faderift | open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

WHO: Inquisition Forces
WHAT: Inquisition forces cross the mountains into Orlais to deal with Emprise du Lion
WHEN: Wintermarch 25 onward
WHERE: EMPRISE DU LION
NOTES: This is a mingle-style log for the Inquisition camps, local tavern, and general/open Inquisition work, etc.

This time they hike down to the west, but the trip through the mountains is no easier. The snow is heaped up about the road where wagons have pushed it aside, stomped into slippery pack beneath the feet and hooves that have gone before. Of the main track it is ankle deep at best and in places it drifts, waist-deep on a tall man and enough to bury a dwarf who hasn't come prepared with snowshoes. Everywhere the wind howls, biting cold, and the sky hangs low, a pale flat grey that makes it difficult to judge distances. Those who know winter weather call it a snow sky, and near-daily squalls prove them right.

They set up camp in Sahrnia, across the broad expanse of frozen river that has trapped the villagers here upstream. Tents pop up in rows and in the shells of tumbled-down buildings, fires blazing and thawing the ground to mud. When the supply wagons roll in they re-open the local tavern, brightly lit with flaking paint on the walls that might once have been colorful and patterned tiles on the floor that seems to swim like an optical illusion after too many glasses of the cheap red wine that fills the cellars.

Even deadlier reds hold the hills: Red Templar sightings have been frequent and it is said they are operating in several locations in the region in significant force. Some of these men and women have become hulking, crystalline beasts. Many others are in the earlier stages of corruption: red-veined and -eyed, aggressive and superhumanly strong, but still visibly human and coherent if spoken to. Red lyrium is even easier to find, jutting out of the ground or cliffsides, filling caves-- the Tower of Bone, a fortress that has stood for centuries, now threatens to split from the inside out. The area's wildlife was none too friendly before, but now the wolves and bears have begun to be corrupted by the lyrium and many will attack on sight, without provocation. (The snofleurs that bumble harmlessly around the river seem unaffected.)

Everywhere there are ruins: broken bridges, crumbling colosseums, and the great hulking mass of Suledin's Keep tucked between the distant hills. Scouts reported that Red Templars hold it as well.

RIFTER ARRIVAL - SAHRNIA - THE HILLS - TOWER CAMP - A HANDY MAP

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Newly joined up and just up a mountain, one might think that Asher would be content to hang out back at Skyhold, enjoying the delights of the Herald's Rest and clattering into people in the training yard, maybe picking fights with Templars. Not likely. He's being paid to work, not to sit on his arse and let others get all the glory so he's in the Emprise, ostensibly keeping watch because he's a big lad with a giant axe.

He hears the bear from where he's up on a ridge, immediately charging down because thankfully he's used to fire thanks to Amalia.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" The bellow catches the bear's attention as he slams into it, rolling and coming around to smack it in the face with the flat of his blade. "Oh you're an ugly one aren't you?"

Christine's face is a picture of absolute horror as Asher comes flying down upon the bear. Is he mad? You don't just throw yourself at a bear -- especially the bitey end -- and expect to live!

"Merde! Get away from his teeth!" Oh, please don't let him get his face torn off. Even magical healing can't paste a face back on.

"Why would I get away from the business end?"

A genuine question as he blocks a swipe with the hilt of his weapon, sliding backwards as he braces against the impact before ducking low and swinging, the bear roaring when the head of the axe catches it between the ribs. He glances back, grinning at her before he moves round so the bear follows, presenting its flank to Christine.

"Because it's the end that tries to eat you?" She's still in shock, but he seems so at ease fighting this creature, almost as if it is second nature to him. Here she's just trying to keep her wits about her.

When its flank is facing her, Christine seizes the opportunity to send a bolt of lightning through it, causing its back legs to buckle and the breath to be knocked out of it for a moment. Anything she can do to lessen Asher's chances of being bitten or clawed will be done. She would hate to stand around helpless.

