faderift | [closed] good ideas forever

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[closed] good ideas forever

WHO: Benedict and Marcoulf
WHAT: a vint sneaks out to acquire a rift shard, is followed by a grumpy beardman
WHEN: post-satinalia, pre-modplot
WHERE: near Kirkwall
NOTES: If you want in on this in some capacity hmu!

It took some sneaking around, inspecting the rift map under the guise of using it for some of his Tevinter-related work, but Benedict has found one and steeled himself to finally make it happen.
He'd bring D'Artagnan, if he could find him anywhere; that's the only person who could be trusted, especially to help him close the thing again, or to help protect him from the demons. Mother had said that for the sake of his own safety, for the purpose of continuing his family's powerful standing, he must be completely identical to his body double.
Which means... he has to get one. An anchor.

But if anyone knows why, they'll take issue, try to stop him, condescend to him, and he already knows it's a bad idea. But with Minrathous under occupation and the stakes higher than they've ever been, there's no doubt in Benedict's mind that it's now or never.

So it's in the middle of the night that he meets a ferryman, pre-bribed to take him to a beach on the Wounded Coast, where a rift has been spotted. It's fairly small, and not near to any settlements, which means it's likely to be low-priority and, hopefully, unguarded by anyone but... well. Demons.
He'll deal with that as he gets to it.

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Too nervous to notice anything but what's ahead, Benedict sits and fidgets as the boatman takes him on his way. It seems like hours before they're finally to the beach, where Benedict alights, instructs the boatman to wait, and proceeds up the rocky, windy path to the cliffs above.
He has his own lantern, but shivers as he holds it, from both nerves and the biting wind that buffets past him off the sea. He holds his cloak tightly around himself with his other hand, approaching the green-tinted patch of sky about a quarter mile away with a look of grim trepidation.
This is suicide, and he knows it. But things have gotten dire.

Edited 2018-11-06 06:25 (UTC)

The time it's taken to fetch a boat with which to follow means that the Tevene boy has a not insignificant lead. By the time Marcoulf hops out of his own boat, trudges through the biting cold surf and makes his way up the Wounded Coast, there's nearly no sign of him outside the skiff clearly waiting for someone to return.

So Marcoulf does his best - cutting away from the beach and out of sight of the accomplice boatman and up the first rocky incline he spots. In the dead of night like this, with the moon so near full, some vantage of the landscape may very well betray either the position or direction of the Tevene. If he's meeting somewhere out here - and he must; what else is full dark on the Wounded Coast for but secret meetings and smuggling and murder -, then he must be tracking his own sign.

As he crests the ridge, two things make themselves immediately known in the pitch dark of the Wounded Coast's interior landscape. First, the sickly glow on the horizon - so easily mistaken from the beach as some dying reflection of the day - materializes into the broken slash of a rift. The second is the glow of a lantern as it traces a path straight for it.

Edited 2018-11-07 01:35 (UTC)

Benedict is making no effort to quiet his steps (who would be out here, after all?) as he approaches the rift, his fear growing as it looms larger: he's never seen one this close before, only stood by at a safe distance while others dealt with them. There are no demons yet, fortunately-- perhaps they've decided this particular doorway is less interesting than others?

He steps up to it, near-blinded by its verdant brilliance, but finds himself smiling faintly in satisfaction. He's done it, he's here, he's going to pull it off, and the bloody thing isn't so frightening.

Were the circumstances different from what they are, he might have thought to send some message to Lakshmi Bai - Madame, one of the Inquisition's Teven guests is along the Wounded Coast meaning to summon demons out of a rift; rouse the guard, will you? -, but being what they are and time being something of a concern-- He hesitates, there at the crest of the hill looking down onto the sickly glow of the rift and the young man in silhouette against it. He might go down the hillside, get their quickly and quietly enough to stab him and be done with it before either the rift could be torn open or any horrible magic was cast (he is Tevene of some importance; he must be a mage). But more likely, he will trip on some unlit stone or bump in the darkness and be caught outright - victim to whatever curse the mage can think to summon.

