GIRL LOOK AT THAT BODY | closed

[limier]

WHO: Alexandrie, Audra, Loki, Thor, Norrington, Benedict, Coupe + Iorveth, Jang, Kitty, Kylo, Resa, Silas, Six, Yseult + Corpse
WHAT: Rescue.
WHEN: Live in the moment, man.
WHERE: The Tevinter Imperium. Like, about half of it.
NOTES: Plotting post.

I'll edit in headers in a moment. Feel free to make your own, I'm not your mom.

Comments

PRE-RESCUE + CHECKPOINT ARGUMENT | solo threads + group thread below

[limier]

Escape is not assured.

A trapdoor (locked), a tunnel (crumbling), and the Catacombs eventually give way to cave. Reaching the mainland requires navigating a labyrinth of jagged rock. Whole passages seep with seawater, and the trappings of past travelers: A letter in a leaking bottle, smudged to illegibility. A length of broken chain. A name scratched into stone.

Others know this place. Others may follow them still. Half a dozen exits lead to dead end before the party surfaces into daylight — the better to be seen. These foothills are scarce of travelers, but the Imperial Highway below bustles with a nation in unrest. Torn finery attracts attention, as do Southern voices, and the educated cadence of wealth.

They meet the first roadblock outside Asariel. Ander and Venatori troops seeking Inquisition and dissenters alike. They’ve a mage with them, elven and in cultist’s hood, but the bulk are soporati soldiers — well-armored and trained, and ready to raise the alarm.

To take them will draw pursuit.

Doubling back into the mountains brings safety, of a sort. The crags wind with mundane danger, cold even in summer, and haunted by teeth. Nightfall draws lions, hungry enough to try for Frigga’s corpse... or make their own.

CHECK YOURSELF OR WRECK YOURSELF | Group thread

[limier]

They're none of them in shape for a fight.

An eye to their Imperial guests: they'd made short enough work of the Tourney, but battle plays for different stakes, and then without the idle rich and a body in tow.

"We do not chance it," She decides. Sounds as though she does, at least; the tension of the past few days ought to have made clear: Command means nothing without the willingness to follow. This is a discussion, whether she'd like it or not. "They've friends."

Re: CHECK YOURSELF OR WRECK YOURSELF | Group thread

[judgemewhole]

Considering all that they've been through ... fighting should be the last resort. Especially considering the number of soldiers, the fact that they were carrying an unmoving person of questionable chance at life, and all the people who did not arm themselves to the teeth.

Wren's assessment is the smart play, and in that, he nods his head and states lowly enough so it doesn't carry. "I concur. We'll be better served going through the mountains."

[coquettish_trees]

Without the immediacy of danger keeping her sharp, Alexandrie has rather dumbly been happy to follow along with whatever orders are being given, only shaking herself to some sort of life in an often vain attempt to mitigate the fallout when the brothers Asgard get at each other again. It is painfully obvious that she is unused to such travel, but she continues doggedly in any case.

Despite her earlier disagreement with the Commander over the food stores and the deep weariness that slumps her shoulders at the idea of trekking through the mountains, she only nods her agreement when the two Templars speak. Then, after a pause that is a bit too long, thought coming much more slowly than usual, she looks down at herself. Gown. Delicate slippers not made for this in the slightest.

"I... it will be difficult to move through the mountains as I am. I fear I will slow our progress."

Not that she won't try her stubborn best.

CORPSE CAMPING IS A BANNABLE OFFENSE | open

[coquettish_trees]

[ feel free to throw your own top levels under here that don't involve mah poor bedraggled girl ]

It had been an inconceivably miserable day. Alexandrie was not made for this sort of travel in the slightest, and by the time they stop to rest she looks ragged and wilted. The delicate porcelain of her skin has reddened along the most exposed parts of her, both wind-chapped and burnt by the strength of the sun at the elevation they'd reached, and the wincing removal of her footwear reveals raw angry patches of skin where blisters had formed and burst at both heel and toe. Her shoulders, where the straps of the pack she'd carried with surprisingly little complaint rubbed, received much the same injury albeit to a lesser degree.

