OPEN: We couldn't bring the columns down

[faderifting]

WHO: Samson vs. Inquisition, in particular the Iron Bull, Ciri, Bruce, and Norrington
WHAT: BOSS FIGHT
WHEN: Harvestmere 20
WHERE: The Dales
NOTES:There is an open portion of this log for people who want to fight Red Templars or help with the clean-up at their leisure—you'll be NPCing your own fights for that, but team up and have at it—and a closed portion for the team that will capture Samson.

Sources say the Red Templars number twenty, maybe thirty; that they've slipped south through eastern Orlais using the Civil War and the wilderness to obscure their movements; and that they are moving with an unknown purpose to an unknown place. There's a brief window of time where their path may be predicted, funneled through the only viable road in this area of the rocky foothills of the Frostbacks. If they aren't stopped before they enter the southernmost wilds then they may never be found.

The Inquisition's force--a small unit of forty, dispatched quickly and quietly--arrives a day ahead of the force it means to intercept. That's time to blow a bridge, place archers and mages, and tuck reinforcements into the gorges.

In summary, an ambush.

It's nice to occasionally be the springer rather than the sprung-upon.

Comments

[qunari]

Breath escapes from his nostrils in a chilly fog, rising up as he strides forward through the snow, the weight of his axe comfortably familiar in his hands. He'd been expecting a good fight.

He hadn't thought they'd get this lucky.

Samson will defend the retreat of that wagon until he's dealt with, and the less people tied up in fighting him? The better. Bull's not the quickest they've got, but he can take a hit and keep going. Long enough to give the others a shot. He doesn't think about who these men are, who they might have been before that poison in their veins turned them into these monsters. There's no room for that.

They have their goal. And these templars aren't going to terrorize anyone ever again.

Lowering his head, Bull hefts the axe and charges forward at a surprisingly swift gait, rushing the field and leaving wide swaths of trodden snow behind him, before wheeling back and bringing the axe around in a heavy-headed swing that sweeps in front of him in a wide arc.

[amygdalae]

Samson.

The name hits him like a bolt of lightning, shocking and terrifying at the same time. The name only makes him recall what had happened at Haven, the chaos there, and with what had happened to the Inquisitor--

Bruce grits his teeth, grip tight on the staff he had with him, Rage burning inside of him - and this time he keeps it burning. Samson, commander of the Red Templars. All the suffering he had caused, the pain he brought upon countless, the deaths of so many innocents - he needed to answer for everything he had done.

The Iron Bull charges forth for a first strike, and Bruce does his best to help however he can along with the others who are with them. He quickly throws up barriers for everyone (or renews them, if they already had them) first before he summons out a couple of fireballs that move to his command, zipping through the battlefield to strike at the other soldiers that lie between them and Samson.

[ichaer]

It was taking every bit of her self control to keep a lid on her anger. She looks at the Red Templars and the color begins to blur together, reminding her of that cave deep within Emprise du Lion where so many had to die for these bastards.

Nessa and her had made a promise to kill every single one of them so there is hardly an ounce of hesitation as she draws her sword and rushes to meet the line. Unlike Bull, Ciri does not have a lot of strength behind her blows or the endurance to take hits but she has the speed to keep hitting her targets and avoid attacks leveled in her direction.

She rushes forward, aiming for the edge of the line out of Bull's wide arc and lashes out toward any noticeable weak points in the armor. Twisting and flipping, she dodges blows before bringing a bottle of bright red liquid up from her belt. There is only the briefest sound of the flask breaking before fire roars alive, engulfing her and spurs her into action with faster strikes.

[judgemewhole]

"Commander, it's - "

Norrington lifted his hand to silence Gillette, his eyes boring down into Samson. Samson, who had led so many of their brothers and sisters astray. Samson, who rose up a new God just so he could get his fix. Samson, whose actions had killed the Herald of Andraste herself.

He gestured to Gilette. "Take to the woods. Take down that wagon, any way you can. I will stand here with the others."

He let the others move forward, closing his eyes briefly as the veil of protection came over him from the mage Bruce. He looked over at the other man, nodded, before he slapped his sword against his shield and yelled out to Samson himself, as both Ciri and Bull bore down on the man.