"Exactly, that's where the fun is!" Tangling with bears is a particular hazard of a life roaming the wilds between jobs, one of Asher's great joys because bears are big and powerful, with nice warm pelts to keep you cosy.

With a mage in his own company, he's used to magic flying through the air and this time there isn't the smell of burning hair to go with it, always a bonus because it's a pretty pungent aroma. He strikes again, the blade going up under the front leg to the throat, following through to strike it with the handle as it rears and crashes down, knocking Asher with it.

Oh, no. He's one of those types that crave excitement so much that they'll go looking for it in the mouth of a dangerous animal. Sometimes Christine thinks she's the only one who wishes for a quiet life of safety. She can make her own fun without risking life and limb.

She lets out a yelp when she sees him go down, mind struggling for a spell she can use that won't catch him too. Much of what she knows are spells to weaken the enemy, and she doesn't want to do that while the bear is on top of Asher. It might crush him!

But there's no time to really sort through all the spells in her head, so she fires walking bomb at the bear to poison it slowly.

Asher Hardie, a man who once got up during a night of heavy drinking in Ferelden, downed his drink, ripped his shirt off then announced his intention to wrestle a bear. And came out the victor and a legend.

The breath is knocked out of him though, half of it from the stench of the bear itself and he coughs, pushing himself backwards to be out of range. No one wants to have to sit out in the cold repairing their armour when they could be drinking, at least that's how Asher looks at it. It's a cheap trick a rogue might use when he scoops up a handful of snow to throw in the bear's eyes but that combined with the spell allows him to get up and hit it again.

"Cheers, didn't fancy being roasted for the bear's pleasure too!"

Amalia would have shown no such restraint but then she's known Asher for so long that they can read each other so he'll move before she chars him to a crisp.

"I can do better than throw spells around without thinking of the consequences!" she exclaims, circling around the pair, trying to access the situation. The poison is coursing through the bear now, but it's still fighting. How much longer can it last?

The Circle most certainly did not contain literature about fighting bears and the best spells to take them out. This is a unique situation, but right now she's just hoping she and Asher survive. Once they're safe and sound, then she'll look at this as a learning experience.

The spell is doing the work it was meant to because the bear twitches violently, staggering until when it tries to rear, Asher swears and swings up into the chest before he finds himself lunging out of the way.

Because that's blood. Exploding out of the bear.

"Shit, do they teach you that in the Circle?"

There it is. It's completely disgusting, but it gets the job done. Leaning against her staff, Christine lets out a breath of relief before she gives Asher a bit of a smile.

"They teach us plenty of things, sometimes just to see if we can do them. But that? I don't often have the opportunity to use that one. You can't exactly test it as you would a fireball."

"I don’t know, Templars are all shits, and let’s face it, they work themselves up into a right snit over next to nothing. Besides all that lyrium too. I’m surprised more of them don’t just explode, all that self-righteousness bottled up and no outlets for it? Recipe for disaster."

If proof was needed that the world is sometimes a merciful place, Asher being a warrior and not a mage is that proof.

He bends down to examine the bear though, running a hand through the pelt with a thoughtful expression. "Good condition this one, you ever had a bear pelt blanket?"

"Ah, do not tempt me," she says, smile widening. But she really is just kidding. She's trying to give the Templars within the Inquisition the benefit of the doubt, though it's difficult when her first encounter with one at Skyhold was rather terrifying.

"What? A blanket made from it? No, never." She wrinkles her nose slightly. "I would think it would be terribly smelly without a good soak."

"Go on, it's not like it'll rank big on the list of sins, not compared to me so you're fine. I used to fight with the local Templars when they tried to drag me home as a boy and I'm not about to stop." Only there isn't a Chantry here for him to commit indiscretions so some of the fun is already gone from it but what better way to spend a day than upsetting Templars.

"I've got one, I take it everywhere with me, still got the face just all the soft bits are gone. I mean you have to give it a good scrub, stitch up what needs stitching, sort out the lining but there's nothing warmer." Yes Asher Hardie is the manchild with a big bear slanket and it is the best thing in the world if mildly alarming when he sleeps in it and gets up to pee in the night. "You could start an Orlesian trend, return to the barbarism of Andraste's pre-Maker days in this time of crisis."

