CLOSED: Halamshiral - The Caravan

[visus]

WHO: Aveline, Bruce, and Sadira
WHAT: Characters traveling from Skyhold to the base in Orlais will have to decide the fate of a merchant caravan and the supplies it carries
WHEN: Late Solace
WHERE: The Dales, between Halamshiral and Skyhold
NOTES: Violence! No tag order!

The otherwise pleasant rhythm of travel on this idyllically sunny day -- the jingle of harness and bridle, the murmur of conversations, the steady beat of a horse’s hooves, or else your own feet -- all of it is broken, abruptly, by a scream.

Around the bend, the treeline drifts close to the road, and it’s here that the highwaymen have laid in wait for a prize just like this. Not the Inquisition, but a merchant caravan, a collection of wagons with painted sides, half a dozen, and all of them full of wares ripe for the taking. The wagons are all stopped; the hitched-up horses and ponies prance nervously, shying back from the rough scene that has broken out. Two of the wagons are missing their horses, harness lines hanging loose where they were cut.

Each cart has a driver, and at least one guard. Half of the carts have the merchants themselves aboard as well, along with one or two young boys or stallkeeps to help sell the wares once they’ve reached their destination. Most of them have been pulled down from their seats, to stand, huddled, beside the carts, and the guards -- big, tough men -- have all been stripped of their weapons. The steel lies in a pile at the edge of the wood. One of the bandits is already pawing through it, selecting the more choice pieces to be kept. The guards themselves are under guard, herded into a single cluster and watched by two highwaymen with crossbows.

The bandits have one of the drivers on her knees, right in the middle of the road. Perhaps she put up too much of a fight. Blood beads on a cut over her left eye, and her lip has been split thanks to a punch, but she stares mutinously up at her captors. Her club is lying in the road, quite out of reach. One of the bandits is behind her, armed with a sword that’s far too large for him. He’s holding it in two hands, its heavy blade tip-down in the dirt, at an angle that suggests he’d have to work hard to lift it. He looks mean and feral, but in an underfed kind of way that might be malice or might just be desperation.

In fact, that’s how all the bandits look -- even their apparent leader. He’s a little taller than the others, and cuts more of an impressive figure, with a long pale scar hooked down the side of his face and another at his neck, an old mark that encircles his throat like a noose. A wicked knife gleams at his belt, and his dirty shirt hangs off his lean and rangy frame. He’s posted up in front of one of the merchants, who has been dragged out of his cart and is now held between two highwaymen, his chubby arms twisted behind his back. The merchant is bleeding from his nose and his mouth, and sags in the grip of his captors.

“No more,” he begs, “you can’t,” but the leader’s next blow silences him, strikes him right in the mouth with a heavy solid sound, like meat under a mallet. Blood spurts, smears; the bandit leader steps back, wiping his hand on his hip. There’s an impassiveness to his expression, a dead calm, like he’s disciplining an errant dog instead of beating the life out of a man.

The merchant’s head lolls to one side, without so much as a whimper. Blood streams freely down his chin, and he chokes on it, spits out a tooth.

“You’re killing him,” shouts a boy in the front cart, and one of the highwaymen grabs for him, presumably to shut him up. The boy is too fast, and ducks behind the flap of canvas separating the front bench from the wares. His pursuer growls in irritation, swings up onto the bench to pursue him, while the bandit doing the beating turns around to face the carts at large.

“You asked for this!” he shouts to his audience. He stabs his finger back at the beaten merchant. His knuckles are still smeared with blood. “You had your chance! You leave your goods, you leave with your lives, and you bastards chose the hard way, and this is what you get,” and he turns on his heel, savagely, and punches the merchant again, hard enough to wrench the man sideways -- and again, another blow, and another, enough to drive the merchant down to the dirt of the road. He starts after him again but one of the other highwaymen, standing nearer, beats him to it and hoists the merchant up by the shoulders of his dusty, bloodied waistcoat.

Comments

[amygdalae]

--this was not what Bruce had been expecting to come across.

Certainly, tales of such events weren't rare - and its not like he hasn't seen things like these before. But its always a shock each and every time, the idea that anybody would do this. It was cruel and terrible and entirely unnecessary.

