SHOULD GLORY COME AT SUCH A PRICE, Part II

[faderifting]

WHO: Characters in Minrathous
WHAT: Daring escapes
WHEN: End of Solace
WHERE: Minrathous
NOTES: OOC plotting post!

It's become a running joke that wherever the Inquisition travels, disaster follows. It stops being funny somewhere around mid-afternoon: not long after a cadre of Inquisition representatives departs to speak with the Archon at a secretive location, the atmosphere in the palace shifts. The staff is watching the Inquisition's movements more openly, and guards are watching their own colleagues with more interest. In the late afternoon a woman arrives with a small entourage, and while she doesn't visit the visitors' quarters where the Inquisition is housed, she might be glimpsed through a window or cracked door, with twin blonde braids looped behind her ears and serious eyes above a gap-toothed smile. Only those who were at Haven would recognize her for certain.

In the meantime, back doors and side exits that were previously open and unguarded begin to close, here and there, with enough subtlety that it would be easy to miss at first, until the scattering of guards throughout the palace suddenly doubles. Most remain tight-lipped, offering only the most cursory explanation: routine security response. A few are willing to offer more, but their stories vary: rumors of a potential intruder on the grounds, a visiting petitioner causing trouble, unrest in the city over a recent vote, some sort of controversy in the Magisterium. It's increasingly clear that something is happening, but equally that those in the palace willing to speak of it have no idea what it is.

The main doors remain unbarred, and members of the Inquisition are not stopped from leaving, but warned that once they do, they're on their own. Those who venture out will find the city in a similar state: thrumming with unfocused anxiety, gossip flying, wild stories about attacks on the city gates, the harbor blockaded, a purge in the assembly, a slave revolt, armies on the march, fires on the mainland--too much to parse through and find any kernel of truth before it's too late.

Thankfully, there are sending crystals. Eventually, there comes a whispered warning: leave the city, now, without anything that might slow them down. There is no way for the entire delegation to safely meet, so instead spots are chosen both within the palace and without, places that small groups can congregate without drawing attention to arrange an escape toward the city gates.

It's as much advance notice as anyone could hope for, but it still isn't enough to make this simple.

Comments

THE ARCHON (Closed)

[faderifting]

It is understandable, Radonis hopes, all of this cloak and dagger inconvenience, in a city where the walls may have all but literal ears, and where a man in power has no one he can rely on outright, only those he can rely on to be afraid of him and those he can rely on to take the first opportunity to stab him in the back, with significant overlap between the two groups. There is nowhere in the city to speak plainly, and nowhere in the palace to speak at all. A touch of symbolic flair, then—to match his sweeping robes and towering hat—that it's a mute slave who comes for the Inquisition's representatives, unable to share anything with them except the Archon's seal and a gesture to follow.

The streets she leads them down are labyrinthe, some as old as humanity's first Thedosian rulers, often unmarked. At night they might be intimidating, but the sun is bright, and at one point a pack of barefoot children runs through the group and ahead of them, pursued by a playful dog.

Beyond a high black-stone wall and a creaking gate, there's a spot of green and an enchanted fountain, shaded by a single draping tree, attached to a house whose deed Radonis' name does not appear on. A house beneath him, and rarely occupied, except for the cat, which comes and goes but has currently come to sit beside him on the bench and have its head scratched. The cat startles, when the gate opens, but Radonis does not, rising with his back to them to place his (ridiculous) hat on his head before he turns to face them.

"I apologize," he says, "that it has taken me so long to greet you."

OOC | this thread is closed to the chosen team. no tag order, but tag at least once a day or we'll have to leave you behind. this is set prior to the escape things below, but depending on the outcome here, your characters may not be able to participate in those prompts freely, so wait until we give you the go ahead!

[dashing]

The path here is fascinating, strange. There are times when the mazed streets and looming building remind her of home in strange ways, even if it is the evocation of feeling moreso than physical resemblence. She cannot help wondering how much of this is performance and manipulation; they are in Tevinter, after all. The Archon may not openly support the Venatori, but that did not mean he was not linked with them, a tool of their power.

