MOD PLOT ↠ BLAZING LIKE STAR-SHINE

[faderifting]

WHO: All characters signed up to participate in the Battle of Ghislain
WHAT: The Inquisition faces off against the armies of Corypheus
WHEN: Covers most of the day on 11.28 (forward-dated)
WHERE: The Fields of Ghislain, Orlais
NOTES: This is Post #1, covering the battle itself and the retreat. It contains top-levels for each of the teams and an open prompt for the retreat. The OOC post with more information/explanation is HERE. If you're not sure which team your character is on, there's a LIST. POST #2 covers the aftermath of the battle.

Scouts accurately report the enemy's movements: after a slight slow-down believed to indicate that word reached the of the Allies' sudden appearance in their path, they have elected to remain on-course, and arrive almost precisely when and where they were expected. By sunset the night before they are making camp just over the rise to the northeast, easily visible from the hill, and as night falls their fires can be seen winking along the horizon, a close-packed glow.

The mood in the camp is tense, openly jittery rather than the tightly-wound nerves of the past month, but with a sense almost of relief that after so much preparation and so many weeks of anticipation, the day has finally arrived. Some corners of the camp, particularly the greener recruits and the Antivan veterans, are raucous around their campfires, singing and drinking, playful brawls breaking out, but commanders are strict about the wine rations, and even those who choose to take the edge of this way make an early night of it. A scattered handful of men attempt to quietly slip away during the night, mostly Orlesian conscripts, but a few Inquisition agents as well. Some succeed, but others are caught and imprisoned--the Inquisition's few held to be returned to Skyhold where it can be determined if they are traitors or merely cowards, the Orlesians only as long as it takes to find a tree and an audience to watch them hang and spread the cautionary tale.

It is expected that the enemy, hoping to make up for its surprise at finding the Allies prepared for their arrival, will attempt to catch them off-guard by attacking before dawn instead of waiting, as is traditional, for first light. They are all roused from their beds to form up in the dim grey as quietly as possible, moving into formation in the wet grass, a heavy morning fog lingering on the field ahead. It's cool and raw, the air still. But the ground moves: the shudder and rumble of hooves striking earth, felt before it is heard. The Orlesians raise their pikes, the front line braces, and it begins.

---

TEAMS 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • RETREAT
Team members can break off into smaller groups within their top-level prompts—it doesn’t need to be one 13-character thread—and the retreat is an open free-for-all.

Comments

TEAM ONE

[faderifting]

Right up in the very center of the front line, they're joined by a number of seasoned Antivan volunteers, and Orlesian infantry. There, they'll face down the first charge of the Tevinter cavalry, in their dark armor, leather dragon wings catching the breeze and flaring against the glow of the rising sun. They ride dracolisks, some from the Archon's own stables, breathing fire or ice, spitting acid and poison, and carry light spears as long as lances to push foot-soldiers back ahead of them, and then long, slightly-curved swords to reach down to lop off limbs or heads. After they've ridden a few men deep, they wheel around rapidly and retreat, allowing the infantry to stream in after them and join the battle. These are a mix of hard-bitten Ander veterans in heavy mail, Ander conscripts in makeshift leather armor with cheap, ugly weapons, immaculately-trained Tevinter legionnaires in shining armor with round shields and short spears, and even the occasional Red Templar, eyes glowing an inhuman, crystalline red. The quarters will be close and the fighting bloody, but after a fierce battle the enemy will be pushed back and forced to give ground.

As the enemy center falls back, the Allied center—with Team 1 as the point of the spear—will push forward in counter-attack. At first they'll successfully gain ground, driving the enemy back ahead of them under their furious attack. But then the Tevinter elephant cavalry joins the fray, pinching in from the flanks. The Orlesian troops directly behind them, demoralized by the recent murder of their commander and dissension in the ranks, and feeling no great love for the Inquisition after their involvement in the matter, will fall back rather than try their luck against the thundering herd of war-elephants with their sharpened tusks and spear-throwing riders. When they retreat, the enemy rushes into the space they've emptied, and Team 1 will be temporarily cut off from the rest of the Allied force, completely encircled by the enemy.

Ander reinforcements will then charge into battle, hoping to regain some momentum. They'll be led by Warden-King Vidal himself, conspicuous in a fabulously sculpted helm shaped like the head of a crowned, shrieking griffon. He has several aids with him, Ander, Warden, and Tevinter, along with a squire in charge of the royal banner, now altered to include a griffon in flight. The team will find themselves within striking distance of the king's party, and any member of the team can engage him or his retinue in battle. While many may claim to have engaged the usurper and maybe even to have wounded him, it will be Dame Geneviève De La Fontaine and Knight-Enchanter Nell Voss who together strike the final, killing blows and bring a bloody end to Vidal's reign over the Anderfels.

Once they have their prize, they will need to keep their wits about them to avoid being overrun by the enemy all around them, and either go it alone and try to sneak back to rejoin their allies unnoticed, or work together to avoid being picked off one by one before they can fight their way back to their lines. Either way it will take some nervy time to punch their way back through to where they came from and rejoin the rest of the army, which has stalled out and is fighting along a largely static front line, neither side able to gain any significant ground.

The commander that takes the Warden-King's place is a Tevinter centurion on a fire-breathing dracolisk, a darkly handsome man in his mid-late 40s who rallies the enemy troops to redouble their effort with just a few shouts and his own example, laying waste to all around him with his spear. But when the attack he orders too is narrowly repelled by the Allies, it appears to break the attackers' spirits. Abruptly, a retreat is called from somewhere down the line, and as the message is rapidly passed between commanders by the bellow of a horn blown in code, the enemy forces turn tail and run for the safety of their camp, breaking lines and failing to retreat in an orderly fashion. The unit is ordered forward, running after the enemy all the way into the darkspawn/demon trap.

[shri]

I.

Blood never tastes better when it splashes you in the face.

An acrid copper, a salt half like sweat when it mingles with her own that the blow she takes to the face and cuts teeth on the inside of her cheek from the heavy set Warden man. So thick she can't smell anything else on her too keen senses. But she'd rather not taste it for long. Sliding her tongue against her teeth as she felt it creep in between the cracks to lob the spit of blood straight back up at her enemy without care of consideration. Not for cruelties sake, but that she is immediately taken up with moving. If her sword has a place, it is in that man's belly, as sure as his strikes for hers.

The only difference is that she's faster, not that she wants it more, that she deserves it. That she uses a weapon he does not know, that she has years he cannot know, and that she is just faster.

She doesn't even bother to stop to turn back to see if he's dead, to know if his body has hit the ground yet when she runs him through, only that she's on him, watching his eyes with hers, close as lovers, eyes wet with the inevitable sweat and tears that come from the sheer exhaustion, desperation, exhilaration. With an unceremonious kick, she shoves him off the end of her blade with a heavy shove. Then, she's gone. Swinging in the next and hard as her long, whip-like urumi is snapping out from a spin on her heel, to strike at the next man. To catch him by the throat, wrap around it and with her whole weight, she yanks him down, hard, the slicing edges of metal do their task and well, slicing open his throat. Choking, grasping, trying to get his hands to pull it off before it does its work.

But even as she is fast, she doesn't have eyes in the back of her head to know where the next attack will come from. Not that they deserve it, want it more, not that she has broken formation. Just that: she is just one more target, and she never favoured heavy armour. Her scale mail's glimmer long soaked in blood as an inevitable next enemy pushes forward amidst the blast of magic, the clash of sword, quieter than canons, louder for the pained screaming of so many in triumph and in loss.

A man, a Templar, red-eyed and hungry, that has one bloody big, blooded sharp, axe. Maybe she can handle it just fine, maybe it is that she is determined too much on her next combatant who her blade locks with. The Templar, either way, isn't slowing down his approach on her.

II.

The roar of elephants couldn't sound more familiar to her. Not that she was expecting to hear them here when they split the air. She, like everyone else around her, stops a second, head snapped to realise what was bearing down on them. The trumpeting and cacophony of men scrambling trying to get out of the way, Allie and Enemy like, because an elephant's feet never cared for what they landed on. The scream terrifying from the suddenness under which it cuts short as an Anders man falls underneath one heavy foot. Under her, her horse pulls, screams, trampling the ground below them, fighting her order to stay put for that second. Turning in a tight circle, as Lakshmi desperately tried to make sense of the formation that they're cutting.