Tightening the hold he has on his reins Bruce clenches his jaw as he glances to the others that he's currently travelling with. He isn't foolish enough to go and jump into this himself no matter how much seeing this injustice aggravates him, but he's pretty sure they should be doing something about this. There's no way the Inquisition can just ignore all of this going on.

[fledglingenchanter]

He was not the only one who felt vexed at the situation. Sadira could feel her entire body tensing as she too urged her horse to stop a little behind Bruce. Bandits were a real problem given the instabilities in Orlais. Usually, she tried to avoid them at all costs, but this was unforgivable. Anger marred her face as her brows knitted together. “We've got to do something!” She hissed out angrily, nodding at Bruce. She was ready to act!

... except the tension in her body and the hostility in her voice caused her horse to shift nervously under her, tossing its head as she held the reins too tight. In protest, the horse bowed its neck as it stepped back trying to relieve the tension in its mouth. Sadira was not the best rider having rarely sat a horse until now, so when the horse shifted under her, she tried to overcompensate. The result made the horse whinny loudly as it pranced sideways chomping on the bit.

[shieldwalls]

Slowing to a stop, Aveline clenched the reigns of the horse in a fist as she surveyed the scene before them. In Kirkwall it wasn't uncommon -- thieves taking advantage of some poor merchant, some road weary traveler fell on the wrong side of them. Nothing was going to be gained by simply jumping in but possibly making this worse, however... if they didn't act on soon... it was going to be too late for them, regardless.

As representatives of the Inquisition, and as simply people who happened to be in a position to offer assistance, they had to help. She glances towards the two she's travelling with, giving them a small nod. "Be ready." She mutters, urging the horse forward and dismounting.

It wasn't likely these men were going to listen to reason. If they were the kind, the merchants would likely not be in the situation. "That's enough. Put him down. Now." It is said in the most authoritive Guard Captain means business voice, but if that wasn't enough, there's also a sword leveled at the criminal in question.

[amygdalae]

The dracolisk that Bruce was riding out let out a loud grunt when the horse next to it prances over and they almost knock against each other. Fortunately it ducks out of the way before that happens, though the suddenness of the movement has Bruce letting out a small yelp of surprise.

Meanwhile the head of their... party(?) had already dismounted from her horse and was already demanding with the bandits, which was probably both a good and a bad thing. Bruce remains on the dracolisk, hands clenching tightly at the reins as he feels the weight of the armor that he's wearing (emblazoned with the crest of the Inquisition) and also from the borrowed staff currently strapped on his back. He really hopes this doesn't escalate into a fight... but Bruce has never been one to be hopeful for things like these, either. But Captain Vallen was here, so maybe... it was a shot, at any rate.

[fledglingenchanter]

Sadira finally ease up on the reins enough to stop her horse from dancing about, feeling slightly embarrassed. She looked up to see Aveline confronting one of the bandits at swordpoint. The desire to slide off her horse to take a stand was strong, but she wasn't certain if that would help or hinder. Scanning the amassed bandits she tried to count just how many there were. It was a guess that whatever the number present among the caravaners, there would at least be three or four more hiding off the side of the road.

Making a decision, Sadira also slid from her horse. The animal was just a hinderance anyway, one that she could do better off without. Her staff casually found its way into her hands as well, and she leaned on it trying to appear non-hostile, though the unspoken threat was imminent.

[visus]

The highwayman who'd picked up the merchant brushes dust off his waistcoat with slaps of palm against fabric, more sound than his compatriot's fury. "'Ere then, no need for more violence, just give us the key and we'll be-- on our way." He finishes more slowly and uncertainly than he started, trailing off as the group rides into view and Aveline steps forward.

The ringleader, he of the bloodied fists and hungry look, rounds on her, his thin lips curling into a menacing sneer.

"This is none of your concern," he calls back, his Orlesian accent rough and thick, scraping out of the back of his throat unlike the dainty, elegant tongue of most nobles. "Get on with you now and you'll come to no harm." The implication is clear: stay and they will face battle with a force that outnumbers them. A half-dozen men in immediate view clench fists about hilts and look ready, some picking up finer blades and longer spears from those already stolen.