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faderift2018-08-18 03:03 pm
wythersake) wrote in faderift2018-08-18 03:03 pm
I LIKED TEVINTER WHEN IT WAS STILL UNDERGROUND | Closed
WHO: Hanzo, D'Artagnan + Alistair, Jester, Marcoulf, Nathaniel, Newt, Rey.
WHAT: Rescue.
WHEN: This year of our lord 9:44.
WHERE: The Deep Roads.
NOTES: Plotting Post
WHAT: Rescue.
WHEN: This year of our lord 9:44.
WHERE: The Deep Roads.
NOTES: Plotting Post
I'll be making some headers in a second here, but feel free to make your own. I'm not your boss.
THE DEPTHS | solo threads, do whatever, #YOLO
The Deep Roads are a web of light.
Of darkness, too — for every cavern lit by the pale luminescence of fungus and lyrium, there's a twin hewn into shade. The old highways steep with pockets of black too thick for even torch-flame to penetrate, corruption seeped from the rock to collect in still and filthy pools.
Touching these isn’t advised. Neither is uncovering your mouth, or straying from the group. Things rustle in the corners of sound and sight: Chitter, scratch, flap. The Thaigs bred giant spiders, or so the stories go. Bred them to eat the bats.
Those fleeing the Imperium will find gate after gate blocked, paths to the surface sealed by heavy Dwarven fortification (the solemn faces of men and women long dead), else rubbled rock and open chasm. Runes mark waypoints, but the scrape of claws and years have worn most into illegibility.
That’s alright. The Darkspawn don’t seem to need directions — or sleep, or anything but pursuit and the relentless dark.
They’ve company coming. The Inquisition reinforcements have their own obstacles to contend with: A herd of blind, albino cave brontos has taken up residence through a wide stretch of tunnels. They're pretty cute. It's a shame they aren’t pleased to see you.
Buckin' Blind Cave Brontos; closed to Isaac
That fascination is put on hold the moment the herd begin stamping their feet and snorting, looking as though they're about to charge.
Needless to say, the feeling isn't mutual.
"Please don't charge us," Newt says, trying to appeal to the creatures. He doesn't want to have to fight or kill them but if he must, he will. "We mean you no harm."
The brontos definitely do not care for this attempt, and so, when they, in fact, begin to charge, Newt brings his wand from where he's holding it as a means of additional light for the group and begins casting stunning spells.
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"I don't think they speak —"
Isaac finds himself cut off mid-quip. Well. There's sort of a strangled sound that might be the end of it.
"You're not going to stop all of them!" He hisses, grabbing for Newt's arm to tug aside. The thick, armored hides of the Brontos have been reinforced by years spent chewing life from lyrium-shot stalagmites: They shrug off the spells, send stuns ricocheting at all angles. Three or four go flying simultaneously into the face of one blind beast, finally staggering it to a halt. It collapses to its knees, causes a minor pile-up of the two behind. There are more coming. "Over here!"
There's an alcove, not quite big enough for two men. It occurs, distantly, that Isaac doesn't need to tell Newt about it. But probably there'd be questions to answer. Paperwork to fill out.
(This seems a bad time to have never picked up even the basics of a flimsy barrier.)
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That being said, he is grateful to Isaac for pulling him out of the way of the stampeding creatures.
He sees where Isaac is looking, the alcove that looks barely big enough to fit the pair of them. He glances back briefly at the incoming broncos before turning back to Isaac.
"You go ahead," he says, moving to run towards the creatures, now especially agitated for his spells. "I'll distract him."
If Isaac thought his sanity questionable before now, well.
Newt runs, building up enough momentum to leap. He isn't thinking at all; he's making it up as he goes, old habits die hard and all of that. He winds up landing awkwardly on the back of one of the broncos, managing to grab a firm hold as the animal begins to buck.
"It's fine!" He shouts back to Isaac. "I've got this!"
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The bronto slams its bulk between its fellows and the rock. It's a massive beast; Newt temporarily pilots a one-man wrecking ball. It's possible from here to distract the herd with the fight, or perhaps, to lead them onward and out of the cavern.
Towards what? Darkspawn aren't all that haunt these tunnels. There's certain danger (to himself, to the beasts) in playing bronto bumper cars. But beyond lies the perilous unknown.
Either way, Newt's going to have to choose quick. The creature's growing sweaty with exertion, its hide slick.
