faderift | OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

WHO: New Rifters & Inquisition Members
WHAT: A journey south to make new friends and kick some ass
WHEN: Drakonis 15-25
WHERE: Sunless Lands
NOTES: Violence and language assumed. Warn for anyting else. OOC post.

The Sunless Lands are not, in fact, sunless. This time of year there can be as many as eight hours of daylight, some of it blinding where it reflects off of snow and ice that stretches from the southern edge of the Kocari Wilds as far as anyone can see, broken only occasionally by rocky masses of land jutting out of the snow cover or barren tundra peeking out in patches where constant, unforgiving wind has pushed it aside. You'll be traversing this span primarily on foot—there are sleighs, too, pulled by hardy dogs, but they're carrying essential supplies rather than spare people. The only way to get a ride is to successfully feign passing out.

Beyond the dogs, the area isn't devoid of native wildlife: white fennecs hunt rodents underground, and a herd of excessively fluffy wild druffalo is seeking out whatever vegetation it can find. But hunting down a meal or two early and preserving rations for further south would not be a bad idea, because the further south the team travels, the more inhospitable the terrain grows, and the less life can be seen. And sometimes not much of anything can be seen, when clouds roll by and burst with snow thick enough to halt progress entirely for hours.

The nights are cloudy as often as clear, but when they are clear the sky is split by green and purple ribbons of light.

I. THE RESCUE

Two days' journey south, the monotonously icy horizon is broken by something new: smoke rising in interrupted puffs, an intentional signal. Someone is out there. Chances are, it's the rifters, with or without their first group of intended rescuers. But there's no way to be sure. And approaching with caution is wise either way. Rifters have strange powers (and strange personalities), and they've been out here for days now, dealing with demons and Maker knows what else on their own. For all anyone knows, they could be the reason for the rescue team's disappearance. Orders are to approach carefully.

Then, once contact has been made and initial concerns have been allayed, make sure those poor people have something to eat, and try to figure out where their original rescuers disappeared to.

II. THE STORM

After the rifters are recovered, there's still the matter of the red lyrium mine to address. Another two days' journey south will put the group within good range of the mine: not so close as to be seen, but close enough to be able to get there in a couple of hours as needed.

Halfway there, however, in the middle of the day, progress comes to an abrupt half when the darkest clouds yet gather suddenly on the horizon and barrel down on the group, bringing with them a glut of snow that reduces visibility to only a few feet and wind that roars so loudly you have to shout to be heard. Magic can help some with heat, but the storm shows little sign of quickly abating and with hours of deadly cold conditions to deal with, digging in and getting cozy for a few hours might be the most feasible solution for everyone.

III. THE VILLAGE

Shortly before the point everyone is aiming for—one marked by an enormous stone carving of an owl, several times taller than a man, that's inexplicably been left by the ancients in the center of the tundra—something else appears not far to the west. On closer inspection, it turns out to be a circle of low-sitting animal-skin tents pressed down into the snow to protect them from wind, rocky fire pits, and abandoned sleighs. Overall, it's a cross between camp and village indicative of a nomadic group that's staying a while but not forever.

It's empty now, with a coating of snow on most of the structures that indicates it's been at least a few days since anyone was here. Closer inspection reveals personal belongings inside the tents, including toys and clothing belonging to children—and, in many tents, chunks of red lyrium in the center or beneath the skins that form the beds, each piece emanating heat. They probably thought it was safer than fire.

Wherever they went, they don't come back while the Inquisition is there. But the activity does get noticed. A few hours after arrival, enormous white bears apparently moving in a pack come within a hundred yards of the camp and pace at a distance, watching the interlopers with wary interest. Some of them are wearing collars or harnesses decorated in the same style as the tents. For enough food, they may come closer, and they'll turn out to be abnormally tame.

IV. THE BATTLE

The red lyrium mine that Corypheus' followers built when their operations were crippled in Emprise du Lion is nestled in an icy canyon, with massive scaffolding built up the sides of the cliff and too many cages to count, though few of them hold living prisoners anymore. It's a massive operation, but one that's been crippled by its distance from civilization. It's sparsely guarded compared to its size, and other than the cliffs, it has minimal natural protection. The enemy has magic-silencing Templars, enormous behemoths, and a chained white-furred giant, but they are clearly not prepared to be attacked.

