OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[aenseidhe]

[ girl, what the fuq.

galatea is very lucky to look fairly clearly elven, with her wide eyes and pointed ears, or she'd probably have been grabbed by the scruff of her coat and tossed out of the tent on her ass. she's also very lucky she looks almost like a child down there. still, there's a long moment that iorveth stares down at her, expression blank, trying to decide if dragging her out or letting her stay is the better choice.

he seems to be attracting the weird ones in this place. at the very least, it's making sure things aren't boring. so, yeah, okay. she can stay. sighing, he reaches out to take the waterskin, sniffing at the opening first, before taking a swig. somehow cold makes you thirsty??? ]

Careful. She might crush you in her sleep. [ the fat ass chicken. who is a 'she' for the moment, we'll see how iorveth feels about it tomorrow. ]

[kecharitomene]

No, she loves me.

( based on what. has probable-lady chicken geralt even noticed that there is a small elf where eggs should be. is galatea just that persuaded of her own inherent charms with regard to animals and children. whatever it is, she is serenely certain of it, nestling in, a picture of cosiness—

discreetly spitting a feather out of the corner of her mouth. this is an undignified means of staying warm, but the chicken had looked more immediately cuddly than the big rift elf, and she's looking forward to telling bronach about it. i have made a new friend! she comes with a one-eyed elf! he is mildly threatening like you, you will like him.

she has already decided she likes him. he has a great big chicken, what's not to like? )

You're a new rifter, yes? ( her accent lilts orlesian, but he's too new to know what that means. ) My name is Galatea, I'm a—scout.

( yeah.

among other things. )

[aenseidhe]

[ Iorveth snorts, and there is maybe, possibly, almost a twitch at the corner of his lips that might have been a smile if Iorveth was the kind of person to ever smile at anything besides murder or torture or Geralt of Rivia. ]

Told you that herself, did she?

[ He comments dryly, clearly not expecting an answer to that, as he takes a seat with an exhausted flop, lounging back against the bird's side while he tugs up the furs she'd been carrying to bundle himself in. The waterskin is handed back over. ]

Iorveth. I'm a terrorist.

[ He's cold, he's hunger, he's tired - he's in a shitty mood and small talk is not something he has much patience for even on a good day. So let's just be honest here. Also, he finds it kind of funny, and if it's creepy enough this little girl will find another tent. Granted, she's not actually bothering him much as she is. Win/win. ]

[kecharitomene]

Oh!

( how unexpectedly pleased she sounds, big eyes bright— )

Says who?

( this is important. )

[aenseidhe]

[ Well that's. New. His head turns to look at her little face poked out from under Geralt's wing, and one could probably infer the arched brow that's hidden under his bandanna right now. ]

Humans, mostly.

[ He shrugs, voice a deadpan, not seeming too perturbed about being regarded a terrorist. ]

Nonhumans that wish they were. [ Human, that is. ]

[kecharitomene]

Me, too.

( she is so little and ridiculous. it would be easy to think—no, nonsense, she's trying to ingratiate herself, she wants to sound impressive like the big elf. and yet.

and yet: there's something about the way she smiles. the way she moves, when she does move, emerging from underneath the chicken (...look) to sit up beside it, tucking herself up against instead of beneath. that she isn't glancing toward him for approval, but bestowing her own.


elves who are called terrorists, she thinks, are often something else. not always. maybe he is just an asshole. but—

the benefit of the doubt is a sweet gift to give. )

[aenseidhe]

[ Lol, okay. The comment does draw a sharp, bark of a laugh, because it does seem utterly ridiculous, for this girl (clearly a girl, still young) to declare she fits the same title. And yet, Helena had this childish, out of touch sort of nature to her as well, even as she wore the blood soaked dress around their camp.

Perhaps it's true. War creates all kinds of broken people. They'll just have to see. ]

You do seem terrifying, Chicken Whisperer.

[ He jokes, dryly, as he tugs over another fur to hand it over to her. If she insists on leaving the warmth of the chicken's belly, she ought to keep herself bundled up instead. ]

And why is it you're called that? What did you do to the humans to make them fear you so?

[kecharitomene]

( galatea sits cross-legged tucked under a chicken's wing, and she looks like nothing so much as the girl she'd be so easily to dismiss as. the fur only increases that, when she wraps it around herself, only her little face and tight braid visible— )

I was an agent of the Chantry, ( easily, nestling in with fur against geralt, ) until the mage war. There were these child mages—I can show you! The letters. They write to me, I like to have them near. The pictures, too, but I put those in my room, mostly, except for the ones that are for Solas—

( anyway, back on track. )

The little ones, they came into the Chantry mothers' hands after their protectors were killed. I did so many ugly things for them. Maybe they thought one more was all right. But—

They've done nothing wrong in the Maker's eyes. They're little things. Babies. How could someone ask me to kill a baby?