Shit, shit, shit. They didn't even have canons to scar the damn things off, not even one flaming pig to send squealing at the thing.

No but we have some damn mages, though. Fire, fire as much as they could. She pulls hard on her horse's reigns. To anyone that might be near that could hear. Her head snaps back, and before she knows it isn't her place to shout, but in the lieu of anything else it comes up: "Fire! We need fire! Shoot fire at their eyes and they'll run!" A pause, sucking in as much breath as she can to bellow louder again. "Kill the fucking rider!" Maybe they'd get lucky, maybe the riders would be different to the trainers and they would run back on their own men if they got scared.

She pays for the mistake, however, almost instantly. The bolt of ice hits her, hard and once. It would be impossible to tell if it was aiming for her or not. But the sudden cry of pain can't be mistaken. Her drops hard to the left with the pain that seizes up her side. Sharply breath as she looks down, the ice forming around her hand, spreading up her wrist. Searing her skin in cold so painful it burns. Immediately unable to move her fingers with it. Fuck. Shit, fuck, - fucking - . Blackwater. Now. Now. Piss and blood.

It's as much as she can get out before the damn thing is on her too, yanking hard on her reigns to pull her mare with her one remain hand and the pressure of her knees to direct. Bansuri frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling in fear, needs no more than that to take off. Lakshmi ducks her body as low to go as fast as she can. But it is directed, looking for a single person that might have followed up on the order, to assist them. Her hand can wait.

III.

There is you, there is Lakshmi, and there is the elephant you are now both riding.

How you got on it, isn't the question right now, though undoubtedly it was neither easy nor as glamorous as it looked and amounts to sheer luck, when it really comes down to it. It is just that you are, now, from this vantage point, now overlooking the battle. Lakshmi however, seems perfectly comfortable as she slides up to the animals head. Her legs straddling either side as she moves forward to situation herself where a driver ( one left over blood stain ) had once sat. Now she does, her back straight, looking at home on this as she did her horse.

Once she's settled, her feet in stirrups, she figures the simple orders can't be too different when it came down to it to the elephants of her youth. She turns back, shouting over her shoulder. "When we get close, their spearman will engage you. Whatever you're going to use, better have range. Don't be surprised if our elephant or theirs, rears, but if it's ours, those ropes are there for a reason. But the more we can break their lines, the better. Are you ready?"

Because, whether or not, she slaps a hand on the top of the elephants head to get its attention and kicks her leg on the side she wants to turn it, and they're moving - rumbling, slower pronounced than a horse, but faster for the ground they instantly begin to cover.

[ ooc: please feel free to wildcard, combine, hijack, and add in as many people as would like! I'm easy, and if you've got any questions or ideas, feel free to grab me on plurk at aeneia or on my ooc plotting comment. ]

[mythalenaste]

Pel probably will not see her daughter again.

As the fight rages, she sees people cut down left and right beside her. She sees soldiers falling left and right. She is lucky--she can step halfway into the Fade, existing in both worlds, as her sword flashes toward every enemy. The blood runs like a river. Don't die first, she thinks every time she encounters someone new. I am already dead, she tells herself when seeking out the next. Every kill in this battle makes Sina safer.

Vidal falls. Pel shouts, as many others do, raising her sword in tribute to those who died for this moment. More than the loss they are to others, they were her family as well. Everyone who made this happen is her family. She advances, slicing through the enemy like ham. Blood runs down one side of her face, but she's fine.

She's fine. For now.

six | ota

[swordproof]

I.

Six has fought in battles before, but never a war.

Seeing the array of men in front of her should fill her with fear, she tells herself. It should make her afraid down to her toes. The strange thing is that she is not as frightened as she might have been three, four, five years before now. She can remember the terror of a drunken attack, of idiots with blades and bottles in hand, of screams as they were torn to shreds. She can remember the panic of a blade cutting her down, the agony of her body being torn into pieces, the realisation that she might be dying. She had accepted her fate then: if that was how she was to die it would be terribly, painfully fitting.

But she had not died. Her life had been spared and Adrian's had been taken. That is why she is not afraid: she stands before an army of soldiers that do not frighten her.

It begins and she draws her greatsword, the huge weight of it familiar and comfortable in her hand. She rushes forward with the rest of the Inquisition, prepared to stand by them; this is her home now, even if she longs to return to the embrace of a God who loves her. This is the place where her sister lives, the place where her few dear friends survive. Six charges into the fray without pause, swinging her blade in wide arcs, cutting down anyone that stands in front of her. She counts each one for her prayers later, to ask forgiveness for being unable to offer them the redemption they might have deserved.

(All soldiers fight for a reason. They are simply on the other side, with different loyalties. Six understands).

As the battle continues she is quicker than people might credit her for, twisting her body and letting herself step in front of blades and hits meant for others. It doesn't take long for her to get covered in blood, to feel herself drenched in it - her own? Someone else's? She isn't sure - but she keeps pressing forward. If someone needs help she is there, sinking her sword into anyone who is harming anyone in Inquisition colours, pausing to lift someone to their feet, barely stopping to breathe. There's no time for it, not when there are people to save and a world to protect.

II.

The elephants are a surprise. She hadn't expected to see them in Thedas, let alone in battle, and for a moment Six is struck by them. They're the things of storybooks to her, nothing she has seen in real life before now, and she's uncertain what to do with herself; she has an odd limp thanks to a rather disgustingly sticky wound, but it's nothing that's going to stop her from fighting. She's suffered worse and lived.

What does cause her some concern is the fact that they're so clearly surrounded now. She can hear the sound of Two growling at her heels, rushing forward with her and leaping to attack anyone who might be trying to take her by surprise - she will have to reward him, too, she thinks. He stays close and defends her with a ferocity she hadn't ever imagined possible, and it means she is able to keep her attention on the people coming close, the king's party almost near enough for a stone's throw.

That's the direction she heads, her sword heavy in her hands, slipping in her grip with the blood and sweat. To cut the heart of an army is to kill the leader, she knows that - mercenaries were much the same, no matter what people might imagine otherwise. If they are able to destroy his guards and take down the leader then morale will fall and there might be hope. There might be something they can do to make sure that they do not all fall here - she has to get back to Kirkwall. She has to get back to her horse. She has to get back to her sister. She cannot leave Adalia alone again.

Six fights all the harder, screaming into the battle, her voice hoarse. Her hair falls loose of the braid she had put it in that morning, sticking to her skin, but she does nothing other than run, thick and heavy like a battering ram, pushing forward to crush people under her heel and the weight of her greatsword. Let them come: she will take them all.

III. ( isaac & nell )

Pain does not mean much when you are fighting. The body compensates and dulls it, leaves you uncertain of what you are feeling and the weight of the damage. It means that you're not quite as able to recognise when you should stop, and that's something that Six is aware of from previous experience. She knows as soon as she puts her sword down she'll feel every scrape and bruise and ache that she had been ignoring for the hours of the fight, and there's no way she can handle that. There's no way for her to stop when there is still so much to be done, so she keeps going, no matter what might happen.

Even when she falls to the ground, a sword at her throat. Even when one of the enemy soldiers manage to land a hit on her, the weight of him and his force magic large and heavy enough to have her leg caught and trapped. That she feels, the man over her ready to laugh, jeering at the easy kill, at the chance to have a new sword and some handsome armour to add to his collection. He does not anticipate Six reaching for his ankle and twisting it in her grip, tugging him down and moving to elbow him sharply in the jaw, nor does he anticipate her drawing a dagger from her belt and slicing across his neck, blood upon blood as she draws the blade away.

There is no time for gloating in war, she tells herself, pushing up and shifting to force the pain away. If she stops she will feel it, if she stops she will find herself falling, if she stops -

Pushing herself to her feet she stumbles, dropping down to her good knee, eyes clenched tight as she tries to breathe. This is a pain she cannot ignore, her greatsword digging into the ground as she uses it as a crutch, breathing hard. She has to try, she tells herself, she has to push herself up, she has to keep fighting. It is just a broken bone, surely, it will be fine.

She pushes herself again and drops a second time, fingers sliding away from the hilt of her blade.

for nell.

