faderift | OPEN: The Western Approach

OPEN: The Western Approach

WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: The Western Approach is a terrible place. You should definitely go there.
WHEN: Bloomingtide 15 onward
WHERE: The Western Approach
NOTES: This is open to everyone. Characters who would not happily go to the hell desert probably have to go anyway; it's a war, not a vacation.

Once these wastes were a land of plenty. Can you believe it? The rain came north over the Gamordan Peaks, turning the plains green and verdant for three months of the year. Eight hundred years ago, that changed. During the Second Blight, darkspawn spilled out of an enormous crack in the earth, corrupting it with their foul blood... and it never recovered, even after they were driven back underground. The Grey Wardens built Adamant Fortress to stand watch over that chasm, but eventually even they abandoned it to the wind and the biting sand.

What few of us eke out a living in this Maker-forsaken place do so knowing that any number of deaths await us: darkspawn raids, dragons, bandits—not to mention starvation from the lack of water and game. If we stay, it is because we know there are treasures buried in the bones of this place, ruins from the time when Tevinter ruled, and even earlier. We pass tales around our campfires of the things we have seen shrouded in the dust storms. My favorites are the ones about relics that could restore the Western Approach once more... but I don't believe them. Truth be told, on nights when the wind is calm, I can stand on a hilltop and see for miles in the moonlight over a stark beauty of which no other Orlesian can claim to know the equal. On those nights, I hope it will never change.

—From Lands of the Abyss by Magistrate Gilles de Sancriste

I. THE DESERT

When Scout Harding calls somewhere the worst place in Thedas, that's probably a bad sign. Even when nothing in the Western Approach is deliberately trying to kill you, there's nothing kind or forgiving about the landscape: bare and arid, carved through by sharp-dropped canyons, dotted with abandoned mines and signs of the deaths of lost travelers. Winds sweeping through to whip stinging sand into uncovered faces, and periodic dust storms obscure visibility entirely. It's warm enough to be dangerous but not so hot, at this time of year, that heat exhaustion and dehydration can't creep up on you while you aren't paying attention.

And at any given moment, something probably is deliberately trying to kill you. The food chain in the region is top-heavy, with quillbacks, phoenixes, hyenas, and varghests roaming hungrily and as likely to attack one another as the sparse local prey population. Compared to their natural competitors, the Inquisition's forces look like easy marks. The camps the Inquisition scatters at lookout points throughout the region require constant watch, and going anywhere alone is inadvisable. Not only because of the hostile local everything, but also because it is incredibly easy to get lost. One rock formation looks much like another after hours in the sun or bathed in shifting moonlit shadows, and good luck finding many other landmarks. There are a few: chunks of pillars or arches from some ruined structure, or the occasional odd pillar that might, if someone investigates, prove to mark a trail of sorts.

Plus: the only people who seem determined to survive out here are cutthroat bandits and stray Venatori. Double-plus: a high dragon makes occasional fly-bys, scouring the ground below for anything edible, armored or not.

Some reprieve comes at night, relief from both the sun and the area's primarily diurnal predators. But that's when the darkspawn come out.

II. GRIFFON WING KEEP

Bloomingtide 16-17: Taking the Keep

Only a small force of Tevinter cultists remains in Griffon Wing Keep when the Inquisition arrives, seemingly on their way out the door already, but the sight of Inquisition banners is enough to make them stay and fight. There's no need for siege equipment, but there is call for a little bit of patience. With it, a small battalion is able to evade the mages and archers on the walls and storm the doors with few casualties. Fewer than three dozen warriors wait inside. It's a quick, brutal fight; it only takes a night.

Bloomingtide 18 Onward: Home Away From Home

Once the Keep is cleared of occupants, it's ripe for the Inquisition to… occupy… But with implicit permission, at least. Those who aren't needed for fights elsewhere may be put to work clearing out debris and small animals and the remnants left by the cultists, and within a few days the fortress is a serviceable outpost, much more hospitable than the camps out in the sand. Barracks mean even those who don't have beds at Skyhold may have one here, and it takes less than a week for an enterprising merchant to arrive with ale.

III. THE STILL RUINS

Despite signs of recent activity, the lavish Tevinter palace tucked incongruously into the canyons is quiet and still, when the Inquisition discovers it—quiet, still, but not empty. The ancient ruin is brimming with demons and Tevinters in incredibly outdated fashions, all frozen in place, as they have been for hundreds of years. No one breathes or blinks, but their skin is still warm and alive to the touch.