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Newt truthfully only has what he can grasp of the bronco's back, and even that is slippery at best, given the wildness of the herd's various movements, including the bronco he happens to have climbed up on.
He manages to sturdy himself a moment later, and it's in that moment that he realizes he does, in fact, have options, from what brief glimpses he can catch of this current environment.
Newt decides that, if he's going to die down in the Deep Roads, he might as well die trying to lead a herd of broncos out of tunnel.
"Come on, there's a good bronco," Newt leans down to whisper to his bronco as he digs in with the heels of his boots, hoping to steer the creatures up the path. "We don't really want to stay stuck down here, do we?"
The encouragement seems to...do something. If not quite work, it seems to catch the bronco's attention, and, soon enough, it appears to listen to Newt's request.
closed to d'artagnan
No matter how far they go, the gates are blocked. All indications towards pathways up and out are sealed. Any route they take is blocked with Darkspawn and chittering, scratching noises that leave Hanzo on edge, his teeth grit together, slipping through the darkness with all the sleuth he can muster. He was never trained in combat like this, not really - he was always ranged, ready to slip back and climb high - but there are no heights here. There is no place for him to be at range.
It would probably be better if he was alone, but he's not. D'Artagnan is at his side, and he looks uncomfortably like Benedict, enough that he's not entirely sure how to handle the mixture of emotions it inspires inside of him. He does his best to ignore him at first, but when he realises that they're likely going to be alone for some time he decides it might be better to at least try and be civil.
Bow drawn, Hanzo shifts around a corner. He's not tired yet, but... He can feel the swirl of his spirits in the bow. They're feeling as caged as he does, and the discomfort is clear. ]
This way.
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It's the length of travel. The maze-like quality of this place, the fact that they've been in it for God knows how long, the fact that he's lost track of time in and of itself. There are noises everywhere, and more often than not those noises lead to Darkspawn and that leads to fighting and bodies and desperately trying to avoid infection.
There's irritation, too, in the knowing that Benedict is elsewhere. He takes some solace in knowing that at least his charge isn't here facing Darkspawn, but who knows what else he might be dealing with?! They ought to be together. He would feel better if they were. As for Hanzo, he doesn't know how he feels about him. He doesn't blame him for what happened to James and Simon, though he thinks he could've done more to prevent it.
Anyway, that concern seems like a minor distraction now that they're dealing with this. He tenses as Hanzo moves around, having grown accustomed to enemies appearing from nowhere. He keeps his voice low. ]
Why not? We've tried everywhere else. [ He is so, so done with the Deep Roads. Why the hell didn't he just make for the sea? ] I'll go first. You'll need time to aim.
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It would be easier, Hanzo thinks, if he was capable of using his magic, but he is not. He cannot. The vow he made was enough that he would not let himself do it, but... With the Deep Roads as they are there's no doubt the Darkspawn will continue to be a threat, one that would be almost too dangerous to manage.
If it was just the Darkspawn it might be avoidable, but Hanzo knows the roads. Spiders and stalkers are mixed in with the caves, as they often are in deep, dark places, and he doesn't wish to run into any of them if he has a means to avoid it.
Moving forward, Hanzo reaches out with his hand, feeling along the walls. There might be a small tunnel, an exit, something they're unaware of given the maps they were given. They need to be free of this before one of them falls to the monsters that lie in wait, but it is not so easy a thing. ]
I can fight with my knife. [ And the Dragons that are settled in his bow, but that is if all else fails. ] I do not need to be at range. I was taught well.
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Most of the time.
There's no time to argue, though, even if he were inclined to. He sets his jaw and nods. ]
If you like.
[ He lets Hanzo take point and follows, as gingerly as possible. He can't make himself soundless here; he doesn't know the footing well enough, and it's a structure made to carry sound. He keeps his sword in his hand, ready to react to any movement in their direction. He doesn't need to look at the map again to know they're still a very long way from home.
It would be so much better if they weren't alone. ]
Do you see anything?
[ He keeps his voice low now. Personally, his grip on his sword has tightened at every errant sound.
There are many errant sounds. ]
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He will do what is required of him, and regain his honour. There will not be honour in death this day. ]
We must make use of what we have.
[ And what he has is a stupid Tourney dagger he won with his spoils from the shooting games and a bow with too few arrows left. It's not enough and he knows it; there's a burning under his skin, the familiar pressure of whispering spirits in his ears.