[exequy]

One of the damn spearmen gets him in the face, cheekbone to chin and deep enough that he could probably, if he wanted, which he does not, apply just a little more pressure and stick his tongue out through his cheek. That's half of why he doesn't shout for her, when the Orlesians fall back. That, and he's never stopped knowing where she is, and even if he had he could just look for the nearest enemy soldier flying through the air on fire.

He backs toward her at first, but midway he turns to reflexively, crudely impales someone already half-dead and staggering into his path, then throws a barrier at someone else engaged with a legionnaire, and after that he doesn't look back. The beginning of the retreat is all he needed to see. He knows the standard ending: a report about how they were too reckless and pressed too far ahead, with no one alive to contradict it.

He falls in behind her without a word—because it feels like his face might fall apart if he talks, largely, but also because any words would be lost under the rumbling footsteps of the elephants and the clang of metal, and there's no time to sit down and talk about their options—and gives her what he has, power focused past her like a light through glass.

But when he does get her attention, for a second, he nods his head toward the backlines, which have become enemy lines, same as the lines in every other direction. His face communicates what he isn't saying out loud fairly clearly: fuck that.

thranduil

[wythersake]

Battles don't end in neat little lines.

Maybe if you pull back, zoom out, invert a telescope to examine the distance: Then, territory taken and lost; one wall against another. But down in the mud, it's just another fucking brawl, and the ends of Isaac's staff scorch black before they're ever surrounded. It's enough to carve a burning space from the infantry (to send a soldier or two away disoriented), but the celeres show no such caution. Can't misdirect both man and —

Those aren't horses. That's definitely not a horse.

He's found himself (somehow) at the Provost's back, (somehow) the both of them alive and the Orlesian troops gone, and it seems a bad time now to not have mastered a barrier. To not have learned 'surrender' in Tevene.

The Anders fall back again. A black-clad knight charges through the opening, lance and blade poised. The dracolisk pulls its lips back over an acidic maw, and his shout's lost in cacophany. The elbow to Thranduil's kidneys may be a more effective warning.

TEAMS TWO & SIX

[faderifting]

Like Team 1, Team 2 is also in the front line of the main army, but left of center. They're joined by more Antivan knights and soldiers who have volunteered to join the battle, and are surrounded by Orlesian forces except for a company of Inquisition mages from Skyhold positioned behind them from a slightly elevated position that allows them to send ranged attacks (i.e. throw fireballs over them into the on-coming enemy).

Also like Team 1, Team 2 will first face down the first charge of the Tevinter cavalry, in their dark armor, leather dragon wings catching the breeze and flaring against the glow of the rising sun. They ride dracolisks, some from the Archon's own stables, breathing fire or ice, spitting acid and poison, and carry light spears as long as lances to push foot-soldiers back ahead of them, and then long, slightly-curved swords to reach down to lop off limbs or heads. After they've ridden a few men deep, they wheel around rapidly and retreat, allowing the infantry to stream in after them and join the battle. These are a mix of hard-bitten Ander veterans in heavy mail, Ander conscripts in makeshift leather armor with cheap, ugly weapons, immaculately-trained Tevinter legionnaires in shining armor with round shields and short spears, and even the occasional Red Templar, eyes glowing an inhuman, crystalline red. The quarters will be close and the fighting bloody, but after a fierce battle the enemy will be pushed back and forced to give ground.

As the enemy center falls back, the Allied center—with Team 1 as the point of the spear—will push forward in counter-attack, and the flanks, including Team 2, will push forward with them. At first they'll successfully gain ground, driving the enemy back ahead of them under their furious attack. But then the Tevinter elephant cavalry joins the fray, with one company barreling right at Team 2. The elephants are massive and heavily armored in shining brass and hardened leather, with tusks that are either sharpened or capped with vicious metal points. Each is ridden by two men, one who steers and one who fights from it's back, shooting arrows from a short bow or throwing short spears that may or may not poisoned. Sadly, the elephants have been trained to attack.

Once the elephants have moved in and stalled Team 2's forward progress, the team is betrayed by its own. While defending against enemy attack from the front, they will suddenly find themselves under fire (literally) from behind as well, and will discover that the source is not a sneak-attack by Tevinters, but a party of Inquisition mages from Skyhold revealing that they have changed sides and joined the enemy. They're led by two mages, a Marcher from the Markham Circle named Floren, a stocky, pale-haired human specializing in horror/fear/entropy spells, and Clara, a Fereldan from Kinloch Hold conjuring up fireballs and lightning strikes left and right. They will wreak havoc on the surprised soldiers around them before Team 2 is able to kill most of the group but neither of the leaders, who manage to escape with the last few of their turncoats friends fleeing across to join the enemy force.

Team 6, tasked with driving an ambulance wagon to collect wounded (with the aid of several guards for protection and lifting things) and deliver them back to the healing tents, will happen to be picking up injured in the vicinity of Team 2 when the betrayal occurs. They will find themselves caught in the crossfire, although their wagon and the horses pulling it all somehow manage to go unscathed. Although terribly unprepared for pitched battle in basically every respect, they will by some miraculous good luck manage to survive darting through the on-going battle, rescue a significant number of wounded from amid the fray, get them loaded into the wagon, and get the ambulance back on the road to the healing tents.

Luck Be a Lady (Team Six)

[coquettish_trees]

I. (for the ladies)

[ Despite the pitched battle being planned and called by the officers of the Inquisition, to those new to full engagement it is chaos. Loud with cries of battle and agony, the near deafening metallic cacophany of sword against sword, against shield, against armor. How the horses and cart the Baroness drives, half-standing and braced with the reins looped expertly around her hands, manages to weave and push through it is unfathomable, but after the first minutes on the field it is a miracle the women no longer have time to think about.

From then until the battle ends, their world becomes the wounded. First aid technique is used, learned, refined, albeit always seeming too slow. Triage is learned too quickly. The enemies not dispatched by the wagon's guards take Gwenaelle's arrows in shoulders, throats, chests. Those who manage to get through have Kitty and Alexandrie's quick blades to contend with, Three's sharp teeth and claws with muscle behind them that harry, hamstring, pull to the ground, or the flashing hooves of the horses Freddie yanks into rearing. 

Alexandrie loses count of how many times she bends to hold a hand or cup a cheek or kiss a forehead or speak a few words of comfort in whatever language they call out in and then turn heartbroken from the men and women with wounds so severe they would not make it back to the tents to aid another to the wagon, one or two horrible times having to wrench her hand or arm from their frantic grips. Once or twice the language is Tevene. They take them too, given enough reason. 

She approaches with an Inquisition soldier slung between her and one of their guards, his leg twisted and crushed, ready to pass him to whoever is available to pull him to whatever safety and rest they can offer. ]

How much room is left?

[ she sounds both hopeful and resigned. ]

II. (ladies + open to team 2)

[ The elephants--elephants?!--would have been enough. Alexandrie loses precious moments in simply gaping as the massive creatures throw soldiers into the air like so many ragdolls with trumpeting tosses of their heads, not even registering the woman who sights on her from the back of one until a line of fire streaks across her thigh, the arrow that cut through both leather and skin half burying itself in the ground just behind her spurring her back to motion with teeth gritted and a half limp, blood slowly soaking the cloth beneath. 

But then: The smell of burnt air, seared flesh, and a strangled cry as one of their guards arches, lightning going to ground through them. She whips her head around frantically looking for the enemy's mages, sees none. Another crack, tearing a furrow in the ground, and she looks up at any of the women still on the cart. Maybe one of them can see from that little bit higher up. ]

Where?!

[It comes in a hoarse shout. It doesn't matter, they have a job to do no matter what gets flung and from where, but wouldn't it be nice to know? ]

III. (ladies + ota, esp the seriously wounded. get in, losers, we're going behind the lines.)

[ All throughout the battlefield, they carry on their work. Back and forth time and again between the healers tents and the field. By now thick tendrils of copper have escaped from the tight halo of Alexandrie's braid, are pushed repeatedly behind her ears with gloves smeared in blood and mud and the blades of grass trampled into it until they finally mat there, the same traced across her cheeks like war paint on the fine bones of her face to make her look even fiercer than the determined cast of it already does. Her stride is stilted; her left boot cracked and blackened, the bandage tied quick and hard around her thigh beginning to bleed through again.