To the void with that, Marcoulf thinks and whistles sharply from where he stands high on the stony hilltop.

"You take another step along toward that and my friend will put an arrow in you, boy."

What friend? Like a fool, he'd come alone. But never mind that.

Edited 2018-11-09 17:45 (UTC)

The sound of a voice gives Benedict quite the scare, and he whirls around to look about for its source, hands immediately going up. "Who's there?" he calls, his voice high and fearful-- out here, there's no one to protect him from ne'er do wells or, Maker forbid, Venatori assassins.

Edited 2018-11-10 00:02 (UTC)

Maker bless the dark. That lantern he has in hand and the close proximity of the rift must make the landscape seem awfully black in comparison.

"Someone you should mind," he calls down. "Get away from that and back to your boat."

No. He's planned for this too long, gone too far out of his way to make it work.
Deciding to take his chances, Bene turns back around just in time for a bolt of green energy to strike a little too close to him, making him jump and yelp. A dark shape appears in the rift's opening, then: a gnarled hand, a face that isn't a face, a creature no person wants to see on this side of the veil.
In a panic, Bene does the first thing that comes to mind: he hexes it. If there's an effect to this beyond drawing the demon's attention to him, it's not visible.

What does he rightly know about magic? To avoid it like the plague unless strictly necessarily. Not enough to recognize much about the shape of what's sent coursing toward the creature emerging from the rift beyond the fact that it is some kind of enchantment, come free from the hands of a Tevinter mage who'd come out here all alone under the cover of night.

So that's that then.

(He wishes he did have a bow. Not that he can shoot straight, but even the slim opportunity to strike from range sounds awfully appealing in this moment.)

Cursing, Marcoulf makes his way down from the ledge and toward trouble.

Those familiar with demons would recognize this one as a Terror, green and gangly and stepping toward Benedict as though on stilts. The latter reacts to this with a horrified shout, Mind Blasting it backward and scrambling away, but the rift pops again and a bolt of energy stops him in his tracks. While the first demon recovers, a second rears its head through the rift, peering around and preparing to make its entrance.

Somewhere in the back of his head he's done the mental math - kill the first demon as it's closest, then advance on the Tevene. Knocking him out would be preferable - if he's as traitorous as any of this looks, there will be thinks he might say to someone of importance about what he meant to do after all his time in the Inquisition's company -, but barring that, no one will miss him if he simply disappears. Then, after: get away, get back to the boat, and leave this place before anything more comes through the rift.

That's the plan. As he reaches the bottom of the hill, his sword is already in hand. Two strides more and he's slashing at the first demon, still staggering from whatever strike dealt it.

Blessedly, the first demon turns to roar at Marcoulf when he makes contact, and swings its skinny arm his way before diving down into the ground. It'll be back up a few seconds later, but there's no way of knowing exactly where.
Benedict recognizes that he has an ally and gives a cry of relief, only to notice the second demon beginning to claw its way out. He launches a spell at it, his left hand outstretched at just the right moment for a third bolt of energy to connect with it.

A popping sound, a scream, and he's on the ground in agony, clutching the wrist of a hand that now glows as unnaturally as the rift itself.
The first demon emerges, knocking Marcoulf off his feet, far too close to Benedict for his comfort. "Run," he gasps, beginning to stumble to his feet.

Marcoulf is just turning, sword drawn, toward Benedict when the bolt of energy leaps off the Rift and strikes his outstretched hand. The mage crumples. The second demon slides free of the rift like a too-few limbed spider emerging from its nest.

And then all at once, his footing is dashed and he's thrown backward, only barely maintaining his grip on the rapier. The demon with all its bony joints and long fingers, surges after him; he swings the sword from his back, skewering the creature in it's middle by sheer chance as--

Run? Had he heard that right?

