OPEN ↠ THE WINTER PALACE, PART II

[faderifting]

WHO: Open to all.
WHAT: The War of the Lions comes to a head with tense peace negotiations scheduled for a grand Winter Palace ball
WHEN: This is forward dated to Firstfall 30 Wintermarch 15. Set following the events of Part I, located here.
WHERE: The Winter Palace, Halamshiral, Orlais.
NOTES: Please make sure to read the OOC post for more info!

It is a wonderful night, isn’t it? A beautiful party. The Empress has outdone herself. The entire evening has been remarkable, whether from the perspective of one enjoying the spectacles provided by the Inquisition, or the nuances of the Game, or even the more superficial entertainments of the evening - the music, the food, the dancing. All of it is wound together into an evening that will surely be memorable for some time to come.

And then everything begins to become rather more complicated, although admittedly still very memorable.

The first sign that things might not be as they should be comes when the doors to the main hall slam shut, and are rapidly sealed. The realization that all is not well might not spread through all areas of the Palace with equal speed, but it cannot be said that the element of surprise is neglected throughout. The Freemen of the Dales have come, and the Freemen will see to it that they finally claim what is theirs.


THE MAIN HALL.

Two things become rapidly apparent. First, the evening is not going how Celene had intended. Equally apparent is that this is not what Gaspard planned, either.

They both of them find themselves in close quarters with men and women that are armed - human, elf and dwarf alike, though the latter are in small numbers and the humans dominate the group. There are a good many elves, though, more than one might expect to find in the company of former chevaliers. Some of the invading party have slipped from the guise of servants, others are more obviously marked as Freemen of the Dales who have only just arrived.

In terms of numbers, armor and weapons, the arrival is alarming, and nervousness is palpable in the hall. Worse still, they are not alone. The apparent leader of the Freemen, a man with mustachios that would make a walrus weep, stands shoulder to shoulder with Red Templars, the red lyrium glow seeming all the more strange in the ambient light of the party. There are cries of panic from some, the gasps and outrage of many as they realize what is unfolding, and the sickening realization that despite there being a good many skilled warriors in the room in the form of noble men and woman from across Orlais, they have no weapons to retaliate with, as per the rules of entering the Winter Palace. The atmosphere is one of sickening dread. (And at least one noble is stress eating every lemon tart in sight. Can you really blame them?)

Celene, for her part, issues an order for her people to remain calm, before an elven man turns to hold the point of his sword to her throat. She does not speak further, but continues to hold her head high.

Walrusface - or, more correctly, Charles Walthier, a man of some sixty years and considerable reputation before he departed for the Freemen, steps forward. There is a ripple of chatter, and one of Gaspard’s men approaches in indignant protest, an outburst in Orlesian about conduct not befitting a chevalier. The man is cut down by a red templar before he can draw breath to continue his tirade.

Before any further heroics or speeches can be attempted, Celene and Gaspard are both swept out of the ballroom. It may be tempting to follow. But most of the doors are now barred, and the last four Freemen to leave behind the Empress and Pretender turn to fire flaming arrows at high draperies scattered throughout the hall. The only open doors lead to balconies with drop-offs that range from dangerous to suicidal, but they're nonetheless swarmed by the best-dressed frantic mob you've ever seen.


SERVANT QUARTERS.

From further away, a regular chant can be heard from the main hall: Freemen, Freemen, Freemen. At a signal, some servants are casting aside their disguises, and clusters of armed men and Red Templars are entering, some from rooms, others from hidden passages. They're ready to fight those who try to get between them and the nobility. Some of them are also willing to talk to those who seem willing to listen - about casting off the yoke of the Orlesian nobility, about reclaiming the Dales for the common man and elf alike. But none are particularly willing to let the servants and guests in the common room mount a rescue of the screaming nobility in the ballroom and gardens. If you want to try, you'll have to sneak out.

Or you can barricade yourself in a room and let the nobility look out for themselves. No one will know.


THE GARDENS.

The scents of jasmine and roses fill the air. So do screams. Evidently the Freemen and their corrupted Templar assistants have no concern about lawn preservation, hedge maintenance, or making sure exquisite fountains aren't ruined. What isn't trampled might be torn down or lit on fire. And in the midst of the chaos, an elf climbs up onto a pedestal alongside a statue of embracing lovers - lovers with oddly familiar noses - and holds a marble should for balance while he interrupts the common rallying cries of Freemen! with For Calpernia!