They're bedraggled, blood stained, injured all, but they're here to take you. ]

church (team 2)

[motherfucking_ghost]

dracolisk assault (ota)
[What feels like a long time ago, Church was part of a war, one that never actually reached the backwater planet he was stationed at. What he was, in technicality, was a victim of the war, set aside in order to let someone else worm their way past broken laws and war crimes for as long as possible. He's seen a lot more battle and a lot more fighting here than he did back home--at least against the actual enemy instead of with each other or horribly outclassed by super soldiers.

This is definitely the biggest battle he's found himself in so far. He finds the actual plans of attack to be comforting, knowing there are people in charge who know what the fuck they're doing when it comes to warfare. Even when the Tevinters, and then Anders, come bearing down on them, he doesn't feel too afraid. For his life, sure, of course he does, you'd be crazy not to, but no more than he would in any other fight.]

We fucking got this. [Whether that's for himself or the rest of Team 2 is unclear.

The fighting is intense, and even when the reptiles pull back, having done their damage, leaving the infantry to dig in, he finds himself relying on the sickly green glowing shield of his hand more than jumping into the fray swinging wildly. But swing he does, digging into whatever bits of things left unarmored he can. Oftentimes, he looks around for his team, willing to jump in and lend an assist. Maybe some people need to not go wildly charging off on their own, or someone looks scared out of their life and needs a hand.

So when a sword slips by and bites him in the sword-swinging shoulder, he merely hisses in temporary pain before charging his other shoulder into the Ander that thought he could take off an arm, bowling them both to the ground.] You cocky shit, you'll have to try harder than that! [Church please maybe pay attention around you??]

elephants on parade (ota)
[He's never seen an elephant before. Oh, sure, yeah, he knows what they look like, but out in space, as far as he knows, it's an Earth animal that's never left Earth. (Who would put an elephant on a rocket anyway?)

So the fact that Thedas has elephants is completely new information to him. Where the fuck did those come from?! What the fuck country do those giant fucks live in that he had no idea they even existed here? Please enjoy Church performing a rousing rendition of 'what the fuck' in D minor for a bit.]

How the hell are we gonna fight those?!

[He's pretty sure his piddly sword isn't gonna do much against an armored elephant.]

tonight we are betrayed (tw: burning) (ota team 2 + 6)
[He doesn't see the betrayal as it happens, not at first. There's chaos behind them, some kind of fighting, but he doesn't see it--there's fighting everywhere, after all, and fucking elephants in front of them. An Antivan raises a rounded container Church has learned to recognize as some form of grenade to lob at the enemy in front, but a crack of lightning explodes the container in her hand. Fire, like napalm, spreads around, down her arm, and the sticky substance lands on him as well.

Whatever lands on his armor is only hot, but what lands on not his armor, it's just skin, and his neck is suddenly burning. He starts screaming.

Of all the ways he's 'died' so far, he's definitely never been set on fire and burned to death. That's the only thought that seems to manage to worm its way into his head as he drops his sword and uselessly bats at the flames. Is this what charred skin smells like? He's never burned to death before. Is this how he goes out? Antivan fire was meant to stick to its target until it goes out, and the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. While there's betrayal going on, he's aware of very little of it, trying to scrape it off, trying to smother it with handfuls of dirt--you can't really stop drop and roll when it's flames on the side of your neck.

Fucking team killing assholes.]

[keenly]

I.

It is literally the front lines, and Colin was never built for this.

One person in armor is sparkly. Hundreds of people in armor are blinding. It's fortunate that Colin's main objective is to heal peoples' wounds as they come. Unfortunately, they come quickly, and the wounds become exponential. Compassion quickly takes over, and he understands why this job is rare. People have to trust the spirit, and few will ever do so. Persistently, Compassion heals those around him as they are hurt. Second after second, someone is healed. He finally understands why he was put on the front line, besides being a criminal meat sack. Healing isn't something that comes after; it's part of the offensive. The more warriors who overcome wounds, the stronger the offense. It may be better than what he might have suffered fighting in the mage rebellion, but there is a terrible vulnerability he bears nonetheless in this battle: if he is taken down, the offense suffers. And many try.

The first who manages is someone supposedly on their own side.

The shattering of his ribs is horrible enough, the internal bleeding threatening his life. He collapses to the ground, the warrior standing over him, and for the first time, Colin kills. Force magic wraps around the man like a vise and shrinks, crushing him. He can't think about it now. He downs a lyrium potion as quickly as he can swallow it, as he has once before now, this time to put a stopper in his own death. This is the problem; he cannot down innumerable lyrium potions, and the more mana he uses on himself, the less he has for those he is here to save. Now, to get to his feet. Whose blood can he taste right now?

Once up, he flings the rest of his mana into healing someone, before something bites into his side. His hand grips the haft of the spear to prevent it from sinking deeper, but the momentum from the spearman knocks him over again. The grass catches him, but he can feel his barely-healed ribs shatter again. He can't breathe, and the warrior moves in for the kill.

II.

Once on the wagon, Colin immediately seizes a bandage to cram into his wounded side before wordlessly beginning to see to the other wounded. There's not a single thought in his head. Numbly, he downs a third lyrium potion before getting to work with blood drying on his shaking hands. Anyone severely wounded is his first concern, followed by people in terrible pain. Dizziness becomes a problem, and he's not sure if it's the blood loss, the difficulty breathing, or the excess of lyrium he has taken.

"I have you," he whispers to his patient--you or your compatriot. "What's wrong?"

john silver / teams 2 + 6

[hornswoggle]

I.

This is not the first time John has squared off against Tevinter forces. He recognizes immediately that this particular outfit is better equipped, and better supported than any contingent he'd faced on Nascere. Retreat is not an option for John; whatever he had discussed with Thranduil, whatever nonchalance he had affected in the lead up to this moment, it is now clear that there is a great deal hinging upon their performance on this field. And it's going well, truly. Even in John's limited experience, he judges the forward momentum their party has garnered as an exceedingly good thing.

Then, the elephants.

"That—that's a problem," John shouts, just a breath before he's hit in the shoulder by an arrow.

II

Perhaps John should have anticipated this sort of fuckery. He of all people should have understood the urge to hedge bets and play the field. Betrayal is inevitable. There had been a period of time when John himself wouldn't have thought twice about taking a better deal and leaving everything else behind. He'd practically made a living of it, before the men of the Walrus and Flint had knocked him from that course.

But somehow, he hadn't expected it to happen on this battlefield, even considering the stakes they were facing and the enemy standing before them. The shock of a fireball scorching over his shoulder has him wheeling off balance. He hits the ground hard, twisting to see the perpetrator and—

"Oh, fuck."

It's all he can muster in the face of this betrayal. He scrabbles in the dirt for his crutch as a second fireball whizzes overhead.

"Don't just stand there, get after them!" is the first thing he shouts, instinctively, the moment he locks eyes with a friendly face.

( ooc: wildcards + thread-hopping is a-ok. i have a plotting comment if you need ideas or want to chat about plans. )

Team 2 and/or 6, OTA unless noted otherwise

[in_death_sacrifice]

I. Early on: cavalry charge, elephants, open for general teaming up to fight here!

[It starts off well enough. Kain begins the fight mounted on an Inquisition war horse. He's always done particularly well when mounted, given his personal specialization, so that's exactly where he belongs for this fight. If it were only a griffon... but they're not ready for this level of combat, not yet, and he would never think to push them. This is good enough, though. As the call echoes through the field to charge, he urges the horse forward and rides on savagely into the midst of battle.]

[He charges in with his blade slashing at enemy forces, taking down other mounted foes one by one. This part is what he lives for, this brutal, fast madness where he doesn't have to bother over anything else but fighting what's in front of him.]

[But when those elephants come barreling in, everything changes fast. More of their warriors start to fall. There's also more chaos than ever, and an enemy's axe swings wildly at him. A second swing of the axe strikes the horse in a vital spot... it collapses and Kain loses grip, falling to the ground. He's fast to recover, rolling around to regain his feet before putting his ring of pain skill to use. His right hip stings where the first axe blow had landed, but although it pierced the armor, it feels like little more than a simple cut to the skin itself.]

