the days that bind us

[exequy]

WHO: Lots of people
WHAT: Recovering lost phylacteries
WHEN: Guardian 23, 9:44
WHERE: The Storm Coast
NOTES: Violence! OOC post over here.

All signs point to the Storm Coast, and once scouts have narrowed down the location it's only a short journey across the Waking Sea to move a small force onto the rocky coast. They row ashore just after dawn in driving rain, and follow the beach for at least a mile before finding a path that actually reaches the top of the cliff. The rain fades to a drizzle but the day remains relentlessly overcast as they hike toward their goal, grey and dim even at noon, with a raw breeze off the water.

Comments

I. WAITING & WATCHING

[exequy]

They reach the spot around noon: the ruins of an old fort on the cliff's edge, stone half-crumbled but repaired with new wood, and a shocking amount of activity compared with how empty the rest of the region is. They spend the rest of the daylight hours surveilling the place from a safe distance, hunkered down behind rock formations, peering down from a hillside, observing and counting their enemies, biting their tongues and thanking the Maker for the rain when two of them burst into flames in unison.

For the most part, those inhabiting the fortress go about the usual business of maintaining a stronghold: cleaning, eating, and training with swords and shields. A keen eye might note that, while the men and women in the courtyard are of varying age and obviously limited combat experience, they're being instructed in strategies for standing against magic. At one point a mage even emerges to demonstrate, throwing fire at their angled shields on command, then ducking back out of sight as soon as she's told she can leave. And when the wind briefly stops howling and it's quiet, it isn't impossible to hear voices floating out from the fortress, and snatches of conversation—along with an invigorating pre-supper sermon from a Chantry Sister about the righteousness of their cause, the dangers of magic and the corruption of the Inquisition that's using it so freely—confirm what was already easy to suspect.

However nice it would be to go argue directly, the team has to lie low and wait until several hours after sunset to strike under cover of darkness, when the camp is quiet and the mages are (experience so far suggests) safe from phylactery attacks.

[ ooc | you can rp amongst yourselves here if you want to rp any part of the wait! ]

Inessa, OTA

[circleprodigy]

Before battle, Inessa spends her time secluded as much as possible. During the day is when she's vulnerable to magic, and she doesn't want anyone else caught in what could be a very literal blast. Garahel would be included in this, but no matter what she says and does, the stubborn mabari remains at her side. So she sits and waits quietly, a little on edge with nothing productive to do and her tormentors nearby. Lost in thought, she'll glance over only slightly upon hearing footsteps.

"Keep your distance." It's not spoken coldly, but with underlying tension. As one of the afflicted mages, she can't guarantee anyone's safety.

[ichaer]

"Or what?" Speaking of stubborn mabari.

Ciri might as well be one considering the amount of time she has kept to Inessa's side during this entire debacle. It would be hard pressed to see her anywhere else but close by and that hasn't changed since their arrival on the Storm Coast. Yet she knows that'll be changing soon once she heads off with the others to get inside and take care of whomever (or whatever) is standing guard over the missing phylacteries.

Stepping closer, she pushes strands of wet hair back and presses a kiss to her friend's forehead.

"All of this is almost over." She says as she pulls back, brushing strands of her own wet hair out of her face. "Just trust in me, okay?"

Re: Inessa, OTA

[judgemewhole]

"Oh please. Considering what I was doing when I was near death from the 'bleeding lyrium' disease, do you honestly think I am going to listen to that?" James stated tartly, as he wandered over with Interceptor, his horse, Dauntless, following behind him just as obediently as the mabari.

"I've brought you some water. You look pale, and I know Garahel could use it."

For Nate

[justice_is_blond]

"It's another day when it's a good thing I'm not possessed," he says quietly in a light voice that doesn't reflect how he's feeling. Justice would have had him down there already, and Anders wouldn't have tried to fight it because he wants to lay waste to these people.

Anders is laying against rocks near the top of a hill, watching through a crack in them, figuring that he'll be hidden when attacked again. Not if. But Maker is he looking forward to returning the favor.

"I've decided lightning is the worst. So I'm mostly going to use lightning."

[pinprick]

Nathaniel is squinting at the fortress, trying to size it up like a puzzle he's about to put together. "Yes, love. Do you think it's possible the mages casting these spells are under duress? It's all set up a bit...prison-ish."

[exequy]

a. ota

Kostos doesn’t often show off, but at the moment there’s a decent excuse. Wisps are curious and excitable, and they’ll be better behaved later if they first have some time to get over their excitement about the physical world first. Somewhat, anyway.