Comments

[onlyhymns]

Cade hasn't fallen yet, instead rushing to Malcolm's defense when the Seeker is thrown. He stands over him until the latter gets to his feet again, and then prepares to rush into battle alongside him.
But somebody calls out, and for a split-second Cade responds to it. He turns his head toward Corvo and the nobles just long enough to leave himself open for several spikes of red lyrium, launched from the nearest corrupted Templar, to plunge into his thigh. He cries out in surprise as his leg gives way, and, still operating on adrenaline but becoming more and more aware of the burning pain spreading out from the wound, he holds his shield above him to deflect continued blows as he tries to make a scrambling and clumsy retreat. He finds himself pressed against the base of a pedestal sporting some stupid vase or another, and focuses mostly on shielding with the occasional stab at his assailant, who harries him in hopes of going in for the kill.
Remarkably, Cade doesn't seem too bothered by this-- at least in the grand scheme of things-- and manages to gain enough leverage that he can raise himself slightly and plunge his sword into the overconfident Red Templar's gut.
All's well that ends well. Probably.

[tactical_alert]

"Peachy," he all but growls from keeping up swordplay with a Templar he's embattled with. Even without armor, with a borrowed sword, Malcolm's been at fighting for a long time. Most of his life, in one way or another. He still has a preference for bows, but he made a point early on to be as deft with several other weapons as he can make himself. Beating him down and keeping him down are no easy tasks.

Cade is cornered, harried, and he doesn't have the attention to attend to more than that. He lures his Templar further away from Cade, just in case, slashing and parrying until his blade locks with the opponent's. His teeth grit, and those more magically attuned can feel an increase in pressure in the room before it releases in a rush. The Templar falters, then stumbles, something strangled coming out of him like a scream. The sword drops, and he is scrambling at his armor, at his flesh. It's no short-lived event as the lyrium within (and without) of the Red Templar burns, a power Seekers are told is divine, holy will passed on those most wicked, though privately he doesn't know if it's true.

The Templar drops, silent, at last, to show better Malcolm's tensed and hyperfocused form. Despite the vulnerability, he closes his eyes, takes in a deep, centering breath, and releases it.

And moves to rejoin the fight, aiming to aid Corvo with the Freemen. He will push past exhaustion until all enemies in the room are dead, tied up, or have fled. "This palace is under Inquisition protection!"

[watchesandlistens]

Well. There's gratitude for you. Or, maybe, it's kind of his fault for distracting them and getting that poor kid injured. Corvo rededicates himself to his own fight, and not worrying about the others, but--that scream chills his blood, and he glanced over again to watch with wide eyes (ducking a sword in the process). He has no idea what the other man is doing, but it looks...kind of horrifying. Sokolov would have a field day.

And now he has Malcolm's...very enthusiastic help. Despite any apprehensions about What in the void did he just do to that man, it's appreciated, as Corvo has just about run out of mana, and therefore out of his nifty party tricks.

He does manage to pause and murmur, "Just asking," because he's that kind of jerk.

Then back he goes into the fight, focusing on timing his dodges and slashes, parrying when he has to. There aren't many of them left, enough that Corvo feels that it's not out of place to be optimistic about their chances of not all being brutally murdered. There's still a chance, but it's not a good chance. "We have to get those doors open," He huffs, even as he's punting a Freeman in the chest. "The people inside don't have much time left--if they haven't stampeded each other in a panic." Which, Corvo muses as he drives his sword through the man's neck, is as much a danger as the fire.

[onlyhymns]

Cade's every instinct is shouting at him to rally, to get back up into the fight, but the pain from the red lyrium in his leg is debilitating. He's never been stabbed like this with a small blade or object, never had it embedded in his completely unarmored flesh, and he's certainly never dealt with anything magical of this nature. Nausea is building as the lyrium courses through his blood, a lot of which is in fact spilling out onto the tile as he stares at it. It's like being on fire and freezing all at once.

And then Malcolm does THAT THING, which would make anyone's blood run cold with the scream alone, but on some primal level Cade understands what it is and how it pertains to the victim being a Templar. Terror streaks through him, he feels blind and deaf and like he's dying, all the pain at least subsiding as his already-pulsing adrenaline surges. He has to get out of here, or save Seeker Reed, or kill someone, or maybe all three simultaneously.

Cade makes a grab at the spikes sticking out of his leg in hopes of wrenching them out, but upon failing that, just screams in anguish and decides to re-strategize. He goes for his sword instead, barely able to hold onto it with all the blood on his hand, and he tries to lift it and get up again. That doesn't work either. The actual Cade is now safely packed away in some pleasant little psychological lockbox, and berserker Cade is doing his very best, even if that's.... not much. He looks scary at least.

[tactical_alert]

You're welcome, Corvo, geez. Malcolm doesn't respond to the minor sass, knowing he gave sass previously, and is instead on the fight. He gets a few more arrows in his leather shield--and arm--before sprinting at the offending archer and slamming bodily into them, tumbling to the floor. Several arrows snap, and in the scuffle he almost misses the sensation of a dagger being slid into his side. Malcolm doesn't let a little thing like being stabbed stop him, usually, and finishes the job.