Not yet. ]
Keep moving forward.
[ Hanzo shifts, feet dragging lightly on the ground, moving about a corner before he pauses, arm darting out, stopping D'Artagnan if he dares move too far. ]
Stop. There. Darkspawn.
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Every time they encounter a group of these things, he thinks they might die down here. Surely at some point, their luck will run out. They are two soldiers fighting against a horde, and the odds that they'll come through it must be very short. Each time, he pushes that thought from his mind. He'll worry about it after he's dead. For now-- ]
Then we must clear the path.
[ He lets out a cry as he plunges into them, sword stabbing and knife slashing. This gives him the briefest moment of surprise, which sees two fall before the rest even realise he's among them. Then it's a different story, because all of a sudden they're all on him. He turns into the battle wasting no time and mainly trying to keep their attention away from Hanzo. If they think he's a lunatic alone, they'll still have some advantage here. ]
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RENDEZVOUS + FFFIGHT | Group Log
There’s a hum beneath the earth.
At the edge of the mind — difficult to say where imagination ends, and true sound begins. A few days of this, and your senses play tricks on you: Step after trudging step through the darkness, dead-bored, waiting for something to make you just plain dead.
But it’s been getting louder for a while now; music, or the murmur of a child. They’re close to the others: Hanzo and D'Artagnan could be around any given corner, and doubtless with Darkspawn in tow. It's been a few days. Your senses play tricks.
From the back of the group, Isaac's staff gleams with dull light, steady as it has since this little adventure began. Steady, until something slams into the back of his head. It flares, throwing loose flame as he smashes into the cavern wall and down. The misshapen thing on his shoulders gives a warbling cry through half-crushed jaws, raises its broken blade with a peculiar reverence to strike.
It’s not alone.
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He's covered in dirt, dried blood, and other questionable material that seems to inhabit the Deep Roads in spades; he can feel the aching exhaustion running through him in his bones. And yet, he feels entirely alive. This is where he wants to be; out in the wilderness, helping people the best way he knows how.
He's just managing to find a comfortable rhythm in getting his mind to focus on anything else but the humming when the attacks begin. He moves to help out Isaac when the group of creatures begins to infiltrate the rest of their group as a whole.
"Merlin's beard!" He shouts as one of the creatures launches itself at his face. He flails as he goes down, but he manages to move his wand to blast the creature away from him.
As the creatures pile on them, Newt throws himself (probably recklessly, because, really, is there any other way of fighting?) into the fray.
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She's considering her choices for the hundreth time in the hour when she hears the commotion towards the back and she turns, tiredness and discomfort forgotten, her lightsaber igniting in one fluid motion. The white mabari at her side also turns, growling as the darkspawn descend, and both move together to drive the advancing forces back.
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Her first reaction is to yell. "AAA!"--and then, with that out of the way, her second reaction is to grab hold of the Traveler's holy symbol. There's a glow about her, divine magic, and as she squeezes the symbol tight in her hand, she yells, "Okay, fuck off!"
As her words bounce around the cavern, there is, in their wake, the sound of a bell tolling, solemnly. Or maybe it's a trick of the underground. In any case, the devouring corpse shambling toward the tail end of their line crumples at the knees, and staggers.
Almost simultaneously, Jester's spiritual weapon bursts to life above her. The giant lollipop, almost offensively bright in its colors. She swings it around to bash the corpse over the head, but still has time and breath for a compliment to Rey and her lightsaber: "Hey, your sword is really really pretty!"
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But for now, Alistair's apology comes in the form of a blade skewering (not slicing, to minimize the spray) through the chest of the one hovering over Isaac, and a quicker estimation of the situation than would be possible if he couldn't sense them, count them, measure their intent.
"Get the genlock," he shouts to everyone else, in lieu of another warning about the blood and tainted knives, when he's already given several—shouts, then remembers the rifters and adds, "the stocky one, the mage," for clarification.
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When Alistair mentions focusing on the genlock, Newt immediately searches for the creature in question. Once he finds it, he moves, quickly and carefully, trying to avoid getting sprayed with blood, to focus his attacks on the more immediate target.
"Stupefy!" He calls out, aiming directly at the creature, which promptly falls though Newt knows it isn't dead. Not yet.
"Quick, I don't know how long the spell will hold!" He calls out to the others as he continues to direct his attacks at the genlock.
