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

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.

III!

[galvanising]

Nell nearly trips over her, moving sideways quickly as she knocks aside a spear aimed for her gut. The back of her leg hits Six's side, and she shoots a look over her shoulder in surprise before quickly dancing aside, narrowly missing kicking Six in the head or stepping down directly onto her injured leg. She has to throw the legionnaire back with a blast of force to avoid getting skewered as she's stumbling. He's tossed head over boots back into the crowd, and Nell digs the butt of her staff into the dirt (purple spirit blade flickering from it) to catch herself from tripping over the corpse beside Six as well.

"Rifter, yeah?" she asks Six, whose face she recognizes even if she's struggling to recall the name that goes with it just now. They'd had little time with their "teammates" beyond being informed of their mission, and the dirt and blood obscuring both their features don't help much. But she's pretty sure, enough to reach down and offer a hand up, misjudging either Six's injury, Six's size, her own strength, or all three.

[swordproof]

Six winces at the sudden, sharp jolt to her leg, twisting a little to try and stand a touch taller. She doesn't want to admit to any weaknesses, not here on the battlefield with an ache in her chest and a leg that wants to crumble under her. There are still too many people to fight, too many things to do, and there's too much agony and hurt in her mind for her to really consider anything except breathing - breathing harder and harder and harder as she comes to grips with it.

"Yes," she agrees without quite realising, an instinctive reaction. Pushing herself up again, Six tries to use her sword as a weight but fumbles, dropping down again before she takes Nell's hand. She can't quite get to her feet properly and she realises the bone must be broken somewhere - or many places. Winching, she leans on her sword again. "I need a healer."

[galvanising]

"You need a healer," Nell agrees, "And I am not the mage for that." An understatement, really. She fires off quick blasts of force magic, repelling approaching enemies, and then slams the butt of her staff into the ground, a barrier rising up to encircle them both. It won't hold for long, not like Kostos's would, but it will buy them a moment.

Nell uses it to step well clear of Six, get her out from underfoot. "Watch my back," she asks, and then right on its heels, "what's your name?" as she's circling her with eyes on the battle around them, until she spots the top of a blondish head that might just be familiar. Is that a staff beside it? Maybe. Truthfully it could be anyone, but it's the best bet they've got. She lifts a hand to her mouth and shouts as loud as possible, voice just high enough to cut through the lower rumble of elephant feet and clattering metal: "ISAAC!"

[swordproof]

There is not enough time for them to get a healer, surely, and there must be other people in need. Six does not think herself worth the time nor the attention, and she shifts again, taking advantage of the fact that Nell has summoned a brief barrier to try and push herself to her feet again, to balance most of her weight on one leg and use something as a crutch for the other. It must be enough to get her off the battlefield, at least, to have her moving away and finding someone in the healer's tents to strap her up so she can return -

She does not expect the pain that comes when she rests even the smallest of weights on her damaged leg and she cries out, shaking a little as she tumbles down. Teeth grit hard, squeezing her hands into the dirt, she breathes hard. Dizziness is coming over her, and she realises that, perhaps, it might be a touch worse than she had anticipated. Her fingers slip away from the blade and she drops down, almost collapsing in a heap with flickering eyes, trying to stay awake, focussing on the agony to keep her from fainting.

No, she tells herself. She is not fourteen. She will not break from pain. Not again.

[wythersake]

Ah, the dulcet tones of everything going to shit.

The tips of a charred branch dip and disappear again into the mass. Not for long — It parts: An Ander spearman stumbles aside dazed, another fumbles his blade; stoops with concussed glaze to pick it up. He’s met by the crack of oak into temple as Isaac sprints through the opening, pikes raised again behind him.

Nell’s upright, and that doesn’t say much. It takes half a moment to spot Six, another to decide she’s not a lost cause. Isaac drops, already juggling a knife into hand — that armor’s not coming off clean. Half a dozen Fade channels have wind their way through the battle. Abruptly, one inverts, washes out from the three of them in a sickening wave. Whatever will buy a little room.