[Ha, good, so he can stand and keep fighting. That's good enough for him. In fact, he'll use that cut to fuel his ring of pain, turning that minor wound to his advantage. Sure, it'll hurt a bit later on, but in the heat of the moment, it's strategically helpful.]

[So despite how it all looks, Kain still presses on now from the ground. Every enemy he fells or even just wounds feeds his energy all the more, their blood and his own driving him onward through the fighting.]

II. Gasp! Betrayal!

[Shouts rise up along with the unmistakable sight of magic being shot off all around the area. At first, Kain pays that little mind, focusing instead on swinging his heavy sword at the enemy he's engaging with. But soon enough, those shouts sound more distressed, and one word is going up loud and clear: "Traitors!"]

[Kain stabs the throat of the soldier he's fighting, drawing the sword out grimly as the blood sprays out and the enemy collapses. With a gasp of shock, Kain witnesses it right in front of him. A mage very clearly dressed in Inquisition armor is blasting spells upon one of their own... and it's happening all over the field, effectively trapping their forces between two enemies. No... it cannot be...]

[With a cry of rage, he rushes toward one of those mages to strike them from behind.]

III. Intercepted blow (for Marcoulf)

[With the mages betraying them, everything is thrown terribly off balance. The field is a mess of fallen and wounded, with those elephant cavalry especially doing considerable damage. Kain barely dodges one of those attacks, the spear missing his head by mere inches, as he charges onward through the fray.]

[He's focusing on picking off the mages, as much as he can, but there are still plenty of other warriors to deal with still, too. More and more it seems there are less fighters standing on their side. So, while he fights, Kain is keeping an eye out for any allies in need, stepping in here and there to add his sword to their defenses. He's just getting done aiding a fellow Orlesian in taking down a brute of a swordsman, when he looks to see who else is in trouble...]

IV. Drag him off! Healing needed!

[It's becoming a long, gruesome conflict. Kain thinks about Inessa, wondering how she's faring. Are the other groups having as much difficulty as they are? The time to find out will be much later. Right now, they have to do what they can to just survive. He refuses to believe they've already lost this.]

[The blow he'd taken to his left shoulder was unfortunately bad... very bad. It's probably a really serious injury, but Kain has no time to be fussed over, and if he can stand? He sure as hell can fight. Though he's had to switch his sword to his off arm, which is... a bit problematic, but something he'll just have to deal with. He can at least manage well enough, and he's determined to keep going. They need all the help they can get out here. He just has to remember that old reaver mantra about pain being good, being his friend. Ugh... but the adrenaline keeps him from feeling it too much, anyway.]

[Kain has been taking down a lot of those mages, knowing the threat they pose and hating the way they'd turned on them. So of course, it was only a matter of time before some banded against him. At first, it's not so bad, and Kain trades blows for spells with them eagerly, letting any minor damage strengthen his attacks. But then a mage gets lucky, sending a Fist of the Maker right for a vulnerable spot.]

[The Force spell slams into Kain's neck and he's thrown back at once, crying out on impact as he hits the ground heavily. There's sudden, intense pain, and he struggles to breathe. He's immediately convinced he's a goner...]

Kylo Ren | OTA | Team 2

[letoldthingsdie]

Tevinter Cavalry

[His mind was shut off from anything else besides the oncoming battle, the roar of dragons filling his ears as he was careful to avoid fire and whatever else they decided to throw at them. He was no good on the ground like this while they had an air advantage. He turns his focus to whatever is going on on the ground around him.

The Red Templars come charging in with sword and shield and he's quick to charge the nearest one he can get to, shouting and swinging his glowing blade at the nearest one. He parries a sword or two, slicing through metal that caused his lightsaber to crackle and spark as he cut through it. He manages to fell his first opponent, turning and swinging his blade in a wide circular arc as he moves with a dancer's grace to engage another.

He might not have heavy mail or armor, but he was as quick on his feet as he could be and he was going to kill as many enemies as he could, still mindful of the beasts in the sky above him.]

Push them back!

[It's fruitless to bark orders, of course. He's not a leader here. He may as well be no one to these people. A rifter, fighting in their war, was all he was. Still he fought with every ounce of energy he could muster as he raised one of his hands to yank a templar towards him through the air. The soldier tried to fight him off as he held them in the air, his expression enraged as he choked the man before impaling his soft yielding flesh with his red blade.]


Burning Campgrounds - OTA to Team 2 and 6

[He was winded and hurting. During the scuffles he'd been slashed in the shoulder with a sword. The blood stained his dark clothes and his glove too as he tried futilely to cover it. He barely registered it once the fires began. There was chaos as the tents burned and people tried their best to flee. In the chaos a horse, startled by all the noise and fighting, nearly knocked him over as it caught him with a hoof square in the abdomen. He'd had a slit second, instinctively protecting himself with the Force, to parry the blow and his hands are raised as he tries to stop the beast's rampage. It isn't until long after the creature has fled that he realizes he's probably bruised or broken a rib.

He focuses not on the pain but on finding people to help, to gather who he can so that they can retreat.]

Retreat! Come with me!

[He had no idea if anyone was even going to listen to him as he looked frantically around to find people on the ground.]

TEAM THREE

[faderifting]

Team 3 has been chosen primarily for their skill at ranged combat, either with bow and arrow or with magic. While they begin the battle behind the Allied infantry, firing over them into the on-coming enemy attack, this group along with a party of archers and guardsmen provided by the Comte de Val Firmin are singled out for a separate mission. Both intelligence and general knowledge of military strategy suggest that the enemy is likely to try to slip a force through the forest in the north to attack the Allied flank. This team is therefore sent into that wood to ambush them when they try it.

They sneak back into camp and from there creep into the woods, heading in to a location scouts have identified as advantageous and likely to be on the enemy route. They take up positions in the trees, primarily, though some can also hide in the brush and behind rocks, crouching out of sight and listening for the signal of a scout up ahead that the enemy is approaching. It takes long than expected, and while they're able to have whispered conversations as they wait, they're mostly trapped in place, since there may not be time to retake their hidden positions once the scout signals and any movement could tip off the enemy and spoil the entire effort.

In the end, they are partially successful. When the enemy finally arrives it's in greater strength than expected: archers of their own, but foot-soldiers too, a handful of Red Templars, and even some cavalry on horse and dracolisk. Despite being outnumbered (and probably stiff from crouching in trees) there is no choice but to attack, no way to get ahead of them or warn the rest of the army of the approach force other than making their move. The first volley of arrows catches the enemy by surprise, but they aren't wholly unprepared, and regroup to fall into formation with pairs of shield-bearing soldiers protecting each other and an archer, who fire back around the shields in an attempt to pick the ambushers off one by one. The most successful of these snipers is an archer whose face isn't seen, but whose arrows are fletched with distinctive owl feathers. The ambushers will be forced to join them on the ground or eventually be picked off.

It's difficult terrain for fighting, with tall trees relatively close together, dense brush, and uneven ground hummocked with half-hidden boulders and slippery moss and leaf litter. Some of the enemy scatter, in an attempt to race around the team and loop back to their destination, and it may be necessary both to fight up close in something of a crowd and to hunt down individual enemy attempting to sneak by. In the end, despite their best efforts, nearly all of the Comte's men are killed, and roughly half of the enemy force survives and succeeds in either retreating back to their camp or getting through the forest to attack the Allied forces from behind. Team 3 must then return to the rest of the army and retake their original position, provided ranged support from the back, before the enemy retreats and the order is given for everyone to pursue (straight into the trap).

Benedict

[altusimperius]

I

Not much for climbing trees, Benedict has crouched behind a boulder, making an unhappy face at having to be low down in the dirt to get cover, but he is (perhaps miraculously) not complaining. Though he’s only an apprentice yet, and therefore doesn’t have a staff, he flexes his gloved hands in anticipation of casting with the very important purpose of slowing down and confounding their quarry.
All he can do is hope they don’t get too close, because Mind Blast can only take a person so far when danger is upon him.

II

They came too close.
Hurling spell after spell: horror, misdirection hex, nothing so complicated as a walking bomb, but don’t they wish? A barrier would be nice too, but in the meantime all he can hope for is to meddle enough with the enemy’s efforts that his allies can get good shots in; he’s exhausted, but doing his best, until...

