faderift | [Closed] [A'Hunting we shall go

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[Closed] [A'Hunting we shall go

WHO: James Norrington, Ingrid Kief, Bellamy Blake, Ellana Ashara
WHAT: A small band heads out to kill some blood mages, some Red Templars, and an errand or two.
WHEN: Back-dated, second week of Bloomingtide
WHERE: The Hinterlands
NOTES: There will be violence! Also, annoying climbing.

Travelling

The trip to the Hinterlands is positively boring, compared to other trips that have headed out recently. The templars that Norrington have brought with him chat with one another, chat with those traveling with them, and the mood - if not light, is at least comfortable and friendly.

Camping

Norrington places them in the Camp off in the Rebel Queen's Ravine - it will be a long hike inward from the valley to where the Red Templars were seen, but Norrington wants to do a through sweep of the valley. So camp is established, and people are free to mingle with one another as wanted.

Hunting

Those heading out to find the Red Templars will leave early enough in the day, as to have the element of surprise. Norrington stops the group right outside their first spotting, frowning as he hunkers down low.

He turns to the others, murmuring, "They're moving red lyrium - large shards of the stuff. Where the name of the Maker are they getting it?"

or

The blood mages are conducting some sort of ritual, on the far end of the valley, near where those ... rather strange cultists live. The advantage is theirs - they are atop a large hill.

Norrington frowns as he looks up the sides of the hill. "We need a distraction, so the rest can charge around the back. Any ideas?"

An Enchanter's Favor

On the second or third day, Norrington packs up his horse on his own, and calls out to the others, "I'm heading out for First Enchanter Vivienne. Does anyone wish to come along?"

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{ camping }

When they stop to make camp, Ellana offers to make the fire, though a few Templars offer to fetch the wood for her. It's a kind gesture, and she lets them do it while she collects kindling to help the flames keep going. She chats easily with a few, saying it was her job in the clan to keep the fires lit, and when everyone's back with the wood, she lights it with a gesture of her hand. After that, she plans to just sit and eat, but the fennecs running and playing not far away catch her attention. They've been everywhere in the Hinterlands, and she creeps closer, slowly lowering herself onto her haunches, hands pressed to the ground and staring intently at them. Someone should probably ask her just what she's doing.

{ hunting }

Ellana ducks down as they spot the Red Templars and gives a shrug. "Lyrium is mined from underground, isn't it? There are plenty of caves around these parts. But how the lyrium is becoming red? I don't know. We'll have to destroy it once we deal with them. Any ideas?"

... Yeah, James is going to ask what she's doing.

He came up next to her, a cup of water in hand, arching one eyebrow as he looked at her. Then looked at the fennec. Then looked back at her.

"Is this some sort of new ritual where you catch animals by entering a staring contest?" He mildly asked, before sipping his water.

Ellana glances up at him as the fennec scampers further away. It's not yet out of sight, but it's keeping a bit of distance between itself and the people over by the fire.

"As if you could get a fennec to stand still long enough to stare back at you," she answers with a smile. She looks back out towards the fennec she's chosen, glad to see it's still within viewing distance.

"I thought I'd observe it; learn it. Then I can become it."

"That is true - I have yet to see a more hyperactive creature than a fennec. Outside of perhaps Warden Kaisa, that is." James murmured, sipping his water again.

Then he frowned, "... why on earth would you want to become a fennec? They are the most annoying creatures in all of Thedas. And I've been around Orlesians."

She merely huffs out a laugh. Kaisa has the energy of three people, it's true. And with the number of fennecs in the area, she isn't too worried about keeping one in her sights at all times, so she looks up at James with a smirk.

"Why, ser, I had no idea you were so opinionated. Then again, it's easy to want to dislike Orlesians." Especially when you're an elf. "But think about it. They're everywhere. Forests, deserts, mountains. If I want to blend in, what better animal to pick?" Please don't list off any better animals, James. It's a rhetorical question.

traveling.

Bellamy isn't antisocial. He participates, if engaged in conversation. He does the menial work required for breaks and making camp for the night--fetching water, hobbling horses, gathering wood, starting fires. During he day, he rides toward the back of the column--not the very back, but near enough--and if he laughs at jokes that are told or stories bandied around, it's not quite enough. There's something clearly on his mind, preoccupying his thoughts. Camaraderie comes easy to him, but he lacks total conviction. As hard as he tries to blend in, this one thing keeps him separated.

One afternoon, the troop stops for a break, and Bellamy is first to volunteer to go for water. He collects waterskins from a handful of other templars and a bucket for the horses. His own horse--a hardy mountain beast, with a long mane--gets a pat on the nose when no one's really looking. Then he sets off alone to a stream that runs maybe fifteen feet away, hidden behind a copse of thick trees.

