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

[ichaer]

Although Ciri puts distance between herself and the enemy, she is front row for the explosion that implodes the templar's body from the inside out. It is not a good feeling, to be covered in the innards of a man but she tries to ignore the hot warmth of blood on her. More concerning was that the fine red mist of blood, gore and lyrium leaves her throat burning but she ignores it. She has to ignore it.

The situation could be better though. Her ears are ringing intently, the world is covered in flames and there are still red templars alive. Adjusting her grip, she takes a look around the battlefield and the figures still standing. Bull's words reach her over the mess of sounds and she grins, pushing herself to start moving.

It was a good thing too because suddenly the orange glow of fire vanishes. She sees Bruce, unsteady and moving for retreat as her eyes scan for his target which comes in the form of the templar's general. She adjusts her weight, sliding through melted snow and blood to turn sharply toward where Samson had tucked himself away during Bruce's attack. The general looks nothing like his monstrous bothers and sisters but she knows he stands at the top of his group for a reason.

He won't fall like the other one did. Good then, all the better. She'll give Bruce the time he needs and a chance to see what the leader of these monsters was all about. Coming to a hard stop not far from Samson, Ciri digs a heel into the earth and twists to bring her sword downwards on him.

[judgemewhole]

Something like pity crosses through Norrington's gaze, but his jaw firms and his stance shifts. He meets their maddened gazes, and states quietly and clearly, ""Maker of the World, forgive them. They have lived too long in shadow
Without Your Light to guide them. Be with Your children now, O Maker..."

That should be enough to fuel their fire, to keep their rage focused as Bull came charging at them, and then at the last moment ... he just stepped back, so they could lose their balance, and he could take a moment to just step sideways and slam one shield against the back of one of their heads.

[redinside]

Here comes Bull, and there the two reds go, back toward the river, taken right off their feet. One of the templars tries to bail by sliding under the axe's haft, and succeeds, though he suffers a kick as he clatters free and must take up his fallen shield once he's found his footing—which he does swiftly, still raging. The other man isn't so quick on his feet—so to speak—but he's not going down without a fight, either, and will swing his sword hard at the qunari's head or neck if there's time enough to get one in.

It seems Bruce may have a moment to breathe. Norrington, too, until that one guard comes at him again.

Ciri catches Samson on his way up. Her sword lands a solid hit to his armour, and aside from ringing out like steel under a smith's hammer, the impact does little to impede the general's recovery (although he does blurt out a sound of irritated disgust, baaah). She may feel it rattling up her arm, on the other hand, like she's just struck a slab of stone. Wearing an ugly sneer, Samson swings at her in return—not with his sword, but with his gauntleted fist, a spike of red lyrium on each knuckle, and a backhand that could break a man's jaw.

[qunari]

The strike of the sword glances, draws blood in a shallow red line, but that's a mistake. Even without the red dust being thrown about, Bull's blood grows hotter every time he's hit.

Even once the swing of the axe is complete, one massive hand reaches to grab at the nearest templar, before Bull brings his head forward in a solid headbutt. Come on, they can do better than that!

It's all to buy the others a little time, to wear Samson down without his backup.

[amygdalae]

Bruce is certainly thankful that everyone else is too occupied with each other to notice him attempting to flee the scene (mostly). Not that he can get very far, what with the fatigue that's already chewing through whatever strength that he had left. Bruce barely manages to make it to a large boulder that he can hide himself behind of before he collapses onto the ground, wincing as he struggles to catch his breath. Yeah, this was why he didn't pull that card out often, and being this drained in the middle of a fight was only going to make things harder.

All he could hope was that nobody was going to spot him, and that the rest of their opponents could be handled by the other three. At least there was no large staff or fancy robes on him that could mark his position, so that was one thing in his advantage.

[ichaer]

The impact rattles up her arms in an almost painful manner. Ciri can feel it in her very bones and grits her teeth as the shockwaves pass, realizing the strength of the general's armor. It was good to know, it allows her the chance to formulate more plans and figure out a new plan of attack until the others could join her. The counterattack is expected and she raises her sword (slowly, as her muscles burn) to lessen the damage coming her way.