Beyond the entryway and halls and through the courtyard, there are signs of research and experimentation, and one man stood unmoving with his hand clasped around something unseen.

Perhaps someone will discover the cause. Perhaps someone will undo the spell that's been cast over the palace. Perhaps, if someone does, someone will take the opportunity to not immediately murder all of these valuable sources of ancient information, and instead only murder most of them. In the meantime, however, it is unlikely that anyone will ever be able to get this close to a rage demon without receiving a face full of fire. Take advantage.

IV. CORACAVUS

Signs of the Venatori point upward: up the hills, up ladders and towers, and into the ancient Tevinter prison, Coracavus, that was built into the mountainside. The ruin is filled with sand now, with half-collapsed walls and anything not made of stone worn away by winds, and the Venatori are long gone, their hunt for relics from the glory days of the Imperium abandoned when an excavation attempt opened the prison to darkspawn, instead. The darkspawn have retreated as well, but there are signs of their presence. Namely the smell and the half-eaten corpses of slaves—primarily elven and dwarven—who were left behind to their fates when the Tevinters fled.

There's no sign of them now, but digging through their abandoned camps may turn up a name, if anyone would like to see that he pays.

V. ADAMANT FORTRESS

A day's determined walk from the nearest Inquisition camp, Adamant Fortress overlooks the vast chasm—dubbed the Abyssal Rift—from which darkspawn poured during the Second Blight. It stood abandoned for nearly 150 years before the Grey Wardens' recent reoccupation, and it's abandoned again now, emptied out well before the Inquisition's forces arrive. There are signs that the retreat was a hasty one: scattered belongings, opened doors, abandoned meals, and no fewer than fifty bodies left on a mass pyre that only half-burned without anyone to tend it.

The Veil has always been thin here, and it's thinner now, where demons have been pulled through from the Fade. Rifts hang over the battlements and in the corridors, and escaped shades lurk in the dark corridors, siphoning away the willpower of those who linger until they come close enough to attack. Those who visit the Fortress set up camp outside of it rather than within it, wisely.

There are clear signs of blood sacrifice, for those who look: the bodies, blood stains on the stone floors, neat lists of names systemically crossed through. Sorting through documents left behind may turn up vague notes in a mage's runic shorthand or the journal of a trepidatious new recruit (Lourde, a pickpocket, crossed through on the registers). Behind a locked door in the lowest rooms are the bodies of sixteen mages, still in their Circle robes, left lying where they fell when the Joining took them. Mages who were among the rebels in Redcliffe may recognize a face or two as belonging to the hardliners who left with the Tevinters.

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He'll take umbrage at that, later, when she asks him in that so-demanding, imperious tone of hers, when he realizes once again what she thinks of him. Perhaps it is not unwarranted.

But, still. It's enough to drive a man to drink.

Arrows meet plasma with predictable results, smoldering, setting themselves afire, and oftentimes simply being reduced to ash on contact. The fight takes on its own life, breathing in the push and flow, the small rallying charges and the held phalanx lines. Obi-Wan's technique has always been defensive, meant not to win, but to avoid losing for so long that there is no other choice left to him. It has always been about stamina.

Even so, he's getting a little out of breath.

But for all their potential emnity, it is nothing less than a revelation, fighting alongside Cassandra. She is passionate, yes, but her risks are calculated, and her positions fiercely defended. She fights as she speaks, and the result is no less brilliant for all the gore and bile combat cloaks itself in.

Despite her initial internal criticism, she cannot help admiring the way Obi-Wan wields his sword. Cassandra's fighting style parallels the way she speaks, short and blunt and exactly what is needed - no more or less. She would no more waste energy in battle than waste words in a report.

Obi-Wan is no less efficient, but he moves with a flowing, easy grace, his weapon somehow finding its way exactly where it needs to be at the moment it needs to be there. Even as other fighters stumble or capitulate to injury or exhaustion, he remains standing, and while he hardly gains much ground she notes that he never gives an inch, nor allows a single arrow through.

She thinks she might like to watch him fight more closely, sometime. When she isn't distracted by cultists attempting to kill her.

But the cultists don't last long. Soon enough, Cassandra has the tip of her sword at the last survivor's neck, demanding surrender. He raises his hands, sword clattering to the ground, and in the chaos as Inquisition forces move to flush out any last holdouts and secure the Keep, Cassandra sheathes her sword and moves to Obi-Wan's side.

"I did not realize you were so trained in battle."

It's not friendly, not exactly. But it's not unfriendly, either.