He snarls, but if there's anything articulate about the thought What did I tell you earlier?!, it's lost as Marcoulf wrenches the sword from the Terror demon and scrambles to his feet.

The creature continues to flail angrily as it dies, but before long it seems to disintegrate, turning to a glowing green ash over Marcoulf's sword. The second one advances curiously, it's pointed hands reaching for Marcoulf's head as yet a third strange shape appears in the rift, then a fourth; they're aware of the fracas and are drawn to it.

Finding that his legs are too weak from terror, Benedict has taken to crawling away, glancing back periodically to make sure he isn't being followed. And he isn't: being quiet has served him well, with all the attention currently on Marcoulf.

Whoever that is, it's his choice to stay and fight an unwinnable battle. With mild regret, Bene turns and continues, finally getting to his feet. He has to get to the boat.

You shit, he might think if he weren't currently only halfway to his feet and hacking upward into the second demon's snatching fingers. The creature makes an awful sound, recoils, and then sinks into the earth as if it's water rather than clay.

Marcoulf is on his feet an instant later, ducking a split second after to avoid the long limbed grasp from the third- or fourth- or- demon. And then he's zagging, charging with sword drawn toward the nearly-prone figure inching his way way weakly over shale and stone. Come here, you little--

Edited 2018-11-17 05:31 (UTC)

Though at first he's only concerned with getting himself back to his boat, when Benedict hears the pounding of running feet behind him, he recognizes that it might be time to either move faster or start talking. He turns to see the sword and holds out his hand-- the non-glowy one-- but trips over a stone in the process, collapsing back to the ground with a yelp of surprise.
"WAIT," he implores, still inching backwards on one elbow, trying to get to a position where he can prop himself back up to his feet with his good hand.

Tripping over that stone saves Benedict's hand. Or all of him. That he crumples backwards in the same instant as reaching to defend himself is the one reason that bare sword doesn't flash out and thrust under his raised arm, or slash through his fingers, or--

Instead Marcoulf lunges after him with his open hand. He grabs him by a fistful of shirt collar and hair and wrenches him upright. "Move or I'll kill you here."

"DON'T," comes a shrill cry as Benedict's hands rise to grip Marcoulf's wrists, his face the picture of terror. He'd mind blast him, but he needs time, and it occurs to him that now is perhaps not the best moment to anger the man further.
This man that... he knows, though not his name, nor what he does. Has he been spying on Benedict this entire time?
"You," he says weakly, "we-- we have to go--!"

He gets a sharp, wordless sound in return that somehow manages to still sound like What do you think we're doing? as Marcoulf spins him around and shoves him forward with a hand between the shoulder blades. "Go!"

It's underscored by a sudden explosion of shale stone and dark earth as one of the terror demon resurfaces nearly on top of them, slashing after them with its grotesque razored fingers. Consider: Less wailing, more moving.

Well he couldn’t run with a ruffian gripping his lapels, for one thing, but that’s not entirely at the forefront of Benedict’s mind as he staggers away. A violent pop from the magical shard in his hand makes him gasp, and nearly fall over again, but his sense of self-preservation wins out and he just grips his hand instead.

He’s just out of reach when the demon reappears, and it has time to take a swipe at Marcoulf before Bene unleashes a hex that causes it to miss and look around in confusion.

Later - maybe as early as in the boat on the way back to the Gallows - he may give consideration to the fact that the sharp flare of magic striking the demon is what saves him from being disemboweled right there on some moonlit night on some wretched coastline (Maker, a beachhead seems like such a horrible place to die). But in the moment, Marcoulf is busy with the surge of adrenaline: striking out at the demon in its confusion and driving the rapier into its bony frame. It shrieks and recoils, twitching and yanking away. Not dead, but driven backward. A moment later it plows back into the earth.

