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

Entry tags:

[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?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Norrington let out a hoarse cry, falling to his knees as the spell rips through him, and he can feel his own blood burning inside of him, burning him all the way through and he doesn't know how much longer he can last before he

- The pain stops, abruptly, and he is so thrown that he finds himself down on the ground, one hand going to his chest. He whispered a soft curse, looking up to see Bellamy taking out the smaller mage with a ferocity.

He grabs his sword, lifting it high, preparing to plunge it back into the earth to Dispel any magic coming from that woman - or any other mage.

In her pain, the mage has dropped her staff. She's unsteady after that first blow--evading the sweep of her sword leaves her still more unsteady; she avoids the worst of the cut but falls to her knees with a cry. Her staff is within seizing distance now, but just as her hand closes around it, Norrington's Dispel takes hold.

All too easy, then, to kick the shoulder of her wounded arm, knock her on her back. She's wearing mail under her robes; he heard it shifting when she moved. All too easy, too, to go for her softer unprotected throat. Unflinching, Bellamy grasps his sword in both hands and stabs down, one clean movement.

The main glut of the enemy forces are equally dispatched. Resistance is broken--not always easily, but Norrington's sweeping work has helped them a great deal. A last rally sees a few of the mages fighting back more physically, their magic defanged. One of them--armed with a wickedly curved dagger--tries to seize hold of Norrington himself, under the assumption that he will be an easier target after the boiling blood and the work of dispelling.

The man knows how to pick a target - or at least he would know how to pick a target if Norrington was some green field commander who had just come out for his first hunting mission. As it stands - Norrington's eyes narrow as the knife comes towards him, lifting his arm to deflect the blow, while he uses his entire body to slam the mage into a large stone, knocking the breath out of him.

He twists the man's wrist hard enough that one can hear the bone's cracking and the mage screams, something that is quickly silenced as Norrington uses the knife to stab him in the side of the neck. He stands away, green eyes cold and hard as they watch the mage choke on his own blood, slumping over.

Without looking away, he calls out, "Templars, report! How many wounded, how many dead?"

The count comes around quickly enough: four wounded, only one dead. A gambit is never without its losses, not when risk is high. With blood magic, risk is always high. And the enemy has been defeated, in this strike. The ritual has been ended, the mages are dead or else in the process of dying, and the hill is theirs.

Norrington isn't the only one watching the last mage die. From across the short distance that separates them, Bellamy is watching too, his face cast cold and impassive. He crouches to wipe his sword on the grass, and lets his gaze shift over to Norrington himself.

When his sword is clean, Bellamy sheathes it. He leaves his own kill where she lies without looting the body or closing her eyes or anything. As he crosses to Norrington, he unhooks his waterskin from his belt and gets a mouthful. Once he's reached the knight commander's side, he offers him the water.

"What do you think they were up to?"

The signs of the ritual have been trodden and ruined in the fight, but the marks are still there. Something was happening here, before they happened.

Norrington listened to the reports - Mullroy and Murtogg had sustained injuries, and one of the templars who traveled along with them had been slaughtered by the blood boiling spell. Two of his brothers also lay wounded - probably strict Circle brothers, for as scared as their attacks had been. He would see to their training - they could not hesitate like that again.

The mage's blade is dropped to the grass, and he takes the waterskin from Bellamy, his green eyes sharp on the ground. "There's no sense of corruption here - and they were using human body parts. They weren't summoning a demon - they were trying to find something rather than create."

He handed back the water skin, looking around for the hands that they had seen before. "The cuts that were made on the hands - did you notice them? I did but for a moment, but they were clean. The body was taken apart after he or she had been killed. The blood fueled the ritual, but the body itself was what they were using for the intent."

He nods as he surveys their surroundings, giving Norrington the control of the conversation, the space to fill in the details of just what went on here. There's blood magic, and there's blood magic. Brutality with good cause, brutality without cause. There has to be a line between the two, and it's a line that Bellamy has drawn very clearly.

"And they weren't cobbling together any corpses either. That means fewer nasty surprises down the road. Probably," he concedes, with a measure of grim amusement. There's always nasty surprises. He takes another mouthful of water for himself--a little too much; he has to press his wrist against his mouth to catch it and swallows, quickly. "So how do we figure out what they were trying to find?"

Where-as, Norrington is still trying to learn what the line is -- the Dalish use blood magic but only on themselves, which while a danger to them, did not lead them to demons all the time. Humans who used blood magic and sacrificed others were clearly in the wrong. Elves who did the same, clearly in the wrong. He was aware his own personal experiences had colored him -- and frankly since he had yet to be proven wrong, he was going to count them as valid.

Blood magic, never - ever a good idea.

"I have seen the remains of what flesh creatures can be, Templar Blake." He mused, as he moved from the dead mage, dropping the blade by his side, and then over to the sacrificial spot. "The hands will be the clue - gentlemen and ladies, please search the remaining corpses."

He pauses, looking around with cool green eyes, "I think I do not have to remind anyone the penalty for abusing a corpse - even a blood mage. We are to search, put valuables aside to be sent home to families or donated to the Inquisition. Anything like a journal, or notes, bring to me."

He looked back at Bellamy, a thoughtful look on his face. "What was your rank when you came into the Inquisition, Blake?"

Everyone falls to their tasks, with an air of studied order. Everyone is used to taking commands, and if they were thinking of doing any looting for their own benefit, it seems that they have put such thoughts out of their minds.

