faderift | [closed] DANGEROUS GAME

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[closed] DANGEROUS GAME

WHO: Kylo Ren, Anna, Etienne, and Marcoulf
WHAT: In exchange for his support at the front lines, a small group has been dispatched to clear bandits from the Comte Chantral de Velun's estate. Spoilers: they're not bandits.
WHEN: Early Harvestmere
WHERE: Orlais, the Heartlands
NOTES: CW: violence, death, murdering innocent folks on the behalf of THE RICH, setting-typical discrimination; it's not great, bob. ASSIGNMENT INFO

The Orlesian Heartlands bloom in every season. In Spring, it is daisies and apple blossoms; in Summer small white flowers and black-eyed susans and poppies all red; and here at the beginning of Autumn the trees burnish themselves and black-green and golds, yellowing grasses ceding to white limbed poplar with their spinning coin leaves. Even far from any field for growing in, the Velun lands paints itself in harvest colors. The land and air recognizes what Celene might not yet admit - that change is a season rotating, and that some things have been the same for long enough that they insist on circling.

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You could almost be forgiven for forgetting that somewhere in Orlais, battles are actively being fought even now - that soon, there will be more of them and that all of them lay on top of tell tales of even older wars. The road to the Velun lands is unremarkable, but it isn't quiet. It's peppered with birdsong and insect noises, the red flashing face of a fox staring for a moment before it slips into the tall grasses. As many thing in Orlais are, it is shamelessly lovely.

In the evenings they make camp. A fire is built. The horses shift and whuff in the dark along their picket lines and a chill breeze stirs the leaves along the dirt. They're not unpleasant circumstances.

The elven refugees had been skittish from the start, halfway to scattering the moment the four of them had crossed into the clearing. Marcoulf had tipped his head at Anna, motioned with his hand - circle round, it said. See that none of them slip off into the trees. Lose any of the elves' number here and at the very least it'd take days to track them down and drive them from the land.

Maybe that had been the mistake: sending the girl prowling about like a waiting wolf. Or maybe it was broken only by his first poor attempts at talking them away from their camp - "You'll leave now," he'd said in Trade, Orlesian accent strong at the edges. "We can show you to the road." "Where will we go?" "Not here."

No one here is especially fit for the Inquisition's diplomacy division. Negotiations go poorly.

He isn't sure where the first strike comes from - a club or a poorly made spear -, but both are easily sidestepped. There can be no coming back from either, though. Everyone in the clearing must know it. One of the women makes a break for the trees, another sprinting after her as a frightened hare. Marcoulf slashes the midsection of one of the poorly armed elves in a group rapidly threatening to overwhelm them with numbers.

It's short work.

It is her first time out into this land. She has been watching the movements of Kirkwall and the Gallows with a fastidiousness that only another Hunter from the Dream would understand, getting to know it's rhythms and movements. Where to hide. Where to run, jump, roll... but nothing to slash, not since the demons at the Rift. While she would say she is more comfortable in the fort, she is comfortable nowhere, and the prospect of finding something to warm to swing her whip at makes her mouth dry with desire. That desire disturbs her, as one might hope it would, and she keeps to herself for much of their travel. Bundled into dark, stinking leathers, hidden behind tangles of dark hair, and beneath only more layers of leather still.

She is, however, curious to know these people. She is watching them, eying their weapons and their gait. She used to have companions. A host of other hunters whose ways she knew and whose direction she took.

Finally, fireside, she takes off her wide-brimmed hat, unlaces the leather gorget covering her face, turns down the collar of her fire-singed coat. Allows Anna to be seen, rather than the Hunter. Another thing she has not done in a long time, almost a wonder she remembers her own name sometimes.

"My name is Anna," she decides, scooping dark hair out of her face, over her shoulder and behind her ear. "Can you be relied upon?"

A blunt and unfriendly question, but it's the meat of what she needs to know; more than their skills or their names. Are they cowardly, are their treacherous? Would she believe them, even if they told her. Maybe not, but maybe they would give something more credible away in the manner of their answer.