"Archon Radonis," Herian replies, with a respectful bow. She is not at ease being here, but at least her posture is so generally rigid and upright that it's hard to specifically tell that she's not at ease. It's the same cool tone that carry her words in most settings.

She does not say that it is no worry. Frankly, she is uncertain whether it was a deliberate tactic, a slight, or related to some other— concern. (Perhaps she is simply paranoid, after having been on other trips with the Inquisition. Not every mission and diplomatic effort she will be involved with ends in crisis and escape. That would be absurd.)

"I am honoured to present to you Provost Thranduil, the Head of the Inquisition's Division of Research, who has joined us through the rifts," an outsider, one of questioned status, a symbol of much that has intrigued the Venatori, protected Thedas, and an elf, in what is perhaps a somewhat defiant choice by Herian. "And Duke Romain de Coucy." Human, noble, utterly without magic but not without power, and one for whom Orlais is home, it's invasion a more personal matter than Herian can claim to call it.

(She spies the cat, and is briefly surprised by it.)

[toujoursdroit]

Romain bows as well, calculated as precisely as one would expect; the Archon is a powerful man, but an Orlesian duke does not owe him allegiance. There are forms to be observed, here as always.

He allows Herian to take the lead, for now, as the head of diplomacy. He is mainly watching, from behind his mask, intent and on guard. He is not here as a representative of Orlais, inasmuch as Celene has no say in his presence at all, but if the Archon doesn't already know that, Romain sees no need to enlighten him. He can serve as a visible reminder that even the empire under siege is not entirely helpless.

[rowancrowned]

He cannot have worn the get-up through the street, Thranduil thinks, similar enough to his own inclination to hide the shape of his ears, his shard, his height in these streets, and to wear plain things. His thoughts are interrupted by Herian introducing him, and like Romain, he must bow, but by a scant few degrees deeper. His hands settle clasped behind his back, and he watches.

He has watched a great deal here, and said nothing throughout. Holding his tongue thus far has brought both resources to the Inquisition and the position of Provost, what is one more city? The courtyard is quiet enough that the feeling of separation from the rest of Minrathous is complete.

THE CITY (Open Free-For-All)

[faderifting]

The chaos and confusion in the city crest suddenly, as rumors and warnings suddenly crystallize into activity. Soldiers appear in the streets, most traveling in organized packs, but otherwise not easy to pick out on sight: many are robed, others in plain clothes, and some wear the uniforms of the city guard, or a noble's private force, or even the Imperial guard itself, making it all the more difficult to tell friend from foe (foe from foe?). Their numbers swell as they move through the city, shepherding people back into their homes. Those who go quietly are left with a stern warning to close their doors and remain inside until further notice. Those who do not are made examples of, surrounded without warning and beaten within an inch of their lives.

If the Inquisition is going to escape the city, it will have to be done fast, and carefully. There are still enough people milling in the streets in most neighborhoods for them to blend in, assuming they ditch anything that marks them as Inquisition and travel in small groups. Disguises of any kind would be wise, plus whatever other precautions people are capable of: stowing away in wagons, posing as people either too significant or too insignificant to be hassled, traveling over rooftops or through sewers, staying out of sight one way or another.

Making it through the city will not be easy—more and more of the enemy roam the streets, and it is clear by this point that no one can be trusted, no matter what their dayjob. As time passes the streets grow emptier, making discreet travel more difficult. The exceptions are the city's main market, which is filling with a crowd that has been steadily increasing in both size and anger. Violence breaks out in a flurry of lightning and fire, and spills rapidly into the surrounding streets. Smaller acts of resistance and riotin are scattered about, disorganized and opportunistic, a skirmish here, an ambush there. The streets are littered with shattered window glass and magical ice, chunks of half-melted cobblestone and charred wagons, random possessions dropped in the rush to comply or escape.