Bellamy hadn't followed after Norrington once he'd started back toward the sacrificial spot. Nor had he expected Norrington to address him again. Crouched beside a corpse himself, Bellamy looks around at the knight-commander. He's too good to be outright surprised, but he is caught briefly off-guard.

"Barely out of being a recruit," he answers, evenly, as he starts going through the pockets of the dead mage. "Our training was tough. We had a good knight-commander. Firm, but fair." His fingers find a scrap of paper and he tugs it free, sets it on the grass beside the corpse for further consideration, once he's finished with his search. "Is something wrong, ser?"

He asks casually, but he's thinking ahead, trying to anticipate where Norrington is going to go with this.

Norrington huffed out a breath before he went about, searching the blood mage that had nearly killed him, and the other who had come at him with the blade. He glanced over at Bellamy, though, his gaze thoughtful.

"Absolutely nothing wrong. Your training was excellent. I was just wondering what you were thinking of, after the war against Corypheus. If you were considering rejoining the Templar Order, or going your own way. We could use someone like you."

He flipped through the papers he found, his lips pressing into a frown. "They were trying to find someone, it seems. All these are letters."

That isn't anything that Bellamy anticipated. The part about rejoining the Templar Order, that is, not the part about the mages trying to find someone. Bellamy catches the end of Norrington's glance before the knight-commander turns his attention to those letters. And he knows that he's too open, with his expression, that he should be more careful and keep himself composed. And he knows that he doesn't care about rejoining the Templar Order, not after everything that happened. Not after the way they've treated mages. And he knows that he can't, not after what he's done, that even if he wanted to he'd be beheaded before he'd be let back in their ranks.

But for one second, he feels it: that same flare of desire and ambition and pride, the same as when he was just a kid, when everything still made sense in a way that was less skewed than what he knows now. A clear path and a clear and noble goal. The way it felt to belong, briefly, to something bigger and better. He wants it, and that want shows briefly on his face, there and then gone.

Because he knows, that it's shit. That being a templar didn't mean anything. That the most he ever belonged was when he was with the apostates in the middle of nowhere, fighting off the Avvar and the Red Templars and keeping each other alive. Bellamy's fingers curl around the scrap of paper in the mage's pocket, crumpling it.

"Maybe," he says. "I hadn't thought much about it." We could use someone like you. Bellamy pulls his hand out of the mage's pocket and puts the crumpled parchment on top of the first one, there in the grass. "I guess you'd know better than me what the Order needs, ser."

The words on the paper look blurred to Bellamy. He grabs them up and carries them over to Norrington, for his perusal. His arm is stiff when he holds the papers out to the knight-commander.

"One thing at a time. Right, ser?"

"Well, do give it some thought. I know we are ... rather in disarray at the moment," Hah, says his inner cynic, "But there will come a time when the Order will need to be reformed. With most of the bad elements swept clean -- well, it is a time for rebirth."

He flicks through the letters, frowning, distracted as Bellamy hands him two more pieces of parchment. He slides them in order, before his eyebrows raise. Shock, and then he exhales.

"... They were looking for someone - two someones. Two someones I would very much like to meet myself. The mage who killed my mentor, and the one who caused the massacre south of Emprise du Lion." He looked over at Bellamy, nodding his thanks. "Excellent work, Templar. We'll have to have the rest of this translated, but this might be the first real lead in months."

He frowned, looking around, "Why in the name of the Maker did they think they would find them in the Hinterlands? The mage rebellion has been over for months, now."

(no subject)

nonsibi - 2016-06-21 21:53 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

judgemewhole - 2016-06-22 03:23 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

nonsibi - 2016-06-22 17:20 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

judgemewhole - 2016-06-23 03:44 (UTC) - Expand

Ingrid noticed her fellow templar's quietness, and she keeps a casual eye on him. He is her brother in faith, after all, even if they've never really talked. She sees some of the tension, the ruffled hair...

"...are you all right?" she asks gently when he comes back.

Bellamy looks around at the question, more startled than he should be, especially given her tone. "Yeah," he says, automatically, and sets down the water skins with a huff of effort. The water sloshes around as its mass rearranges. Bellamy flexes his hands, working out the stiffness.

He cocks another glance toward his fellow (ha) templar, taking a quick measure of her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Ingrid shrugs a little.
"I do not know. Sometimes the road... it locks you in your own head. It can be hard to get back out. You seem like you might have done that. It happens to me too."

Well. She's not wrong. Bellamy drops his gaze to the dirt for a second, jaw set, the line of his shoulder just as set. He doesn't like her assessment, but he can't fault it.

Instead, he drops to his knees to loosen the end of one of the waterskins, with the intent to get a drink for himself--more to busy his hands than anything.

"And talking about it helps." For her, he means. He's pretty sure it doesn't, for him.

"I prefer good, hard work, actually," she admits, "Talking is not my strongest."

Ingrid shifts a little awkwardly, but her demeanor remains kind.
"But knowing that someone cares? That can make a difference too."

"Guess so."

Bellamy looses the stay on the waterskin and gets a mouthful. It doesn't do anything to take his edge off, really, but it gives him a few seconds more to think, to consider her for another few seconds.

"You saying you care?" It's not aggressive. It's almost teasing.

"You are my brother in faith. We ride together. I would know you better, but yes. I care."

She is earnest, her words plainly sincere, not rising to the bait.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Closed] [A'Hunting we shall go

no subject

Hunting - distractions

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject