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]

[ Having magic cast on him is not Iorveth's favorite activity. It's disorienting, unnatural feeling, and usually leaves him either dizzy or nauseous. However, he knows the value of a magical boost amidst a raging battlefield, has known it for the centuries he fought side by side with other mages of varying talent.

Being aware of all things around him, keeping a finger to the pulse of a battle, is something Iorveth puts a large part of his attention towards in a fight like this, so he sees the Elven(ish) girl descending, and remembers standing next to her on the ledge, hearing her loose her spells on the canyon below. Without realizing it's him she's headed for at first, he lifts his bow to snipe a couple Templars looking to shoot or cut her down from the sky. It's when she closes in that he recognizes her eyes on him. Iorveth has time enough to holster his bow, and list a hand high enough to reach her outstretched one, saving her having to drop any lower.

The world seems to lurch, and slows around him, but drawing his swords takes no longer than it normally would. Really, he had no idea what the woman would be casting on him, but once he realizes it, his lips pull into a sharp smile. What a nice gift, and he intends to make the most of it.

Dashing through the fray around him, it's easier still to avoid incoming attacks, and Iorveth ducks and weaves, speed added to an already quick fighter. He aims to disable as many as he can, taking no time to kill most, but mainly to drop them, let the others finish them off. Blades swipe against the backs of knees, where the armor leaves a gap in the plating. Joints are such vital points, but so difficult for conventional (especially heavy) armor to protect. A leg is completely hacked off here, a hand sent flying there, the wooden haft of an ax chopped straight through. By the time he feels time begin to quicken again, Iorveth knows the spell must be fading.

Knowing all magic comes with a cost, and remembering the disorientation that typically catches up with him, he doubles back, behind the frontline, making sure not to be caught in the midst of it when he slows and must adjust to simple human perception. Besides, he'd put his all into that handful of moments to make the most of the spell, and he'll need a second to breathe before jumping back in, eyes glancing around for where the mage eventually landed. ]

[thunderproof]

❰ adalia doesn't have time to watch and see whether her choice was the right one — flying broomsticks don't maneuver on a copper, and it's an even more difficult proposition to navigate the active battlefield in front of her as she attempts not to fucking die. she's trusting that the elf behind her understands, that he took that little gift and made the most of it while she weaves above the battle and back to relative safety. when she lands on one of the scaffolds and flattens herself to the boards, trying to make herself as small a target as possible, that's when she looks to see the effects of her spell.

what she sees makes her — well, slightly alarmed, really, that is a very talented elf, but also just proud that she read the situation right. she keeps an eye on him as the minute wears on, flinging sparks to finish the job on the enemies he merely disables, and when she sees him fall back she picks herself back up, alighting on her broom once again. it'd be shitty to leave him to deal with the after-effects of haste on his own in the middle of a battlefield, after all.

the descent doesn't go as smoothly this time — without the elf to pick off the templars firing at her, adalia gets hit in the bicep with an arrow. there's nothing to be done for it — she grits her teeth, presses herself closer to the handle, and just focuses on the elf, she can't think about anything but him —

when she lands, it's stumbling, slightly, but she plants herself in front of the elf and pulls her shield off her back. ❱

Catch your breath, I'll keep them off you.

[aenseidhe]

[ This, however, is not anything he's ever seen.

A mage, dropping down from her safe place, to play shield for him. Even a mage with a shield at all. He doesn't really need quite so much of a break as she expects, considering he's been waging war for over a century, and even a magical drain isn't enough to put him down for long. Endurance is key on battlefields, sometimes gruelingly long.

But he takes it regardless, catching his breath and letting himself relax (a little) for a moment, but not entirely without activity. Digging one of the pouches at his hip, he pulls out a wrap of bandage, and a small vial. Reaching out, he tugs at the back of his top, pulling her back behind the ranks some, where they'll have a chance to both stand still an out of danger a moment. A hand grabs at the elbow of the arm that was injured, pushing the fabric away from the wound, before he says - ] This will hurt.

[ the cork in the vial is popped, and it's definitely alcohol that he pours onto the wound, sanitizing it. Immediately after, the bandage is wrapped over it, overlapping a few times, before he ties it tight, firm pressure kept over it. ]

Even a small wound like that can kill a warrior if infection sets in. [ a beat, and he adds. ] Thank you, for the boost.

[thunderproof]

❰ it's not that adalia is unused to people caring for her when she's injured, exactly — her group in toril wasn't that uncaring, even if they were more suspicious of her than not, and people in thedas have been much friendlier than they ever were. all the same, she isn't expecting the elf to give much of a shit about patching her up, and she's fine with that, honestly — do the job that's in front of you, worry about everything else after it's done. when he pulls her backward, adalia stumbles a little, turning to face him with a shocked expression, uncomprehending for a moment. it's the alcohol that shocks her enough to make her actually react, hissing in a breath and pursing her lips against the sting. ❱

Thank you for the bandage, ❰ comes her reply, shifting and flexing her arm to test her range of motion — moving it stings, but not so much she needs to adjust the way she moves. she turns to face the battlefield again, assessing what she can do where, but her options are limited — with so many allies bunched up in amongst the enemies, she doesn't have the control to avoid hitting friend and foe alike with a good deal of her spells. sighing, adalia slings her broom back over her shoulder and pulls a sword hilt off of her belt — not a sword, just a hilt, though she handles it with the expectation that she'll be able to do something with it. ❱

I can give you another boost, if you like. You disable, I clean up after you. There's not a lot else I can do without hurting people I don't want to hurt.

❰ the perils of close quarters combat when you're an area of effect caster. ❱

[aenseidhe]

We'll tend to it properly once we're done here.

[ Once all the Templars are dead and they can have more than a handful of seconds to breathe. Iorveth's eyes are already back to the field assessing the layout of it and where he ought to move next when she suggests another spell. It isn't a bad idea, and they make a very good team, so long as the down time when the spell fades is handled well.

Iorveth nods his assent, drawing his blades again, turning one in a hand like working out a stretch in his wrist while he readies to launch into the fray again. but before he goes - ]

Keep your distance from the Templars. The mages straying too close have had their powers nulled. [ And, if they don't have someone nearby ready to step in, they're easily cut down. He'd rather not see that happen to this girl, and if he's concentrating on getting the most out of her spell, he may not catch it fast enough. ]

[thunderproof]

❰ the concern is touching, and adalia smiles for it, though it's unnecessary. ❱

Don't worry about me and the Templars. Fethos.

❰ there's no time after that command for any more words. the shield in adalia's hand begins to float of its own accord, interposing itself between her and the battle, and she turns to iorveth again and reaches out with her newly freed hand. time slows around him, and at the same time the hilt in adalia's hand springs to life, a blade made of pure lightning springing from the metal.

time to kill some shit, iorveth, ❱