III

A sword from behind, with no time to Mind Blast. He sees its tip protruding unnaturally through his ribcage and feels the same deep, existential terror as when his throat had been slit: he’s going to die now, this is how people die. A gargled scream of horror and pain and he’s facedown on the ground, clawing at his middle to hold his guts in (are they coming out?? oh Maker, oh Andraste,) and his ears tune in to those around him as he prays for help. Blood drips from his mouth, but doesn’t have far to fall, his face resting in the dirt as he looks for all the world like the recently deceased.

He’d heard everyone goes for the mages first, but never really knew. Every moment is agony.

Inessa

[circleprodigy]

I.

Alternating between hexes, rift magic and a little necromancy, Inessa brings down her fair share of enemy forces, most often disabling them for allies to dispatch but also taking them out directly. She's managing pretty well for a while, until a pair of Tevinter dracolisk riders focus their attention on the woman paralyzing and hexing their allies. Surrounded by fierce dracolisks and ruthless cavalry, Inessa can't even call for help as she has to focus on picking off the men before they impale her on those lances. While her stalwart mabari does his best to intercept the nearest one charging, she knocks that rider off his mount with a Stonefist spell. The other reaches her, and that array erupts into a burst of ice magic, encasing the rider...but not the dracolisk. It shrieks, sending forth a blast of ice.

II.

Victory at last? Hearing the call to pursue their enemies, Inessa straightens and downs a lyrium potion before using some healing magic to patch up a limping and bleeding Garahel. He'll need closer attention later (as well she), but they can last long enough to see this through.

For someone of her small size, she can sure project her voice when the need arises. "Anyone who needs a little healing, come here quickly! We don't have any time to waste!" A little more effort, and this will all be worth it.

ilias

[libratus]

[[ ooc: i'm aiming for one thread per prompt please but group threads/threadjacking are welcome! ]]

I.

It isn't a comfortable wait, not even for someone for whom stillness and meditation are occasional voluntary pass-times; there is a different sort of tension in the air, when you're waiting to spring a trap.

A tension that winds wire-taut when the enemy plants their shield wall, and their archers swiftly begin finding their marks. An arrow whistles to a stop in the bark beside Ilias's left shoulder, and he hisses through his teeth, pressing harder into cover. He hasn't done this before, not against (or with) an organized company of soldiers like this, but even he can tell this position isn't sustainable. They need to move. They need to not get killed the moment they do.

"If I can disrupt their line, can you take advantage?"

II. [cw: gore]

The screams are the surest way to find him, in the chaos that follows. One cluster of plate armor rattles with tremors as the men wearing it fight the rising urge to throw themselves in front of Inquisition arrows or onto Orlesian swords, desperate for a horrible stretch of seconds to make the crushing emptiness stop.

One of them makes a break for the bushes. Some don't move a muscle — and continue not to move as an arrow lodges behind one's kneecap, as an Orlesian guardsman closes the last few necessary steps to lodge a sword in another's neck. But the next scream isn't from them; it's from one of the too-many who didn't buckle, who let fear wash over him and steadied his hand to raise his axe over the shoulder of an Inquisition soldier — you? — when a twist of purplish fog grips his chest and rips.

Its source is not far, and yet the man himself seems unimportant somehow, a grey shadow in grey mist between thin grey trees. A staff twists; the foot-soldier's scream cuts off in a gurgle, shards of bone wrenching up with the blood that wells from his mouth, his nose, out between the joints of his armor before he falls. His axe cuts a divot in the dirt. The fighting swells between them, but the air around Ilias is still as a cathedral.

(It's funny, he thinks, with a distant awareness that funny isn't the right word for what he's feeling just now, like a bottle emptied, a different scream smothered by a different wood, but all the same: funny, how much better that works when he means it.)

From where he's standing, Ilias doesn't seem to see the Red Templar closing in on his flank at all.

TEAM FOUR

[faderifting]

Team 4 is posted atop the hill overlooking the field from the south. Supported by the Comte Chantral de Velun's men, this team is tasked with retrieving, assembling, and operating three mangonel—small traction trebuchet where manpower pulls the arm back, smuggled into the area in advance disguised as spare wagon parts—and using them to launch rocks and pots of Antivan fire down onto the enemy. But the enemy wants this hill and (now that you mention it) those weapons for itself.

The team will succeed in retrieving the pieces of the machines and getting them up the hill despite light enemy fire, but once they begin trying to put the mangonels together, they will come under sustained attack from a company of enemy soldiers. They approach too quickly and in such numbers that even the advantage of the high ground is little help, and those in the team who are focused on defending the positions are forced to fall back into a fairly tight perimeter around those working on assembling the small war machines. It's difficult work—the parts have become jumbled and mis-matched in the rush to get them up the hill, and are damp and slippery after several wet days and a foggy morning. The enemy has brought archers, among others, and arrows are launched on steep arcs in hopes of hitting the construction team.

Despite their best efforts, they will manage to successfully assemble just one of the three weapons and launch only a couple missiles before it becomes clear that their position is untenable. Seeing signs of success, the enemy redoubles its attack, and there is no choice but for the team to retreat or be killed, and so retreat it is, back down the hill. Once the enemy have taken their place, they not only drag weapons of their own up onto the hill (several larger trebuchet, moved on wheels), but they finish putting together those brought by the Inquisition. They use these combined resources to rain a near-constant stream of fire pots, alchemical and magical bombs, and even rocks at the Allies below. Several attempts are made to retake the hill, but each is repulsed by the enemy.

After their withdrawal, Team 4 is put to work assisting teams 7, 8, and 9, just in time to be caught up in the feigned retreat by the enemy, and the very real retreat by the allies.

Tessa

[zombra]

{ on the hill }

For some stupid reason, Tessa imagined the building of these machines would be done without the enemy attacking them. She thought they'd have time. But as it is, she's dropping what she's doing to pull out her crossbow and fire bolts into the enemy force. She wears a bandolier across her chest with large, round leather rings to hold additional drums of bolts to reload into her crossbow, but between firing, reloading the drum, and building the mangonel, things aren't going well.

"This is fucked," she says at one point. "Either we all fight them off and come back to this, or we leave some to build and some to fight. This half assed back and forth isn't working."

[ ooc: this section will contain Tessa taking a minor wound to the foot from force magic. ]


{ the main battle }

Once the hill is lost, Tessa regroups with their forces on the main field of battle. She uses her crossbow where she can, but it's mostly close quarters fighting. Pulling out her axe, she hacks away at the enemy, looking for vulnerable spots in their armor to cut deep. The fight seems to bring forth a feral side to her, reminiscent of her fights against zombies who had caught up to them. Things seem to be going well; so much so that the enemy is falling back and the allies are taking advantage of it. She's there in the thick of things as they give chase.

[ ooc: this section will contain Tessa getting an arrow slicing across the side of her head and being poisoned. this will occur before the enemy's trap is sprung, so she'll need help retreating back before the giant rush of a full retreat. ]

Jester || OTA

[the_cleric]

"Are you okay?"

Jester is here to be a healer. Or something. This is not fair. It's not as if she can't heal. She totally, totally can. But she can do so much more, too. That's why she has her spiritual weapon floating beside her, a giant spectral lollipop ready to deal damage to anyone that gets too close. The enemy archers are out of its range, unfortunately, or else it would be over there kicking ass.

As the battle rages on, she manages to skirt around the worst of the damage, unafraid to flatten herself to the ground with a little scream. Given that she's seven feet tall, she presents a large target, so she starts moving around between patients and potential patients in a sort of half-crouch. To those less injured, she offers crumbly cookies from her pink haversack. "For the sugar," she explains, patiently. "Sugar is good for morale. You can trust me. I am a morale officer."

As the enemy grows bolder and the hail of arrows grows thicker there are, suddenly, two Jesters. One is pale and ghostly, especially when seen up close. From far away, she looks like a target, and arrows regularly pass right through her. Perhaps one hits you on its way through the spectral Jester. Sorry!

The real Jester has a bandage wrapped around her right hand now. Every so often, she stops what she's doing to make a quiet oooh, oww of pain, cradling her hand close to her chest. "This really really hurts! Ah, man..."

CLOSED to Myr.
"Stop!"

Jester grabs hold of Myr's shoulder, from behind him. Her grip is strong. Maybe a little too strong. You know that saying, she doesn't know her own strength? That kind of applies, to Jester, except that she does know. It's just that she forgets sometimes.