( her fingers touch the edge of her tattoos. still bright; less than a year old. )

So I didn't.

( yeah, that's not where that story ends. )

[aenseidhe]

[ It doesn't take much in the way of context clues to decipher this first part of the girl's story. she'd lived in something of a church, with overseeing religious mothers, who'd shaped an ignorant girl into a cruel tool for their faith.

his lips curl in something like disgust, not at galatea herself, but what she'd been treated as. she's no huamn's child, surely no one would miss her. Iorveth can hardly be free of causing the loss of childrens' parents, perhaps even children themselves in the fires that were set to the villages that would hunt them through the forest. made examples of elves living within the city. he never really took any joy from harming or orphaning children, but he is what he needs to be.

were he in galatea's place, he'd have done the same. or, what he imagines she'd done. hope she had, anyway. ]

And the mothers? Did you send them to meet their god?

[kecharitomene]

I wouldn't say,

( at length, as if stirring herself from memory, )

whether or not He would have accepted them, but they went.

And no one knew about the children, yet! So they looked for one city elf, alone, and not a Dalish refugee with children. ( she is still pleased with herself for that bit of cleverness: ) All elf girls look the same, no? I become a different one, and disappear.

And now I am a scout!

( a sigh; )

I am learning to be a scout.

( he can perhaps draw his own conclusions as to what purpose she was molded to before. )

[aenseidhe]

Hopefully not too quickly.

[ hopefully their deaths were slow, painful journeys. his mind strays to the religious zealots of his world, the order of the flaming rose, the witch hunters that would put a nonhuman to a pyre as fast as the would and actual witch, regardless of what meager crimes they could pin to them. it all lumps into the same category for him, and it's good he keeps what rant he wants to give to himself.

this girl seems to still be taken in by doctrine of payment and punishment. singular all knowing, all being entities that leave no room for anything different in the world, less their children be cast to eternal damnation simply for suffering a nonbeliever alone. they cleanse evil with fire, calling and execution 'salvation' instead. his eye closes, trying to push the memory of burning flesh and screams near drown out by a cheering mob from his mind, focusing instead on the trick she describes. ]

Very clever indeed. Dh'oine can be relied on for two things - missing details, and ignoring things they do not care for.

[ nonhumans, elves, ugly truths. either it's ignore or eradicate, depending on how offensive said thing is, and how useful it could be if spared. ] You've done well for those children.

[kecharitomene]

( there's some rummaging underneath furs, and then her little gloved hands (...the knuckledusters have been removed, so as not to accidentally do his bird an injury in the night) emerging with letters and pictures clasped, warm from where they were tucked against her body and soft at the creases. children's writing, children's drawings; some of them sweeter than others, some of them a bit more troubling. benoit writes of how his knuckles are entirely healed, now, and he wears the fingerless gloves that she sent him, and here are two drawings that katherose did for him of his gloves and of his tattoos without them.

it's hard to tell, because none of these children are over the age of about ten or prodigal artists, but it looks like the knuckle tattoos are supposed to look like galatea's knuckledusters.

galatea is a little shy, in handing them over, but more proud than anything else— )

We traveled together to the mountains—they are my little ducks! I miss them.

[aenseidhe]

[ Iorveth takes the letters from her, taking time to read over each slowly, sinking in the details, looking over the doodles like there's more to them than children's drawings. he's painting a mental picture of these children, how they came to be like this, and what galatea is to them. not particularly because he cares so much about a stranger, but, as he'd told geralt, he makes it his business to know everything about everyone around him. especially ones claiming to be dangerous.

the children are as well, it seems, and iorveth isn't greatly surprised by that. considering the place they'd come from, with their church protectors seeking to murder them simply for being. even the hunters in his world wouldn't jump to that with younglings. ]

These mage wars you mentioned. What are those? [ He's asking, while still reading over the letters and pouring over the doodles. Trying to paint a more complete picture. ] There's hatred for mages where I'm from as well, but so few of them it really only amounts to a few crazed riots. All the rest hide in cities, until witch hunters drag them out and burn them at the stake in the courtyards.

I've never seen it done to children. They tend to hide better.