Edited (laughs at myself) 2018-10-16 12:32 (UTC)

She goes into the woods, daydreaming of beasts. She can hear the roaring in her ears where there is none. She waits, out of sight and silent, the collapsed whip in its cane form held firmly in her grip. She could sneak up on them now, gut them from the back and be awash in their filthy animal blood. She blinks away decay in her eyes, but does not move an inch to rub them. She doesn't need to see to kill. She wants to kill. She waits in silence, hears nothing of the abortive attempt to disperse the elves. She is only alert for the sound of a scuffle, and when it starts she takes off at a run, ducked low. She hits the path, swinging loose the whip in a wide, bladed arch and then it lays on the dirt between herself and the elves like a snake in wait.

Someone brave comes to defend those in flight from her bearing a pitted sword and shield. She knows what to do with that... she comes at a run, flicking the notches of the whip back into a cane, which she brings down onto the shield from an overhead leap. She rolls through her landing, and the whip is loose again by the time she's righted, catching every figure in a half circle around her.

The raucous of the crowd is familiar to her. The calls for mercy, the assertion of blame. Oh yes, it is all her fault, she knows. She swings the whip, merciless and methodical. Anything that comes into her range is cut down until -- Ah. A companion. She pulls the whip back in, it cinches back into the narrow cane that disappears, dripping, into her coat.

She surveys the work in complete silence from beneath her blood spattered leathers, looking for weapons and supplies amongst the bodies she might be interested in taking. She ignores the crying children entirely, as if she can't even hear them.

HARVESTING MATERIALS.
Étienne Beaumanoir is a pragmatist. This is an assignment, yes, but it is an opportunity in the same way that the battlefields mages and templars met on had been an opportunity. He proceeds through the remains calmly, watchfully, lest there be some survivor or someone hiding, waiting to leap out for their vengeance. Using the toe of his boot, he pries open a mouth, shakes his head, and moves on.

Stooping down, Étienne has a dagger ready in one hand, and draws a leather pouch from his belt, as he tips back the heads of another of the fallen, examining their teeth. Not good enough, he concludes, and reaches for another lying alongside, pulling down their jaw. Better.

Another glance, and he draws out a set of pliers, and begins to slowly work the teeth out of the elf's mouth, inspecting them, and dropping each into the bag. He continues at this.

PREVENTING POSSESSION. (solo or group threads?)
Pulling the bodies together had been a messy task. It reminded him of years ago, before his training, his learning, hefting bodies up over his shoulder and tossing them like so many sacks of flour. Étienne draws a silk handkerchief from his duplet, and wipes blood from his cheek, as the flames slowly begin to lick about the damp wood they have had to resort to using. It will not be discrete, he fears; if the smoke is too much it may be wise to draw away from the bonfire, lest it draw some curiosity.

He looks to the person closest to him, and nods. "Do you have a flask of water?"

He is a man of science and of medicine, not of murder, but this is the world he has always known. To travel, to stay, to exist in any space brings the risk of banditry, and so he has a dagger at the the ready, and draws a rapier in his other hand.

That does not mean this is easy. It just means it is necessary.

The others can advance, cut through larger numbers. He is watchful, and when he sees an older man crawling, struggling, he finishes the task. If their positions were reversed, he is sure the elf wouldn't hesitate.

On the other side of the fire, Marcoulf is skinning one of a series of apples picked while fetching firewood. A pot is over the fire already, water in it beginning to flick and sizzle from the heat. It needs to be brought to a boil first - should get there by the time he's finished drawing the knife along the fruit flesh, flicking the pieces into the damp leaves underfoot. It's a waste, but they can afford it.

"I don't see why not." It's a ridiculous kind of question - warrants a ridiculous kind of answer, but he doesn't have the thought to give her one. Honest questions merit honest answers. But here, to give her the benefit of the doubt: "How do you mean?"

She interlaces her gloved hands between her knees, resting her elbows on her thighs. Her piercing observation is now extremely overt, dark eyes unwavering. She is terribly serious despite what sounds like such a naive inquiry.

"Are you a coward?" Her tone lacks what would have made this some kind of veiled insult. "What is your allegiance? To yourself, to the forces, to the work?"

She flexes her hands, leather crunching. She decides to give her own answers, to help expose what it is she wants to speak on.

"Nothing of this world turns me. And I wish... to complete my work, with little complication."

Nothing in this world, but put her in front of the shrieking afterbirth of the void again and she will assuredly lose her nerve.

While Anna would never deny being a grave robber, there is robbing the dead of their possessions and there is robbing the dead of their essence. She's seen too many corpses piled high, robbed of their eyes, teeth, organs. Is that what this was all about? Was that why the medic had come with them? The thought makes her clammy and nauseous.