Obi-Wan's blade lingers a breath or two longer than Cassandra's, but when she turns towards him he thumbs the contact, belatedly aware of the moment, and the plasma-field shrinks and dies with the customary tell-tale hiss. He wonders, in the last few moments before she speaks, what exactly he is supposed to have done wrongly now. When it is very nearly a compliment, he blinks.

"You've never asked," It comes out automatically, and he is vaguely embarrassed at the glibness, "All Jedi are trained to at least a basic proficiency. I am not considered to be of any remarkable skill, among my peers."

That is strange - that his spirit blade does not vanish at the end of its swing, but lingers though all their enemies lie dead at their feet. She frowns at it before returning her attention to their conversation.

"I suppose I haven't." There's a long pause as she studies him warily. They have not spoken since that night, but there has, at least, been no indication that he had spoken of what had happened to anyone else.

She owes him for that, she thinks. But still, it's difficult to face him now, knowing what he had been witness to. She looks down at the hilt of his spirit blade instead. It's beaten and battered, and has obviously seen a lot of use.

"You must let us know, then, should more of your peers appear." As if she doesn't keep as close tabs on the arriving rifters as anyone else in Thedas. "If that is basic proficiency..."

She trails off, not quite able to offer such a blatant compliment, before continuing. "I did not realize you were a mage, either."

"That is because I am not a mage," He replied, businesslike as he hooked his lightsaber onto the belt-loop it belonged to, "The Jedi arts can seem quite mystical to...superstitious individuals, but they don't have much in common with what Mages are capable of, I've found. We're just too different."

He's enjoyed comparing and contrasting the two a great deal, with Bethany, and with Korrin-- it is beyond his comprehension, much of it, but what little he does know... He thinks maybe he can just barely keep up with Casandra Pentaghast, and then something like this happens. This is a very strange day.

"Why would you think I'm a mage? Honestly."

"Mystical?" Cassandra snorts. It's very endearing. "There is nothing mystical about magic. It is a tool, like any other." Superstitious. How absurd. She frowns at him, all trace of her earlier admiration gone. Every time she thinks she's beginning to understand him...

"Of course you are a mage. That is - " She gestures to the empty sword hilt hanging at his belt. "Only a Knight-Enchanter, only a mage, is able to wield a spirit blade. How else do you explain it?"

"Well that's simple," He replied, folding his arms, "It's not a Spirit Blade."

He can't say it now, not in the middle of having an argument, but despite his annoyance, Obi-Wan feels a surge of appreciation for Cassandra's utter pragmatism. Magic is a tool, like any other.

What a woman.

"A Jedi's lightsaber is an elegant, sophisticated weapon, but it's no more magical than your sword. Possibly less, given what I've seen done with those... runes, are they? Nevermind-- I'm not a mage!"

"But of course it is a spirit blade!" It must be. It had looked, sounded just like one, and what else but magic could produce such a thing? She gestures, again, to the lightsaber at his waist. "How else could you explain it? There is no blade that vanishes when it is not in use except those created by magic. You may name it differently, but do not pretend that that is the same as a blade forged of steel - that it is anything like it."

"No, of plasma," He retorts, and then realizes that he's sunk to some baser level, and may next try the time-tested debate tactic of sticking out one's tongue and saying nyeh. He takes a deep breath, "But I can see you have made up your mind to be correct, regardless of fact, so perhaps a demonstration is in order."

So he did the logical thing; the dangerous thing. Obi-Wan decided, against all evidence and precedent, to trust someone who didn't very much like him, and in all likelihood, would just as soon hurt him.

He took the lightsaber off his belt, and held it out to her.

"I will expect it back, but... Here. It's only a device. A particularly clever one, by most standards, but no more or less than that. You're not a mage, are you?"

Cassandra bristles, her eyebrows drawing down, her expression dark and forbidding. Regardless of fact? How dare he. She is a Seeker of Truth, not some ignorant farmer or Orlesian noble who refuses to see the world in any way but they way they wish it to be.

Her eyes flicker down to the...the lightsaber as he holds it out. "Of course not," she snaps at him, perhaps a little more sharply than is strictly necessary. She is not a mage, she had never wished to be a mage, and the thought of Cassandra Pentaghast as a mage is absurd.

Before he has a chance to rethink the offer in the face of her obviously restrained anger, she reaches for the sword hilt, picking it up and holding it firmly as she looks at it. The lightsaber does not respond to her touch, and she frowns. "If it is not magic, how does it work?"