"Broken," Obviously. You don't need any training to see that leg's about as broken as broken gets, and only so much he can do for it here. Might be better to handle the pain first, but she keeps trying to move, and they don't have the time. He shifts over Six, leans close to glance her eyes (how aware?). To Nell: "Any horses alive?"

Getting her back to the wagons will be trial enough.

[galvanising]

"Not ours," is Nell's curt reply. She looks relatively unscathed, besides a burn down one arm, the skin red and tight where her sleeve has been singed off, the edges of the cloth charred and ragged. She doesn't appear to be paying it much mind, nor Six and Isaac, now that he's here. She circles them instead, tight little laps, fending off incursions in the space they need to work. A thump of staff catching spear-shaft, the crack of it spun to shatter knee-joints. The different crack--faster, shimmering--of lightning jumping from man to man, or the sick squeal of a blade caught, scraping down the metal haft of her weapon before magic throws him back onto someone else's sword.

She spares a look back at them, Six still on the ground and Isaac cutting armor off, the mess of her leg beneath it.

"You can't fix it? I've had worse." She's been on his table with worse, twice in the same day, even. But the rebellion, ugly as it was, could never match this for scale. She throws fire almost casually at a legionnaire coming up from behind them, and sighs. Six is roughly the size of the two of them put together, and carrying her out sounds like a boring way to die. "I can try to get one." Don't ask how.

[swordproof]

Consciousness is hard in the midst of the chatter and the roar of battle; Six is down and she tries to come to grips with it, to ignore the pain in her leg and the weight of it all, the knowledge that she has fallen in battle for the second time. It is not good enough, she tells herself, not good enough, and she has to try and force her eyes to peel open, to stare up at what must be the healer come to her, otherwise Nell scolding her for such foolishness - it is the same she would do for herself, were she a touch more capable.

Her eyes flicker open and when she tilts her head up she flares with panic.

She knows that face, her mind screams, she knows him, ten years in history between them and her body lurches, a physical reaction to the very image of Isaac's face. Before she can do much else her fist is out, swinging towards him with full gauntlet to crack at his jaw and get him away from her before he does more harm than the past might echo. Her breathing is coming harder, dangerously so with the blood loss and the break in her legs, and she does what she can to move, a bulk of armour and muscle trying to scramble away from the man leaning over her.

Not again, she thinks, not right now, she cannot, she will not be under thumb again, the roar of battle sickens her and she twists, trying to push herself to broken feet to escape.

[wythersake]

"And a spear —"

Or the crack of steel on bone. Isaac reels, arm raised defensive over a mouthful of blood. The spell about them shifts, taut as an adder to strike; falls back again as he digs white knuckles into mud.

(Don't give them an excuse.)

Eyes shut, he spits loose a flap of shredded — cheek? tongue? — burbles something unintelligible. A hand finds his staff, and the powerful urge to sleep will settle over Six. He’d worry about that, unconscious in the middle of a battlefield, had she not abruptly become another hazard. At the moment he's not worrying about much beyond this square of dirt and the looseness of his remaining teeth. Nell’s had worse, expected more,

But she’s also never punched him in the fucking face.

[galvanising]

Nell is busy trying to find a horse to steal in the middle of this battle, and has just spotted and Ander weaving between men, hacking at heads and shoulders with a long-handled hatchet, and readied a spell to blast him clean off the horse when they're near enough-- but then there's a slap-crunch and Isaac's cut off and his magic heaves with the impact.

"--the fuck?" she asks as she turns to look over her shoulder, staff still raised toward the approaching horseman. She has a couple seconds, and uses them to look back and forth between the Ander and the pair on the ground behind her, the rider zig-zagging nearer, Six writhing, her sudden sleep, the blood on Isaac's mouth. "I don't even want to know," she decides, then, a quick warning: "Alright, watch out," as she turns back and punches the Ander rider straight out of his saddle with a larger-than-life-size fist of Fade-stone, and dives for the reins of his confused and unhappy horse.