[closed] tiptoe through the tulips

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict, Wren, James, Simon, Hanzo, some new friends
WHAT: The time has finally come to return Benedict to his people. Something maybe goes a little bit wrong.
WHEN: Early Bloomingtide
WHERE: southern Tevinter
NOTES: Warnings for violence.

Three Templars, a magister's son, and a Shimada cross the border from Hasmal to the Tevinter Imperium: it sounds like a joke, and in many ways it probably is, but to Benedict it just seems like overkill.
His mother requested the Templars, ostensibly for protection against the southern apostates driven mad by their little war; Hanzo, a man whose name he recognizes but is too young to properly remember, presumably tagged along for the practical benefits of visiting Minrathous without the Inquisition's grandeur.

Magister Calpurnia Artemaeus awaits them at the family home, and all they have to do is get there. Surely the nightmare will soon be over.

Comments

I. Traveling

[altusimperius]

Benedict is not a pleasant travel companion, or an especially gracious one, which means the trip is taxing from the get-go. He's in relatively high spirits on account of finally being able to leave the accursed Kirkwall, but that doesn't make the walking any easier or the food any better.

There's discussion on whether to go north earlier, skirt a right at Hasmal and cut toward Perivantium before heading on northwest, but the Imperial Highway is right there if they move into Nevarra. The first way is more circuitous and inconvenient, but the second takes them through the Silent Plains, which means higher risk of shenanigans.

Being in a hurry, Benedict votes for the Highway, but he may not be the only one with an opinion.

[limier]

It's definitely overkill.

But she doesn't trust Ashlock or Norrington to this alone (alright — doesn't trust Simon not to abandon James in the desert and then have a heart attack from guilt —), and there's nothing in Kirkwall she doesn't want the back of just now. Perhaps it's folly, to push North again so soon after the last fucking disaster; Minrathous promises no more welcome than Salzklippe.

Owns as many teeth.

"Wyverns in the plains," And ghasts, and Blight, and storms. And little else. The sooner they've Artemaeus out of their hair, the better, but best of all not to lose a hostage. The Venatori have looked for him before. An eye to Shimada, Ashara: "Your thoughts?"

Benedict's don't particularly matter. Sorry buddy.

[eruit]

His own travels away from home had been ten years in the past; it's been a very long time since Hanzo has done any travel towards Tevinter whatsoever. It's not an easy road to take, especially not with a group of people that is as varied as their own is... He wants to see his homeland with enough longing that he has no desire to complain, but he is already feeling the budding edge of frustration at simply trying to choose a route to go.

"Toward Perivantium may not be faster," he says, voice low and quiet. It's carefully measured, as if designed not to give away any kind of feelings either way. "But there is a risk of danger in the Plains which may slow our travel. We are not here to seek a fight, we are here to make haste."

There's nothing to say that they won't be entirely free of the Venatori, either, which makes his brow drop as he grows a little more tense.

[judgemewhole]

James had no idea which would be the faster way, outside of reading a map. So when it came to deciding which way to go, he honestly would prefer to stick to the map. He held Dauntless's reins loosely, looking from Benedict, who he did not want to follow, to Wren, whom he knew was only along to keep Simon and himself from being left in the dessert to die.

So, in the interests of keeping this going, he glanced over at Hanzo. Then back to Simon. After that, he drawled out, "Well, I cannot speak for the rest of us, but staying out here in the heat will be bad for the mounts and the people riding them. Quicker would be wise."

[altusimperius]

"What's that," muses Bene snidely, "a Templar said something intelligent for once?" He directs the comment at... no one, really, because he's surrounded by Templars and a former magister he considers beneath him, but someone has to appreciate his scathing wit. Maybe the fennecs will.

[limier]

"Perivantium." As though that settles it — perhaps Benedict has a budding career in reverse psychology — "We can trade horses in Hasmal if need be."

Unless Ashlock has a compelling argument otherwise. One sandstorm was enough for the year.

for Hanzo

[altusimperius]

Benedict has all sorts of theories on why Shimada joined their party at the last minute, and none of them are especially favorable. He's never met the man in person, or if he has he was simply one in a sea of faces at some party or another, but his being here in Kirkwall of his own volition and his apparent desire to go back to Minrathous raises some red flags. Especially since, even if he doesn't recognize Hanzo, Bene knows his name. He knows about the Shimadas. Any magister's son worth his salt would.

It's in a low voice that he addresses him, just a day or so out of Kirkwall and still relatively energetic for the long journey ahead. "If you're hoping to win my mother's favor," Benedict murmurs, or rather drawls with a snide curl to his lip, "you'd better be ready to do some groveling."

[eruit]

There is something that Hanzo is well versed in and that is distrust; there is no one in this place that he trusts and no one that he believes trusts him and that is likely for the best. Trust means comfort and he has no desire to become comfortable in the fold of the Inquisition - that only breeds danger. The fact that he is on this trip in the first place is a mixture of a desire to see his home (as much as he can, given the nature of their travels) and to escape from the city walls, at least for a little while.

