faderift | Crossing the Crossroads

They set up camp for the night, at a point when it's too dark to wander further, but too early to quite sleep yet. Beleth busies herself with the task of attempting to cook food, but there's a quietness in the air, not helped by her nerves. It's worrying, having no idea what they're going to be running into, and anxiety paints plenty of possibilities, each worse than the last.

But she's surrounded by people that she's fond of--for the most part--and there's plenty of time to spare. Surely it wouldn't hurt to relax for a while, while they have nothing better to do?

"Have you ever heard of the game Never Have I Ever?" Beleth looks up, and glances around at the others gathered. "Zevran introduced it to me, when he was with the Inquisition. One person states something they've never done, and anyone who has will have to take a drink. Though...I don't know if we have anything with us for the purpose." A foolish oversight. When has a lack of alcohol ever been fortuitous? "I'm sure we can figure something out, though."

[[this is going to be one thread!]]

Once she is content there is enough firewood gathered, Herian sees to the state of her gear, checking for repairs, oiling leather armour. All those jobs that benefit the light of the fire and thus keep her tethered there, rather than able to slink away to the shadow and beg some respite.

"Better we go without liquor to keep us adequately sharp for what lies ahead," Herian says quietly. Never have I ever been a killjoy, Herian might have to drink for that one. "Perhaps all can be contented with something a little less like to addle the mind."

Solas, at least, is a little more comfortable than the others; this is his forte, after all. The suggestion of elven history, an exploration into the woods where there might be something more interesting... That was more than enough to lure him out of his office and away from his books, even if he might not always appear as though he enjoys the company. Throughout their trip he had mainly kept himself closest to Thranduil and the Lady Galadriel, speaking very little and not doing too much to bring attention to himself.

The suggestion of a game, however, has his nose wrinkling. It speaks of the tavern sport back in Skyhold, and it's obvious that he's not particularly inclined to settle down and start engaging in something that would be both juvenile and a little too revealing for his tastes.

"If you wish to play," he begins, voice soft and low. "I will gladly venture into the Fade." It's unlikely he'll be convinced to do anything else, unless someone is particularly good at swaying grouchier elves.

"Ah, but how many things you have seen in your journeys and how easily you could win," Galadriel observes idly as she moves past Solas toward the fire, without much thought her fingers light on his shoulder and then glance away. It is a quiet request to remain, though she is uncertain if he will heed it.

There is some strain to their task, to the unknown quality of it, but she is delighted to be free of Kirkwall and among the trees again. Her mood is bright, even after hard travel. In the dark of night her glow is brighter, but not nearly so much that she competes with the fire. She takes a seat before it, resting on the ground within the sphere of light and warmth.

"Perhaps it is best that you do not play; to lessen the competition would make victory quite simple for me."

Still being new to the Inquisition and visibly intimidated by the sheer level of elfage happening here, Fifi likes to sit with the others but quietly so, listening and observing and taking her cues from Beleth, whom she considers her superior.
It's quite difficult also not to stare at Galadriel, but Fifi is well-learned in averting her eyes when necessary; however, at the moment, with the older woman being playful, it's more difficult not to smile at her.

"I've played this," Fifi volunteers, "many times. It is not so bad, messere Solas, and certainly not worth crossing the Veil to escape." haha who would do that right

Herian looks, for once, faintly bemused as Galadriel speaks. She is not acquainted with Solas, and she is hesitant to invest too much in reputations. Apostate? That's bad. Elven? That's good.

Being the sole human of the group is not an unfamiliar experience, after growing up in the alienage, after spending so much time in alienages across Orlais and in Kirkwall. It brings a strange, longing ache, the way that it so often does, and the shame in her humanity that never really fades. With that said, never have I ever been an elf would probably be a valid play, but not one she would enjoy making, when her shortcomings are well known to herself, and probably highlight a good deal of other personal flaws to the others of this party. She focuses on the leather armour for a moment, frowning at an area that needs repair.