Now, finally sitting, she is picking apart the rest of her intricate updo and depositing the pearls threaded through it into the pack, finger-combing the thick waist-length curls as neatly as she is able to then braid them over her shoulder and secure the end with one of the dark ribbons that had previously wound through them along with the pearls. It is too long for the task, and the ends trail, but they are easily trimmed with the remaining dagger she carries.

Afterwards, she simply stares numbly into the fire.

[hwaaaitsme]

[Taggin his tired girlfriend? Taggin his tired girlfriend.]

At first he doesn't speak. Loki simply moves to her side and sits, staring into the fire with his forearms braced against his knees. His long legs fold at a sharp angle when he sits on the ground, but he doesn't seem too bothered by the lack of decorum.

After a time he looks sidelong at her, his expression neutral in a way that speaks of long years practice, and extends a hand. He offers her his open palm, to hold if nothing else, and waits.

[coquettish_trees]

That Loki does not speak is unsurprising. After all, anything that has meaning is too large and raw, and anything else seems so small as to be distasteful. The idea of conversation for the sake of conversation, previously so easily enjoyed, rings hollow. And so, silence.

The offer of his hand though, that is both unexpected and something Alexandrie does not quite know how to deal with. There is a quiet intimacy to the gesture that would nearly pain her even without what had happened lurking behind everything; despite all else she has done, she has never in her life held a lover’s hand without it being a purposeful move in whatever game she was playing at the time—when she did it at all.

But she has not the heart to leave him alone in anything right now, which grants her the small courage necessary to extend her own to rest it in his.

(Despite the halting initial movement, it will not be long before she shifts herself towards him, close enough that she can lean to lay her head against his shoulder.)

LIKE A MOTHER — | group or solo whatever

[limier]

The robes are very fetching.

And stifling — at least if anyone's insisted on trying to stuff their ordinary garments beneath. The Silent Plains are less desert than wasteland, a blasted grey memory of the First Blight.

Not lifeless: The hard, ashy earth gives way to scrub, to hares and stalking wolves, and fragrant blooms.

Few travel this place unless they must. Two days in, they'll come upon the remains of such a camp, taken by a pack of small, vicious creatures. To pick through the leavings will reveal this for a smuggler's venture, likely slaves seeking flight into Hasmal. Full waterskins were left behind, the tracks fading into distant dunes — there's no time for pursuit.

Reaching the rendezvous draws them closer to civilization. It's slow-going, and little faster by the roads: The enemy patrols even here, and the Anders are a pious people. Their disguises will be investigated, their motives interrogated, and their leaflets...

Well. No one ever reads those, do they?

[[ OOC NOTE — Rescuers only, I think?? ]]

solo thread! Unless all the rescuers want to hop on helping Kitty cram for exams I guess

[rathercommon]

[ If there's one thing Kitty didn't expect to have to do when she volunteered for this, it's remedial reading. Whenever they're resting, she's frantically scouring the Chant of Light that Coupe had given her, trying to cram as many facts about the religion into her head as she can. If they run into patrols, Kitty needs to be able to act the part of a missionary. And so, at one point, she turns to someone, and hands them the book, and says - ]

Test me.

[ And then she takes a breath and recites - ]

"Hear now, Andraste, daughter of Brona,
Spear-made of Alamarr, to valiant hearts sing
Of victory waiting, yet to be claimed from
The steel-bond forgers of barren Tevene.

Great heroes beyond counting raised
Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men
And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.
Mighty of arm and..."

[ And then a pause, and she blows out her breath. ]

Shit. What's the next word?

[hassaran]

Warmest.

