faderift | ( closed ) many seasons have passed me by

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( closed ) many seasons have passed me by

WHO: Herian, and the esteemed fighting force of Bronach, Fingon, Helena, Lakshmi, Six & Wren.
WHAT: The Flying Countdown; a diplomatic mission to the Qunari feat. a dragon fight
WHEN: after the Tevinter rescues, slightly vague for flexibility
WHERE: an island in the Boeric Ocean
NOTES: ooc post; content warning for violence and potentially other stuff to be added.

There will be an open toplevel with Herian, then the dragon fight thread for all the combatants that I will GM, and players are also totally welcome to make open top levels for travel to and from the island or any other general RP you’d like to do.

Dragons are especially significant in Qunari culture; although they are not revered in a religious sense, exactly, they represent extraordinary strength. Their death is necessary in order to establish society. High dragons are referred to as "Ataashi," or "glorious ones" in Qunlat.

The Inquisition is known for having successfully felled a number of high dragons over the past few years. The Arishok would like to see them kill a high dragon on an island in the Boeric Ocean that has the potential to be a lucrative source for metal ore and some elements necessary for the production of gaatlok, and peaceful meeting place for the Inquisition and Qunari to develop a rapport, discuss terms of alliance (or at least not outright hostility) and perhaps even an opportunity for an eventual Inquisition outpost.

... They just have to prove they really can kill a high dragon, first.

Some things will have been made very clear: under no circumstances is magic to be used outside of combat with the dragon, and under no circumstances are they to antagonise the Qunari or stir up tension. This is important, especially in the wake of Tevinter. And probably wearing gloves would be wise, too.

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Herian spends much of the time on the ship across the Boeric in three ways; speaking with the team concerning appropriate conduct, in prayer, and trying not to be violently seasick. To her credit, she mostly manages to avoid the latter, though if her usual paleness is now tinged with a sort of greyish green it is entirely beyond her control. The pitch and surge of the ship across the moody, storming seas are unpleasant, and come entirely too soon after the recent retreat from Tevinter. Necessity, unfortunately, has little consideration for her non-existent sea legs, even if she does what she hopes is a passable job of not making the weakness glaringly obvious.

On some occasions she can be found on deck, standing at the forecastle yard and holding onto the railing as the ship cuts through the dark grey of the churning ocean. Her knuckles are white, but she is steady on her feet, relieved by the fresh air despite the surging rise and fall of vessel carrying them forward.

After the arrival the others have a day or so to rest and prepare before the dragon challenge itself, while she begins meeting with different people almost . During this time, Herian is working, reviewing a number of documents, but makes a point of making herself available for anyone who wishes to speak with her privately to do so. She can be found in her room in the evening, reading document after document by candlelight.

Or, you know. Wildcard something.

"When you've a moment," Like, right now apparently. Between the roar of the waves and the shouts of the crew, they're unlikely to be overhead. "There is aught we need discuss."

That's a long list. Most pressing: What the long-game here is, exactly.

In her more spirited days, where she was more moody and emotional, she might have been so flippant as to suggest that it was Wren's presence prompting her nausea rather than anything else. Thankfully she is long past such immaturity and knee jerk emotion (generally speaking), and instead bows her head in agreement. If anything, the Commander's presence is something of a relief.

"That there is," she agrees, and if there is a slight tightness to her words? Well, she's Herian. When doesn't she sound slightly tense. She reminds herself to breath, as the ship surges. "I imagine you've a particular topic you'd sooner start with."

A light shrug of acknowledgment; she gives up good posture to lean against the rail. Formality may be put aside if the alternative is falling on your ass in the spray.

"It is one thing to placate the Qunari," To convince them the South's well enough in hand that they needn't invade, "It is another to do so in the wake of Minrathous. Where do you see this ending?"

Not in an outpost. Not, at least, like this — so near to such well-kept secrets. The death of a dragon might be accomplished another dozen ways, but what she's gleaned of the symbolism isn't lost. To establish society,

And what a society that would be. Whatever they're trading for this, it must be worth more than a rock in the sea.

