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.

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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

[elegiaque]

“All the more for wasting air telling me so,” is muttered more than actually said to him, somehow making it a harsher than necessary critique—she lets go her arm around his shoulders as their combined effort and the wagon's own momentum tumble him in beside her. His head scarcely needs further rattling, but what's she to do? Lay him gently down upon the ground all still where he can be trampled to death if he's lucky?

A flash of teeth in the distance; her shield gives out and she clenches her fist instinctively, bites off a mother-tongue cuss as pain reminds her why she oughtn't.

[bouchonne]

He opens his eyes, forces himself to focus when she curses. There's something in the distance, something getting closer, and -

Desperation, terror, gives his limbs strength. He grabs Gwen by the arm and hurls her backwards with surprising strength, given his leanness and given his injury. Into her place, he places himself, blocking the opening to the wagon with all of his frame, every inch he can muster - and the dracolisk harrying their retreat lunges and attacks. It's only because of a sudden bump in the road that the creature's teeth don't rip out his chest; instead, the ice-cold teeth sink deep into his hip and tear at the flesh. Does bone crack, or is that just the popping of tendons? Regardless, a distressingly large piece of him goes with the creature as it falls back, driven away by a spearman's attack.

Confused as he is, he's not completely certain the attack is over. And so as he collapses, he makes sure to sprawl atop Gwenaelle, ensuring that she's sheltered as much as possible.

[elegiaque]

The sight of what's left of the dracolisk after it's speared becomes small and distant quickly, the wagon rolling in hard and fast retreat, the beast falling in the mud and filth of battlefield, and Gwenaëlle heaves breaths beneath his chest and shoulder that do very little to clear her head from the immediacy of having not even the time to process and scream.

“If you fucking die on me, Rutyer, I will kill you,” is not terribly coherent, and yet sincerely meant.

[bouchonne]

I'll roll off, then, is the natural quip in response. And he intends to say it, all debonair wryness and droll gallows humor. That Byerly. So funny, even when he's eviscerated and dying. But all that comes out is a low, guttural noise of agony, as a chill radiates up from his guts to his head and as his vision swims.

Fuck, he wants to say, but what a state he's in; all he can get out is a weak, hissing "F- ff- "

But his hand comes up, clumsy, curled, and he forces his eyes open to look down at hers. Pupils huge, face clammy with sweat, he uses his knuckles to brush hair away from her face, searching her expression for a hint of pain. "You - ?" He hopes she'll understand - Are you all right, are you unhurt?

[elegiaque]

Sweat and blood have curled the hair come loose around her face from the tight braid she'd worn to battle, an undignified halo of filth and frizz thoroughly departed from the ruthlessly smooth and tight styles she made a habit of in Orlais, from the elaborate weave of braids that usually means Iorveth has had too much time on his hands. Pushing it back only means that when it springs back into place it does so around the edge of Byerly's hand—

She is white with it, pain and bloody-minded determination both.

“I can't reach my good hand underneath you,” she says, “or my bow. There's a skin in my belt if you can reach it. I haven't diluted it yet. It'll help with the pain, but it's going to knock you on your arse, so let me help you roll over first before we fall off this wagon and die.”

[bouchonne]

The prospect of something for the pain focuses him and clarifies him. Oh, he'd like to have that. He'd love to be high before he passes on, because he is clearly dying, and the worst way to die, he thinks, is in pain. The best way to die is borne aloft on the wings of a glorious trip. And so he squints at her, and licks his lips, and then falls silent.

And then he screws up his eyes. He braces his hand against the floor of the wagon. And he pushes, taking some of his weight off her - even as sweat beads on his forehead, agony from the wound leaving him pale and wan.