When spoken to Hanzo is, usually, quiet, but the very notion that he might be attempting to gain any kind of favour from any mother in Minrathous makes him laugh, a low, quiet chuckle as he shakes his head.

"I do not wish for favour from any parent, certainly not yours."

[altusimperius]

Far from dissuaded, Benedict smirks along with him, watching Hanzo like a hawk even as he chuckles. "Well," the boy muses, "that explains a lot."
He couldn't be happier to be on his way back to his old life, which was the peak of comfort and privilege, and can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to do this.

[eruit]

It's like bantering with a child and Hanzo only has patience enough to resist the urge to roll his eyes quite heavily. It has been some time since he was home, true, but he can remember the pride and arrogance that comes hand in hand with Tevinter blood and magic - he still carries some of that weight himself.

"Is there something you want from me?"

II. Ambush!

[altusimperius]

It's the end of the day, the party is minutes away from deciding where to camp, and the dusty, unlit road is lit up by a glyph of paralysis. As everyone is abruptly rooted to the spot, the shadows in the bushes around them begin to converge into a group of hostile figures. "Tie them up, quick!" cries one, and ropes are cast from outside the glyph to lasso each traveler, cinching tightly around feet and midsections.

Benedict's shout is rather higher-pitched than he'd have liked.


[OOC note: feel free to fight! Please just remember that the plot won't progress until they're all captured, so at some point everyone is encouraged to mess up or be overpowered.]

[limier]

Alright. Not overkill.

"Va te faire foutre," Spoken as though through treacle. Wasted energy to the words, save for the focus they carry, a shimmer of white light rippling up a frozen arm to flare at the end of a fingertip. The glyph shudders, disjoints itself — "Not again."

She manages to lay hands on her blade before the rope yanks, and she hits the dirt.

[paladingus]

The glyph is dispelled before Simon has time to call forth the lyrium in his own blood, and he uses those extra precious seconds--half gathered by letting another templar handle the magic, half gleaned from the extra effort required to pull his immovable bulk off-balance--to keep his arms free of the rope and throw them back behind him for balance.

He can't keep the rope from jerking him off his feet, but he can put himself in a position to get back up as soon as he can free himself from it, and sets about doing just that with teeth gritted.

[eruit]

He moves as quickly as he can manage given the suddenness of the glyph; his hands are on his bow before he can do anything else, an arrow slipping through his fingers as he's pulled and hits the ground. It doesn't quite manage to stop Hanzo from grappling again with his weaponry and he shifts, awkward with the inability to use his feet. He stabs an arrow into the rope, hoping to cut it with the sharp edge.

"Move!" It's easy enough to shout to the others, even as he's trying desperately to cut and cut.

[judgemewhole]

It's all down to seconds, isn't it, in a battle?

James feels the glyph take place, and his hand is already going to his blade as the glyph slams into place and is just as suddenly gone thanks to Wren's quick thinking. He leans himself backwards, to keep the rope from cinching him or his arms as he swings the sword to help Hanzo slice through the rope.

He says nothing - just tries to roll away from the rope and follow the man's advice, coming around to his feet to fight off their attackers.

III. Captivity

[altusimperius]

It's some time later when the party comes to, having been given a sleeping draught that allowed for them to be hogtied properly, all their armor and weapons piled neatly in a pushcart about ten feet away from the horse cart in which they currently reside. It's dark out now, and the only sounds are those of quiet talk and the thud of horse hooves as they make their way to a destination unknown.

Benedict is still out cold, he and Hanzo draped unceremoniously over the backs of horses, their arms tied to their sides and their ankles tightly wound with leather cord. The cart is for the Templars, who have all been lined up facedown, their hands and feet bound, gags in their mouths.

"They're stirring," someone says, and a female voice laughs. "Rest up, you lot, it's a full day's journey before you'll start making us coin."

Re: III. Captivity

[judgemewhole]

James makes a face - oh Maker's Breath - they're braggarts. As if this wasn't annoying enough already. He doesn't even bother to respond to that, just attempts to roll himself over onto his back as best he can. He's feeling about for a sharp edge in the horse cart's wood, something he can work on loosening his ropes with, but makes a great show of groaning in pain.

It's ... sigh, not hard. They were not gentle. Bastards.

[altusimperius]

A small rock is chucked at James from one of the riders behind the cart, who can see everything. "Knock it off."

[judgemewhole]

It's not easy around the gag, and that rock does nothing to improve his temper, but James is if nothing a man who is all right being a target. Let the others do something sneaky.

So he lifts his head, and muffledly says around his gag, "Then Shut Up. Maker, you're all annoying."

Comes more more like "Ttt shhh pp. Mkrrr yrese ull afhahyaaan."

