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

[dashing]

"And plenty of smaller darkspawn looking for easy kills," she replies, with considerably less diplomacy than she might otherwise employ. As he noted: the tea and the small dog are far off. This is not the Ambassador of the Inquisition, so much as the survivor of an annulment, the wandering mage that escorted elven refugees across Orlais, a wilder version of herself.

She crosses the distance between them, casting a glance down to the crutch and the crack in it. If that gives way under him at the wrong moment, he'll be at the mercy of foes with no sense of it.

Bluntly, "I carry you against your will, or you acquiesce to my assistance." Given that she's already moving to his side, she's really hoping that she doesn't need to carry him against his will. It wouldn't be flattering to either of them.

[hornswoggle]

"You're joking," is the first thing out of John's mouth, even though he doesn't believe for a moment that Herian isn't serious.

But still, he balks at the idea of slowing her down. He can't very well explain that he knows a few tricks to keep out of sight. However far outside the usual definitions of their roles, he doesn't think Herian would be yielding enough to accept a revelation of that magnitude.

And even if she was, John doesn't think she'd leave him. There's something firmly noble in her; any appeals to save herself at his expense would fall on deaf ears, and John doesn't see any benefit in wasting time on a pointless argument.

"Alright," John bites out, slinging his arm around her shoulder without waiting for an express invitation. "Just keep that whip at the ready."

And John's already shifted his grip on his crutch, prepared to use it as a bludgeon at the first sign of trouble. Or on the more immediate threat posed by the handful of Ander soldiers John can discern ahead of them, harrying a pair of faster-fleeing Orlesians.

[dashing]

Certainly Herian is not presently inclined to humour. Generally speaking her humour is understated at best, and alas, this is not the most nurturing of environments. Rather than responding to his disbelief, Herian stands at his left side, her right shoulder (charred, hideous, bubbly) is used to support his weight and her right arm hooks around his waist to help haul him along. The hand on that side is bloody, swollen and bruising, so while it’s incredibly (incredibly) painful to support him on that side, it seems better to keep her left hand grasping her staff and able to cast if need be.

She is not especially forgiving with pace, determined to keep them moving, though the ground is churned up into sloshy mud, and even the slightest inclines become more difficult to navigate around bodies. There are fires: wagons and bodies burning, and the maniacal laughter of darkspawn. It obscures her vision, but on the plus side: it will keep them somewhat obscured, as well. Into the smoke, then, but those Anders soldiers are still a concern, and they are after their allies--

Try to aid them, but risk Silver’s life? Try to evade the Anders, and abandon them? Her jaw clenches and unclenches, and she flings a fireball at the back of the Anders.

[hornswoggle]

His entire body aches. John feels more like a half-dragged passenger than active participant in this moment, aware that the most he's contributing is leaking blood down the back of Herian's neck. John's hand clutches at her shoulder, jaw gritted against the strain as he falls back to the old equation:

Is it worth it to reveal himself for what he is in this moment? Is saving their skin worth the repercussions? No longer are those consequences simply that he would have to disappear from Kirkwall; now the truth of his ability, to conjure and channel to bend reality to their favor, would cost Flint and it would cost Madi. John balks at the idea of it, and the longer he hesitates, the longer he realizes that he will not crack the bones he'd secreted in his pocket and let power twist through his body. His survival no longer tips the scales.

And as long as he's taking risks, making a favorable impression on Herian seems worthwhile. So rather than protest when she draws their attention, John shifts his grip on his crutch with a resigned groan. There's a splintered poleaxe a few feet off that looks like a promising option, if necessary, but he doesn't let go of Herian just get.

"Let's see if we can replicate our earlier success, shall we?"

Which is quite the thing to say while gambling on a damaged crutch against a handful of approaching enemy soldiers. At the least, if Herian had been attempting to give the Anders' former targets enough room to speedily retreat, that's working out. Now the pair of them just have to survive long enough to join them.

[dashing]

A slow exhale, as she draws the handle of her spirit blade in her left hand. Not ideal, she favours her right side, but it would serve. She's counting down under her breath, watching as they approach, and then—

"One."

A rush of flame, starting from just a little before where Silver and Herian stand, rages towards their enemies. The wall of fire is vicious, cutting through the approaching group, so three of them are panicked as tongues of flame begin to lick up over the cloth portions of their uniform. There are still others, starting to approach at a run, now, to reach these problem children quicker. Her irises glow orange for just a moment, and he might know, might detect, that this is not the usual sort of magic taught in Circles, and he might just begin to feel a little stronger.

"Yo ho," she says, quietly, dryly. A pirate's life for her.

[hornswoggle]

Now there's something interesting.

It feels like a crack, something splintering in his perception of the rigid Ambassador Amsel. Now is hardly the moment to question the sparks of strength blunting the aches and agony John's acquired on the battlefield. His grip on his crutch tightens as he grins, sensing an advantage, buoying his certainty that this had been the right decision.

"Now that's a promising start."

But it can't be squandered. John won't let go of his crutch (he can't afford to risk it being lost among the detritus of the battlefield) but he can swing it at the jaw of the first, eager Ander soldier within range. The savage crack of impact, knocking the man's jaw loose. There seems to be no place for John to catch on Herian's side that isn't blistered and burned to brace himself for the second swing, aimed at the soldier stumbling over his howling compatriot. He's aware enough of the pain he's causing her to wince through the motion and hope the pain of his grip doesn't throw her off.

[dashing]

There's been little time (or inclination) to inspect the state of her shoulder after the trap burst acid over her. She is aware that it continues to burn, to hurt, but there are so many hurting more severely than she, and so many needing aid, and she has pushed through agony before. Pushing through agony is, of course, rather different to someone very specifically worsening the agony by needing to grip the injury to steady themselves. There is a strangled sound of pain low in her throat, mostly swallowed down, and a shake in her arm as she forces herself to be steady, not to buckle.

In so many things she's been having to learn to be more honest in things that she felt could be sacrificed for the greater good; her own struggles need not be a matter of focus, before Cosima had advised her that yes, they must. Swallowing down pain had become a little less easy as a consequence for that honesty, but she isn't thrown.

Her mana is still regathering, heavily tapped by the battle thus far and the burst of fire, but there is a quiet rumble above them as she begins to pray, barely audible, and the Stormbringer spell gathers something more to it as lightning strikes out at another of the soldiers, chaining to strike a second as well.