Ahead of the onslaught, traps are set and any surviving prisoners are evacuated under cover of darkness. Everyone else sent to fight either creeps down shortly before dawn, rappelling quietly to avoid notice in the dark, or waits at the top for the first surprise strike to provide enough distraction for them to descend more openly. If anyone has been particularly nice to the bears (see above) then it is entirely possible they'll allow themselves to be ridden into battle.

Once their presence is known, their orders are pretty simple. Destroy it all. Leave no one behind and nothing worth returning for.

Fire is a good strategy. Red lyrium doesn't do well in heat.

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IV.
The Heart of Rage burns brightly in her hand, the gnarled ahead of the stave engulfed in flame. The red lyrium emits heat that almost seems to come in waves, like the rolling of the tide. It feels like it could burn her alive, and for brief moments the lyrium seems to warp and twist before her very eyes, before returning to normal once more. (The staff, she knows. These strange visions seem always to come when she holds her staff, and yet, she is uncertain, even as the fire burns fiercely.)

Control. She just needs to exercise better control.

— option a: battle/magic dampened.
The downside to doing battle with red templars? They are still templars. On the one hand, that means they were once men and women who lived to serve, either through choice, or because it was the only life they had ever known. To question orders was to question the Chantry and the Divine and the Maker. Did any of these people wish to become what they were now? Had they walked willingly towards red lyrium and its power, or had they been men and women who followed orders in the belief that they were performing the sacred duty that rested on their shoulders and was to keep Thedas safe?

Following the orders of consuming lyrium was not the same crime as following orders that condemned the innocent, even if she struggles with things she has seen, things that she has done for the sake of duty. (The forest, a voice haunts her. She should have done better in the forest.)

In this moment it does not matter. The hilt of her Spirit Blade hangs at her side, but a fearsome blade with a biting chill to it and a icy blue glow is in one hand, and her staff in the other. She wields the staff skilfully, striking a templar swordsman in the throat and spinning it around, sweeps him from his feet with a crack to the ankles, before twisting and raising the sword to block another’s blade.

A third approaches, vicious hooks of lyrium that have grown to overtake his arms.

— option a: battle/magic is go.
Lunging forward, Herian stamps her foot on the ground as one of the giant, towering beings that were once templar knights lumbers forward. The form now twisted and monstrous, more lyrium than flesh, it seems impossible that anything would remain of the person they once were.

As her foot hits the ground, there is a quaking in the immediate vicinity, flames bursting up from the ground about the
horror, as she swings her spirit blade low to strike at its legs.

Another is moving in her direction from behind her.

— option b: lyrium destruction.
TLDR she’s casting a shit load of fire spells

CLOSED - FOR SARAH.
Herian is not a grand cook, nor is she particularly good at welcoming. The first is well and good, when there are others assigned the task of meal making, but the latter is a problem she is attempting to work on. If nothing else, for the sake of the Chantry Relations project that demands she become a little less useless at diplomacy. The rifters, though, are people she has a certain fondness for. Cosima is one, obviously, but they seem a people displaced and lacking common ground who are (for the most part) doing their best within a totally foreign world, trying to save a place they have no obligation to. That means something.

It is one of the reasons she is on this mission (albeit having brought a lot of paperwork with her), and why she has been handing out servings of stew and rations to those in need of it.

She wanders towards a woman with dark hair from behind, a steaming bowl in one hand, and a heel of bread in the other. "Here. This might warm your belly."

Her accent might be mistaken for Irish or Scottish, by someone not a local, and she stands with a sword hanging at her side, dressed in dark robes beneath a fur-lined cloak.

OR WILDCARD for non-battle starters, bc I am deeply lazy.

Elros has no magic - he's human these days, even with that strain of the divine still humming in his veins - but he's elf-trained, and no matter what anyone's opinion of their morals are, there's none in his world who are more deadly than his teachers. He's fast, and he's adaptable, and he's learnt enough to dodge when someone chucks magic around.

He's lost sight of his kinsmen, but he's not particularly worried. Fingon and Meadhros can look after themselves. He's found Herian, though, and although it's not as if she needs him either, he can, at least, make sure she doesn't have to watch her own back. He wields the massive longsword one handed - and in his left - with a shield in the other that he uses as much to ram as to block. He doesn't bother to be pretty - in a battle there's no time, and these battles he's at a serious disadvantage. He takes one of the hooked arms off at the elbow, spinning past, and then rams his blade into his enemy's side as he falters. It's always risky doing that, as the blade might catch on a rib and stick, but Aranruth was forged to cut through things far harder than bone, and he's not sure what more would kill these once-people.