[eruit]

Hanzo wakes up with his arms and legs tied. It's not something he's experienced before, but the gentle movement of a horse under him is enough to let him know just what is going on. He recognises the gait of a horse moving and he realises, quickly, that their mission has not been as successful as they had hoped it might be - not when he's thrown over the back of an animal like this.

His first thought after that is for Storm Bow and a wave of panic rushes through him.

Carefully, he lifts his head, tilting his gaze despite the tiredness he feels and the soreness of his body. Any glimpse he can get of his bow will be enough, even if he's listening to everything that their captors are saying. He will get his vengeance soon enough.

IV. Heroic Rescue

[altusimperius]

It's been well over 48 hours since the party was captured by slavers, and though they're periodically offered small amounts of water and gruel-- only if they behave themselves-- little has been done to attend to any other physical or emotional needs. The three Templars are once more piled in the cart, the two Tevinter countrymen flung over a horse, this time wide awake and aching from the effort it takes to try to look around or do anything but jostle about like a pathetic slug. Their weapons are, as always, tantalizingly near but farther away than any can reach, in a pushcart at the end of the convoy.

It's night, and the little procession has been well on its way for several hours when, in the distance, comes the sound of thundering hooves.

Re: IV. Heroic Rescue

[judgemewhole]

James had had ...some gruel and some water, but only because after he raged himself into passing out, his particular 'tattooing' had gone rather peacefully for the slavers. His skin still burned, and he knew from the amount of dirt and grime, it was going to be infected.

A grim satisfaction from that - he'd soon lose all value to these bastards. The sound of hooves made him turn his head, but nothing more. Right now, he was just waiting for the next level of horrors to begin.

[limier]

The hours begin to blur.

Parched throats, a cramped — everything. The pounding in her head and hand won’t recede any time soon. At a certain point the water had been worth giving in for. It’s an assessment she’d be more prepared to revisit with any hope of backing it up.

There’s silence, at least, or what passes for it. There’s no need to justify the route, to defend poor decisions, to fret after Simon’s shoulder, to try vainly to soothe whatever Norrington’s gone off about in his own head. The impossibility of giving a shit is almost freeing, if you ignore that it's painfully, acutely lost.

Two days ago, thinking was a lifeline, a rope to pull out of this fucking mess. It’s lost its sheen. What this might mean. Days without lyrium, weeks without words, years without,

Well. Easier: Just don’t think. A scope narrowed to that directly before her eyes. The side of the cart, glances of desert receding. The flicker of steel too far from reach.

(It’s a good sword. You try not to get attached, but it’s a good sword. A pity.)

Hoofbeats mean people, and people this North of the border don’t need to mean anything at all. But. Think, listen. Watch how their guard reacts. The archer, the fat man. The woman with the knife, the mage. The small one. The bored one. All bored enough by now, and will that last?

Probably Simon doesn't need or appreciate an elbow to his ribs. He's getting it all the same. You awake bro.

[eruit]

Back on the horse - he should be thankful that he has been treated at least a little better than the others, but he cannot find the strength for that level of positive feeling as it stands. The disconnect between himself and his spirits is vivid and he fears, more and more as the minutes go by, that someone will notice the nature of his bow, that someone will discern the two spirits entwined together, curling around one another in the shape of the wood, and consider what power lies there.

He will not allow his spirits to be poisoned. He would die first - and that could well be the plan.

Hanzo does not hold much in the way of hope when he hears the sound of hooves in the distance, shifting his head and feeling tension twist in his stomach. At best it will be a distraction and he gears himself up for it, ready to do whatever he can to try and free himself of his bindings and crawl to the weapons - if he gets the chance. There is no guarantee the first step of his plan will be a success.

[altusimperius]

A nervous murmur ripples over the slavers, and they begin to slow, checking their cargo, drawing swords, preparing for the worst-- and then the leader is aflame. He and his horse both scream, the former falling off gracelessly and the latter darting away, bucking wildly as it rids itself of the fire and is lucky enough to succeed.
At this point, all becomes chaos. A shout of alarm, more flames, this time a wall that obstructs their path, several riders galloping by to slash the throats of the party's captors, unison gurgles of alarm before they fall thrashing to the ground. The big man is among them, his blood spurting over the Templars as he falls, casting them one last look of bewilderment and terror before he collapses below the cart to die.

Within minutes it's over, an armed guard circling the wagons and remaining horses, and two of them part to admit a grandly-dressed, olive-skinned woman with gleaming black hair and a look of pleased arrogance that they've all seen before.

"Mmrrhrr??" Benedict wails through his gag, and she dismounts quickly, her men following suit to finish off the slavers and free the captives. When all is said and done, Bene hugs her tightly, his hands shaking, weeping into her robe, and she pats his back lightly with a look of vaguely disgusted affection. Careful dear, you smell like shit.