Which may be no mercy at all, but it certainly feels like one. At least this gives them a few moments to--

Marcoulf twists back around. If Benedict has any sense of self preservation, he'll already be a dozen strides ahead of him.

Let's call it half a sense; he had paused to make sure the spell worked, but is a few strides ahead and turns to run as soon as Marcoulf is freed. He races toward the cliffside and where he knows his boat will be, hoping, perhaps, to lose his rescuer in the process-- if he gets back first, he can deny this whole thing happened as it did.

Quick as thinking, Marcoulf is after him. The Tevinter's legs are longer though - that Marcoulf was able to drag him around at all is quiet testament to the swordsman's wiry strength -, and with that lead he'll be at the beach and the boat waiting in the surf before him.

But let no one say Marcoulf isn't as tenacious as a particularly annoying terrier. He snarls after Benedict, pursuing him to the cliffs with his sword still drawn (in case of demons. Really).

Tall, yes, but Benedict has been a princeling for too long: he lacks athleticism, and can only thank his lucky stars for the sudden decline in terrain as he reaches the pathway down to the beach. He can then curse them, however, for how the darkness and the shifting of the sand cause him to stumble and crash downward with a startled cry, rolling a few feet and landing hard against a rock.

He can hear Marcoulf approaching, though, and that in itself is enough to convince him not to stop here. Using the rock as leverage, sand flying as he kicks into it, he scrambles again for the boat.

The cold reality is this: that if the only person involved in Benedict escaping pursuit was Benedict, that might still be enough for the younger man to slip free of Marcoulf. Unfortunately, there's the question of the man waiting in the boat and the fact that the boat itself has been hauled up onto the rocks and sand of the beach to keep from being battered to and for in the surf while lying in wait for a return that might take-- minutes? hours? Never underestimate a Kirkwall boatman's ability to make his job easier.

So the boat's beached. Running it out will take precious seconds. Even if Benedict beats him over the gunwale, Marcoulf is quick enough that he'll be canonballing into the boat right after him.

"No! NO, get--" Benedict is on the floor of the boat, and now so is Marcoulf, and the boatman is neither amused nor in any mood to deal with two noodles fighting in his craft.

"None of that! Get out!" he barks, and, removing a cudgel from his belt, begins to swing it at both combatants, not intending to stop until they're both gone.

A broken cry like a wounded puppy signals that Benedict has received a wallop, and is now as intent on scrambling back out of the boat as he is getting away from Marcoulf.

It's a brief mess of elbows and sharp knees, flailing obtuse shapes in the moonlit dark. The yelp, comically loud though it is, doesn't do much to loosen Marcoulf's vice grip on Benedict's-- wherever. He hasn't been choosy in the struggle, which could translate to a shirt collar or an armpit or a handful of hair. Neither does the solid whack from the cudgel that strikes him on the back of his shoulder either, though that at least has Marcoulf rounding with a snarl on the boatman.

--And gets smacked in his upraised arm for it. That does make him recoil, pain pulsing up through the half healed old wound in his arm and turning the man's already wan face going ghost white. He releases Benedict with a croaking sound.

At a certain point Benedict was banking on Marcoulf's grip to keep his balance, and with that now gone, he topples backwards out of the boat and lands with a violent splash and a yip (it's cold) in the shallows.
"You-- bastard," he gasps, sloshing now for the other boat in hopes he can get to it before Marcoulf, but it's hard to take proper steps when one is wearing a mage robe and that robe is now absolutely sodden.

Like he'd even know how to row it.

"For--Maker's--" is followed by a very strong curse word in Orlesian from the bottom of the boat as Marcoulf makes to fend off the boatman's assault. Benedict's dubious attempt at escape is momentarily forgotten in favor of not being beaten. which more or less culminates in a certain degree of flailing and defensive kicking before he rolls out of the boat and into the mud and small stones and salt surf of the beach.