"Good afternoon... Brother. By the order of the Inquisition, we are bringing you in for acts of treason against Thedas. It would be better for you not to resist arrest." He slapped his sword against his shield again the Templar colors clear in green and gold, "But Maker forgive me, I rather hope you're going to say 'No'."

For now he is going to pull Samson's attention, while he gathers up his will to force an attack on any opening the other two left him.

[redinside]

These few red templars have rallied ahead of their general by the time these oncomers are near enough to strike: one tower shield bearer on either side and two big monsters coming up the middle.

The sight of a charging Qunari is impressive enough to give Samson himself a moment of pause—but the lyrium-encrusted horror in front meets it with a bellow of defiance and agony, both, as red energy shimmers around it. It twists against Bull's first swing, exposing its back to the blade. Red crystals shear off, shards flying, and pulverized lyrium sours the air. The horror screams.

Its return swing of wicked talons meets Ciri almost by accident, or perhaps the space where Ciri was only a moment before. Her rapid movements don't draw its attention away from the Iron Bull's greater threat, even as she becomes a whirlwind of unnatural flames. But there's another one ready for her—another monstrosity of lyrium and grotesquely distended flesh. It shows her its palm, bristling with red crystals, and fires them at her in bursts.

The first shimmer of a barrier provokes an alarm— "Mage!" —and the red templar who called it hoists his tall shield an instant too late to fully block the oncoming fireball. He curses aloud as the mistake costs him his footing. The other guard, however, was luckier. He stomps the ground aggressively, sending forth a burst of nullifying power to choke Bruce's abilities before he can do any more damage. Whether or not it succeeds, the guard charges the mage directly after, shield still aflame, thundering over the snow-dusted mud with a ferocious cry.

And then there's this asshole.

"Here we go," Samson says to himself, the verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes at Norrington's overtures, and lifts something from his belt to his mouth. From a distance it looks like he spits a cork aside—yes, now he's tossing his head back while he takes the bottle's contents in one go like a shot of liquor. Oh, if only it were that. Bottle tossed aside, he looks to the knight-commander across the battlefield, points at him with one armoured finger, jagged knobs of crystal glowing on his knuckles, then draws that same finger across his throat.

He then thumps his chest with his fist just beside the great horn of red lyrium in its center, shakes his head once and barks a sound to psych himself up, the bitter burn bursting into brilliant flame, pure power, and here comes General Samson himself, striding into the skirmish with the unhurried finality of a natural disaster. He takes a massive swing at the first enemy body he happens to meet.

As for Gilette—there are five red templars waiting for him alongside that passenger wagon, including two eagle-eyed marksmen, ready to defend their charge to the death. Good luck to him.

[qunari]

Oh, this fight's gonna be a good one after all.

Bull's foot swings up to catch against the monstrous creature, yanking the axe free in a shower of red shards. It takes all of a second for him to swing back again, bringing enough momentum into the movement to bring it around once in full rotation, before aiming it now for the creature's gut.

Though his good eye shifts towards Bruce at the noisy charge. Shit. Need to get him back behind someone's shield before that templar decided to cut loose. Or before Samson got too close. Whatever was radiating off of him -- and he's willing to bet it was a super-dose of the red lyrium -- it's got his skin crawling instinctively.

[amygdalae]

"Ugh--" Despite the fact that he's up against Red Templar its still a fact that his opponent was still a Templar, and that part of the equation certainly hasn't changed despite everything else about them. Bruce can feel the nullification washing over him, cutting off his mana access for the moment. It's going to take a bit before that wears off but until then, it seems like he can't cast spells any time soon.

Not that he has a lot of time to mull over that though. The templar is already charging at him, flaming shield up and right towards him. With the need to act fast Bruce drops the staff for now - he'll pick it back up later, it was on loan anyway - and draws out the dagger that he keeps on him, keeping it on hand now in case he had to defend himself. He sidesteps the templar charging at him, doing a false strike to distract them before quickly trying to put distance between him and his opponent. Not to mention whatever it was that Samson had drunk - his body was not responding well to whatever he was radiating right now, the lyrium within him almost trying to rebel. It almost felt like that time out in Emprise du Lion--which wasn't good, considering what happened to him then. So the more distance now, the better.