"The first correspondence for this was some weeks before Minrathous," she replies, voice quieter than it might normally be. Pensiveness eating up volume and retaliation - an agreement, then. "Placating them may no longer be entirely on the table. I know not if that means we lean closer to an alliance," doubtless a disaster in the eyes of the Chantry, "or if they will take it as an insult that this has come to pass only after the developments in Tevinter. What ground we might have stood for bargaining might already be washed away by the tide of things."

She exhales, and inhales the cold air. So long as she continues breathing, she can get through this journey, and perhaps not entirely give away how green she feels. "I had thought that if we could quell the risk of conflict from the Qunari we might stand more securely against Corypheus, and gain some support on the seas, at times. My other consideration had been," and she glances discretely to make sure there are none straying close to them, "the securing of gaatlok for the Inquisition."

That —

That would be worth it. If it could be cut of its strings; if it were not only dangled like a lure. If, and the Qunari must bank their own hoard of those: If Southerners could reproduce the recipe, if the Inquisition's pet Magisters laid hands upon it, if the Chantry, or the Rebellion, or Rifters did.

"Wise to make good of this."

A broken promise signals disorder.

"The Imperium cannot govern itself," Quietly. She inclines her head: The suggestion of an angle, little more. "We have seen now what they make of allies."

"I confess myself uncertain, and that uncertainty strikes more often that I'd like."

She had imagined that Division Heads should feel more certain in some things, if not all of them. She feels like now she has even more questions, that the decisions have so much more needing considering when she is leading a Division and contributing on such a scale.

Perhaps it is laughable that some part of her still looks up to the person she remembers as the Knight Lieutenant, even when she has realised that Coupe puts so little value in honour.

"I fear my role in this will have to be that of negotiator only. Bad enough, to be sending a mage to speak, let alone seeing that magic wielded brazenly."

We gave you a real bloody sword —

Well. They don’t need to have that fight right now, and Amsel is no more interested in hiding than she's particularly capable. No doubt, such pretense would be dishonourable,

Small blessings. Or it might have been; a conversation they haven't had since Salzklippe. The possibility written in every shadow Nell casts, in the drip of brains onto her chest, the gleam of light from the Fade. She stretches her neck and joints crack. No, neither of them are suited to this venture.

(Irritation; not for the first time. Their positions might be reversed, perhaps ought to be — the order of things, grown old. Out of date. She swallows it down: Is not humility a knightly virtue?)

"Averesch speaks of arming the lower classes. The slaves. I suspect it a winning sentiment," The twinge of her mouth aside. "If not a winning strategy. Our hosts seem more like to endorse it than the alternatives."

Maybe. It would mean more chaos, prolonged chaos, at Par Vollen's doorstep. It could mean the South marching in.

"Uncertainty be damned, when the day demands a decision, you will give it." Already has. She glances aside, "You might have left Radonis."

Edited 2018-09-18 23:38 (UTC)

All are woken early on the day of the battle. The sky is still hazy when they gather near the mouth of the caves, the orange sun not yet streaking colours across the sky. Looking down at the pit that has been started to be used as a quarry, and interrupted by the high dragon's presence, there are many boulders, some existing scorchmarks. It looks like heavy equipment that might have been intended for mining has been reduced to charcoal and scorch marks. Bones litter the area.

This is the power of the high dragon, and Herian's jaw sets at the reality and discomfort of sending others in to do the battle while she remains back and plays the part of the diplomat. It sits ill with her.

Her own feelings matter little, at the present moment. And they matter less still, when the loud ringing of gongs begin, and as the sky begins to ribbon with pinks and oranges and reds. The high dragon emerges, and in the light her rust-coloured scales seem even deeper red, and the strange seams of purple that can be glimpsed between her scales and curling down her horns seems almost to glow as they catch the light.

The ground shakes as she roars. The battle is begun.

( Some ooc notes:
This fight is going to be GMed, and have no strict tag order, and I'll be trying to GM tag once every one or two days to give people time to get a turn in so that no one gets left behind. In turn it'd be great if you are able to tag roughly once every day or two (although no pressure on that front, just do what you can), and please don't boomerang so that one person or the GMing gets left in the dust.

Also a reminder that Herian won't be participating in this fight, and if you have any questions please feel free to fling me a message via discord or plurk. )

Well, this is pleasant. The sunrise, the scenic view. The bones. The fire from below,

Not fire. Not fire, but the scales that surround it, and Maker: That's big. That's very big. Bronach has... some manner of handling the beast; Six, some experience. iT's still too big.

