swallow, reaching to take Bernadette from him since he's carried her long enough. "That must be removed before we go any further, it cannot be allowed to linger."

Alan blinks. It takes a moment, but eventually it processes, that they aren't moving, aren't about to go and —

He shifts Bernadette to her. One hand propped in the other, he leans over the crystal, and attempts to yank it out with his teeth. As ya do: At least if you're an idiot hopped up on pain and adrenaline who's used to having a beak.

This is not a splendid plan. This is what can barely be termed a "plan" at all. He's barely twisted the thing in motion before his face drops snow-white, and Alan reels back in shock. His movements are too jerky, overshot, slamming his hand against the wall. The impact just drives it further in, and he lets out a strangled cry of alarm.

"Don't be a baby," Bernadette stirs to murmur. It's not clear if she's conscious of what's going on. "Put a bandage on it."

That's. Actually a thought. Alan moves to the bedspread in a jerky sort of stagger. The top layer of sheets are intact. If they're going to be here a moment, they might at least be able to staunch her bleeding.

"You can wrap her. I'll just," He has no idea. His eyes track blankly to the spike in his palm again, the fingers twitching of their own accord, and drift to a little fireplace in the corner. "Get tongs."

The words are little too muddled, a little too quick. But the idea's not a bad one. With some leverage, he may be able to pry the chunk out.

With her free hand, Morrigan reaches to feel Bernadette's wound, making a face at how quickly her hand becomes damp; somewhere Wynne is watching, and tutting, and making sour old prune lady faces. But that can wait because apparently it's time for: what is a bird, we just don't know only this time she's watching it instead of being the bird hopping around or flapping in someone's face.

"Save your breath to admonish your fool of a sister should she have her head when next you see her," Morrigan advises and if she's rather less gentle than she could be when 'assisting' the good lady to the bed, then she is weary from unexpected battle and she also has a feeling or two about absent sisters who could have been better use than just stories people tell.

With more care though, Bernadette is propped up to make sure she can actually keep breathing as Morrigan starts ripping at makeshift bandages with an eye on Alan.

"Sit. Take a breath. Head between your knees lest you empty your stomach." Morrigan-the-mother creeps in but that's a touch more helpful in the moment as she turns to Bernadette and ignores the protest when she opens just enough of the gown to fold in a little padding. "Press on that, Lady Charbonnier, if you would be so kind as to assist in proceedings."

And for Alan's ears: "Before a bandage goes about your mouth as well."

"Always charming, Advisor,"

Apparently being stabbed does wonders for your courage — or at least your willingness to sass the Empress' favourite mage. Bernadette pushes a delicate hand over the bandage, and promptly shuts up in favour of staring up to the ceiling, eyes wandering loose.

Alan makes it another few steps towards the fireplace, and does as Morrigan says, though it's a moment still before he remembers to follow through, head swinging low to breathe. It has the advantage of hiding his smile at the joke.

There's a rush of footsteps in the hall, two men perhaps, light and unarmored. They tilt past the door and on down without incident. From the muffled snip of conversation, they're discussing the relative merits of looting, and whether it might weigh one down.

"The wonders of the present company."

Meaning not you, Bernadette, save your breath.

Had she a staff, a misdirection hex would be placed, or disorientation but without it then what's the point? It would spread too wide and they have a ways to go before they can reach anyone of substance, or before someone reaches them. The door is heavy and she looks about at the furniture, what they might barricade or seal with webbing if it comes to it. She holds her breath, doesn't dare to move as she continues to wrap Bernadette up tight as she dares.

"Do you want help?" The edge of a whisper, her ears are still ringing and judging just how close the footsteps are isn't so easy for her. Better to be cautious.

He wants help very badly.

It's a rare feeling — or at least it was. The night's events have altered things with a dizzying speed. Alan doesn't like it. There's a certain freedom to watching your own back and licking your own wounds. Perhaps it wouldn't weigh on him so heavily now if their surroundings weren't so... so, or the throb of his hand so vivid. It tastes like the smoky wash of an old hunting horn, its call the colour of ash.

"I've got it."

His jaws grit, vision swimming with a peculiar sense of story, the faded impression of a scent-memory. The euphoria's beginning to come down now, replaced by a confused urgency. He's energy enough to run and keep running. He wouldn't need to stop, could just sprint down that hall and find some other place.

The pack might be safer for it. But as he lifts his head again, reaching out for the rack of pokers, Alan finds it's the balance that he's missing. His good fingers don't close around the tongs, but empty air. He stares mystified for a good three seconds into the space left behind, wobbling, wobbling,

And promptly passes the fuck out.

More steps, lighter now. There's a rapping at the door. Soft, urgent.

Edited 2017-01-31 06:59 (UTC)

There are so many things she would give for someone she knows to come clattering through the door right now. Survival has meaning but no longer simply her own as she watches him, wiping her hands on her gown with nothing else she can spare as everything starts to ache. A long night and she is no longer so young, though still young enough perhaps for Flemeth to still want to steal her skin if she can.

"Alan--"

Shit. As quiet as she can she gets up off the bed, glaring at Bernadette who has glassy eyes but her colour might be better for the time to rest instead of being heaved about between the pair of them. She crouches by Alan but with someone at the door, rousing him is too dangerous for the moment.

The thing that isn't? Possibly a risk but she's out of better options as she draws on her mana to twist herself into something else, something with more limbs and a stronger carapace, glittering black eyes and the ability to shoot webbing which she prepares to when a hand tries the door. Her mandibles click, sharp and deadly. She's chewed far worse things than a poor of would-be looters.

A young boy pushes it open, flies back as abruptly. He can't be much past fourteen, in a servant's garb; elabourate candlestick clutched protectively to himself.

"Good... spider..." He stammers uncertainly, eyes desperately searching the scene. They take in Bernadette, Alan — guests in danger! He can't just leave them. Especially not with his Celestine probably still trapped in the kennels. "Very... good... spider."

"Where'd the damn kid go?" A murmur from down the hall, a deeper voice. "Better not be looking for that dog —"

The boy throws a glance over his shoulder, considering. Between a rock and a hard place. Or a rock and a giant spider, as it were. He raises the candlestick threateningly, arms shaking, face screwed up with every ounce of courage he can muster.

This would be so cool if he wasn't maybe about to be eaten.

Edited 2017-02-04 08:36 (UTC)

Not even in Orlais are there folk fluent in the language of spiders or the unfortunate soul would understand what the clicking of her mandibles is saying: begone, immediately. Or something to that effect. Generally being a giant spider tends to do that trick outside of combat.

Hearing is-- something she's aware of in a different way to the norm, more the vibration than anything else but she rears up as far as she can as if daring him. Darkspawn, werewolves, blood mages, demons, Venatori; spiders have stronger flesh than a human mage after all so when pressed this is her preferred form in the heat of battle.

She curls her body up enough to shoot out webbing in his direction though it's webbing, it's not exactly a precision tool. Sorry kid, your night was doomed from the moment you touched the door also there are eight of the hairiest legs you have ever seen coming for you and your teenage face so y'know. Enjoy. Some people would probably pay for the privilege.

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OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

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and then i rolled a 1. sorry morrigan.

unleash the spiders

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