Without his magic all Bruce can do now is to rely on his wits and whatever lies around him - in this case, a stray arrow that had missed its mark earlier. Bruce tugs it out from the ground and throws it at the Templar while he continues to run, buying whatever time he could until his magic returned to him.

[ichaer]

The grotesque talons slice through the air with a whistle. It acts as Ciri's only warning before they enter her line of sight and forces a reaction as they swing past her with deadly accuracy. There wasn't even a moment to rest before she finds herself caught up in another attack from nearby enemies. Her eyes narrow the monstrous Templar that raises his palm to her, raising her sword as red crystals blooming from flesh and blood are sent toward her as deadly projectiles.

She takes off leaving trails of fire in her wake as the burst of projectiles keeps her at a distance. The roar of another templar charging Bruce grabs her focus and she curses silently, unable to get through the barrage that she is currently trying to deflect. The fires of her elixir begin to flicker and she twists, rapidly charging her direction in order to push close to her attacker. There is a noticeable heat the closer she approaches the warrior, breathing in deep and pulling her stance low.

With as much power as she can muster and with the last of her elixir, she pulls her sword up in a wide arch aiming for the templar's raised arm.

[judgemewhole]

The smile that Samson gets in return would be something close to predatory, before it fades away to the sheer determination of one who is dedicated to the faith. Norrington moves forward, slowly at first, as his shield hand goes to his belt and a large bottle of blue liquid sloshes for a moment before it too, disappears down his throat.

He tosses the bottle aside, closing his eyes for a moment before he begins to speak, "Let the blade pass through the flesh."

as he begins to pick up pace across the field, and as his pace increases, so does the volume of his voice," Let my blood touch the ground. Let my cries soften their hearts."

He is going full steam, a full on charge towards the man who is still on fire, and as he does so, his sword and shield first glimmer with magical frost -- and then with the glow of the Divine. His sword, all of his companions weapons, were now Blessed, and they might feel themselves able to push a little farther, a little faster, and with a little more strength than before.

Norrington himself is hitting the Red Templar with the shield with a Shield Bash hard enough to send him off stumbling, hopefully into another enemy, and he bellows, as he brings his shield down for another charge, "Let me be the last sacrifice!"

[redinside]

The Iron Bull's axe strikes true. Once more the huge blade embeds itself in the horror's flesh, releasing a further pulse of red, as though the force of impact shook it loose; its effect would be sickening to most. And still the beast shows no sign of slowing. Even as it writhes at an axe's length from its assailant, even as it bleeds from that horrible wound and the smaller gashes Ciri left behind, it keeps swiping its long talons at Bull in desperate rage, its agonized shrieks unrelenting.

Ciri evades the second monstrosity's attacks expediently, leaving shattered crystals and a plume of acrid smoke in her wake. One futile projectile even embeds itself in the first horror's flesh, though it doesn't seem to care. Perhaps this one will care when up comes her blade—yes, it definitely notices that, and when its arm swings away from her with a spray of hot blood, the limb is definitely hanging wrong where she cut it. But red templars are infamous for their resilience: while they fight, it won't hesitate to swing the ruined arm at her now and then, if only as a grisly club.

As blows continue to land, more and more does the air around both horrors shimmer with red lyrium dust. It readily sticks to any surface that will hold it, especially moist places like sweaty skin or eyes or mouths—particles gusting with each breath in or out—and those unlucky enough may be pelted with razor-sharp fragments or struck by larger projectile shards at any time.

Meanwhile, Bruce has panicked, picked up an arrow, and thrown it by hand at the oncoming charge. Perhaps Andraste's blessing has strengthened his arm. Perhaps the Maker himself has reached out and guided the little arrow on its course. Do you play darts, Bruce? Are you good at darts? Because SOMEHOW, against all reason, this one stupid secondhand arrow's head finds its way through the slit of the guard's helmet and lands in his mouth. Not all the way in, not in his mouth and through the back of his head or anything, but the touch of it on the templar's tongue is so unexpected that it chokes off his battle cry at once and briefly interrupts his single-minded thoughts of carnage with a flurry of question marks.