"I would not have thought you one for such sly tactics," she says to Galadriel, who is... perhaps... the only person on this trip who doesn't consider Herian partly terrible. It's not teasing, but it is— okay, fine, it is teasing but it's teasing in a Herian way, which is hard to detect.

He watches Galadriel and Solas only out of the corner of his eye, only to say ‘oh’ to himself and note to observe closer in the future, because unless he is much mistaken, he has seen her be so only once before. Watching the second time, endowed with all the wisdom of years, will be just as delightful.

If Beleth wants to set the group at ease, familiarize them with one another, then he will help, as much as he is able.

How little Herian knows—but no matter. Galadriel’s secrets are her own, and they will both be better served by her keeping them.

“Come, Solas, please,” he says. “Between the two of us, we might contain her.”

His own nature as a Rifter does leave him exposed.

The gentle touch to the shoulder seems more than enough to calm Solas, and while he still looks a little petulant and just a touch on edge it seems as though he's been well convinced. Breathing out a soft noise, he shifts to make himself comfortable, almost tucking his legs under himself as he settles down. There's no denying that seeing Galadriel with some happiness to colour her has him relaxing, even as he glances over.

"It would not do for me to make the game too easy, I suppose," he admits, before his attention is drawn away to Thranduil. It's interesting to see how easily he fits with these two, he thinks, and how very distant he feels from the Dalish themselves.

Not something to consider now, but for the future...

"We cannot make it so that her victory isn't well earned." Finally, Solas smiles. "I will play."

Beleth doesn't say anything as the others gently poke at Solas, not sure if her attempts to encourage him would do anything but the opposite. Galadriel's interaction with him is the most interesting (worrying) and she takes a moment to look over at Thranduil, raising an eyebrow. Is it her? Is she seeing things??

But, the important thing is that he's agreed. She gives a pleased smile, and a small nod to Herian, yes yes they won't get drunk. Not that they could, if they wanted.

"I'm glad to have you join us, Solas. Though I think you're all underestimating the rest of us." After all, when you don't have millennia to live, you have much less things to do. She decides against pointing that out. "For instance: Never have I ever used magic, or anything that would be analogical to magic."

Here, she gives a small, sly look to Fifi. Neiner neiner, we're so cool.

Herian, in the spirit of begrudging compliance, sips from her water skin.

It's a sip, and it's water, so it's not actually that compliant, but even so. "Never have I ever been a master of spies," comes a somewhat retaliatory murmur.

Does she have a sense of humour, or is she just being difficult? The Herian Amsel story.

Fifi smirks, from Beleth to Herian, her hands staying where they are.

"Never have I ever traveled with the Inquisition before now," she provides.

Galadriel laughs as she takes a long drink from her water skin. Her smile wide as the game progresses. She looks over the group and considers them a moment before submitting:

"Never have I had, nor celebrated a birthday."

Technically true. She predates the concept of days pretty soundly.

The townsfolk are happy to point them to where the band of soldiers were last seen, and once the trail is picked up, it's almost laughably easy to follow. They either didn't think that anyone would come after them, or they didn't care.

The trail takes them deep into the woods, and before long, leads right to a small elven ruin. It's a single room, showing signs of being recently used. Not by the soldiers, however. There's a single bedroll, a small campfire, some supplies strewn about--everything suggests a few people at best. And, most notably of all, is a tall mirror that stands against one of the walls. Anyone who has seen an Eluvian before will recognize it. Even if you didn't know, well. That's one pretty mirror.

Before anyone can look around in earnest, there's a shout from outside. The soldiers that they've been looking for have, conveniently, appeared, right in front of the ruin. They start to rush in, but halt when they see the party. "Maker's ass, there's a bunch of them! Wasn't there supposed to be naught but one or two?"

"Does it matter?" Is the gruff response from one of the others. "They're knife ears, they're here, we deal with them." And Herian, but none of the soldiers seem intent on correcting him. Instead, they draw their arms, and advance.

[[ you can control any of the soldiers as you wish, and split up into multiple threads, or stick to one of them.]]

Given that a knife was taken to her ear, she feels she should get partial credit.