[ She asked for just the next word so that's all Yseult gives her, and she does not look at the book to do it, letting it flap closed in her hands. She has another copy in the bag at her hip already, all part of the disguise she seems more comfortable with than most of the others. ]

You're not trying to memorize the entire thing. [ One brow ticks upwards to make it a question. ]

[rathercommon]

[ She gives a little sigh and shakes her head. ]

Not the entire thing. No. But - enough that I can quote. How much would the average missionary know?

[ A good amount, apparently, if this lady's able to quote from memory. ]

six | ota

[swordproof]

[ When she first saw the robes, Six had a few issues. She's never been the sort of person who looked particularly good in anything that might be at all feminine, and the robes are absolutely that. As soon as she has a set in her hands she knows it's going to be a problem; with her size and her shape... Who is going to believe she has anything to do with the chantry? It would make more sense for her to be some kind of guard or Templar, but...

She wears them all the same. Her arms don't fit as well as they should, and her expression is tense and tight, but at least she's wearing them. Six is doing her best to stick to the plan, to make sure she's doing as she's told, because it hides the anxiety she's feeling below the surface, her fear for Adalia prickling at her senses.

After that, the movements are slow. Six feels bulky in her chantry robes and she wishes she had her greatsword in her hands - but she had to put it to one side, because what Sister would have a blade strapped to their back? It's a good disguise, but she feels on edge all the same, sure she stands out as being something very apart from what the rest of them were considering.

When it comes to the investigations and interrogations she stays as quiet as she can, head bowed. She doesn't want to say anything that might implicate them, especially when she already stands out as being an outlier.

She is, for the most part, overwhelmingly miserable. ]

iorveth | soloooo, or everyone hop in, idk

[aenseidhe]

[ when the chantry robes are handed out, Iorveth likely put up a small, but deeply offended rant about it, all hissing and spitting like an angry cat, but in the end, it's the ruse they have the supplies and the ability to pull off. he knows that, and if this was for anything less than saving the lives of his friends and loved ones, he'd be throwing in the towel.

as it happens, Adalia and Thranduil's lives mean slightly more than momentary blasphemy to him.

however, he is off to the side as he changes into these things, muttering a long, seethed string of words in a foreign, elegantly elven sounding language (that no one in this world knows but him, thank jayzus) that amounts to: ] - Fucking humans and their fucking worship gowns, are you praising your single vague god or are you taking a fucking nap, make up your fucking mind, I'm going to freeze my fucking balls off with these rags if I don't die tripping over them first -

[ don't mind him. just gonna be over here, hating his life. no big. don't even ask him to try to recite any part of the chant, his story is that he's taken a vow of silence. ]

[letoldthingsdie]

[He doesn't know a word of what Iorveth is saying but he gets the tone. He can't help but scowl contemptuously in the elf's direction as he stares at the robes he's been made to wear.]

Trust me, I hate this as much as you do. I'm pretty sure most of us hate this.

[Kylo's plan is essentially stand and look broody and hope no one asks him any questions - that's generally his usual standby in a pinch.]

[aenseidhe]

[ Iorveth's teeth grind, and he appreciates Kylo's commiserating. there's something he, perhaps, doesn't understand in this - what happens when colonizers claim lands, and then attempt to forcibly integrate those who already own it. paving over religion is the first thing that comes, and those elves that wished to worship in their old ways had to do so quietly. ]

I swore I would never let them drag me this low.

[ this is just a disguise, of course, to complete a mission, no one's trying to convert him, but it feels wrong on his skin all the same. when you spend a century hating something with all the fibre of your being, it becomes second nature to find aspects in everything to blame on it. ]

[swordproof]

[ Six recognises something of elven, even if the language is vastly different from the one she had grown up learning. She feels just as stuffy and uncertain in her own robes, feeling like a fool with her muscles thick and too large for the slight sleeves, and giving up her greatsword is not something she had ever imagined herself to be able to do. She wants to have it back already, wants to have the familiar weight against her spine, but...

There are people that matter to her. Knowing that Adalia is in Tevinter, that her sister is alone, with no message to assure her of her safety... Six will do anything in order to make sure her sister comes home safe, even if it means she has to take on an army of mages alone. She will do it, even if she has to dress herself in these foul robes and act like a soft woman, the kind she was never shaped to be.