Needless to say, when Norrington comes roaring in with the Chant on his lips, the red templar is caught almost entirely off guard and crashes to the ground, tower shield and all, with an impressive clatter. He does manage to hang on to the shield, at least, as well as his sword. So that's something. Anyway, this templar is fired.

But there's still one more guard ready to come to the aid of his brother in arms, albeit more cautiously, especially after that first ball of fire left him smoking—even more especially after whatever in the world just happened over there. And so, a second tower shield turns toward Norrington, and the man behind it moves toward him steadily, better protected against all manner of absurd projectiles and ready to meet any charge with a likewise brutal collision.

Bruce has evaded further attention, it would seem, if only for now.

"You heard the man!" Samson wrenches his blade free of some nameless Inquisition soldier who thought he was hard enough (he wasn't) and kicks the soon-to-be corpse out of his way. "Let the ground be stained red in the name of the new god!" All his men answer him with a cry of unity, regardless of their states, bolstered by his voice as it nears; he's nearly upon them all.

[qunari]

Samson's got a way of rallying his people, that much is clear. They can chip away at his forces, but they won't stop. They won't be intimidated. They'll fight to the death, or until Samson orders otherwise, and the leader of the red templars shows no signs of slowing.

All the while the wagon is pulling away. And they've got no way of knowing if the scant force Norrington sent after it was successful in getting it stopped. No hope of disengaging now, not with this sucker nearly downed.

Bull grunts as the red lyrium dust scatters across his exposed skin, huffing outward to clear his lungs before yanking back, intent on pulling the monstrosity forward and tipping it off balance. If he can get in on the ground he can finish it.

Then, they're going to need to rethink their strategy here.

[amygdalae]

Bruce is definitely way more occupied with taking cover and so doesn't really concern himself with seeing where his thrown, er, projectile lands. Though if he had seen what had happened he would have been equally surprised and amazed at what he apparently had managed to do.

If only that kind of luck could extend to other parts of his life.

As it is, all he hears is a loud crash from what he can only presume is a Templar falling over or something equally hopeful. The fights continues on, both parties not backing down, though considering their numbers and Bruce's own current state they were very much at a disadvantage here. Blindly charging forward like this was not going to help them - what they really needed was a plan. But in their current situation...

Spotting a large rock, Bruce vaults over it (not very expertly) and quickly ducks down to hide behind it. He leans back against it, panting as he catches his breath, feeling his heart pounding harshly in his chest. It seemed like he had evaded notice for now, but he couldn't take the chance. And besides, hiding here wasn't going to help. It was just a few of them against all these Templars - not to mention Samson himself. This was not going to be an easy fight. As soon as he recovered, he had to go back in. But for now--all he could do was to wait for the nullification to run its course.

[ichaer]

Ciri can feel the burn of red lyrium as dust stings her eyes and throat. She has only ever tasted lyrium once but the bright blue liquid was largely overpowered by the tainted blood and what little she remembers was nothing close to this fire burning now. It makes it hard to think and pushes her to react before it began to cause a harsher reaction that would leave her open to attack by these monsters.

And monsters certainly wasn't the wrong sort of label to apply to them and they had to hurry. Hopefully before they all started hearing songs in their head which she did not want a repeat of so soon after the false Calling.

Blood sprays from the templar's arm where her blade slices into muscle and meets bone. She can feel a harsh heat on her face from where droplets of blood land as if the lyrium was boiling him from the inside. Gritting her teeth, she jumps back into a crouch and smashes another elixir flask open as she pounces forward into her opponent's reach. There is no combustion of fire from this bottle instead the air around them grows cold and ice seems to sprout from her Warden armor, pulling together like a haphazard spiked chest plate.

It's not enough to stop him even if she did catch his arm. Bastard would just rip it off and that's why she knows that she has to move, press in close and swing her sword upwards once more with as much strength as she could muster.