So if nothing else, they're now both bruised and soaking wet as he resumes pursuit. And here, he's much faster without silly robes to drag him down. In which case: forget the sword. He tackles Benedict from behind, dragging him down into the shallow winter cold water. Quick as blinking, he has a knife to the younger man's throat and a knee in the center of his back.

He pants out another Orlesian swear word. Then, exasperated: "Are you finished?"

"The void with you," grumbles the ferryman, and he pushes off the instant Marcoulf leaves his boat. He was paid in advance for this, and he's not about to stick around and get et by demons or whatever other fuckery is about to go down.

A nonverbal wail is Benedict's protest as he's tackled, one which peters out into a fearful whine when he realizes the position he's in. Not all that long ago he'd have spun up something about massive amounts of money in exchange for not killing him, but seeing as he hasn't heard from his parents since Minrathous was taken, and this isn't the first time his throat's been on the business end of a blade, he plays it safe by saying nothing at all.

Instead, dripping and shivering and miserable, he nods mutely.

Good, he thinks. Because he doesn't know what he'd do otherwise except make a fool of himself. From where he has Benedict pinned, the sending crystal on its leather line has slipped free of his shirt's neckline and swings with residual energy now between them as if to say, de Ricart, you fool, coming out here all alone. And for what?

One hand keeps the knife to the younger man's neck. He stuffs the crystal away with the other.

"Put your hands up. Let me see--" Some fresh cut of surf catches them, bitter cold. Marcoulf flinches. Impatiently: "What did you do to them? At the rift. Where were trying to send your demons?"

Eyeing the crystal nervously, Benedict deliberates on asking if it's activated: is he about to out himself to the entire Inquisition, or just to this one scrubby Orlesian?
Because, truth be told, he's not in the mood to take any more chances. He puts up his hands as instructed, the left one now glittering and popping with the eerie green of the rift, and it's all he can do to keep from curling it to his chest in pain again.

Marcoulf's question catches him by surprise, however, and Bene narrows his eyes, not sure he heard him. "Send--" he stammers, "--what?"

The surf is cold, the night bitter about them. The knife pricks sharper at the back of the younger man's neck. Don't be dense, says the sharp edge. Say the truth or he'll gut you here on this beach and let the horrible dark sea have you.

"The Rift. Why were you there? Who told you to come?"

A thin whine escapes in place of a word as the blade of the knife makes itself known, and Benedict tenses his back, trying to hold his posture as is despite the freezing cold.

"No-- nobody," he whimpers, "I wanted to see one." This isn't a total falsehood, although only if by 'see' he meant 'receive the power of'.

Edited 2019-02-15 07:01 (UTC)

"Don't you bullshit me, boy," Marcoulf snaps. The knife doesn't turn, but his grip on Benedict's collar does: putting tension there, his knuckles a hard line against his spine. "You tell me, and I'll let you live long enough to drag you before the Commander."

And if he doesn't? Well.

"No," Benedict half-sobs, terror piercing through him at the thought of, once again, being thrown in a cage like an animal. It's almost enough to want to die right here and now, but some sense of self-preservation kicks in first.

"My mother," he gasps, recognizing in the back of his mind that he may someday pay for this treachery. "She wants me to-- to have a shard, to-- look like someone." Not that the someone is still here, but that's not a fact of which he's yet aware.

"Like who? For what reason?" Maybe a better question, though one the Inquisition likely already knows full well: "What's your mother's name?"

Another slap of bitter water finds them. The adrenaline is starting to go now, leaving just cutting cold surf and a sharpening evening wind to match it. But Marcoulf's hands are at least steady. He gives Benedict a good shake by the collar of his robes.

"My-- bodyguard," Benedict gasps, jolting as the wave hits. "So he'd-- pass for me, and vice versa." He's gripping Marcoulf's shirt, if only to keep his own head above water. "Calpurnia," he continues, "--Artemaeus, not-- not the Calpernia who serves Corypheus!" Probably an important detail.

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[closed] good ideas forever

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