So he’s sitting with his back to a rock that provides a little bit of overhanging shelter from the rain, with seven wisps wandering around his extended legs, examing the scraggly wet grass and stone, making quiet and pleased whirring noises that grow briefly louder and more delighted after a roll of thunder. There’s an eighth hovering above his head, dimmer than the moon through the clouds. It’s watching the fortress below, so Kostos can watch through it.

That’s where most of his attention is, and his gaze is unfocused on an empty point ahead of him, but if one of the other seven wisps begins to wander he’ll snap out of it and click his tongue to bring it back.

b. nell

When the sky starts to darken from grey to black, Kostos ducks his way through the rocks, a line of wisps streaming unevenly but obediently behind him like ducklings, and around the curve of their hill, until he can stand straight without fear of being seen.

He finds Nell where the infiltrators are preparing to leave—not yet, but soon—and catches one of the wisps in a cupped hand to deposit it in the air near her shoulder. He’s already told it what to do. And that’s as close as he’ll come to stay safe.

Instead: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says, in Nevarran. It’s not fully a joke.

[galvanising]

Nell snorts. She has spent the day off at a safe distance in case of fire or lightning, making occasional conversation by crystal when not taking a thoroughly un-restful forced magical nap. She's been more than eager to get on with it, but as always she approaches the looming battle with a professional's methodical calm, checking gear, reviewing diagrams, rehearsing the plan in her mind.

"What even is there that you wouldn't do, exactly?" That's also only half a joke, but the wrong half, for his purposes.

Gareth | OTA

[foundmyselfagain]

He's been described as 'twitchy' at the best of times, when he's on top of things, in a good mental place. This is not the best of times, and Gareth is neither. Currently, he's a mess of agitated nerves, pacing and glancing down at the fortress, wanting so badly to just go down there and deal with the problem. Raze the fortress to the ground and be done with it.

But it's not that easy, even he has to acknowledge that, so he's left with too much anxious energy and not enough ways to deal with it.

He does calm down enough to watch when the mage shows up, eyes intent and solemn. "Maybe they're being held against their will," He offers to anyone who wants to hear it. "Maybe they're prisoners who're being forced to help them." Even to himself, he doesn't sound confident in it. He knows there are mages out there who are self-loathing (if he glances at Kostos during this thought, perhaps it's just a coincidence), and who would be willing to help people bringing other mages down. It could even not be philosophical for them--maybe they're just being paid.

But it grinds on his frayed nerves, and he slides a hand through his damp, matted hair. Weather like this is even worse for his hair than usual, and he looks about as scruffy and miserable as he feels.

II. INFILTRATION

[exequy]

Surveillance suggests that the mages reside apart from the others, presumably to avoid infecting them with magical cooties, or whatever. It's ridiculous, but convenient, offering an opportunity for a small team to infiltrate the fortress and neutralize them, leaving the Inquisition's mages safe to attack without worrying about spells being cast on their phylacteries when they do.

It's a small antechamber on the side of the ruin that's both more run-down and less refurbished, boards haphazardly plugging holes between jagged chunks of stonework, canvas still stretched across half the roof. The problem isn't getting in, it's getting there to begin with: given the guard rotation patterns, by far the best approach is to creep up from the beach, navigating a narrow goat path up the cliffside. In the dark. In the rain.

[ ooc | one log for nell, malcolm, ciri, nathaniel, and teren. it will be gmed! ]

[pinprick]

This is probably the worst mission Nate has done in a long time. In the dark, in the rain, scaling a cliff, headed toward mages who may or may not be casting spells under duress. Before starting up the cliff, he passes out the magebane he manufactures for fighting darkspawn emissaries.

"Don't slit any throats if they try to surrender," he whispers. "They might be prisoners."

[tactical_alert]

Malcolm bites his tongue. He wants to say 'no promises', because at the end of the day, if these mages are doing spells on phylacteries, that's...

Right. No. Deal with it later. Focus. It's not even the mages that concern him. It's who's running the operation. It reeks of Templars...and Seekers. He's not responsible for what's happened, but he feels responsible for what's to come of it all.

He nods his thanks instead and peers up the path. He's probably done worse traverses, but not anything that immediately comes to mind. "Slow, steady, even if it takes all night, we want to get there in one piece."

III. FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

[exequy]

A. DIVERSION

It has been a long day of waiting, and the stress has only increased since the infiltration team left to get into position. Finally there's a signal from the team, a brief flare of flame, waved back and forth three times: the sign that indicates that they are in position. It's time to create a diversion to draw out the forces in the fortress, ensuring they don't get a chance to run to the aid of their mages before the infiltrators can neutralize them, and clearing a path for the team to get back out.