[judgemewhole]

While all this is happening, Gilette is staring down the sight of two bowmen, and at least three other warriors. Grimacing, knowing the odds are against him, he decides to do the only thing smart enough to do. He reaches into his satchel, and takes out a small glass vial that Anamaria told him to throw if he got stuck in a corner.

He flings the vial at the wagon, the men, and heads up the snowy hill as quickly as he can in the other direction, to gather more reinforcements.

If the vial hits, they are going to be disinclined to follow. Stench bombs are never popular, even if you are a red templar.

*******

James is just getting started. As the other Templar moves towards him, shield lowered, James starts to circle him, careful not to put his back to any of the other red templars, before he lifts his sword ...

And slams it against his shield. A blast of power emits all around them, and all that hostile red templar power? Well, James is ever so sorry, Samson, but it's just been Purged. Clearing the area of negative magic, he shifts in sideways with his blade, moving his shield at the last moment to slam sideways against the Red Templar's, to shift it aside so he can swing his blade in for a weak spot in the armor, right below the armpit.

[redinside]

The creature facing off with the Iron Bull barely avoids a fall, having only just grasped the axe's long haft with one of its mutated hands. It staggers forward with him, but keeps its footing—pulls back, even, against the qunari's might. Close as they are to one another, Bull may glimpse its face through the helmet's front opening. With its barrier suddenly gone (thanks James) and the full radiance of its power diminished, it breathes through its awful teeth with lips taut and jaw set, like any man straining past the limits of his endurance. Human features still linger like a ragged apparition of the identity it sacrificed for the red general's cause. Its breath hitches with a sudden effort, and when it shows its open hand to Bull, palm thick with jagged crystals, the proposed ultimatum is clear: let go to control its aim or be speared through the face.

Ciri's current dance partner is likewise slammed by Norrington's dispelling force just as her sword arm swings again. The horror's arm is swinging, too: perhaps they'll each land a blow at once. While those massive talons seek to scrape her violently away from it, Ciri's blade punishes the horror for its aggressively hunched posture by catching the underside of its jaw—not quite its throat, but close, very close—and its edge draws a single spark on the lowest rim of the helmet. The beast's chin lifts away from the strike, its body leans up and back, and it chokes out its surprise, spraying foul spittle along with its blood. The next few seconds could be decisive—or a convenient reprieve for them both.

There is nothing convenient about a sword in the vitals, on the other hand, and this shield-bearer declines to receive one from Norrington, thank you very much—not even after the engraved templar invitation that was the spell purge. While the horrors may have been left open, these guards are not protected by any magic, only by armour, and made stronger only by the ill-gained fire in their blood. So while the deflection is sloppy, it is effective, even if it does leave the two of them momentarily tangled until their blades go scraping apart. The red templar is loud inside his helmet, breathing in feverish growls, and at the first sign of provocation he engages Norrington in earnest.
The other guard is recovering; he's almost on his feet.

And over here, Samson is laughing. He laughs while he turns his head just slightly away from the silencing influence, like he's walking into the wind. He laughs while it washes over him, through him, like the Maker's own cleansing breath. It's an arrogant, ugly sound. The enemy's showing no unity, no communication, and one of them's already rabbited off—none of theirs have lost any limbs yet, granted, but that alone doesn't exempt them from heckling.

"So this is the famed Inquisition. Just look at you. What formation's this? Who taught you to fight? Think if you piss about long enough you'll get lucky like the last time?"

While he's at it, this one goes out to all the little people who survived Haven:

"Well, there's no mountain to save you now!"

Samson's skirting the skirmish while he hollers into it, stalking in the same direction the mage went. That's you, Bruce. Look sharp.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch wagon, some red templars are returning to their route through a cloud of stench after a minor interruption. The ones further along in their transformation pay little mind to it beyond a few grunts of displeasure, but the more human archers cough and spit over the sides of the wagon to cleanse the stink from their mouths. One of the knights growls a few beats of laughter.

[qunari]

The decisions comes quickly.

Rather than continue to yank at the angle he's got, Bull drops to a knee -- his good one, thankfully -- and kicks out with the other. Get hold of an ankle? He'll give that tug another try, this time to flip the massive creature forward and over his shoulder with a lower point of gravity to work from.