"And what unholy experiments do you conduct?" It doesn't come out as snarling as she would have liked, instead she sounds as sick as she feels.

Edited (goddamn whitespace) 2018-10-16 16:49 (UTC)

Their mission was clear - chase out the bandits however necessary. He had been hoping they would be too frightened to put up a fight. He didn't hesitate once the group advanced. Theirs was a painful death, the first being cleaved cleanly by the searing cut of a lightsaber. It hummed to life in his hand, the crackle and snap of energy making the other elves try to scatter.

With a shriek a woman rushed towards him, her weapon drawn as his cut through her like she was air. With each victim his anger grew, crackling through him like a maelstrom. They should have run. They should have left. Not doing so was the height of idiocy. He could feel

"You can die next." He snarled as a man approached him. He was cut down to join the rest of the carnage. These bandits had no chance. They had been here trying to stop travelers on the road and now they had met their worst nightmares come to life. Their deaths were not painless but he made sure the ones he felled died quickly.

His hand was outstretched, stopping one of the elves who had tried to dash into the woods. They made a pained sound like a wounded animal when his blade pierced their torso. With an angry huff, he lets them drop, bleeding out at his feet. He ended it quickly a moment later.

"Did any stragglers make it to the woods?" He turns to his companions, eyes darting to the woods.

"These are not for experiments," he replies, still paying mind to the teeth moreso than the woman. "I am a physician, and dentures cannot be made without teeth." And he had patients who would enjoy the novelty of a set of elven teeth, he knows.

Satisfied he has all he need from this body, he stands, and steps over it, and towards the next. "But there is nothing wrong with furthering the medical field. Attempting to find a new medicine is hardly unholy, if you consider that experimentation."

Teeth were not a problem in Yharnam, where most citizens had turned into flesh-hungry beasts-- with fangs to spare. The explanation does not soothe her, neither of them.

"That depends on the side effects," she mutters grimly, arms crossed over her body as she watches him. She mostly wants to look away but refuses to give in to the impulse. "Who is to blame when your medicines are actually poisons?"

Edited 2018-10-17 03:34 (UTC)

Were it just swords, there might be some hesitation the moment first blood was drawn. But it isn't just swords. It's a dark figure in the woods with a cracking, bladed whip who smells of rot and death; it's a hissing, spitting magic blade the saws flesh as simply as air; it's two Orlesian men with drawn steel and rolling accents whose patience is shelved the moment any violence rears its head. Rage feeds on blood and fear. It eats whatever urge the refugees - and they are that and not bandits; the ramshackle quality of their camp with it's mish mash of personal belongings, their lack of real weapons, the weakness of their arms when it comes to raising what they do have indication enough of that - might have to save their skins once the killing starts in earnest.

This is how the world works. It isn't pleasant. It isn't good. Like most work, it just is.

"Anna will mind the treeline. Check the tents," Marcoulf is saying. She'd been put there at the edge for a reason and a girl is screaming, wrenching at all his attention. In Orlesian, to Etienne: "Secure that girl before she bolts, for Maker's sake."

He dives into the nearest tent himself, leading with his parrying knife and arm extended. A knitting needle finds it. The parrying knife is repulsed from Marcoulf's grip with a snarl of pain, but leaves the sword with which to deal with the elderly woman. The boy in the corner, half hidden behind a pack, sits silent and staring - remains that way after.

She hears, says nothing. Marcoulf is correct. There will be no escapees into the woods who might haunt their leaving from this place with some mad vengeance in their heart. She swoops quickly, taking the knives that some of the corpses had once brandished, one could never have quite enough, and she prowls silently back into the underbrush, eyes scanning. At least one, she expects. There was always at least one beast hidden in the brush, although it was rare for them to cower so without flame in their faces.

She finds her one, their head down beneath the brush. She throws two knives into its back in rapid success, and has bludgeoned it into silence with the dripping cane almost as quickly. She takes their place there in the brush, crouched over the still body, watching for any more creeping-- rolling a stolen knife in her fingers, waiting.

Kylo was watching the flames slowly build, helping to move bodies with relative ease before that. They were lifeless bits of flesh and bone now. Better to burn them and let them become ash. He was glad someone had thought to do it before him. It gave him something to do, either way. Upon being addressed, Kylo nods and pulls one from his pack. After a moment of rummaging in what little supplies he brought, he holds it out to the other man.