His gauntlet skids across blade, sparks igniting and meets her shoulder before grazing upwards across her chin, slowed but damaging. Spikes pierce through her armor, pain igniting and running through her veins like fire as lyrium seems to burn through everything is touches on her. It's enough to force her into a stumble, piercing her sword into the earth to steady her and keep her from falling. If she falls it'll be over, she has to stay up and fight despite how much her body is screaming.

With only a moment to breathe, she raises and turns back on Samson with her sword held steady. Blood blossoms at her shoulder, dying blue a sickening new color as more drips from her chin and only quickens as she bares her teeth. She spits blood, hissing through the pain and adjusting her stance. There is no movement toward him but instead around him. She craves a semicircle, thoughts going through everything he could and might possibly do.

His speed, his armor, his armor and everything else she might need to figure out before getting in close again.

[judgemewhole]

Norrington felt a surge of relief as Bull took down the templars with one swing. He wasn't going to waste any time with the man trying to take off the horn of Bull, because that man was going to regret it. He kept his shield close as he went to stab the other man through the first gap in the armor. He set his jaw, going for a quick and clean kill, because no matter what these men were now, before they had been his brothers. The others might be able to kill them messily, but not him.

"Best to make this quick, the Iron Bull. I have a feeling our friends may need our continued support!"

Although he had a feeling it would be harder than it looked...

[redinside]

If you asked the red guard caught up in Bull's grip if he expected anyone would head-butt him while he was wearing a helmet and they weren't, he might have laughed. And yet, it's just happened. Worse than the shock of it happening at all is what the impact does to the barbute opening of his helmet: the plates bend inward—not by much, but enough—and blood sprays with the templar's next violent hiss of breath. And still he grips the qunari's big forearm in defiance, and again he swings the sword to stab at whatever he might reach. And again, and again, if he can. This one's lost his shield, but not his nerve.

Ciri is allowed to circle as she will, meanwhile. The general even turns to watch her come around while he takes his sword's hilt in both hands, moving with a measured efficiency that reflects long years of experience and a stable mind—nothing at all like the more far gone of his men, those in the throes of lyrium colonization, who lash out with the unthinking ferocity of feral beasts. He's breathing like a bull, deep and steady, and sweating in the furnace of his armour. The grim intensity of his gaze, now locked on target, lances at her in place of a blade.
Nothing signals Samson's decision to close in on her other than the movement itself; there is only the certainty of his approach, the unhurried pace belying his speed, that huge blade held at the ready and the red vapours of power shimmering around it all. Let the rest of them come up behind him if they will. This girl's the quick one; he'll hear the others and be ready should they get close.

Norrington's sword slips between his target's plates, as intended, but the soldier declines to succumb to the wound, though it would almost certainly fell a lesser man. It has, however, cost him the full use of his sword arm. He strikes once with tremendous effort—admirable given his condition—but the next is clumsy, and during recovery the sword slips from his fingers, leaving him with only a tower shield. But then, that in itself is weapon enough for the likes of these men, and he intends to prove it if he can, by wielding its edge aggressively should he get the chance.

These are the not the unrelenting blows of a monster, or even a madman, but the last push of a young templar roaring in the face of death even as he bleeds in its looming shadow. He fights by his general's side; he is not afraid.

[qunari]

It doesn't matter who they were, or what they had once been. They couldn't afford to show them mercy now, and there was no point in dividing one's interests or motivations on the battlefield. They may not be monsters, but in this moment? They might as well be.

The red templar's wide, desperate swings would hit something eventually, and indeed, one blade nicks his shoulder before Bull brings up his good knee to ram into the man's crotch, intending to knock the air out of him long enough to step back and bring his axe around to cleave through the armor at his back. Regardless of success, he steps back to observe Norrington's call across the field.

"Right. Let's finish up here." With a huff that has cold air and red lyrium dust clouding around his face, Bull charges towards the red templar Norrington's tackling. Taking out the guy's knees out to make dispatching him considerably easier for their templar.