This thing needs to go down, now. He can hear Samson prowling around the edge of the field, mocking them, and when he mentions the mountain?

Bull's grip tightens. Oh. He's got one he's saving for the templar leader now, just for that one.

[amygdalae]

Bruce feels the anger boiling inside of him - the laugh was one thing, but when he so happily mentions Haven--

The memories play in his mind again, the fire and the chaos, Venatori and Red Templars swarming everywhere. Samson had been there too, and his laughter then had just been as ugly. But hearing it now, like this? This was far worse. One year since then and yet it still feels like they haven't gotten anywhere closer to being better than they had been before, even with their initial advantage. Here they were, still struggling to maintain their foothold while Samson laughs cruelly at them.

He's had enough of it.

Quickly scanning his surroundings, Bruce spots another staff lying on the ground nearby - no doubt belonging to a now-dead mage - and quickly darts to it, getting out of his hiding spot and exposing himself. He dashes to the staff and picks it up, the lyrium crystal on its tip instantly taking out a brigth red glow the moment he does so. The nullification clears up just in time for Bruce to cast his spells once more, and this time he does so with all the intention to payback what Samson and his Templars had done in Haven.

Standing his ground, Bruce glares at Samson and slams the staff onto the ground hard by its end. The crystal flares out its light once, and in the next moment the ground around and below Samson starts to crackle and splinter in a rapidly sprawling spiderweb, the ground suddenly becoming uneven and shaky. And if that wasn't enough, small puddles of lava also begin to appear from the cracks in the ground, steam rising up with loud hisses as the land around Samson becomes much hotter than before.

[ichaer]

Forcing all of her weight against her sword has Ciri's arms shaking ever so slightly from the stress. Her icy armor helps to protect her from the blunt of the blows but pain ripples through her body with each hit and the foul blood hisses, steaming as it comes in contact with the ice. She can already feel the armor starting to crack, losing its strength and it won't be long before she is exposed for more deadly attacks.

So she decides to be more deadly first and follows the templar, keeping her sword in place and twisting it with a sickening turn of her wrist. The young Warden is almost face to face with her opponent now or rather face to helmet and she can see his glowing eyes through the slit. Around her, the elixir begins to fall apart leaving flakes of ice to mix with the red dust around them creating sensations of steam.

Somewhere she is aware that Samson is speaking or rather yelling. It's all white noise in her ears as she grapples to remove a knife from her belt in the same instance pushing upwards on her sword to try and force the templar's head upwards. Either way, her knife is brought up and driven toward his neck.

[judgemewhole]

Oh, Samson, you really just had to go ahead and give them all the one thing they needed to come together, didn't you? You shouldn't have gone for the heart of the matter, not in front of these four. Not after all they have lost, because of Haven, of your 'great god'.

James's eyes narrow, and then he starts to speak again, as he swings his blade around, "Those who oppose Thee,
shall know the wrath of Heaven,
field and forest shall burn,
the seas shall rise and devour them,
the winds shall tear their nations from the face of the Earth, lightening shall rain down from the sky."

The glow around him intensified, and in that, power flared to his companions on the battlefield. Their attacks suddenly had more bite, from the Maker's Will, and they were able to push back their enemies with more force. At the same time, Darkness seemed to fade as the red templars attacks became less effective on all quarters.

James himself hissed as he lowered his shield and charged right into the Red Templar, to send him into his brethren, moving like a holy druffalo, his voice carrying the sharp snap of devotion and fervor, "They shall cry out to their false gods, and find silence!"

And yes, he's trying to shove them both off the cliff, why do you ask?

[redinside]

A bit of quick thinking nets Bull the achievement of heaving an entire red templar horror over his head and horns and all and slamming it down to earth. The beast's incessant snarling is cut off with one final noisy grunt on impact. Broken crystals slough away from the mass of its back as it makes an immediate but distinctly sluggish attempt to right itself, rolling to one side, grasping at the frozen mud, gouts of blood and breath steaming in the cold.

Samson has stopped laughing.