Such an admission surprises Christine, as she didn't think it was in a Templar's job description to drag troublesome young boys home. She thought they only dealt with mages. Or maybe that was all she was allowed to know.

The very idea of wearing a bear skin is so ridiculous that she almost wants to do it. Almost. But her Orlesian sensibilities are saying no.

"I think I would be alone in such a trend."

It's a dull story really: a small place with a smaller Chantry, a boy with a penchant for scrapping and mischief. Broken windows. Brawls right outside. Brawls inside. A few moonings. One very memorable streaking incident. More Templars stationed around than Chantry than guards when the men and women of the area formed their own watches.

Some grudges you never move on from.

"What about the year quillback spines were in? Besides, you invaded us, it's only fair a few of our things invade your sensibilities in return."

"I invaded nothing," she says with a laugh. "And I am quite sure no one in my family did. We were merchants, yes, but within Orlais. Not soldiers who crossed borders."

But for all Christine's scoffing about dog lords and mud, she finds she secretly doesn't mind Fereldan wine. It's not as good as Orlesian, but it's fine. And the people? Some she considers friends.

"I suppose beggars cannot be choosers when it comes to warmth, no?"

“Ah you’d still all be lowlander peasants in my grandfather’s eyes,” he teases, the grin turning cheeky, making him look younger and more his actual age. “Not that he minded them too much, if my mother wasn’t enough proof then five grandchildren should be.”

Not that they married but his grandmother came and went before she decided to join the Avvar for good once her daughter was old enough to get by on her own. There’s a rough and tumble charm to Ferelden though, to just being honest and getting stuck in.

“Well they can if they don’t mind missing a few toes and fingers. Maybe part of their nose too.”

"Oh, no. Such a fate!" How will she survive the shame of being called a lowlander? Probably by moving to a mountaintop so she's no longer low. But that would be far too cold. She will just have to take the name and stay warm.

"I do like my nose, don't you?" She rubs her fingertips against it because it's so cold out in this landscape, and the pause gives her a moment to consider the dead bear. "I suppose if you are offering, I can at least see how warm it is."

“My grandfather’s folk are a hard folk, you have to be to survive this long.” And to survive around the other Avvar because Asher’s done enough fighting to gain respect to know the pain of cracked ribs and still having to go help out on hunts and such despite hardly being able to move. You get on with things and don’t make a fuss, if it’s the Ferelden way then it was the Avvar way first.

“Very fetching, brings the whole pretty face together.” Asher is shameless: if there are pretty girls to be flattered, he’ll always barge his way to the front of the line. “I’ll haul this one back, but if you get cold tonight, you can come find me and I’ll lend you mine, I’m used to cold and since I became a reaver I’ve run pretty hot anyway.”

Christine smiles, pleased at the compliment. She's a little vain, yes, but where's the harm in that?

"A reaver? I've never met a reaver before." And she has to admit, she's intrigued. As someone who can barely hold her own in a fight, she can't help but be interested in all the special kinds of fighting abilities there are.

"I might come do that. Thank you."

“We’re a rare breed.” Says the man who became one by accident but that’s just proof of how destined he was for it, everyone else has to prepare but Asher? A night of heavy drinking in Nevarra, two days out cold and then he’s back in business, better than before. “The Inquisition probably has one or two, if there’s a big fight to be had? We’re there, you almost can’t help it.”

Lies. You can help it. Asher just chooses not to.

“My tent’s the one with a shield painted with kaddis out front, Bronson’s better with his nose around that many people what with the ear and the eye.”

"That will be hard to miss," she answers, placing her staff back onto her back. And she has no doubt that she can just follow the noise to his tent anyway. He's loud and proud.

"Until next we meet again?" If he's going to be dragging a bear carcass around, she'd better find something else to do.

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open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

christine you're getting a slanket

this is a glorious day!

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