At first it's just a matter of avoiding being locked in somewhere, then of avoiding capture: word spreads through the populace that any known members of the Inquisition are to be captured and delivered alive to the palace. Finally, news comes via crystal that a few teams of agents, in the right place at the right time when all this began, are securing passage out of the city. All agents are directed to rendezvous at the nearest of three locations: one near the docks, one in the catacombs beneath the city, and the third at the dwarven Ambassadoria. Escape is possible, but first they have to get there.

Despite the many distractions, only those underground will miss his arrival. It's heralded by the dragon's bellow, the red lyrium that encrusts it glowing in the afternoon sun as it rears back in the air to announce his return. The beast's massive form casts shadows broad enough to throw entire blocks into darkness. It circles as if surveying the scene below, then stops above the palace, the dragon's wings sending great gouts of wind down onto those below as it hovers. Atop it, Corypheus lifts a hand.

Just for a moment, it may seem an empty gesture, but then the shaking begins, a humming in the earth even those in the catacombs and the Deep Roads will feel in their teeth. And then, the Archon's palace rises, new stone sprouting up out of the earth, pushing its foundation upwards, the entire complex lifted as one to meet its new master. He waits, arms outstretched as if addressing an orchestra, until the Archon's private terrace atop the main tower has been carried upwards high enough to brush the dragon's feet. It perches on the rail, stone crumbling between its claws, and the Elder One disembarks.

OOC | make your own top-levels and have fun. (and there's time here for our tevinter citizens to quietly and sneakily check on their families if they need to be sure they're not in immediate danger in order to be willing to leave.)

The Brothers Asgard

[hwaaaitsme]

I. Lunch in the Market

The weather in Tevinter was, above all things, very lovely. It was warm, sunny, and just humid enough to prevent everything from being utterly insufferable. Minrathous even had a wonderful sea breeze that traveled inland and kept the stench of city life off of the streets. Today, on this lovely day, Loki and Thor had decided to spend some time away from the Inquisition and instead with their mother. Their father, to no one's surprise, had avoided meeting with his sons during their visit to the capitol but their Mother had come all the way from Marnus Pell just to see them.

So, if one is walking through the marketplace or enjoying the street magicians, there are good odds they will see Thor, standing tall and clad in red and gold, and Loki, in his black and green regalia, escorting an older blonde woman about from shop to shop. She is dressed in fine cyan silks and golden jewelry and, unlike the rest of Tevinter, seems to have an inarguably friendly air about her. The two brothers have been agreeable and helpful to members of the Inquisition in Tevinter, so if one is lost they can provide direction, or if you know them well you may wish to meet the woman with them. In any case, they travel at a liesurely pace and, around noon, stop for a lunch at an open cafe near a very large, magical fountain.


II. Everything is suddenly on fire

The cafe plaza is a pleasant space, wide enough to contain a large fountain with an elegant marble statue, benches, and several trees, but still enclosed by a series of two and three story stone buildings, each with a few hundred years of history written into their architecture. The bushes are well trimmed, the ivy is lovely, and most of the windows have little planter boxes with decorative ironwork and tropical flowers growing out of them. It is a beautiful and pleasant place; there are birds singing and children playing in the sunshine. The number of guards that walk through the streets are more than usual, but hardly alarming...at first.

When they begin attempting to empty the plaza is when events start to turn. The most popular of the street magicians does not go quietly and the peace of the surrounding area is shattered as the guards surround him and begin beating him. A scream rings out down an adjacent street and very rapidly the buildings begin to close. A second group of guards, these wearing Imperial colors, enter from the south and bark orders to capture the Inquisition. Clearly something has gone terribly awry.

(OOC: The violence kicks off and this thread will have a lot of it. Fight guards run through the streets or find safety with the Brother's Asgard who are known fighters and friendly to the Inquisition.)


III. Not Quite Like Ninja

Smoke is still hanging in the air from the fighting in the plaza, marble and iron chunks strewn about the area along with more than a few corpses. Some of them are in Imperial colors. Some were clearly enjoying their day in the market before chaos broke out, humans and elves alike. Thor's cape is torn and his hair is a mess, Loki's green has brown-red spatters, and some of Freya's golden jewelry is now metal junk fused to the ground. That doesn't change how they stand, tall and proud. Nothing is going to plan, but they are House Asgard.

Thor looks at those gathered around, frowning. They cannot ask for shelter from anyone here in Minrathous; loyalty can be bought and it is clear that Inquisition heads are a valuable commodity at the moment. They also cannot simply commandeer a house for there is no way to know what ones have children and what ones do not. There's already a very small corpse by the fountain. There do not need to be more.

"We need to get out," he says to Loki, as much command as request. Old habits and all that. "We need to get them out," he amends. This is his home and these are his people. He will leave for now, but he will be back. This will be sorted out.

Loki looks around, seemingly unbothered by Thor's statements, either of them. "The catacombs," he suggests, pointing down an alley.

They're not a glamorous choice, and Thor would rather not slink... but they need to get out without too much attention. Imperial soldiers are powerful forces and Thor would prefer to not burn too many bridges today. A roar from above draws the group's attention and adds haste to the plan - there's a dragon flying in, corrupted, and there's no doubt as to the identity of the figure on top of it.

"Quickly," Thor snarls, glaring at the sky. The city may be lost for now, but Corypheus will not prevail in the end. They'll slip away to fight another day.

Freya takes the lead. "Quickly," she echoes warmly, heading for the entrance they all know. "This way, follow me."

(OOC: Joined us in the violence? Not joined us yet? This thread is for traveling to the catacombs and evading the guard. We're gonna sneak with the help of two powerful illusion mages and one guy with lightning. Let the Asgards save you before we head to the catacombs catch all.)

iii

[winterwinds]

Audra spent the better part of two years moving around, after Ostwick Circle fell. She is good at avoiding being seen, and moving with groups of people. She has a hodge podge of people looking to escape with her, a native of the city helping guide their way to the catacombs while Audra provides muscle, as unusual as that may seem for a mage with a soft face and large blue eyes.

But when she holds her obsidian staff in her hand it generates a faint wind that ruffles her cloak and her cloak alone, and there's sometimes a small crack of lightning that lances over the surface. There are also walking corpses with her, guarding the group, and she sends them in different directions when an Imperial approaches. They are wearing the colors of Imperial soldiers, which speaks to how they came into Audra's service.

She isn't the first to spot the group being led by the three Tevinters, two of which are familiar to her only because she's seen them around the Gallows, but she is the first to speak. When she does, her voice echoes oddly, a side-effect of the enchantment upon her staff, a deeper more menacing voice chasing her own.

"Are you escaping the city?"

[thorndergod]

The question bears such a weight. This is Tevinter. This is his home, a place he should be welcome in, not a place he should be fleeing. But he has been attacked, and more will be hurt if they stay here. Thor looks down briefly, pride fading.

"Yes." They have to leave to fight another day no matter how much it feels like cowardice. "We do not have the means to defeat that monster right now, and..."

He gestures at the plaza with his hammer. The city is lost. "We know how to get people out. We know this city. It is the best we can do right now."

i

[coquettish_trees]

This is the time that Alexandrie usually spends painting, but today she is in the sort of ebullient mood that really requires more generalized hubbub than quiet contemplation, and thus it is souvenir shopping day in the city's open marketplace. She has found something for near everyone, and is contemplating a truly lovely jewelry box for Gwenaëlle that rotates through three chiming tunes of three amusingly disparate moods when opened when she catches a pair of familiar timbres in conversation behind her. She hands the box to Emile with a nod to finish the purchase, and turns with a radiant smile to sink into the appropriate deference due the heir of a House.

"A pleasant surprise, my lords—" she hails brightly, before suddenly registering the presence of the woman walking between them and the very different quality of relaxed familiarity that colors the body language of all three. Unbidden memory: "My mother is rarely in Minrathous, but I do not know. She may be traveling. I shall... inquire."

The dip of her reverence is recalculated immediately downwards by a full inch, her surprise rendering the movement far less smooth than she would have liked.

"—and Lady of House Asgard," Alexandrie finishes a bit tardily, a slightly questioning lift at the end.

Oh dear.

[thorndergod]

Thor is not the biggest fan of strolling and shopping. He likes it on occasion, but truly only the presence of his mother has made this long trip palatable. He's missed her more than he'd thought he would, which was already a large amount. Then Alexandrie appears and he realizes this could get amusing. Orlesian, no magic, how will Loki handle this introduction? Thor will handle the names. Loki can explain who this woman is to him.

"My Lady Alexandrie," Thor says warmly enough, dipping his head the required amount. "Allow me to introduce our mother, Lady Frigga."

He doesn't mind Lexie. She's pleasant enough, especially for an Orlesian. But there is a deep river of brotherly rivalry that wants to see complication here, that wants to see Loki sweat. Especially because Thor still has no word on who his parents would like him to marry. Kirkwall has... temptations, and a name or a picture, some sense of shape for the future, would ease that.

OTA

[limier]

RESISTANCE

There's a boy throwing rocks.

Small, lifted first with his hands and then sped by some other, unseen force —

Past the rioters, mostly. An apprentice hasn't the aim. An apprentice he must be, someone's student run loose at the wrong time. Miniature robes flap in the smoky breeze, small face pinched into severe determination. He's stooping to pick up another, a melted cobblestone when she reaches him, arm wrapped hard about his middle to hoist up.

Wren's running before he's quite off the ground (screaming, kicking, biting). They sprint for an open doorway. Maybe it's yours.


DRAGON!!!

The sky blackens, the dragon bellows.

She stops short, knife still raised over the form of the city guard below. Half the street does — frozen in some bizarre stasis of stupid, awe-struck wonder —

Terror? Something like it, the sort of overwhelming something that roots her to the breaking earth, sends a spike of raw impression up her spine: A god. They're witnessing a god.

There are no gods, but that won't lower a quaking fist to throat, or raise her courage as it's risen this monstrosity of stone before them, towering and pulled from the earth with only slightest effort. She freezes,

The man beneath her doesn't. Seizing a chance at life he grapples at the knife, and in less than a second the scene's up-ended, the two of them wrestling for control. Help a bro out?

DRAGON!!!

[galvanising]

[ There is, out of nowhere, a crunching sound, the kind that begins with a crack of something hard against something harder, and then a wet, smacking thump, almost like a boiled egg dropped on the table, except much louder. The man goes still, a look of confusion forming just before his eyes roll back and he drops face-first onto Wren's chest. There is a chunk of cobblestone lodged in what used to be the back of his skull, and the blood and liquefied brain that had begun to run down his back is now channeled off to the side as well, a heavy drip onto her front.

Behind him is a woman in Venatori robes, staff lowered, advancing. She holds out the butt of the weapon instead of her hands; beneath the cowl is Nell. ]

Tussling in the street? I hadn't taken you for an exhibitionist, Commander.

D'Artagnan (disguised) | OTA

[mousquetaire]

i. BEFORE

---

The early part of the day is peaceful, though tense. It's subtle at first, but grows throughout the day. D'Artagnan, in disguise as Benedict Artemaeus, feels the weight of the fashion he's laced into more than ever before. His sword is at his belt, for all that it isn't very Benedict to wear it. If he's asked he'll insult the person asking and refuse to explain; he's learned that attitude works more often than it doesn't, which no doubt is why he sees it employed so frequently. He doesn't care, anyway. The rumours of trouble are only growing, and he'll not be unarmed when it comes true.

When he approaches others, he puts his manners aside. With his disguise in mind - for the time being, anyway - he lifts his chin and speaks with stolen authority.

"I'm hearing rumours of intruders," he sniffs, in his best approximation of Benedict's accent. What do you know? Tell me everything you know, I'll not be kept in the dark."

ii. ESCAPE

---

Chaos, all around.

D'Artagnan thought himself used to magic, used to the idea of it, used to what it could do. He'd been a fool. Windows have been broken, the street is littered with glass, buildings and rolling wagons and people are on fire, yet shards of ice crash around them. It's madness. And that's before the dragon appears.

He isn't focused on himself. The people around him are fighting, many in uniforms that would have marked them as allies half a day ago. He can't tell who to trust, and so he trusts no one. It's safe to say he's no longer thinking about his disguise, either. Sword and dagger are in his hands and he'll take task against any who stand in his way. The message over the crystals had ordered a clear retreat, and it's not in his blood. He wants to fight. Here, where the danger is, where people are in trouble, that's where he should be. There are women and children here, he thinks, and he throws himself into battle.

Then things change again. The dragon flies, ridden by a madman, and it couldn't be more obvious that this battle is lost. His sword stops mid-swing and he backs away, disbelieving his own eyes all over again. Magic is one thing. This is so much more.

"No choice," he mutters, finally registering the truth of that command. As the earth shakes, he leaves the battle behind. Anyone else fool enough to stay so long may find him in the chaos, moving fast, despite the guilt he feels at knowing the city's lost. "Hurry! The dwarves have promised aid. There's nothing more we can do."

Not for now. Even as he leaves, he promises himself he'll come back for these people. He'll not leave them to this fate.

OTA, but keep option 2 to one thread!

[in_death_sacrifice]

I. Market

Getting out of here is definitely going to be a challenge. That becomes especially clear as Kain reaches the area of the market. It's good to finally have some more cover after all of those empty areas, but... it's a bit of a mess here for sure.

He's determined to make his way through the crowd, starting to navigate through the chaos. It's not going to be easy, though, with everyone so stirred up... already, there's a lot of pushing and shoving. Kain barely manages to duck as a stray lightning bolt sizzles out suddenly from someone with bad aim. While he's paused, he takes a moment to look around, to see whether or not any other Inquisition members are in the area, and if they need any aid getting through the riotous crowd.

II. Dragon and Capture

Unfortunately, escape isn't so easy. The disorder in the market slowed Kain considerably, and while he's still en route to - hopefully- get down to the Deep Roads option, he's not even close to it yet. He's hurrying past some more areas of fighting mobs, noticing that there are also quite a few more Venatori patrols in this particular section. He'll have to exert even more caution... Then that roar echoes everywhere, overtaking all other sound in that moment. As the shadow falls over everything, he knows all too well what's happening.

Freezing in place, Kain stares upward, mouthing a quiet curse under his breath at the sight of that red lyrium dragon and its rider.

"Go! Hurry!" He shouts to whoever is nearby, knowing they don't have time to spare. They have to get out of here now. The ground starts shaking violently, and he nearly falls, stumbling as he rushes along. Unfortunately, the Venatori presence is all too strong around here, and they're starting to congregate more and more to bar the way in most any direction.

1

[circleprodigy]

"Kain!" From his right a familiar voice is heard, nearly drowned out by the blasts and shouts around them, but the mabari barking probably helps to a significant degree. Inessa, having gotten separated in the chaos, is busy maintaining the magical barrier she has up to protect herself and Garahel, but as she glances around Kain's hair manages to catch her gaze. Relief floods through her upon seeing him alive and well, at least for now, though that could change at any moment.

Urging Garahel onward, she rushes over as quickly as can be managed given the circumstances. It's a good thing that barrier is up, at it absorbs a blast that would otherwise might well have killed her.

closed.

[exequy]

[ The sound of the rioting in the market has grown quieter, the violence stopped or dispersed until this particular side street is empty and silent, save the occasional group of guards or robed mages passing through with purpose and the scattered echoes of cracked doors and windows shutting again as they pass. It's a stupid place for anyone to emerge from between houses looking alone and like they don't know where they're going, especially someone with Inquisition insignia still affixed to one shoulder, but when the correct number of robed Venatori appear around a corner, that's what happens.

And Kostos isn't much of an actor, but this doesn't require acting. He freezes, makes eye contact that transitions into a quick size-up, and darts back into the alley he emerged from, past ivy-covered black alcoves large enough for at least two other people to hide in, until he has to stop. It's a dead end.

That's the point. ]

[galvanising]

[ The Venatori may be powerful and clever and clearly taking possession of this city with remarkable ease, but they're also (like all Vints, thinks Nell) incredibly arrogant. Which is lucky, since they need every advantage they can get if they're going to manage three sets of robes with a minimum of blood on them.