Wren isn't a coward, but she's forty-six, and has a reasonable expectation of what happens when a man's set alight. A pyre has to be hot, to burn to ash. Her grip on the shield shifts, braces against doubt. They had to do this without barriers. They had to do this for the fucking Qunari.

"Find cover, or get close." Snapped, over the rumble of earth. "Move with it. Six, with me. The head. Everyone else —"

Preparation flees before the fear of a moment. They're out of time for tactics, and 'figure it out' isn't what anyone wants to hear right now.

"— Try to take a leg."

She decides, plunging ahead. Wings would be better, comes the belated thought; Ground the damn thing.

Edited 2018-09-10 21:47 (UTC)

What had she said to Lakshmi in her room days ago? They are not divine here. They die. They can call them what they want here, these people who re-educate the same as Thalmor as the urge to use the Voice comes to her despite what might have been said to her, what she already knows about these people.

She nocks an arrow, and the arrow is intention.

"Bring it down!" Snapped out fast, and the loudest she's ever bothered to raise her voice at all in Thedas, almost echoing with something not wholly her. "Watch the mouth and tail."

How many times has she done this? How many more times will she does this? Her eyes are for Lakshmi who hasn't ever faced a dragon (if there's a little arrogance, it's that she hasn't died yet to worse than simple beasts incapable of speech) and the other woman hasn't faced one before.

(The shout is lodged under her ribs, hard to breathe when she fires.)

It is not of any of it she thinks when she sees it. Feels the heat of its breath, the wind off its movements. It is of Vritra, slain by Indra. So great, the earth shook, so tall, he reached the heavens, and with his body, he blocked the rivers and brought drought. That it took a holy weapon to strike him down. Pure lightning.

But she had only her hands. Had only the tools they possessed but - when she looks up, catching Bronach arms, it's with a firm nod. She is not alone, and maybe there is a comfort here that everyone fights now together.

The blade is in her hand. Her prayer is to Indra, brief and for him to guide her hand. The rest - she does know Six's skill, or Coupe's, not even Helena's but she knows Bronach's, knows that she can get in, fight hard to cover her own attacks. That - bring it down? She could do that. No, never seen this before, but she had fought and fought with elephants, knew how to take them down. This was ... a particularly long, fire-breathing, flying.... elephant. Legs. Legs to climb up. Don't get in the way of its trunk. The back of the leg cripples it fast enough. Watch me now, Pitaji, so too will I be Indra realised this day.

She's moving before the plan is whole, but realised all the same. "- Helena! Take that rope, with me! Right leg, front!" Her own barked, confirming the call of her movements more so than orders strictly. Pitched with the practice to be loud and booming. Her shield is thrown in front of her, waiting for Helena to fall in behind her.

This is familiar. Six knows how it is to fight an animal as wild and dangerous as a dragon and she thrives under the promise of a fight; with everything that had been happening over the last few weeks with the developments in Tevinter and Adalia's capture she thinks she needs this. The outlet, the anger, the frustration, all being pushed into her blade, into her steeled gaze and sharp movements, ready to take it down as best she can.

Dragons are something she knows. Not large ones, not ancient or adults, but the younger ones, the babies, the ones with still sharp teeth and breath that will scar and maim you - those are the kinds she knows. She had learned their language, had stood at Adrian's side as they planned out a means of fighting them, and now she gets to take on one far larger than anything she had ever seen before in her life.

It's thrilling.

Shouting out in draconic, Six rushes forward and does as commanded, heading towards the leg. She isn't the kind of person to fight at a distance, she hasn't ever been, and she moves with the rest of the team. Helena and Lakshmi are moving and Six is with them, greatsword in hand, nothing to stop her or pause her. As far as she is concerned, she is here to do as she is commanded, to take down this beast, to prove herself.

To who? She doesn't know yet, but someone.

The Queen Lady is commanding, and Helena snaps her attention away from the giant lizard in front of her. Grabs the rope, and is tying it around a dagger swiftly before sprinting towards Lakshmi. Past the hero knight she remembers from the snow lands who is speaking in strange tongues (devil talk?, she wonders ) and steps onto the shield, bracing before she lunges upwards and catches onto the dragons leg.