So go on. Divert.

B. BATTLE

It's pitch black outside except for the torches borne by the fighters who come streaming out of the fortress to see what's happening, and the occasional glimpse of moonlight finally sneaking through the persistent cloud-cover. Few of those present are competent enough to fight with one hand while holding a torch with the other, and the majority of them end up on the ground within moments after the battle is joined, dropped in favor of swords, axes, clubs, even a couple polearms. Of course once they're left on the damp ground to be rained on, the torches go out in moments, leaving the battlefield extraordinarily dark, lit only provided by the fire and flashes of lightning the Inquisition's mages provide themselves. It makes distinguishing friend from foe difficult, so it's helpful that so many of the enemy seems to enjoy spouting verses from the Chant or shouting insults at the mages.

The mob consists primarily of a half-trained civilian militia in homemade armor, as well as a few of their dogs. Many of their swords are edged with magebane. It's not enough to incapacitate anyone for more than a few second, but enough to cause problems if you're caught by a blade. And among them, too, are people wielding the same abilities as Templars, albeit with little of the discipline or finesse one might expect from the Order. They're all impassioned—one might even say fanatical—and won't go down without being forced to.

[ ooc | you can make your own adventures fighting the general mob as new replies to this comment, and/or tag into the specific named enemies in the comments below. the fortress and its occupants can both be wrecked without repercussions, as they're isolated and there aren't any innocent bystanders present, so have at 'em. ]

KNIGHT-COMMANDER BRETT

[exequy]

Commands for the mob are shouted into the dark by a Fereldan voice, one attached to a middle-aged man in stripped-down Templar armor. He’s no one anyone would recognize, however, from any Circle or post. He wields a Templar’s abilities to silence magic and lash out at those using it, as well as two magebane-dipped knives deployed in a quick, backstabbing style that’s more often learned in alleys than abbeys.

Whatever else he is or isn’t, however, he’s certainly in charge of the fight, marshaling the militiamen into something that resembles order. Finding him in the frenzy and silencing his orders, one way or another, will leave the rest in chaos.

[ ooc | this fight won't be gmed; use the info provided to control the npc yourselves, and let us know if you have questions! it's up to you whether the npc is killed or spared at the end. ]

OTA come join

[justice_is_blond]

The armor says everything Anders feels he needs to know. This is yet another who misses being able to hurt mages, and it is time to hurt him in return since nothing else will serve as a teacher. It's... a little disquieting to wonder briefly if that's something he would have thought before Justice, but he pushes that away. He is who he is due to everything in the past, not possession alone.

Anders shoots lightning at a tree behind the man who seems to be in charge. It falls, but doesn't hit the Templar. That's fine. A tree killing the man would be far too merciful. It does, however, have the Templar glancing behind himself for a brief enough second that Anders feels safe enough to reveal his location a second time with a second lightning bolt that streaks brightly forward to strike the man's armor and stagger him back some.

SEEKER WARRICK & RANDALL

[exequy]

In the course of the battle, under the cover of darkness, two forms try to slip away deeper into the ruin—something that would be easier if one of them weren’t slow and the other weren’t enormous.

The enormous one is Randall, a young man with hands as large as some helmets and an battle axe that might have been designed for a Vashoth. He’s Fereldan, with the rugged look of a farmer, and at the other’s beck and call. No one will reach Warrick without cutting through Randall first, and no one will cut through him without hearing that his family is dead because of mages and their rebellion and he intends to cut every spellbind down.

The slow one is an old man, making his way with Randall's protection toward one of the back chambers of the old fortress. Age has bent his shoulders and shrunken his frame, but he still holds himself as well as he can like a man more accustomed to being formidable. Once cornered he'll stand his ground, with a sword and shield and a Seeker's ability to burn the lyrium in anyone's blood.

He's Seeker Soren Warrick—former Seeker Soren Warrick, forcibly retired over ten years ago when his age and an entire career investigating apostates left him seeing blood magic in every dark corner and abominations whenever he closed his eyes. (His ire is not solely for mages. He's also likely to treat any Templar like an errant dog that can't be trusted to handle itself without a firm hand.) The Chantry has failed, he'd say, and so has the Inquisition, and if no one else remembers why magic is dangerous, he's going to see that they're reminded.