The second of the missiles has launched, successfully, with a creak of the mangonel's workings. The resounding whoomp of its impact should be a cheering sound. It isn't. The battle is turning. No one has ordered a retreat yet. A handful of the Inquisition's number have been tasked to resecure the hill, moving with as much stealth as they can muster to avoid drawing the attention of the enemy archers.

And the enemy scouts, one of whom is now in the brush just ahead. There's a small cluster of low-growing trees and bushes there, crackling with a small fire kindled by a stray missile. Jester points, deliberately overstating the gesture to encourage silence in Myr. There, and then, BAD, mimed by putting two fingers over her eyebrows and tipping them, down, making mean eyebrows--and then points to herself. Me. She will take care. If the enemy scout doesn't find them first, which, given the woman's quick crunching pace, maybe she will.

mangonel more like dangonel

[nadasharillen]

"That! Here!"

It's a deep throaty yell above the fray. Despite the clarity of Nari's directions, there are only Rey and Myr who are well used enough to the way she directs to respond to the curt instructions she has to stick to to be heard, and the parts are jumbled together enough that it becomes a difficult proposition. Amidst the immensity of the battle, the loudness and exposure of it, the Dalish woman is thrown into disarray despite her training and study. Every instinct in her screams to make for the trees, for any cover, and it is effort beyond any she has known to deny that. To continue to hold her focus and call for the parts, oversee the construction of the mangonels.

Finally, unable to get the team of soldiers who are in no way engineers to grab the beam she wants, she grips it herself and attempts to drag it on her own up to the apex of the hill. Despite the grit of her teeth and the aid she receives once her intent is understood, her single-minded pursuit of her goal ends with her heel slipping in the wet of the ground, the slam of her head into a rock embedded in the ground of the hill.

Hey. A rock. That'll do for ammunition.

Nari is able to take her feet again, but every moment afterwards is one fraught with confusion and pause to find the words, the plans, that she wants. Even so, one is assembled, and she searches with slightly fuzzy vision for the light blonde of Myr's hair, the sandy light colors that Rey favors.

Or anyone, really.

[ come shoot stuff before we get run down! ]

Fingon

[utulien_aure]

Part of Fingon wants to remain behind as the team falls back. He's limping from shallow leg wounds and slower than he ought to be, but there are others more injured- if he stays here, kills a few more attackers, maybe more of the team will get out.

(The Deep Elves of Arda breed their children stubborn- stubborn and often not very sensible.)

It goes all right for a while- Fingon's sword goes where he wants it to go and a well-made dagger follows. The enemy closest to him goes down one by one by one. But he's slowing down, and falling back (no matter how much he hates it) becomes as much about keeping up with the enemy as it does with the others.

And his sword, while deadly, is only useful when the enemy is in reach. It's a mage that brings him down, aiming for his right hip as he kills one of her fellows on his left. There's an angry shout, the joint screams- and his leg buckles under him.

TEAM FIVE

[faderifting]

Team 5 will creep through the edge of the woods to come up behind enemy lines, near their encampment. Before exiting the woods, they succeed in luring a passing patrol just into the trees where they can be quietly killed, and are then able to creep into the camp, evading passing enemies, avoiding detection, and assassinating as many as possible without raising the alarm. Near the center of the camp they locate their objective: several makeshift stockades where Orlesian and Inquisition prisoners (both from this battle and those previous) are being held. These are little more than glorified pens of sharpened stakes, with prisoners tied together in groups, chained to posts, or held in roughly-wrought cages.

The team will succeed in quietly killing the guards who are minding the first stockade, and slipping in to free the few dozen chevaliers held inside. But it will be impossible to get them all back out of their prison again without the jailbreak being spotted and the alarm raised through shouts and a clanging bell. They will be able to fight their way into the other holding pens to free the rest of the prisoners, but the number of enemy soldiers pulled back to defend the camp will only increase the longer they remain. A collection of enemy soldiers of all sorts will respond—Ander warriors, Tevinter spearmen, Red Templars, even some cavalry on horse and dracolisk—and they will be quickly outnumbered. Their best chance of survival lies in scattering the team and the escaping prisoners, an every-man-for-himself approach, everyone racing through the maze of the enemy camp.

They can set some fires as they go, destroying some supplies and creating more chaos, but won't be able to linger to focus on sabotage or any opportunity to identify high-value targets or gather any real intelligence. The command tent is far too well-defended, and they will be unable to get anywhere near it without being attacked. Escaping the mayhem and racing back to the Allied lines and safety beyond before pursuing enemy can kill them will be difficult enough as it is, and about half of the freed prisoners will either be killed or re-captured in the attempt. Those in Team 6 who make it back to the lines in fit shape to continue will be folded back into the fight just in time to be caught up in the rush forward into the trap, and the ensuing flight.

flint | ota team sneaky stabby

[katabasis]

I.

It isn't quiet. It isn't still. The sounds of battle bend and warp through the trees, turning both hollow and liquid, and the intermittent flare of magic in the field flashes bright scattered light through the wooded canopy of leaves, the tangle of underbrush, and over silent bare steel.

The cacophony of the fight had muted most of their contingent's small noises as they made their way through the wood, though every soft snapped twig or rustle of leaves had served to raise the small hairs at the back of Flint's neck. That it has taken now, until they are at the treeline itself, to spot any sign of men lying in wait for a show of force from these trees, likely speaks to some incredible luck more than it does their own skill. Like it or not, a line can only be stretched so thin and it seems they've stumbled over a hole.

Best to capitalize on it.

In the misty gray and gold of early morning, from the relative security of a copse of tightly wound birch and hawthorn, Flint surveys the encampment beyond through a spyglass. There's a sense of quiet momentum here, a twitching eagerness to be down among the tents there, but he forces it away. Measures distances. Spots--

"There, two points southeast. There's a gap between the banners and tent peaks there, do you see it?" He surrenders the spyglass accordingly. "That must be where they've built some containment for their prisoners."

II.

A bell begins to clang, it's sharp note pealing over the shouting and the snap of chains being split as the stockades are cracked open, bars tossed up from the crudely constructed swinging doors. It's not the first sign that they'll be losing their hold on this place soon - they've been fending off blows for moments now -, but it's certainly the clearest. They have minutes, if not seconds, before this precarious position becomes completely untenable. Flint wrenches his sword from a very recently fallen infantryman.

"You!" A barked order to whoever happens to be at hand. "With me."

And then he's moving toward the remaining cages - all flashing steel and a driving, determined line of arm and shoulder to meet the scattered resistance on the way. They've two stockades left to clear and now is the time before--

A motley string of reinforcements pours in toward the center of the camp from between flapping canvas and strung tent lines. Fuck.

III.

They scatter in every perceivable direction outward through the camp and in an instant, he's lost track of anything but the direction of the treeline where he knows he needs to retreat to and what few allies have come down this same narrow lane - a chevalier with a stolen sword, a battered Inquisition scout with no strength in his hands to carry a weapon, but plenty capable of running, and Maker only knows who else. There's smoke from some fire being blown here, ash and heat on the air, and as they make their way from the camp, figures in enemy armor and fractured red Templars materialize unexpectedly at blind corners; supply laden wagons are overturned or set aflame.

Reaching the woods brings little relief. The sounds of scattered pursuit snapping branches and dislodging loose stones hounds their heels. In the shifting shadows of the trees Flint snarls, "Here," and takes a hard left turn leading down into a ditch that is little more than faint depression in the earth shielded by some thorny wild hedge.

He goes still and quiet there, chest heaving with the effort not to pant. Once their pursuit passes, they can deal with them from behind and move on.

[ooc: wildcards welcome and I'm cool with group threads if more than one person wants to pile in or hi-jack anything. feel free to shoot me a PM, ping me on plurk or comment to my plotting post if you want something specific that isn't covered here!]

TEAMS SEVEN, EIGHT, AND NINE

[faderifting]

Team 7 will be towards the middle on the right side of the Allied force, not at the absolute front, but heavily involved in the main pitched battle. They will provide strong reinforcement for the right, holding fast even against the incursion of the elephant cavalry. The Allied forces on the right will be bombarded by the enemy artillery on the hill, but despite thinning numbers ahead of them, Team 7 helps ensure the line doesn't break.