"Here." He didn't make it a habit to carry much with him. All he should need was his blade.

"My medicines are based in research and science. If you'd be happy to see people die through lack of treatment and progress impeded..." Etienne shrugs.

And he looks around them both, the corpses littered about them. "I think most people are more in danger of blades than medicine."

"Thank you," the doctor murmurs, taking a sip of the water, and then pouring a little onto his handkerchief, and starting to wash the blood and sweat from his brow.

"In future, I'd suggest we keep them nicely grouped together when we need to take more severe steps."

It's not lightly said, for all the terribleness of the comment. No, Etienne looks grave, as he re-stoppers the water, and holds it back out to the rifter. "What do you imagine they will want to put in the report?"

Not the truth, surely.

Marcoulf rotates the apple in hand under the poised blade, its skin coming away in a coil. It requires just enough attention that he doesn't look to her or meet that dark, fixed study.

"I do what I'm paid for." Which is the true answer even if it's the easy one. Inquisition doesn't pay much but it's reliable and that matters these days. "You'll have nothing to worry yourself over."

He could very much do with a lack of complication right now.

There's work to be done after the most obvious matter is settled and Marcoulf is at it now, sorting through the scattered belongings of the ramshackle encampment. Garbage there, anything that might have value here, had been the direction. He's taken a seat now on an overturned log alongside one of the small fire pits and is fussing one handed through the second pile, tossing out the things most useless to be carried back. Tin cups. A dull knife. A carved wooden bird call.

The small cracking sounds of the doctor's nearby work is unpleasant; it grates at the nerves alongside the whimpering of the children where they've been sat along the edge of the wood and told to be still. He hadn't been unkind about it, he thinks, temperamental and short though he is from the wound on his off arm.

Another tooth is wrenched free. Marcoulf grimaces. "Must you?"

"Some are meant to die."

Meant to die rather than be mutated by what the cures did to them. What would her life be like now, if she had let her sister just die. If she had never gone to Yharnam looking for the blood. Her sister -- Grace -- had died anyway. She'd just done it alone instead of with Anna at her side. At least she'd died human.

He lacks the sickening fanaticism of the church and the scholars... Which is always something. His idle dourness is even almost familiar, that was many a hunter. Though even other hunters were no longer a safety net. She sits back, leaning away from the light of the fire, putting her weight on her hands.

"There is always trouble to worry over," she answers. She is hyper-vigilant, while the rest of them sleep, she'll be prowling until the sun starts to rise. And on that subject, "Do we expect our travel to be uneventful?"

A nod, and Etienne is moving swiftly in the direction of the girl and her screams. She sees him, and begins to try and draw away, retreat, to do anything. She reaches a tree, is reaching up to pull herself up the gnarled base, managing to grab onto a bough and begin pulling herself up.

If she can get into the branches in a forest so dense as this, she could hide, might even be able to move through the tree tops.

He grabs her ankle. His strength far exceeds her own, the benefits of being well nourished and rested, and when Etienne jerks her downwards, she falls with a cry that is cut short by her chin hitting the branch. Her consciousness does not lapse, so she sees when Etienne stands over her, and has opened her mouth when the blade slashes over her throat.

Maker.

"They are," he agrees, with a sigh. "All of us eventually, and some sooner than others."

The bag of teeth is slipped away, for now. "I will not apologise for my attempts to give people more time. If you do not agree with my methods, all you need do is not attend my practice, but there are many who prefer the attempts of an honest man who makes no deals with demons, than putting their faith in mages."

"I must," is his simple response. "Some of these people have excellent teeth. I'll not see others starve because I am in the company of the squeamish."

Dentures, Marcoulf. Important and lucrative.

"None of you are honest," she replies, dismissive of the entire notion. "You're all half necromancer, playing with bodies like you have a right to. I'd rather bleed to death."

It may be the most expressive string of words she's said this entire mission, and she doesn't say more. Still huddled into herself and her coat, she walks away to skulk or prowl or fuck knows what she does alone at the edges of their group.

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[closed] DANGEROUS GAME

THE ROAD TO VELUN; solo or group threads

THE WOODS; group thread - cw: violence

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cw: gore / stuff with teeth /

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stuff with teeth

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Preventing Possession

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harvesting materials

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