"It's a little more complicated than I can explain shortly, but in short it--" Oh kriff, how to explain this without using technical terminology? Take a deep breath, "...It holds and generates energy from a... a storage device, focuses that energy through crystalline elements," Simplified and not strictly true, but true enough, "To create a looping blade of self-contained plasma."

There, now that wasn't so bad. Good work, Kenobi.

"Each Jedi is expected to build and design their own lightsaber, and maintain it, including sourcing and acquiring the components, as part of the graduation from Youngling learner to Padawan Apprentice. Turn it around, there should be a switch to activate it. It's a raised, grey-- There. Slide your thumb up, there, to turn it on. Carefully," He amends that last in a hurry. The very last thing anyone needed was for Cassandra Pentaghast to lose an ear, or worse, to an incautiously-activated lightsaber blade.

Knowing his luck, Obi-Wan would catch the blame.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn't understand a word of his explanation. Luckily for Obi-Wan, however, Cassandra's learned to accept this as a given when speaking to him.

"You built this?" She studies the lightsaber carefully. It's not so different from any other sword hilt, apart from the switch he points out to her. Cautiously, she holds it out before her, following his lead as she slides her thumb over the switch.

The blade flickers into life with a hum, and she nearly drops it. Honestly, she hadn't really expected it to work. Just because Obi-Wan does not call himself a mage doesn't mean he isn't one, and the blade had seemed so close to a spirit blade. Anything else seems impossible.

But impossible or not, it is certainly no spirit blade. Where those appear only when the sword is in use, and disappear at the end of each swing, the blue of the lightsaber remains even as she holds it steady, shimmering with a low hum. And of course, only Knight-Enchanters are able to use a spirit blade. If Cassandra herself is able to operate it...

She gives the lightsaber an experimental swing, watching in fascination as the blade arcs through the air. "It is not magic," she marvels, half to herself, "nor fire. But electricity cannot be bottled and contained so..." Without looking away, she addresses Obi-Wan. "Are such weapons common in your world?"

Please don't try to explain blasters to her.

"No, quite the opposite. These are almost exclusively Jedi weapons; and a lightsaber is usually a Jedi's only weapon. Anyone else in possession of one of these would almost certainly have to kill to acquire it-- they're not at all common."

There were, of course, the Sith. But it would be wiser to let anyone who met a Sith assume they were Jedi, to his mind. In a fight between steel and plasma, there could only be one winner. No, if a Sith fell into Thedas, he'd deal with that himself.

"As I said, it's plasma," He said, quiet in the face of her wonder. Strange, in that moment, the way the glow of unexpected discovery lit her softly, and turned the moment reverent, "In nature, this form of matter is typically found only in stars."

In stars.

She looks at him, and then at the lightsaber, and something in her expression shifts. It's not that she'd thought he was lying before, not exactly. He'd certainly seemed to think he was telling the truth. And yet she had never quite been able to believe all his fanciful stories about stars and galaxies and democracies.

But here it is, living proof - or as close as she's going to get. Even Obi-Wan couldn't delude his way into an impossible, glowing sword.

She makes a small noise of consideration, and then quite suddenly turns the lightsaber off and holds it out to him - carefully, with respect.

"If it is a weapon to be used by your Jedi, then I am sure I should not be wielding it," she says quietly. "Thank you for showing me."

"You're welcome."

Obi-Wan takes it from her with equal care, hanging it again from his belt, where it belongs. When he looks up again, only a moment later, she is looking at him with... with a strange respect. He isn't quite sure what to do with that, but he knows the correct response and offers her the sketch of a deep, formal bow.

"And... Thank you. For believing me."

Cassandra stiffens at the bow, suddenly self-conscious and awkward. No one has bowed to her since the Nevarran court, and she had not liked it then either.

The moment, whatever it had been, is broken, and she looks away, suddenly aware that they are in the middle of the Keep, with soldiers and civilians alike hurrying past. Her expression closes off, becoming once more a neutral, expressionless mask.

"There is no need to thank me," she says brusquely. She's not even sure what, exactly, he's referring to her believing him about - the weapon's origin? Its rarity and use? That it is not a spirit blade after all had become obvious, once she had looked at it more closely.

It hardly matters, anyway. This is becoming frivolous, and she does not have time.

"If that is all, Master Kenobi. I must see to securing the Keep."

If that is all, she says, and he can only cock his head, vaguely amused at her sudden change of attitude. Hadn't she been the one to start this line of questioning?

Ridiculous, impossible woman.

"That is all, of course, Seeker Pentaghast," he said, stepping back to give her precedence, "I'll leave you to your work."

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OPEN: The Western Approach

idk fight scene

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