With an outward circle of the ice blade, Herian disarms one of the templars. He's a second blade in hand, still vicious in close quarters, but she slashes with her sword across his throat before he has a chance to bring it forward.

There's another, still, the first one that she winded before Elros arrived, but she looks now to her friend. "Thank you."

A third might have been dicey to handle without taking significant damage.

He salutes her with the blade, a crooked smile on his face.

"At your service, milady. Although you look to have a good handle on things without me! It feels as if we're making very little headway."

Sarah doesn't trust this woman. She doesn't trust any of the people who've come to "rescue" them and take them to another city she's never heard of. If it were anyone else, carrying anything else, she might not even turn around—but the woman's accent reminds her of S, and she's carrying food. Five days of weak fish water and melted snow have more or less turned Sarah's stomach into a shriveled husk of its former self. Her body turns before she can even command it to, hands reaching out for the food, an instinctive need.

"Thanks." This is belated, muttered only after she's grabbed the bowl of stew and the bread.

Herian, generally, would like to think of herself who can take things rather well in stride. It would be false, of course, but she can muster the appearance of taking things in stride, and perhaps that is close enough. In this instance, she does not take it well in stride, or appear to, as she is struck silent for a moment.

"Wait. Let me see your face."

A moment passes, and she realises how severe that must sound. "Please," she tacks on, a moment too late.

Sarah complies, though the expression on her face is more "why the fuck?" than "sure, take a look!" It's Cosima's face, for sure, though somehow harder. Same brown eyes, though. Same nose, sans ring. Sarah's upper lip is curled, doglike, in confusion more than malice, but it's overall not a very welcoming picture.

"What?" she says finally.

Maker's breath. She looks shocked, for a moment, and bow her head apologetically.

"Pray forgive me the rude demand," she starts, and then realises she has little clue of what to say next. "You bear a great resemblance to once I am closely acquainted with."

There isn't really any kind of social procedure to brace someone for such circumstances as these, she suspects. "Does the name Cosima meant aught to you?"

Yeah, okay, whatever, Lancelot.

That's what Sarah's about to say, before the name Cosima registers. She can't hide her reaction—the widening of her eyes, the way her head snaps up in surprise. She can't let herself get too excited too fast, though. Cosima's not a common name, but it's not unheard of. Still. The woman says Sarah looks like her.

"Tell me about her." Sarah's way of finding out if this is for real. No giving up of information until she knows that.

"Tell you about her?"

A reasonable enough request, but for a moment Herian looks at a loss. Not unhappily so, mind - there's a slight smile. "Cosima is... beyond words. Her— her kindness and her gentleness are unparalleled. She is capable of making friends wherever she might go, I cannot think of a single person in the Inquisition who has ever had any ill to speak of her. "

It is not enough. Herian's brow furrows a little, trying to find the ways to describe how wonderful Cosima is - because that was the question, right?

"We had a sickness in the Inquisition some weeks ago, and her dedication and her mind are one of the only reasons any cure was found. She is extraordinary in every manner that it is possible for a person to be so."

Oh, Jesus bloody Christ. Where to even start with this?

"I meant what does she look like, where's she from, what's her surname?" Y'know, shit Sarah can use. If this is her Cosima, it's not like Sarah would argue against any of the things this woman is telling her—though some of it she has no context for, which is disappointing—but... come on.

"Ah."

It's her default response when she's not sure how to respond to something, and Herian clears her throat a little awkwardly. "Of course, my apologies. She's from San Francisco in the state of California, does not consume meat, and she wears glasses. Her last name is Niehaus, and she told me that she has a number of sisters through complex circumstances. She's studying a doctorate in—" Maker, "Evo Devo."

Which sounds really stupid to say to someone who isn't Cosima. She's just decided she is never saying Evo Devo again, only Cosima can pull that off.

Sarah puts her face in her hands before Herian is even finished talking. She's not crying, because she's too exhausted to cry, but her shoulders slump and she exhales shakily in pure relief. Cosima will help them get out of here—Cosima will know what to do. Cosima always does.

"Oh, god," she breathes, and lowers her hands. "You need to take me to her."