Hm. Well, he doesn't seem to be immediately dying, so that's good. And now he's got a dagger to go with his sword, that's a plus. It just happens to be lodged between two of the lowermost ribs. Maybe he shouldn't remove it, but he doesn't want to keep fighting only to have the movement slice something really unfortunate open that it wasn't already. (This one's going right in his boot, though. Safe keeping.)

"Right," he grunts, looking around quickly before making a move to the door. His shielded hand presses to the wound, but he tries to ignore it. The door is barred shut, and if it only took one person to bust through, someone probably would've done it by now. "Cade--"

But, in directing his gaze toward the disgraced Templar, his eyes widen at the sight. He hadn't realized Cade was in that poor a shape. Dear Maker, he's going to get infected with red lyrium, he's going to become one of them--"Cade!" They'll have to find a healer, and they'll have to do it fast. But there are people in there trampling one another, possibly being slaughtered, possibly burning to death, so he makes the only choice he can. He stays by the door, thinks a quick prayer to the Maker, and starts slamming his body shoulder-first into the door.

[watchesandlistens]

Corvo understands that the door is the priority. One injured man doesn't hold the same importance of the dozens of people who are dying on the other side of that door. All the same, that kind of math weighs heavily on his soul, the idea of who is more important to save, who deserves to live. But there's little he can do for the injured man, not without healing potions, and even his clothes are a stiff leather, unsuitable for trying to stem bleeding.

Then, with a start, he realizes that he's surrounded by multiple dead men who are more appropriately clothed. He glances at Malcolm, deciding he can handle it for an extra minute as Corvo kneels down and grabs a dead Freeman, turning the corpse over to cut out the cloth--And he spots the familiar bottle of red liquid. So close to Sokolov's elixir, yet different. He swipes it from the dead man, and hurries to Cade, handing the vial to him, with a manly nod.

Now, the door.

Corvo straightens, turning towards this new enemy, and appraising it for a moment, looking over where the weaknesses might be. And, of course, takes a moment to look very dashing and cool. Oooh, aaah. Then he runs at the door, jumping when he gets close enough, pushing off against the door with a solid kick. There's a loud crack, as Corvo lands, skidding against the marble tile. He looks up to see if he managed to break it, only to realize he'd certainly broken something--but he'd done it a little too well. One of the heavy beams that had been holding the door closed has been knocked loose, and about to fall. Right where Malcolm was.

Corvo doesn't bother to take the time to try to articulate a warning. He runs forward again, and in one smooth move, grabs Malcolm's shoulders and pushes him against the wall, keeping himself close enough to also avoid the board as it shatters to the ground (inciting the group of nobles to squawk and fuss, though they remained unharmed. He's forgotten about them, oops). Once he's sure that the danger is passed, he realizes that while Malcolm probably doesn't want to get a large board across the noggin, he might also object to being sandwiched between the wall and the large assassin. Quickly, he steps back, clearing his throat and smoothing down his clothes. Smooth, Corvo.

"Well. I guess we're going to have to be careful about those boards." The smoothest.

[onlyhymns]

Fortunately, red lyrium has to be ingested-- and a lot of it-- for somebody to become a proper red Templar, but that doesn't mean it isn't exceedingly unpleasant to have in his body at the moment. Cade's attempts to get up somewhat resemble a fish flopping around on a dock, being driven by survival instinct and no logic whatsoever, unaware that he's not putting weight on this leg anytime soon.
He looks dumbly at Corvo when the man hands him a potion, but, like a good boy who does what he's told, he uncorks it and drinks the contents without a second thought. At the sudden wash of relief, even if his leg is still impaled by lyrium spikes, he abruptly loses consciousness and slumps onto the floor. His body knows what to do at such a time, and the potion is helping it fight off the infection.

[tactical_alert]

Ohhhh Mister Corvo ooooooh, how very dashing. Malcolm's startled back a step or two by the kick and subsequent cracking noise, and startled even moreso by having the breath smacked out of him by back meeting wall. A rush of air goes by him just as he rushes air back into his chest when the beam hits the floor, and the vibration of impact and adrenaline courses through him.

By the grace of Andraste, Corvo's certainly tall for a human. Maybe they just make 'em big where he comes from.

"Maybe if someone wouldn't do fancy tricks off the door without warning," he says with a sigh, relaxing his shoulders for a moment before stepping away from the wall. "Thank you." Because he's not a complete arse.

A look back to Cade confirms he's out cold. But the door is most important. "Together, this time, and we'll get it open yet." Instead of almost getting crushed by beams. What a terrible first date that would be. He's in no shape to be doing any flying kicks right now, but hey, if Corvo wants to finish the job himself, he's more than welcome to say so.