Herian advances, murmuring a spell to cast a barrier of flame that arcs across the part of some of the advancing, burning fiercely as she draws her ice sword in one hand, and activates her Spirit Blade in the other.

There is a moment of prayer, barely audible to others: "Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven." And then comes the clash of swords as one of the bandits meets her.

When the fighting breaks out, Fern's reaction is almost literal paralysis, like a rabbit cornered by a fox. It takes the near-miss from the swing of a soldier's sword to have her lunging out of the way out on instinct and, at the last possible moment, throwing a lash of flame at him from her palm. Enough to set his trousers aflame and scurrying off, at least. For a few more seconds she lays there in the dirt, struggling to catch her breath.

This is it, Fern--go big or go home.

Or die messily, that's also an option.

By this stage she has, at least, mastered some marginal control over the shield she is able to summon from the anchor shard in her palm. Stumbling awkwardly after Herian, she summons it into place just in time to prevent an arrow from striking the Knight-Enchanter in the shoulder.

Edited 2018-03-12 19:28 (UTC)

Equally unequipped apart from a knife, Fifi's first reaction is to cower and hope to go unnoticed; but then Fern is under attack, and something kicks in.
Knowing full well that this will go badly, Fifi darts over to Fern to stand at her back, slashing out with her blade and nearly missing a man's face as he advances.

The shimmering green shield created by her anchor mark at least prevents them--Herian included--from being struck by any arrows flying their way, but it won't do anything to stop the advancing ground forces. Fern wouldn't know what an effective flanking maneuver was if someone demanded it of her right now, but she startles to realize that there's a defensive presence at her back fending off an attacker she hadn't even realized was there.

With Herian engaging the bandits, Fern feels secure enough to turn quickly and step up beside Fifi. She's really only got one combat spell in her arsenal worth its salt, and so that's what she unleashes on the bandit, and another of his companions, as they come closer. As Nell taught her, she narrows her focus to the ball of fire that's she's conjured into one palm--then unleashes it at the bandits in a narrow, racing column of licking flames.

...It's the single-most violent thing she's ever done to another person before in her life, and as they thrash around with their clothes on fire, she looks momentarily stunned by her own actions.

Well. She owes Fern her thanks, but the very heat of battle seems not the time to take a moment to express gratitude. Though she has no healing talent, no magic understanding that suits her to creation over destruction, she is a resilient thing. She does her best to keep the bandits focused on her, and their fire focused on her.

The Heart of Rage whispers to her, and for a moment the bandit immediately before her seems distorted and almost demonic. Her teeth are bared as she furiously blocks a strike with her sword, and casts fire mine on the ground two steps behind him, before kicking him backwards into explosive magic.

This was supposed to be a scouting mission, but maybe she should have expected more combat. Maybe she shouldn't have brought the less combative agents--but no, they have Thranduil, Galadriel, even Herian. And as much as Beleth and Herian don't see eye to eye on certain matters (everything), Beleth knows the mage is a solid ally in a fight. Solas, she assumes, must have a good handle on combat as well, with all the wandering he does.

And Beleth has her own skill, of course. The small ruin doesn't leave a lot of room for maneuvering, but Beleth scales a fallen chunk of ceiling, and perches on it. From there, she pulls out Andruil's Gift, electricity already arcing along the length. A vial is pulled from her belt, and thrown at some of the archers standing at the back--instantly, a noxious green cloud rises up, and the men start wheezing in earnest.

Satisfied that they won't be an issue, she turns to the ones harassing Fern, and fires. The arrow hits one, and there's a scream as lightning meets already burned flesh. Ugh. That smells awful.

Edited 2018-03-19 00:55 (UTC)

After the fight is over, there's one soldier left. He's not in the best of shape, but he's well enough to spit at Beleth's feet as she approaches. "Fuckin' shit. This was supposed to be an easy gig. No one said shitall about fightin' an entire group of you."

"It seems to me," Beleth replies calmly, kneeling down next to the man. "That you've been bamboozled. It would be a fine act of revenge for you to tell me who's put you up to this, and why."