[ichaer]

Following the semi-circle she has already cut into the steamy ground, Ciri spits blood once again and narrows her eyes on Samson. He very obviously had strength on his side but she had her speed, she would have to keep moving and picking away until the others could gone her in this battle with the red templars' general.

Had she not suffered so severely at the hands of her fellows in Weisshaupt there might be unease settling in her chest now as she watches Samson but now she just feels anger. She thinks back to that cave, that small boy and all she can see is red but perhaps that is the lyrium dust playing tricks with her eyes. He's still dangerous though, she cannot simply push him into a rage and take advantage of it. No, he's smarter than that.

Very carefully, she breathes and takes some needed air into her lung. Breathe and think, breathe and think. Just keep moving. It's a mantra now in the back of her head, repeating over and over until it's just a buzz of noise. In the instance that he moves, she moves as well and pushes everything into her speed until they are just close enough to reach out and strike one another.

She does not raise her sword though and instead drops, using her momentum to push her into a slide past the man. Being on the ground is a dangerous position but staying at his back is her safest (though hardest) position to keep. With a twist of her arm, she stabs out toward the knee nearest her at the moment. His armor was something else, common weak points might not matter but she was going to exploit them if she could.

[judgemewhole]

James grunted his thanks to Bull as the Qunari (hah, he finally met one who was actually A Qunari), before he met the templar's eyes. He saw a man lost to a cause, he saw a man lost to a general who did not know when to pull his men back. Who didn't see what this red poison was doing to people he supposedly took responsibility for. The sheer gall of Samson, and the suffering he knew awaited this young man, made James's task no less easy.

The sword the young man thrust hit true, sliding up again James's shoulder, but the older Templar grimly set his blade in to shove his own blade right through the young man's throat, then pull away sharply, using his own strength augmented by the lyrium, to sever the artery. To make this death, if he could, a quick one.

Yet his faith demanded one last thing, and it was to simply say, "Maker forgive you, son."

[redinside]

Between the mighty efforts of both Norrington and the Iron Bull, the last of the reds fall. A gurgling roar cut short and a bright red arterial spray will serve as this one's last words. Even so, he does not yield, but falls upon Norrington bodily if he must—if he can—to terrorize him with the close-up image of the carnage he's wrought, to flood his senses with death.
Just metres away, his brother in arms now lies on the ground, moving sluggishly, while blood gushes through the ugly opening cleaved through the plating of his armoured back, spreading and pooling in the churned-up mud. He is not long for this world, but neither has he given up, nor will he until the last of his life has drained away.

The sudden end of the cries of his men is not lost on Samson: he hears then stop, and grits his teeth against the absence.

Again Ciri's sword scrapes at steel, and again it causes Samson no pain, but all the same, he snatches his leg away from the impact. It's a reflex born from many years of wearing imperfect armour, and it pushes him a half-step out of cadence—but he adapts to it easily, and turns in Ciri's wake to stomp the earth after her. Bright red energy ripples out from the impact, and the ground shudders around him in a wide radius. Stones and shrapnel bounce, bits of mud are flung into the air; ideally, this will send the girl sprawling.

Either way, confident that she won't recover in the time it will take, Samson then glances to where he last marked what's left of his company, and sees them dying. They're just boys, the both of them, not even thirty. How hard they fought. How strong they were. Pride blooms inside him painfully; it inspires him to snatch another flask from his belt, to tear the stopper free and knock it back just like the first. It burns going down, worse than the first time. Boiling inside, he crushes the glass in his fist.

"You're nothing," he snarls, takes up his corrupted blade, and turns to face the two men.

[qunari]

That sword is bad news all over. It radiates and hums with the same toxic energy of the red lyrium he encountered in Emprise du Lion, and getting hit with the business end might not go as well as the steel these other templar are wheeling around.

Or. Well. Were wheeling around. Samson's support has fallen, and he sees that posturing, that spiting vitriol for what it is. Desperation.