[ ooc | this fight won't be gmed; use the info provided to control the npc yourselves, and let us know if you have questions! it's up to you whether the npc is killed or spared at the end. ]

[in_death_sacrifice]

"Enough talk... I don't want to hear it anyway, because you're wrong." Kain has heard enough of that anti-mage kind of talk, and he's not going to stand for it now. He came here to fight, to finish this, and that's exactly what he's going to do. So with his sword drawn, he ensures he's got his ring of pain fired up, and charges in, whirling in an especially fierce attack, letting the small aches and pains he's gathered just before this give him strength. He's going to put his Reaver abilities to good use here and now. Swords clash as the battle gets underway.

SISTER JOCELYN

[exequy]

The Chantry Sister seen before can be found on her knees in a makeshift chapel, reciting the Chant until she's interrupted. She'll make no claim of innocence, with obvious contempt for any mages present that stops just short of spitting, and she'll refuse to answer any questions unless she can do so with the Chant. But she'll cooperate with instructions for however long it takes for her captors' guard to slip—at which point she will unveil magebane-dipped daggers and stab whoever she needs to to make an attempt at escape.

[ ooc | this won't be gmed; use the info provided to control the npc yourselves, and let us know if you have questions! it's up to you whether the npc is killed or spared at the end. ]

Diversion, ota

[justice_is_blond]

The waiting gives Anders time to fret, worry, stress... and work. Dragonstone is always in decent supply around the Inquisition, it had been easy to get, and for the other there's always Darktown. The mixture smells awful, but at least thankfully he's mixing and casting on his own off to the side - he's not about to teach this to anyone.

When the signal is given Anders slips from cover toward the ruin, portioning the blend quickly before getting back. It's far less than last time since he needs to destroy far less.

"Close your eyes." It's a hasty whisper to those he's rejoined and then he casts, causing the wall to glow red briefly before it explodes inward, blowing a hole into the ruins. That should absolutely serve as enough diversion to give the other team some cover.

IV. RECOVERY

[exequy]

After the last fireball is thrown and the last sword is dropped, when any enemy survivors are bound and guarded, there's still much to do: bodies to identify, if possible, and see to with ideally some amount of respect for the dead; wounds to ensure won't be mortal; and the ruins of the fortress to search through. Pamphlets and a few unsent letters home will confirm that the group intended to stand against the perceived threat of free mages, beginning with opposing the Inquisition's reliance upon them and the apparent free rein they were given in the war against Corypheus. Most of the identifiable soldiers were from the Hinterlands.

In the back rooms, they will find several crates of phylacteries organized neatly around the edges of an empty room, with a stone table in the center where spells had been cast. Each has a label on it indicating the circle(s) it contains. There are scores of vials within, perhaps even hundreds, some clearly labeled, others damaged by age or careless handling. Orders from on high are to collect them and return them to Kirkwall (and perhaps ultimately to Skyhold) and they will be under careful guard from the moment they're recovered, to prevent both use and destruction, but those who are quick and determined may manage to steal a moment to paw through a box and if lucky, find and pocket the phylactery with their name on it. The rest will be loaded up onto a wagon found in the fortress stables and transported back down to the waiting ship.

[ ooc | threads for feelings! you're also welcome to do other things set after the fight or during the journey back to kirkwall. ]

Christine | ota

[aceso]

{ open }

Once the battle is won, Christine is quick to leave the premises, leaving others to guard the survivors and put up with their comments. The trek back down to the waiting ship finds Christine looking pensive and using her faintly glowing blue staff as a walking stick to aid her in descending the slick gravel paths. Keen observers might have seen her pocket her phylactery earlier in the fortress and since then she's been quiet. Still, if any others find themselves walking close by, she acknowledges them with a nod and a few tired words. Mainly asking if they have any injuries they're hiding out of stubbornness. That always seems to be the way with these missions.

{ closed to church }

There's still time before they set sail, so Christine pulls Church aside for a quick walk on the beach. What she's about to say is best done out here than on the confines of a ship, where she fears there won't be enough privacy.

"Now that this is all over, I have had a great deal to think on," she begins.

Inessa, OTA

[circleprodigy]

Once the battle is over, Inessa is nearly limp with relief. It's been an exhausting several weeks, but at least now there's an end in sight. Well, there will be as soon as she finds something. After healing any injuries that need immediate attention, the young Warden and her canine companion slip away from the aftermath. It only takes a little questioning to learn about the back rooms and what lies within.

Inessa can be found there, searching quietly (as Garahel sniffs around and perks up when anyone approaches) and unceasingly until she finds the vials containing the blood of mages from Kinloch Hold. Some of the labels she doesn't recognize (especially the faded ones), but it isn't long before she finds her own. Drawing in a deep breath, she lifts her vial out of the crate, cradling it in the palm of her hand.