He reacts to the abrupt uncertainty of the ground beneath him by stopping just where he is, firmly balanced, and looking down at the changing soil. Snow melting away, earth softening. The vaporous red breath of his armour mingling with fresh plumes of steam. Molten rock spills from one narrow crack into the next, like iron filling a mould, and he moves his boot away from it, wearing a fresh scowl—now aimed in the mage's direction.
That's you, Bruce. You wanna go? Let's go.
When his foot lands it's into a wide, deliberate stance, and with a big hiss of breath he heaves Certainty overhead in a mighty swing and slams her blade down into the cracked mud before him. The impact cuts a furrow through the earth, splitting one of the magma pools into bright fans of liquid like the parting of a tiny molten sea, and sends a blast of concussive power straight toward Bruce at great speed.

Nearby, the red horror still on its feet is trying to swat Ciri away like an insect, to no avail. The unrelenting force under its jaw, against the stiffness of its neck and hunched spine, finally pushes the creature out of balance, and so the two of them have already begun to fall when Ciri's blade cuts into its throat. As they land—with a grunt of hot, stinking breath that strangles into a cough, wet and thick with blood—this new pain inspires the horror to try and catch her under the jaw, perhaps to squeeze and finally wrench her away and off its chest by her own slim little neck.

Norrington's charge is met head-on, shield against shield. It half staggers the first of the guards, who would almost certainly go sliding backward across the snow-covered earth were it not for the timely arrival of his brother in arms—who, incensed by the use of the Chant against them, leans into him from behind and so joins in resisting Norrington's efforts with a tremendous roar of exertion. The red templars may not gain very much ground this way, but they are no longer in imminent danger of being driven into the river.

Regardless, the high embankment is quite a ways behind them. If only there were a really huge guy around to help James cover that distance.

[qunari]

Hey, he resembles that remark.

And he's already dragging his axe up from the ground, leaving furrows in the snow behind it, before heaving it up to come crashing down on the horror's head. He'll happily give it a whack or two more if it doesn't connect, if it doesn't look like it's done twitching yet, or if he really just needs to work out some of that aggression.

Either way, he's not yet noticed the aid Norrington might need. Give him a whistle?

[amygdalae]

Bruce probably would resemble that remark too in... certain situations, but of course it certainly doesn't apply here right now. Especially when there are more important things at hand. Things like making sure Samson got what he deserves.

The blast is moving fast, though there is at least a very small bit of time for Bruce to avoid the worst of it. But at the same time this was his chance, and after all that Samson had done, and what he had said--Bruce wasn't going just let that lie. He wants payback for Haven? Bruce was going to give that to him.

Bruce throws a quick barrier over himself - nothing strong or amazing, just enough to absorb the worst of the blow as he charges forward. He swerves to avoid the blow, missing part of it, but it still hits him by the side and though the barrier absorbs most of the blow, the impact is still enough to probably fracture his arm. He'll look at it later once this is over. When this was over.

After taking the blow Bruce continues to rush forward, the staff in his hand starting to crack and then glow as the crystal at the top flares again, brighter than before--and that same brightness is seemingly reflected across the rest of the staff. Before Samson can try to go on his next attack Bruce moves first - he throws the staff straight towards Samson, the glow still there for several moments more in the air before it abruptly catches fire as it flies at him. And even that is a distraction just like everything else he had been doing, for this very moment as he channels in all the mana he can muster out, feeling Rage coil around him, fierce and unrelenting and angry--

Bruce takes a deep breath in, feels the mana inside him begin to burn, and lets it all out in a giant roar of flames that he breathes out almost in the way that a dragon would. Flames hotter and brighter and deadlier than any other, able to destroy almost any barrier and melt almost any kind of physical material imaginable - and all of it is directed straight at Samson.

cw: gore

[ichaer]

Caught in the fall, Ciri has to use her sword as a crutch in to keep from falling down all the way and putting herself in an even more dangerous position. The creature nevertheless is reaching for her neck and she knows, Maker she knows, if allowed it could (and would) snap it in two. She has a choice to make here and has to act quickly before that is allowed to happen.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she hears the roar of a fire and wonders if its real or the red lyrium playing tricks in her mind. There was so much of it in the air that she's surprised that she isn't choking on the stuff but she can't think about that now. With her weight resting on her sword, she tries to put her foot down on the abomination's chest and force him down even though there is an obvious difference in strength.