Once he's on the other side, Bellamy sets down his burdens and sinks into a crouch, fingers gripped briefly in his hair. Tense, he stays like this a moment. Then he stands, all at once, recovered and assured once more.

hunting - distractions.

"I'll do it."

Ideas doesn't necessarily mean volunteers. A mage could cast a spell at a distance and draw attention that way. Someone with good aim could throw a rock. Or, very simply: someone could get their shit together and go over to be an actual distraction, which is what Bellamy is already gearing up for. He shrugs off his shield from his back as he tugs at his belt, securing sword and scabbard.

"Loop around front and show myself. They'll take an interest at the very least. And if you're fast enough, they won't have time to get off any really damaging spells."

And if they do, he's had worse. Probably.

Norrington narrowed his eyes on Bellamy, before he nodded his head just once. "Very good, Bellamy. We'll move now. We'll listen for your signal."

He jerked his head towards the other side of the hill to the others, drawing his sword out. Starting down the path, he gestured until he got to the other side of the hill and waited for Bellamy's voice to float down the hill.

His last tug secures the spaulder at his right shoulder. Then he nods, once, affirming Norrington's plan. "Yes ser."

They set off, and Bellamy sets off in the other direction. The screen of the trees had afforded their company that moment to plan. For odds, he'd probably be better off with at least one other templar, but when it comes to risk, Bellamy prefers to risk only himself.

He waits at the edge of the trees to give Norrington and the others a few moments, at least. The distance between him and the bottom of the blood mages' hill is a short one. Ten paces, at most, and nothing but open ground. Through the trees, Bellamy watches their work. He knows it pretty well by now. His chest feels like it's got a fist in it.

Then, when he thinks they must have circled around enough, when he's waited just as long as he can stand: he steps out of the trees.

The ritual doesn't halt outright. They don't notice at first. Magic is an absorbing thing, requiring attention. Bellamy sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles.

"Hey! Down here, assholes!"

Okay, now he's got their attention. A little too much of it. The scrutiny feels like being pinned down. Bellamy glares up at them and sinks into a crouch, shield gripped tight, as one of the mages raises his staff.

Well ... all right, that was one way to do it. Norrington arched an eyebrow before he snorted softly and gestured for the rest of the Templars to follow him up the back of the hill.

There were no battle cries, no calls out to the Maker or Andraste. Only idiots who wanted to be wearing their hearts outside of their chests did such foolish actions. The only warning they got was the sword plunging through the blood mage's chest who had lifted his staff, as James kicked him free and then called out, "Dispel formation!"

The rescue--the stabbing--comes just in time. Bellamy, ready to shove off from the attack with his warded shield, chooses instead to rush the hill. The other templars move in on Norrington's command, a v-formation that thrusts right into the center of the ritual and scatters the blood mages.

Some are seized easily. Some move out of range, retaliate with spells. The remains of their ritual are trodden underfoot--glyph blazed into the hilltop, scraps of cloth soaked in blood. Two hands, divorced from a body. The smallest of the mages--a diminutive woman in blood-streaked robes, with a staff larger than she is--wields the most power. She swings her staff around and brings its end down, hard, on the ground. A hemorrhaging spell, with power enough to stagger the templars that have pursued her. Armor specially warded against blood magic would be a boon here, but not all had the foresight, or the coin, or the connections, to have their armor so warded.

Bellamy has the connections, and his wards are good. (They ought to be, since a blood mage helped him.) When he overtakes the hill to join the fight, he has his sword in his hand. He goes right for the short blood mage, who is raising her staff for another round of hemorrhaging. Her eyes, wide, crazed, are fixed on Norrington, wherever he is in the battle.

Norrington alas, is not looking at the short blood mage. He does have armor especially made to deal with blood magic, but it only does him so much good when he is busy Rallying his men for another charge, and sinking his blade into the maddened face of another mage who came screaming at him with a knife.

He twist his blade free, turning to find the smaller woman with her hands outstretched to him, and he can feel his shield coming around. Yet he has the feeling he will be far, far too late.

The fury of the mage's spell is savage. The force of it tears into Norrington before his shield can deflect it, feverishly drives its way into his veins and boils his blood. The duration of the spell is agonizing--not the short sharp burst of the hemorrhage but a pain that sustains itself, a spike passing through his body and splinters into white-hot needles of pain as it goes, tracing its way through his bloodstream. It will feel like being cooked alive, for a moment, like boiling from the inside out--

Until Bellamy reaches the blood mage and hacks at her arm with his sword.

Equally brutal, the blade bites in to flesh, and her concentration understandably fails her. A howl of pain, a scream. There's screaming all around, templars and mages alike. Bellamy yanks his sword free and jumps back, swings the blade around with a quick deft twist of his wrist to strike at her again--a broad sweeping strike across her body, to drive her back.

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Camping

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Hunting - distractions

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Enchanter's Favor

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