She does not know if she trusts these ladies, but she does know that the Inquisition can protect Sarah and Cosima, and if she obeys these orders then the Inquisition will be better happy. Bronach she knows, likes, is understanding. Bronach is hunter, too, and her words remind Helena to cling close, trying to keep close enough that it is hard for the teeth to reach her, and far enough to the front that the tail cannot whip her.

Trying to pull herself up, dagger between her teeth and rope looped around her arm, Helena looks for cracks in-between scales, or maybe a way to hobble the wings. Keep it low, keep it where they can reach.

Fingon watches the dawn light catch off the dragon's scales, forcing down an unexpected pang of pity for the creature as he notches his first arrow. There's none of the intelligence of an urulókë in the beast's eye, and none of the malice either- but then, neither was there in boars and wolves and sometimes they had to be put down as well.

Best not to draw this out, then, for the sake of everyone involved.

He sings confusion into the air, half force of habit and half hoping to blur its senses, and aims for leg joints to aid the melee fighters. The belly though... not as soft a target as an Arda dragon's but if they could just loosen a few scales....

The dragon roars - an earth-shaking shriek of a sound. Somehow it rumbles and scrapes in the same moment, feels like might seek to hollow out the very air if it were possible. So many are running for her legs, gathering together. At first her gaze flickers towards the lone adversary, before the strike of the arrow in its leg makes her head snap towards the archer at the back.

Her head rears back, body following as she rises up, and then—

Not fire, but lightning, pours from her mouth. Electricity that encircles and crackles between Lakshmi and Six, in a painful net of energy. It does not hold them in place, but the pain, the burning, is ongoing.

Her wings beat, and the swirling wind could serve to drag all the combatants closer, even the archers, if they don't find a way to steady themselves.

"Six!"

A curse in Orlesian as the girl goes charging past (with me). Visions of an imminently crispy future dance before her eyes —

But that’s not a problem if she can’t hold the beast's attention. Wren forces herself forward into the roar, slashing for a nostril. But it’s already pulling back, wings battering a vortex of wind.

Instinct wants to brace against the shield, but she wouldn't have the strength to hold that long. Move with it. She presses in, wary of the immense weight suspended above. Abruptly, wary of more: The air warps. Heat, ozone — and then thunder cracks loose, and there’s no time to spare for more than passing worry of the Rifters.

She stabs down, into the webbing between two monstrous toes, and bellows:

"Different legs,"

An adjustment. It'll have to do; she’s already shredded her voice. There will be no inspiring war cries from this end. As the blade rips free, she clatters it repeatedly against the shield, summons as much noise as can be managed.

The gong was more effective. She should’ve converted her armor to a xylophone.

Edited 2018-09-20 14:00 (UTC)

Different legs, she says.

Helena doesn't turn around, but her gaze flickers towards the bird knight with faint incredulity as she holds desperately onto the dragon, hanging by a by spine on the back where her rope has miraculously caught, and grim determination. Perhaps she means for them to be spaced out, or perhaps she wants Helena to move to another leg, but in either case, she's committed to her current location.

A storm is crackling around them, and she isn't able to risk looking around, but instead grabs her dagger and drives her dagger into the cracks between two scales. Less for damage, specifically, and more for a handhold.

Shrieking without words isn't a thing Brónach thought she would find so empty but later she will when her body isn't fighting with itself over what it wants to do, and it's in that moment that the shout rips itself out of her throat. Mages move this fast. Blur with some motion of their staff, ground beneath their feet slick with frost.

Wuld Nah Kest all it takes for her to carry herself forward as if a storm is at her back along with the dragon. A time not to fight. To bend with it.

If anyone notices - if their audience notices - then it's not something for her to care about when she fires again once she stops moving, firing in the fluid motion they teach you in Valenwood where you hunt everything there is to hunt as soon as you're old enough. The magic prickles her skin.

(Thalmor. She thinks of Thalmor. Of Justiciars. Hesitates on drawing again at the memory of storm atronachs of lightning and rock and Oblivion holding it together.)

The next shout is ready in her throat; this is the thing, after all, she's done this before, she'll do it again, the trick to the future is to know that you're writing it not that it's written.