Not terribly skilled with comfort, or at ease with physical contact, Herian nonetheless feels the urge to offer it sharply - one so similar to one so dear to her, and Cosima’s kin no less. Carefully, gently, she sets a hand on the strnager’s shoulder.

“I am sorry to say she is not amongst the Inquisition forces that travelled hence, but in our Kirkwall outpost. However, I can— we have communication crystals, if you should wish to speak with her before we return to Kirkwall. Then I will gladly take you to her.”

Communication crystals. Well, that sounds like some bullshit to Sarah. She sniff and shakes off the woman's hand, not rudely, just... please, let's not make this weird.

"When will we get there? How long?"

"A week, at the very least. Two, more than likely."

She sighs, and undoes a leather cord about her neck, a crystal hanging from it. "What is your name?"

"Two weeks?" She sounds disbelieving. Yeah, sure, she sees the sleds and the dogs and the conspicuous lack of cars or other modes of transportation, but... two weeks? It doesn't take two weeks to get anywhere on Earth, anymore!

"My name's Sarah," she offers, after a few seconds of sulky silence. Two fucking weeks. Jesus.

"Well met, Sarah. I wish it were under better circumstances. My name is Herian Amsel, I serve as Knight-Enchanter to the Inquisition."

Herian takes a moment dealing with the crystal, before she hands it over to Sarah. "Here. It is ready for you to speak with Cosima, if you wish." She hesitates a moment before adding, "I will give you some privacy, but if you could return that to me once your conversation has ended, I'd be much obliged."

"Whatever that means."

Despite her surliness, Sarah reaches out to take the crystal, holding it outstretched by its leather cord like she doesn't quite know what's supposed to happen next. "How does it work?"

Were she feeling less than charitable, Herian might meditate on the escalating impression that Cosima might have inherited the lion's share of charm in her family. Truthfully she thinks it and then dismisses the thought as both unkind and unbecoming.

"Simply speak. If she has her crystal to hand, she will hear you."

Well, she wouldn't be wrong.

"I'll bring it back when I'm done." Sarah closes her hand around the crystal and turns to find a private spot. She's still not totally sure she believes this is going to work, but anything is worth a shot. At the last second, she glances over her shoulder. "Thanks."

"Take your time." She can only imagine Cosima will have a great deal to say, given how long it has been since she had her family present to speak with. "Do not hesitate to seek me out if you've need of any other aid."

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There are enough magic users and lyrium, even if it's red, to go around to make using his ability as a Seeker dangerous. It would leave him distracted, and while he's certain others would not get caught in the crossfire, so to speak, what happens if all the lyrium catches alight? Burns need to be controlled, lest the entire mine collapses around them.

Still, to see a lyrium-encrusted brute stalk up on anyone makes him twitchy.

Instead of resorting to--well, to a last resort, he takes up his bow and plunges three arrows into its shoulder. Were it a smaller foe, it would have been knocked clear from its feet. As it is, the force--and while he cannot name where it comes from, there is force--causes the former Templar to spin, uncertain on its feet for enough of a moment for Malcolm to start to close the distance. "Herian!" By way of warning.

She is too focused on the flame. It is not solely a matter of being committed to the task; it is the furious whisper of the Staff of Rage in her hand, the way it escalates the dread of the red lyrium before her, an already significant concern becoming more nightmarish moment by moment. It must be destroyed, and though that is a known fact, now the push for it seems almost frantic.

She hears her name, and spins to face the stalker, thrown off balance but one of its claws that has consumed his arm still raised to strike. She blocks with the staff, swinging the other end around so that the claw cannot reach her, but striking the stalker hard cross the face, and buying herself just enough time to draw her ice blade. Relying too much upon her magic in the face of templar adversaries would be nothing short of folly.

Edited 2018-03-26 01:04 (UTC)

Though he has kept his distance in the fight, plunging arrows from a distance with a sharp eye and sharper aim, he has no qualms on bringing the fight more up close and personal should the need arise. His bow, he knows, is nothing ordinary, though he's been unable to trace its craftsmanship.

So he knows that when he closes the last bit of distance and catches the backside of the brute's knee, the bow may bend but surely not break. With the smack across the face and already unbalanced weight, it goes down hard on said knee.

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OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

Herian Amsel

option a1?

ah yes it seems i mangled my own system and forgot to relabel

XD

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b

sorry for the slow reply!

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