Kostos comes down the alley first, and she waits in her alcove until the Venatori have passed her. It takes a while, because as soon as they see that Kostos has reached a dead end, their hesitation turns to swaggering confidence, laughing and elbowing each other for a chance to laugh at the cornered Inquisition agent. Finally they've sidled by, and, holding fingers out of the alcove, she does a quick, silent countdown. On one, she leaps for the nearest of the trio, looping her makeshift garrote around his neck. ]

ESCAPE: THE CATACOMBS (Open, One Log)

[faderifting]

The catacombs beneath the city are, for once, not a maze: while there are plenty of nooks and crannies in which to hide and corners to duck around at the sound of footsteps, they're systematically laid out, organized, home not only to death but to life, with enough stored and preserved food to feed the city for a year. That's the difficult part. Not finding one's way through the tunnels toward the outer edges of the city, unseen, but deciding what to do with the torch in your hand like a dagger and the stores of grains and cured meats before you like the city's exposed back.

The first to starve if the city were under siege would be the poor, the undervalued slaves. But they wouldn't be the last. Corypheus might be able to maintain order in the face of that threat, might make harsh choices to ensure his continued rule, or he might face a widespread revolt by citizens whose immediate interests suddenly are threatened after all, or even the capitulation of his own men--there's that old saying about armies and stomachs, after all.

Someone will have to decide which risk to take.

OOC | one thread, open to anyone who tags in. progress it on your own, but we may sneak in a gm tag or two to complicate your lives.

[limier]

There's a flaming sword.

Some irony to that — the rune forged in streets not so far from here, the arms of the Ambassadoria that stretch beyond these buried troves. The life of a city before them; thousands by the crate.

The first sackful goes up like a torch before it even splits open, spills explosive grains of flour and fire outward.

"Search the rooms," Coughing against the sudden smoke. They could run out of air here, if they're not careful about this. "Look for fruit. Preserves."

Anything to ward against scurvy.

[judgemewhole]

You know ... James is going to be glad to never come back to Tevinter again as long as he lives. If he does in fact, manage to survive getting out of Tevinter in the first place. He is following down into the catacombs, surprising flashing over his face when he sees food is being stored here.

Which is why his back is turned when he hears the first fwoooosh of fire catching onto cloth, and suddenly there is burning flour in the air, making it smell like bread. He turns to Wren, his gaze going wide.

"What in the name of the Maker are you doing!? The people will starve without this food!"

ESCAPE: THE DEEP ROADS (Open, One Log)

[faderifting]

It is a reasonably safe bet that whatever is happening on the surface, if a Darkspawn Magister is involved, the dwarves will want no part in it, and those who make that bet will be proven correct: the ambassadors at the Ambassadoria usher them below with protective alarm, eager to offer respite from the chaos in exchange for news of what's occurring overhead.

But no one can linger here—for their own sake and for the dwarves', should they be found harboring fugitives if the conflict reaches them. The map of the Deep Roads they're provided lays out the safest known route beyond the Tevinter border, far enough that they can pop up in Nevarra if they're eager to get back above ground, or in the wilds of the Free Marches if they would like to be cautious.

That's a long walk, however, and safest is not the same as safe. Only hours away from the embassy, there's a contingent of twenty darkspawn, moving with unusually organized and determined purpose in the direction from which our heroes have come. The embassy is likely not entirely unprepared. Dwarves deal daily with the sort of darkspawn activity the surface sees only during Blights. But it also wouldn't be the kindest thank you for their assistance to let the troupe pass uninhibited.

OOC | one thread, open to anyone who tags in. progress it on your own, but we may sneak in a gm tag or two to complicate your lives.