Realistically, she knows she's felt as awful things, after all, somewhere between giving birth, getting shot, and having every bone broken all at once. But as of right now, being turned into one of Tesla's machines certainly hadn't been on her list of wanted experiences. Hanging on with both teeth grit as she pushed through the pain. Turning the pain into anger, turn the anger into another confusion for the damn beast. Even if for a moment she can't do anything but scream out the pain of it for one, hot, blistering second where she is cut through in pain.

But she took this position because she can take it, taken just as bad, will do again and trusts Helena to follow her own path up and onwards - and busies herself with the task she sets for herself, tying her end off to stop the thing from taking off out of range. "Get the rope around its neck! Stop it from taking off!"

Whilst it's attention is elsewhere she goes for the closest heaviest thing. A tree. A tree will do. Tying it in a heavy knot, pulling it off with a heave of her own weight to make sure it would hold fast before she turns back. Blade ready, had done what she could for Helena now, the rest was up to her, and she needed to make sure that it was possible at all. The own shout of her voice bellowing outwards.

As the webbing is pierced and shredded, the dragon reflexively tries to jerk back, tearing the flesh in to process. There is a deafening roar, and Northern Hunter snaps its massive jaws towards Coupe, the source of the pain and the noise. The teeth miss, but her head swings sharply, colliding hard with the Templar to throw her against a collection of boulders.

In the same swing of motion, Fingon has the tail slapping towards him, the whole dragon lurching and shifting.

The heavy smell of an oncoming storm is building, and the crackle of lightning around her might be hint enough that she is readying her next attack.

Oh, wonderful. Always fun, this sort of surprise.

Fingon launches himself to the side as he sees the tail hurtling toward him, managing to fall into a protective roll against the ground. It's closer than he would have liked- part of the tail still pummels his right shoulder, and the bruises will not be pleasant to deal with later. Hopefully, though, that will be the worst of it.

Rising quickly, he circles the dragon and takes aim at the hind leg he's now closest to; arrow after arrow volleys into the chosen spot. It's not ideal (if he gets the chance, what he'd really like to experiment with is a shot at the dragon's eyes) but anything which might distract it from the rising tempest would be welcome.

Helena is hanging from a dragon, and honestly having the best time. As it lunges and strikes at the others, she should probably reflect that she's lucky to be alive, and that she's lucky the others are hurting it so much that it is focusing on them and not her.

She doesn't, but she should.

Scrambling up, there are two times she almost falls and just barely stays on. She manages to get a seat where neck connects shoulders, and begins the job of trying to get the rope around its neck. Difficult, with how it snaps at Coupe and twists to slam Fingon with its tail, but she just about manages a loop around the neck, doubled up rope. It gives her a chance to use something to hold onto, so here she is, sitting on a dragon, one hand anchored at the rope, and the dagger that was between her teeth now in her hand.

There are books Brónach has with her on the voyage out, silly slender things not worth what it cost to have them printed but better than thinking of what awaits her. Restless much of the way as if she's never been on a ship (she has, but last time was in a dream that was real and it too had a dragon) and she only ends up on the deck at night, creeping about in the small hours. Most ships she's only known for killing people aboard. It doesn't comfort her to be stuck on one.

But the business of killing dragons is a business Brónach knows well enough, has possibly said as much to reassure because the only thing worse than fighting dragons alongside the foolhardy is to fight dragons alongside the frightened.

(The journey back will find her worse, restless as if she'd shrug off her skin if she could, jaw clamped shut as if to keep it all in. She doesn't sleep. Tucks herself up and under the railing out of the worst of it unless she's under your feet.)

Arriving doesn't suit her but once Delphine came to her and said: will you go to the Thalmor Embassy for me as a guest, and she did. So she can do this. If she fletches more arrows than she needs but blind a dragon, tear holes in the wings to bring it down (her Voice might do that but she'll see how the battle goes, how long her will holds out against advice and commands from these people) so the more she has the better. Her door is left open, as if it will stop her from feeling any less trapped than she already does.

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( closed ) many seasons have passed me by

herian; open (prose or brackets are fine my dudes)

decks;

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DRAGON BATTLE.

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brónach; open