Team 8 will primarily supply ranged support from behind Team 7, but will also attempt to out-flank the enemy and find higher ground on the slope of the southern hill in an attempt to gain a better vantage from which to attack the elephants. Unfortunately this will fail when they encounter an enemy force making a similar move, who drive Team 8 back to their original position.

Team 9 will be stationed at the main healing tents just behind the lines. Those on the team who aren't healers themselves will be employed doing basic tasks like delivering clean water and bandages, washing tools, fetching potions, holding people down while their limbs are amputated, helping categorize and direct the wounded, keeping records, moving the dead, and similar. This work will be interrupted mid-battle by a sabotage attack, as what appears to be a cart delivering wounded to the tent instead turns out to be full of pots of Antivan fire hidden beneath a few bodies. When the discreet fuse burns down, the cart explodes, lighting both of the main healing tents on fire, killing and injuring a number of healers, helpers, and patients, and destroying vital supplies. Those that escape regroup in a new makeshift healing area nearby, but between injuries and losses among their own and the destruction of many of their supplies, their efforts are hampered for the remainder of the fight.

sidony (team nine / surgeon) ota

[indissection]

I.

So this is war.

Sidony stands behind the lines, her eyes drinking in the sight of the battle taking place, not sure what to do with herself. There's an eerie silence as they wait for the wounded to come to them, watching people walk around setting up stations. Her hands are shaking, she realises, and she clenches them, holding them at her side, bringing them down as she brushes her fingers over her surgical apron. She thinks of the bones in the body, of the muscles, of the humours, goes through all the things she knows in her mind like a mantra to keep herself calm.

It's not calm when people start to arrive.

She works first on a man that has a gaping wound across his chest, her hands surprisingly sure as she takes needle and thread and herbs to fight off infection. The worst part is the sound of his laboured breathing, the screams from around them, and the wince as her needle slips, once, and goes too far. It is far, far different to working on dead bodies and bolts of fabric and with eyes watching her - assistants, other soldiers, other warriors - she feels under a kind of pressure she had not imagined. She wants to lay her fingers flat, she wants to study his body properly, that is what her desire had always been, but already her nails are thick with blood and her palms seem a different colour entirely.

That soldier goes and another comes and all she can do is work. There is no pause, no chance to breathe, and she keeps up a steady rate of mending, stitching and setting bones. She cannot do any magical healing, so some people are not given to her, but those with cuts or those suffering from poison are able to settle in front of her - and she does what she can.

( OTA characters who might be hurt / wounded and brought back to the healer's tents! )

II.

She does not expect the attack nor the fire. She does not expect anything other than the understanding that healers are allowed to do their jobs, that those brought here should be given sanctuary. She does not expect the wild fling of a trebuchet to have her brought down, not amidst the burning of the tents and the screams of the hurt, fleeing and dying.

A part of her feels a little bit as though she might by dying herself. It's somewhat difficult to breathe and she finds herself pressing a hand against her own chest, feeling along the bones, counting rapidly as she gathers her things with another hand. One, two, three - at least three broken ribs. Not so dangerous that she cannot move, but something she ought to set once she has a moment. With her bag in shaking hands, Sidony rushes away from the burning healer's tent, unable to stop to help anyone else - it must seem awful of her, and it's awful that she is even considering her own reputation in the midst of all of this.

She cannot breathe. She has to run.

When she makes it to the makeshift spot further away she tucks herself in a corner and begins to wrap her chest with thick, tight bandages. She knows how dangerous it is not to stop and let them set properly, how much trouble she might find herself in from the magical healers when they could help her and keep her useful, but she doesn't care. There's a grimness to her now, something that her her lips set in a thin, horrible line - she has to continue. There are people dying and she can save them.

It is why she is here. It is what she came to do.

RETREAT

[faderifting]

Nearly the entire army (minus the wounded, support staff, and a small corps of Orlesian reserves) will be ordered to pursue the seemingly-retreating enemy. No one suspects a feint—the enemy's momentum has stalled, the king leading them on the field has been killed, their long-planned surprise attack has clearly not been a surprise at all, and their numerical advantage seems to be availing them little—it's easy to imagine that they might break and run, especially in the moment, in the heat of battle, thrilling at even the possibility of victory. The chance to crush the invasion here is too exciting to see past, and so they are all ordered forward, charging down the field in loose formation, cutting down fleeing foes as they go, snapping at the heels of those ahead.

The enemy camp is in an area of lower ground just beyond the battlefield and the chase continues straight through it, crushing tents and setting fire to supplies as two armies race through in quick succession. Beyond is even lower ground, tall grass matted in the center by the army's earlier passage but tall to either side, and beyond that the treeline to the northeast, where the enemy might be able to slip away and regroup. They race toward the wood and into it, but as the first of the allies prepare to charge in after them, they instead find themselves suddenly face-to-face with a wall of darkspawn emerging from the forest at a run. In the same moment, figures suddenly rise up from the taller grass: Warden mages, and the demons that are bound to them, who glide forward with unnatural speed and grace.

All at once, the Allies are surrounded by monsters on three sides, blighted and fade-touched, some with red lyrium crystals jutting from their bodies. They hack the pursuing force to pieces, corralling them into closer quarters and cutting them down. A retreat of their own is called, though that's hardly necessary: as soon as the darkspawn and demons appeared many panicked and turned to run, creating even greater chaos as they knocked into their own fellows, still sprinting forward in pursuit, unable to see what they're running into. There is no order now, no neat rows or columns or separate teams, just everyone fighting for their lives and for a clear avenue to run back the way they came.

When they flee en masse the monsters pursue, killing stragglers and dogging the heels of the rest. The timely intervention of several score of undead, raised by Inquisition necromancers from those fallen on the field, creates a distraction and provides a window of opportunity for many to escape as the enemy focuses on eliminating the resilient walking corpses. The enemy army streams in behind the demons and darkspawn as they do, reforming their ranks and marching quickly west, cutting off any hope of retreating within the walls of Ghislain itself.

[shri]

I.

In all that chaos, there is Lakshmi, long lost her horse in the battle. Both her swords sheathed for now. For the best, because - the blackwater hasn't done what it should.

She still can't feel her fingers.

Not that she is thinking about it. One arm is still good, and she has a damn elephant to pull up the rear of this retreat. With it, she has but one goal: covering as many as she can from atop this perch for as long as she can. For the time being, there are spears, her aim and her dominant hand with all the blackwater's strength to strike men through.

But she's running out of those. So after one shot - maybe you needed that help, maybe you didn't, she puts her fingers to her lips and whistles a high pitch to get the attention of whoever is below that is a fellow soldier. "Take the rope, get up!"

Not as easy as it seems, the rope runs under the elephant's belly that seems to make something of a ladder. But it is certainly possible, for the agile. Just, trickier right now, when the animal is still in the process of striding it's great and heavy feet.

II.

It really is too good to last, as surely as she took down someone else for being a sitting target, so too someone else is bound to try. This time it can't be mistaken for being aimed for. She doesn't see it coming, either, her throat is hoarse from screaming out war cries, attempts to help, and whatever else has happened in the meantime, her eyes turned down, hurling another spear with all her weight behind it.

The lightning hits her clear in the head. It does not kill, no but it sends the world into a bright white blur. Blinking, unseeing as her blood roared inside of her head in pain. Only half aware that she has fallen back on the elephant, that - more importantly, she has lost control of it, and is a sitting duck. Her ear filled with static, crackling like Tesla's machines in her ear. The pulse of an arc rifle she'd never had the pleasure of being struck by before, and if this was what it felt like - she would do without it.

But she cannot see the real truth of what is happening, in her daze, the elephant is without proper control and it's reeling with it. Trumpeting loudly in fear, not out of concern for its driver, but the truth: elephants have never truly, wanted to be on battlefields and a crack of lightning terrifies it. A risk to everyone around it as much as to her, stuck on top of it, blinking sightlessly. Reaching blindly through a slowly clearing vision for the securing ropes to hold her from falling.

[ ooc: please feel free to wildcard, combine, hijack, and add in as many people as would like! I'm easy, and if you've got any questions or ideas, feel free to grab me on plurk at aeneia or on my ooc plotting comment. ]