[eruit]

Hanzo moved through the city with some ease; he darted, here and there, managed to slip through the crowds over buildings and through back alleys. He knows Tevinter - or, he knew Tevinter - and he knows how to make his way through. He knows that there are escape routes, there are places to go, but desperation is calling to him; the ambassadoria ushers him and he goes, not knowing what else to do. He has not made many friends in the Inquisition and does not think he can rely upon them to aid him. Not now, not with what happened with Benedict -

The Deep Roads would not be his first choice, but Hanzo is more than capable of handling himself and he does it. His bow is drawn as they move through the roads, and he keeps pace, striding forward with the confidence of someone who is used to leading and adjusted to the position he's in. He knows which route he prefers; he wants to get to the Free Marches as quickly as he can and make his way back to the city with all the swiftness he can manage. He does not have many friends outside the city - as though he has many friends inside the city - and he does not want to walk into a dangerous situation.

Of course, things are never as simple as they would like.

He moves to the side to take in as many of the Darkspawn as he can, his eyes narrowed. With his bow drawn, Hanzo breathes in and out before he pauses, turning to look at the rest of the group. He is prepared to wait to see how others react.

[mousquetaire]

D'Artagnan has his sword drawn the moment the group is upon them. He's thankful suddenly, desperately, that this is not his first encounter with these creatures. Horrifying though they still are, he knows them well enough to act without freezing, without pausing at all. Hanzo will turn in time to see the blur of him rushing past, a wordless battle cry yelling from his mouth, his sword ready to take out their leader.

It pierces his (her? its?) chest, before he pulls it free and turns, swinging the sword around to take down another. In the same moment, his knife is in his left hand and on the defensive, dual blades whipping into action. It doesn't cross his mind to wait for support, or a word from the others. He's doing this, they're clearing the path and they're getting out of here. Too much is at stake, and people in the city will still need help. His pistol is at his back, ready to be drawn if they need it.

He hopes they won't need it.

Meanwhile the Darkspawn crowd around him, pressing in on him. He's one man against a horde, and it doesn't stop him. He doesn't ask for it, but there's no question that he could use a hand. Despite the speed of his sword, they'll overwhelm him quickly without aid.

ESCAPE: STOWAWAYS (Open, One Log)

[faderifting]

The bridge is blocked, but the ports are still moving. Not freely: papers are being checked, boarders hassled, cargo inspected. But there are Antivans here, attempting to come or go with their trade vessels, and one of Thedas' cardinal rules is that antagonizing Antiva is a bad idea.

One ship in particular is nearly prepared to depart, when those among the Inquisition who have chosen this route arrive to spy on the harbor. It's small enough that they could man it themselves should the crew not prove cooperative once they make it to open water, with enough cargo crates still on the dock to promise places to hide, and a burly man missing half his jaw still managing to make perfectly clear how little he intends to let this Vint and his little clipboard interfere with his schedule.

The sun is setting, the shadows are long, and the port is riotous with noise. Move quickly.

OOC | one thread, open to anyone who tags in. progress it on your own, but we may sneak in a gm tag or two to complicate your lives.

[faithlikeaseed]

Among all the pieces of strangeness that wash up in the ports of a city under siege, another one: A Rivaini matriarch and her flock of children like tense and wary ducklings, high station written in their gold and tattoos. They're escorted not by the suborned city guard nor anything resembling a household entourage; instead, a scruffy nervous band of toughs collected ad hoc from the streets, drawn like iron filings to the woman's lodestone personality. (Among them, a black-haired fellow as large as any two of the others put together, blood on his knuckles and something of a trained soldier in his guarded expression; an elf beggar so coated in road dust it's impossible to make out his exact coloration--not that anyone would look long enough to try, given the awful scars where his eyes should be.)

She sweeps to a stop before the line of customs officials with a supercilious air. Her guards, of course, do not have papers, and thus-- "This is where we part ways, gentlemen. Might all nature watch over you."

It is a measure of her personality that they disperse (or her personality and the way the brunette mountain glares like he'd pitch any offenders into the harbor). The elf and the soldier are the last to depart, the one leading the other a little away from the crowd to where they can confer without shouting.

"Anything look promising?" Myr tugs the hem of his moth-chewed hood tighter around his face; it does damned little to mitigate his terrible sense of exposure, of helplessness.