The man's response is an angry snarl. "I ain't telling you knife ears shit." And with that, he reaches for his sword. Beleth quickly straightens up, and puts one boot firmly on his hand, eliciting a noise of pain, and then several colorful insults.

"Hmm." Beleth doesn't move her boot, but looks up at the others. She's hesitant to do anything particularly harsh to him--not out of empathy, but out of a desire to not appear bloodthirsty to those around her. "Ideas?"

Of course, if they suggest anything morally ambiguous, that's another thing entirely.

Throughout the fight, Solas had mostly played on the defensive - barriers around his allies, ice and Rift magic to stop people from getting too close to those that weren't mages, making sure that the damage to his group was as minimal as he could make it. His interest int he soldiers themselves seems to falter once the fight comes to a close and he moves forward, stepping up to where the eluvian stands and gazing at it in awe.

He's not exactly keen to reveal why he's so interested in something as simple as the elven mirror, but he assumes that most people will imagine it's something to do with his interest in elven lore and little else.

"Have they been using this?" Slowly, he turns his head to look over at where Beleth and the soldier are, tilting his head. He has no desire to see the man die, currently - bandits and soldiers do what they're told and paid to do, even if it is not the moral choice - but he needs the information that he thinks the man might have. Slowly, he lowers his staff and tilts his head.

"If this is a working eluvian then there may well be a code to unlock it. We must make sure that we find it, from him or from anything else that might be left around." If anyone knows Solas well it might be clear that he's almost... Excited.

"Using that?" The soldier asks, frowning at Solas and the eluvian. "What would we do with a mirror, tidy our hair?" He snorts at that--it might be a dig at Solas.

"I'm assuming that's a no." Beleth offers, looking up at Solas as well. "Though, I guess he could just be lying to us." She looks down at the soldier, and presses her foot down harder on his hand. "What do you know about the eluvian? What have you been told about it?"

"I said I wasn't going to tell you knife ears shit." He insists, and Beleth responds with an annoyed frown, then looks around.

"But Solas is right, we should look around for if there's anything that will unlock the eluvian. It'll be useful for the Inquisition, if nothing else." Maybe they could drag it back to the Gallows, somehow? That'd be a pain, but. A useful one.

Thranduil, who has very tidy hair, even after a fight, had gone to the eluvian to stare into its depths, remembering the last time he had ventured through the Crossroads. He thought of Morrigan, and her own eluvian, about codes and locks and keys, and then walked back over to Beleth, dropping neatly to a crouch before the prisoner (out of headbutting range) his arm draped over his knee.

“The Inquisition does not have the resources to support imprisonment of low-ranking soldiers,” he says, to the man. “If you tell us nothing, you will be brought to the nearest camp, tried, and sentenced. Not to death,” he demurs. “But perhaps you will lose a few toes. Fingers. Something that will make you unusable by any mercenary band or army. You will be unable to trouble the Inquisition further, and you will have your life. You are the last of your band. If you have something worth telling me, now would be the time. Knife-ear or not, I can help you. We will find what we came for, but if were faster, I would appreciate that.”

Simply, carefully put. He finds that pain is a tricky motivator. No challenge, no chance to make a martyr of oneself, just simply—a choice. One he hopes Beleth will indulge him in. And there is always Galadriel, if need be.

After her close brush with violence in her lame attempt at defending Fern, Fifi has withdrawn to press against the wall of the chamber, where she stares fixedly into the eluvian as though trying to solve some ineffable puzzle. The shems don't bother her, dead or alive, but this strangeness rattles her. It feels familiar somehow, though she's never seen anything like it in her life.

Fifi has company where she's pressed back against the wall; she's singed and bruised from the fighting and white-faced from the violence that she'd seen meted out in front of her, which makes it all too easy for her to stare at what is transpiring between Thranduil, Beleth, and the human on the ground.

She looks away from the scene and shifts closer to Fifi, bumping into her shoulder. "I don't like this," she whispers to her, ashen.

Crossing the Crossroads

Party time

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fight fight fight

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moral quandaries!!

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