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]

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.