He might be even more dangerous now, if that stomp aimed at Ciri was any indication. But he can take a hit a lot better than the others can, and if he can pull Samson's focus for just long enough.

"Stop talking and prove it, then." With a snort, Bull hefts his axe and charges in, snow thrown up under his feet in the rush, and if all he does is get Samson on defense?

That's enough for the others to take their hit.

[ichaer]

Lovely. Despite Ciri's burning thoughts swimming around a line of choice words and phrases that do not bear repeating she cannot deny that the armor is clearly a work of art. The same couldn't be said of the other templars at their feet now, opened like cans and oozing out fiery red blood that shimmered in the sunlight.

Just as Samson has to adapt so does Ciri from her own time fighting in ways that could kill her if she was not fast enough. Speed cannot help her not be thrown off by the power behind his stomp and she breaks her last bottle of ice (just one more bottle of fire now) to protect her against the stones and shrapnel flung her way.

She rolls once and then twice, twisting her form just enough to get her arms under her and flipping over into a crouched position with blood-stained teeth barred back at Samson. The ice reflects lights off her, hissing under the heat of blood and lyrium still mixing in the air. Her whole body feels on fire, muscles weak but she is unsure if it is exhaustion or the red lyrium now. Likely both.

"But we're the ones still breathing," she says with a coarse voice to answer the General. "Your soldiers are dead and I almost feel bad for them. You couldn't even give them enough skill to die with dignity."

Her chuckle is weak but it comes out as the ice armor begins to crack and Bull rushes forward like a dragon. This'll be good, she decides and pushes herself up onto her feet with her sword raised. Without warning she takes off, intent on following up whatever attack Bull makes with one of her.

[judgemewhole]

Norrington himself is shifting into position - if Iron Bull hits him there, and then Ciri hits him again -

Before he can turn his attention away from Iron Bull to Ciri, however, James makes sure that he lifts up the visor to his helm just long enough to meet Samson's hateful gaze with a cool, dispassionate one of his own. Then he starts to move forward, tapping his sword against his shield twice.

Clang. Clang.

It is clear that one sword is pointing to another, the symbol of the holy sword itself. The blade of Andraste, of the Maker, of which he still stands for ... and what Samson failed so pathetically at, in the making of his puppet army.

One look. One movement. That is all James has to do to say, Who is beneath who, washout?

And then, with his shield held low, his helm slapping down over his sweaty brow, he sets his back foot and pushes off, heading straight towards Samson with all the speed of an angry dragon, bearing down on the man to slam into him with all the might he can, to give Ciri the opening she is looking for.

[redinside]

The general's armour is a work of art, and he'd say so himself in another circumstance. Maddox truly outdid himself this time—the Elder One had a hand in it, of course, but by the grace of Maddox's skill, his patience, his tireless work, the steel's final shape more than satisfied their master's lofty expectations.

And in this shape has Samson become a living fortress.

The big qunari gets him on defense, as expected. Then comes that bloody self-righteous knight, and the swordswoman, quick as you please. Samson weathers their attacks with his head ducked and gauntlets raised, jaw clenched and eyes burning. Although his armour has been singing beneath a storm of both glancing scrapes and solid blows, it will not buckle. Even in the snow and mud his footing is unshakeable; he knows just where to put his feet, when to step and how to brace, and will not be staggered. Not by anyone.

When Norrington comes rushing in, Samson meets him with a sneer, draws on the power in his blood, and swings the corrupted greatsword down just in time to meet the top edge of the arriving shield with a crushing blow. His aim is to force the shield down, to drive it into the earth, to deny the templar his charge—and perhaps give him a scar to remember.

"How's that for proof," he snarls at Bull, wherever the qunari's ended up by now.

There is no fear in Samson's eyes, but neither is he laughing. Sweat pours down the back of his neck. The fabric on his back, embroidered with Kirkwall's crest, is half blackened and still smouldering along its edge. He's older than all three of them, no longer as quick as he once was, but they'll tire. Their armour will split, their weapons shatter. Their resolve will falter. He can outlast them all.