[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

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.

[altusimperius]

"The big one, the big-- AUGH"
One of their hooded attackers bends and clutches his head as a purple cloud forms and dissipates above him, rather resembling a skull; Benedict, a few feet away, looks very pleased with himself for the seconds it takes another attacker to whack him over the head with the flat of his sword.

The others heard the order, and an arrow flies at Simon while Hanzo's effort to break the rope is interrupted by a massive bulk of person slamming him onto the ground. Wren is looped with another rope while she's down by a fifth assailant, which puts the count at six in total: the last squares off against James, shifting from foot to foot and swapping which hand holds her dagger, her eyes fixed on his, trying to keep his attention.

[at this point I am gifting three of the bad guys to Liz, who can respond after this next round (before me)!]

[limier]

For her part, Wren bypasses attempting to cut the rope, and settles for trying to stab the living shit out of the legs of anyone who gets close.

There's probably a more poetic way to put that. Poetry isn't exactly on her mind.

[judgemewhole]

James eyes the dagger and pulls his shield free as he prepares to parry with the blade against any daggers that might come flying at him. He's done enough training with Beleth to know they can stay in your hand or they can sink into your throat if you aren't on guard.

Ice climbs over his weapon and shield, and his green eyes narrowed. She wanted his complete attention? She has it.

[paladingus]

Simon doesn't have time to react to the target that's been painted on him, not for longer than a split second before the arrow finds the glaring target his bulk has provided it with. The archer strikes true, bypassing the plate armor encasing his torso and aiming straight for his dominant sword-arm, the barbed point punching straight through the leather that protects his bicep, the skin, the muscle underneath it, and lodging right in the bone.

But battle-adrenaline and lyrium make a powerful brew when combined with sheer stubborn spite, and by the Maker's grace, he refuses to go down without at least taking a respectable number of Vints with him. He snaps the arrow off at the shaft, crushing the thin wood in his gauntlet, shifts his sword to his uninjured arm--he can bear its weight in one hand for a few valuable minutes--and rejoins the fray.

[eruit]

Being crushed by the weight of an ambusher is not something that Hanzo was prepared for and the wind is knocked squarely out of him - he does his best to regain himself, to push up, but there's very little he can do other than twist his body and attempt to stab the arrow into the man weighing him. Instead of trying to break free - he's strong enough, but not while he's being smothered and crushed, he thinks - he twists and tries to reach for his bow instead.

If he can reach the bow he can reach his dragons. If he can reach his dragons, his Honour -

It's out of reach and he shouts in frustration, stabbing again.

[altusimperius]

[jk I'm doing it]

Hanzo's arrow finds little purchase, between its wielder being out of breath and considerably outweighed. His hands are dragged behind him by a much larger pair, who holds him on the ground with a knee to his back as ropes are tied. The man is bleeding a little, but was only scratched.

The archer fires again at Simon, stepping nervously back and away, aiming for his legs in hopes of slowing him before he can kill anyone. The person dealing with Wren cries out as she takes a nasty gash to her leg before dancing back and then quickly forward again, stomping all her weight onto the Templar's sword arm. The man who struck Bene unconscious turns his attention now to Wren as well, and steps on her back to keep her from retaliating.

The rogue toying with James feints at him, pulls away, and darts in again, quick motions designed to hold his concentration. The second half of this strategy becomes clear when the first mage, the one who seems to be in charge, mind blasts James from behind, intending to knock him off his feet. If successful, they both leap atop him to start tying his feet and hands before he can get his bearings.

Whatever the attackers want of the party, it's clearly not to kill them.

[judgemewhole]

James, alas, is so focused on the rogue that he doesn't see the mage. However as much as he might be stunned, he is still a Templar, and when you are a Templar you at least know how to shout out a Prayer to Dispel Magic, as best you can. He's on his knees, and while his shield is too far away, he can at least try to slash at his attackers before they overwhelm him, or at least land a solid, armored punch on one of the bastards before they have him tied again.

[limier]

Boot finds her wrist, and the snarl curling her lips chokes into an abrupt warble of pain. Her free arm strains up, steel claws scrabbling for purchase in the wound, a handhold by which to drag the woman down.

Her palm closes about calf only a moment before the second heel connects with her spine. A flash of blood from the corner of her eye (Simon? Momentum of a fucking druffalo) — and pinned at three points (four) — there’s only so much that struggling does.

Norrington flounders. The Vint, spent. Fear rises, meets and mingles with a stomach sunk low.

Someone's really going to have to kill Artemaeus.

[paladingus]

Simon might volunteer enthusiastically for that duty if he ever gets the chance, but Benedict is the last thing on his mind right now. One arrow can be brushed off for a moment in the red haze of combat, but two is too much to demand that his body bear, and it slams just above his knee--another too-large target even through the skirts, practically beckoning--to bring him crashing to the ground.

His reach isn't long enough to exact revenge from there. He clutches his sword with futile determination, but nobody's stupid enough to allow him to use it.