Stepping up, Six reaches up to adjust the slightest tug on Iorveth's robes, looking just as put out. ]

I will speak for you, if need be.

[summerfae]

Don't worry, you look fine!

[ That's clearly not what the problem is, but Resa grins cheerfully at Iorveth nevertheless, fidgeting with her own robes, which look fine on her. Her hair might have been a bit odd if it had remained the bright pink that she usually keeps it, but at some point before she met up with the others, it became a more normal--but still bright--blond. ]

They really aren't much for color coordination, though, are they? Just a bunch of yellows and oranges. Like, did their Maker make some divine proclamation that everyone had to look like citizens of Snoozeville? I mean, I guess if they didn't want the clergy to be gettin' it, this is the way to go.

[summerfae]

[ Resa took the dressing up as Chantry members in stride, with a few grumbles about the colors, how drab and boring the robes are. But once in them, with bandages wrapped around her left hand, she looks like she could convincingly pass for a Sister. Even her bubblegum pink hair, that would usually be a dead giveaway that she's not quite one of the locals, got switched out for blonde at some point before she met the others. Maybe she's just been carrying hair dye with her this whole time?

The illusion is ruined, of course, as soon as she starts talking, taking strides next to the campfire, crossing herself in an attempt in solemnity. ]

Hail Andraste, full of grace, the Maker is with thee, blessed are thee among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb--Wait, shit. That doesn't work.

[ Well, she's trying. And if you pay attention, beyond her usual careless cheerfulness is a nervousness, stress that shows only when she thinks no one is watching, staring into the fire with a strange intensity. Getting close to her at these moments even can give someone a vague sense of unease and restlessness.
But as soon as she notices someone's near, she's all smiles, and the sense disappears. Odd. ]

[spellshatter]

Ouch.

[ Mildly, with good humor. There are Templars and clergy who'd genuinely wince to hear that sort of mangling and nonsense, maybe get offended, but Silas has never been one of them. He doesn't quite smile, watching her from his spot beside the fire, but he does look like he's thinking about it as he mimics her crossing motion, badly and quickly, with his eyebrows up. ]

What is all of this?

RENDEZVOUS + CHECKPOINT NUMBER TWO | solo threads + group thread below

[limier]

Every town looks the same.

From the inside of barn or basement, under cover of night; whether by the turn of a blind eye, or blunt subterfuge. Some villagers can be bribed, others intimidated, cajoled —

But perhaps it’s best they never see you at all. There are more soldiers now, there are warnings written into every noose and gibbet: If you're caught, this won’t be trouble to talk your way out of. Only the Inquisition are wanted alive.

The trees promise secrecy, if not safety entire. Bandits and smugglers have also fled the roads, bringing black luck with them on the edge of each knife. The commotion’s stirred the wildlife, so at least game is easy to flush. Just be cautious that you don’t stir something else with it.

On the Southern edge of the forest, the two parties meet. The Inquisition reinforcements come bearing sharp eyes, strong coffee, and opinions on the journey ahead. Will you stick to the back country, or chance engaging the patrols? Approach citizens openly, or sneak your way through?

Either way, you might want to hide the body.


[[ OOC NOTE — All parts of this prompt are open to both groups! ]]

CHECKPOINT II, CHECK AGAIN | Group thread

[limier]

"I do not know how easily we might hide fifteen men."

She looks like shit. That's the poetic way to say it, at least when you also feel like shit, have been dealing with shit, and are promised only shit ahead. A glance to the nearest of her companions: Apparently a genuine request for input. Take note of this historic event.

"Whether in a wagon or without."

[hassaran]

"We don't have quite enough robes for everyone, but they don't look much like converts."

Yseult does not look like shit, having had a far shorter and less-harrowing journey so far, but has been grappling with the same problem, brows drawn faintly together as she eyes the assembled party. The makeshift shrine in the back won't hide enough of them, and too many in the group are conspicuous, large, or both.