She wouldn't have a lot of time so she would obviously have to make some. There is a struggle but she manages to uncap another flask from her belt and smash it as the world around her slowed to a slow crawl as her knife falls. It was her one flask of lightning and she had to make it count. A sickening sound drums in her ears as she pushes herself up, twisting and slicing her sword more in the neck wound before pulling it free.

Already the world is beginning to speed up again and she fumbles to remove an item from inside the pouch on her belt. There only enough time to light the wick before she bends, forcefully shoving the object into the hole she made in her opponents neck and continues to force it into the wound as time catches up with her. The world slams suddenly slams back into focus and Ciri feels the boiling blood on her fingers as hard, sharp sensations in the man's very blood cut into her flesh.

The Warden offers one more wide grin, flashing teeth as she releases the Antivan fire grenade and pushes herself back off the templar, putting as much distance between them as possible.

This wasn't going to be pretty.

Re: cw: gore

[judgemewhole]

Well, now that they were starting to even the odds a little more - James could not help to notice that he was outnumbered. On any other day, he might have just burrowed on through, wound for wound, until he put both men into the ground. But by the rumbling off to the side of him, and the still vulnerable positions of Ciri and Bruce?

He had no time for such heroic brutality.

So best to call in someone to help him finish off these two, so they could all get to the matter at hand.

Or rather, man.

"The Iron Bull!" He called out, as loudly as he could, "Would you perhaps give me a moment of your time? I am trying to clear the field of refuse!"

[redinside]

The first of the horrors is well and truly felled by the axe of the Iron Bull—and then some. It does take an uncomfortably long time to hack all the way through the neck, especially when one of its arms gets in the way in a futile attempt to fend off the repeating blows, but once the head finally falls free of the body, it shudders itself down to the stillness of a steaming corpse. The ground there is a horrific mess, littered with heavy lyrium shards and streams of blood, all mingling with the churned up mud. A red vapour lingers in the air where the soldier fell.

That's Harper gone. Harper, who would sit by the fire and whittle sticks down into curiously beautiful shapes, whose laughter was a prize to be won by a cleverly told tale or bawdy joke.

Samson turns back from the sight of his man dying in plenty of time to slap the mage's staff out of the air with his blade, a gesture that snaps, get this nonsense out of my face. What comes next, however, is absurd enough to wipe the sneer from his face entirely: the sight of a mage spitting a flame so large that it rapidly engulfs the whole world. Or so it feels. He recoils at once, face tucked against his arm, and turns his hunched back to the onslaught. He isn't fool enough to stand here and hope that his armour will protect him entirely from such a blaze—although it could, conceivably, an unexpected field test is not ideal—and so he dashes for the closest piece of cover, which isn't much cover at all, just a stone protruding from a knee-high hump in the terrain.

Tucked in close, a flaming gale rushing past his ears, he curses aloud as flash-boiled snow spatters on his face. No one hears him, probably, and not even because of the roaring fire.

It's more likely that those not currently breathing hot ruin on Samson are too distracted by the sudden explosion localized in a certain red templar's neck. It is quite an impressive sight, in a grisly sort of way. One moment, the horror is clawing at its own throat, and the next it is flying violently apart from the chest up. Gore bursts in all directions, and shrapnel too, shards of armour and lyrium both. Anyone on the field will be hard pressed to avoid being hit.

The body falls to the ground, the middle of its torso reduced to a cavity full of shredded offal. A haze of particulate matter settles around it, same as the other.

The two red templars on the other side of Norrington's shield are now bellowing with renewed ferocity at the loss of their comrades. Having found his footing again, the one sandwiched between shields bears down doubly hard, both now working in unison to drive their foe back across the turf, eyes blazing hot and teeth flashing inside their helmets. These are no mere soldiers, these are tainted men, fuelled by the red and powerful in their righteous fury.

"You'll pay for that, scum!"

It's not a threat, but a promise. Maker help him should he fall.