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There are a lot of ways that he’d prefer not to die. This checks at least four off the list.
(Count them: Darkspawn, underground, surrounded by spirits, while someone's screaming about beards.)
Dead tissue shambles more quickly than one might expect — slowed temporarily by the blaze of light from Rey’s saber, from Jester’s... whatever that is. But Alistair’s right; they’re little without the Genlock. It's well-armored, and sturdy for it, its fall answered by a volley of jagged frost to Newt.
The shriek topples off Isaac’s back with the wet sound of steel through rot, and he rolls to stagger dazed to his feet. His staff's out of easy reach, but that's a realization too familiar by half. Energy collects about his hands, contorts the air: The telltale signs of casting cut a twisting wire through the Fade, sharpening the group's movements, adding weight to their blows.
Not his finest work, but it’ll do. A second shriek leaps for Jester.
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BRIDGE TO TERROR-ABYSS-IA + BOATS | whatever you feel like doing
There's entering the Deep Roads. There's surviving the Deep Roads. And then there's getting back out again.
Like, whatever, man. It's a journey, not a sprint — especially right now, sprinting right now would be a very bad idea.
The bridge before them spans a vast expanse of emptiness: A great impossible hole in the bottom of the world. It's thin, crumbled for the years, slick with the rot of its own rope guides. Poles scatter, the remains of what must have once been more frequent use.
It's single file or nothing; this path wasn't sized for human feet. Human bones, however, fit perfectly. A cracked skull here, a ribcage there, tiny teeth carpet the way. Better not to think about what might have left them.
Daylight waits not far beyond. Daylight, and the promise of mere mortal peril. The waterways of Orlais are pleasant this time of year, would be more so, if not choked by suspicious eyes and the debris of war. The ferrymen charge an exorbitant price; pay up — or beg, borrow, requisition, and steal your way into passage back to Val Chevin.
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And we're absolutely sure this is the best way?
[ What would he know, he's been lost in the Deep Roads for days. At least days. Possibly longer; his sense of time has all but disappeared. The prospect of going backwards and trying to find a different route does not appeal in the least, but nor does the thought of that bridge breaking beneath their weight.
Again, he's so glad he came on this trip. It's been so much fun in so many respects; if only they could have stayed longer. ]
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[This is another question, and not the answer to the question that D'Artagnan is asking. At his side, standing above the deep chasm, Jester matter-of-factly holds open the paper bag for his review. Tiny little bag, short yawning depth, stuffed half-full of pastries and dusted with crumbs and powdered sugar and streaks of jam. There is still a variety in there, doughnuts and croissants, a few with custard.
She gives the bag an encouraging shake, jostling them together. For a seven feet tall qunari, she is smiling very sweetly. This is also not the first time that she has offered the pastries to D'Artagnan, since he was first found wandering around in the Deep Roads.]
They are really really good. Kind of old now, because we were looking for you guys for so-o-o long, but they are still good. This one has cinnamon, which will make you extra brave for bridge crossing. Because we cannot go the other way, okay, there were these things back there, they were kind of like rhinos, have you seen rhinos? I only ever saw a picture and man, they were huge, and I don't care, I think that would be okay to sneak past again, but you only look a little sneaky, and everyone wanted to do the stupid bridge instead. So we're doing the stupid bridge.
Umm-- [She peeks back in the pastry bag again.] --this one has cloves in it. Cloves are really good for walking in a teeny-tiny straight line.
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[ He doesn't need to look into the chasm. He can picture it, just like he can picture the unnatural splay of limbs and trickling blood of a body at the bottom. Not an ideal situation. But the alternative is also not an ideal situation. The only ideal situation in the Deep Roads is not being in the Deep Roads in the first place—at least not with this much poorly-experienced company. How Cousland didn't get them all killed way back when is a mystery. ]
Someone has rope, right? Someone always has rope.
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[Newt asks this oh-so helpfully as he stands close to the edge, peering down into the abyss beneath the rather...bare-bone bridge. It's been a long journey, and he's well and truly worn out from his encounters with both bronco and darkspawn. And yet Newt still can't find it within him to be sick of the Deep Roads yet.
He glances back up at the bridge.]
Hopefully sturdy rope.
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After a moment she shifts, her hand sliding back to her bag. ]
I have rope. Not enough for us to build a better bridge with, though.
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