"We can try to cut around this checkpoint, but eventually we will need a plausible story; it may be best to settle on it now. Perhaps we stay close to the truth. Several groups of missionaries working across the country now re-combined to return home given the unrest, on instructions from our Chantry...." She rolls a hand. Blah blah and so on.

solo thread

[summerfae]

open.

After the discussion of what to do, Resa is once again full of restless energy. The worry and stress is somewhat abated—she’s here, they’re all together, surely this means everything will turn out fine. But she’s still nervous, for a variety of reasons. She finds things to do, though she has a limited amount of skill at most of it. Cooking, hunting, starting campfires, it’s all a bit new to her, but she’s willing to give it a shot anyway.

Feel free to bother her while she tries to set up a tent, start a campfire, or cook. Or while she’s trying to stand watch, which she can manage, but quickly gets bored, tapping her foot and humming overworldly tunes (there’s something about all the single ladies in there) or scrawling doodles in the mud. It’s not her fault she has a terrible attention span, it’s technology.

thor.

Speaking of new and nerve-wracking things. Resa has never had to truly comfort someone, about something that really and truly sucks. So as glad as she was to see that Thor survived (because, you know, he’s pretty, and it’d be a shame to lose such a pretty face), she’s not quite sure how to approach him. Not with his mother’s body looming as the Ultimate Cockblock.

Eventually, she settles on something she knows, and makes up a hot cup of coffee, thoughtfully mixed with milk and chocolate. Probably not the best ‘sorry your mom died’ gift, but until Thedas invents Hallmark, it’ll have to do. Cup in hand, she approaches him, clearing her throat when she’s close enough. Having been on the run before, Resa knows how jittery you can get. It’s part thoughtfulness for Thor, part unwillingness to get punched in the neck by a very muscular and possibly on-edge man.

“Hey, I thought you could use this.”

lexie.

Resa’s concern about Lexie took her by surprise. Thor made sense, he’s cute and she liked looking at him. It’d be a shame if he went off and died and she had to find someone else to look at. But she doesn’t feel quite that way about Lexie—and even if she did, there’s a convenient twin sister there—and yet here she is, worried.

But at least Resa understands a little bit better. A loved one’s death is mysterious and unknown. Your world being turned upside down while people tried to hunt you down? She’s far too familiar with that. So, once things die down a little, Resa locates Lexie, and sinks down next to her. For a few moments she’s quiet, then she gives the other woman a sidelong glance.

“So, your roommate. Did they end up being cute?”

[coquettish_trees]

There is something about the combination of the relief of having finally met the support from the Inquisition, the warm mug of coffee she is currently cradling in her hands, and the absurdity of considering whether or not the Duke de Coucy ought to be reported back as "cute" that actually makes Lexie laugh. It is the first time she has done so since all of this began.

"Terribly," she replies with a small amused smile.

Thor

[thorndergod]

His gaze snaps to her at the noise, cold and distant for a long moment before recognition sets in and some of the tension eases. Thor closes his eyes and opens them slowly again, breathing out and reaching to accept the cup of whatever she's brought him.

"Thank you." It's probably the quietest she's ever heard him be. His mother's corpse rests in the tent behind him and while he can't claim she's sleeping he still doesn't want to disturb her. That... and he doesn't want to draw too much attention. Bringing the corpse along is not a popular choice and he just doesn't have the energy to argue it right now.

The cup gets lifted to his lips, he takes a sip, and he frowns into the cup after. It's bitter and sweet and creamy and he thinks he likes it. That Resa has brought him the first positive moment in days isn't missed, either, though it inspires a fresh wave of guilt. He should discourage her from what he's fairly certain is interest; his house has suffered a blow and he has so many responsibilities. There can be no romantic time spent with a non-mage for him. Only Loki gets that luxury, if luxury it is.

"What is this?" comes out instead. He could use friendly company even more than he can use the drink.