Such a small thing, rather plain and unremarkable...and yet it had caused so much suffering. Weeks of torment, paranoia and panic, all because of blood taken when before she was five years old. It was only to be used if she had gone apostate, something she had never considered herself...but evidently someone had. That she had become a Grey Warden didn't seem to matter.

She should cast it on the ground, be done with it and never look back. She should, and yet she remains standing there, staring at it with darkened eyes.

ota.

[exequy]

a. outside

Someone else will have to handle the pyre. Burning bodies is not his forte. Tending to them, though—looting, too, sure—is closer to. Kostos makes his way through the courtyard, rolling felled bodies onto their backs, doing his best to close eyes or rearrange expressions into something peaceful despite the stiffening that's already set in for some of them, shifting clothing and armor and hair to hide the worst of the wounds, and removing weapons or coins or letters. What happens to all of that is not his decision, but some of the letters he scans, curled over to protect them from the drizzle, using the faint light of the wisp hovering over his shoulder.

He isn't looking for a motive. The motive is obvious enough. He's looking for any sign that this isn't the last of them.

b. phylacteries
(only one thread [if any] please)

His phylactery isn't here. Kostos had guessed as much—either it wasn't here, or it was buried beneath the rest of their collection, gathering dust. Whatever anxiety confirming its absence inspires is easy to ignore. It's been out there since he was a child; it can be out there a while longer. There are, however, a very large number of phylacteries that are here and need to be collected, and moved onto the ship, and entrusted indefinitely to the Inquisition.

That's fine. It's fine. He helps move the crates. And when he picks up one labelled KINLOCH HOLD sideways, fumbles it, and spills the vials in the mud, it would take a fairly keen eye, in the dim light, to see him get one up his sleeve while he returning the rest to the crate. He's been practicing with cards.

Anders | OTA

[justice_is_blond]

[Grump, open]

He is tense after things have been officially settled, expression serious. There's no lighthearted chatter despite what they've achieved because it's not done yet for a lot of people.

While he's not smiling at people or inviting them to join him, he's also not glaring at them. Anders will even offer out the flask of what he's currently drinking from if someone sits down next to him against the side of the ship.


[Closed to Nate]

His phylactery is safe, tucked against his skin so he can feel it there and know precisely where it is at all times. A lifetime ago he'd been pulled into a trap by its promise, and now at last he has it in his possession. It still makes him tense, and still inspires feelings in him he's not comfortable with.

In a still moment, Anders joins Nate and touches their temples together. "Walk with me? I'd like to catch my breath away from the rest."

ota

[foundmyselfagain]

a. lets burn some bodies

It's tempting, not to give them the respect they'd want. To try to roll their bodies into the sea, or leave them for the animals. But he doubts he'd convince the others, and maybe he can not be a petty asshole for a few minutes. Or just a little petty, because he takes some comfort in knowing that it's a mage that is busily keeping the flames of the pyre going in this miserable damp.

He doesn't bother to help move the bodies. No one would want to watch him make the attempt, and his focus is on the flames. The fire pulls back whenever someone comes to add more dead to the pyre, and once they've stepped away, he gives a flick of his wrist, and they roar back to life.

His expression is painfully disinterested, like this is a chore on the level of sweeping or doing dishes. Something necessary but ultimately, not exactly emotionally stirring. "Inconvenient until the last, huh." He mutters, not bothering to keep his voice down. "They'd be tickled pink, I'm sure."

b. smooth, gareth

Luck is a bit of a wild card for Gareth. One could argue that he has the singularly worst luck in Thedas, but the fact that he's here, alive and mostly whole in spite of it, bespeaks some truly baffling amounts of good luck. Either way, he manages to get to the room of phylacteries before they're loaded up, and makes a beeline for the box from The Gallows. There aren't a lot--not very surprising, considering how much of the Gallows got damaged, and how many mages had the foresight to take care of theirs before they ran off.

As he pokes through them, he wonders how many of these even belong to mages who are still alive. Did they pay attention to that? Sort through them to verify life? The names on here--he recognizes many of them, and it's hard not to just overturn the entire box, watch the final hold anyone had on them shatter into a thousand pieces of glass. But he only has so much time, and so much trouble he's already going to get into, when he locates the one with his own name.

He spends a few moments staring at it, remembering when his blood had been drawn for it, as a scared child who couldn't possibly understand what it meant, what would come to pass. In that time, he's spilled so much of his own blood, used it for his own ends. His blood is his to use, now. Not to be used against him. Never again.

The phylactery slips through his fingers, and he watches impassively as it shatters, spreading glass and blood on the cold stone floor.

"Oops."