faderift | open (with caveats): a dragon did it

Someone has long since given up being concerned about the health of their Chantry charge and the pointy fellow carried off to keep her company in the dragon's belly. Is it questionable as to whether he ever cared in the first place? Sure, maybe. But the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the dragon had certainly made the dark eyed boy perk up considerably compared to all the trudging and grumbling he'd been doing beforehand. At this point though, they've been meandering on the trail of the abduction long enough that some of the novelty has worn off.

What can he say, it's hard to keep sustained excitement about anything these days before the over-warm, soggy reality of his existence closes back in. Case in point: his feet hurt. Which is just absurd.

He's cursing as he picks his way over a few pointier rocks, a few choice words that segue nicely into "Eugh, you're everywhere," at the discovery of the body.

Excuse him, Bartimaeus obviously means upstanding Inquisition member. Calling Etienne a body just yet might be a little hasty.

Nell does not echo Kostos's sentiment aloud only because her face is already doing the job quite well on its own.

"It had to be this one," she grumbles, intended for his ears alone but perhaps carrying a bit further given the vagaries of breezes swirling over canyons unobstructed by tact. "Even if he can be saved and brought back to tell the tale no one will believe him." She looks around at the assembled. "Do we even have anyone who can manage a healing spell?"

In Iorveth's experience, usually when people get eaten by dragons, they had it coming.

Then again, that's Continent dragons and the dragons of Thedas seem to be a measure less intellectual than, say, Saskia. Still, he's not shedding any tears over the conservative Grand Cleric's demise, and, well, he wasn't a huge fan of Etienne either. Isn't. Sorry, homie. It's possible he's more interested in seeing the actual dragon than recovering the victims, as he'd gone tracking paths of blood that fell from either as the thing flew off. He's still peering over the edge of the cliff, as if they could keep along the trail when Etienne pipes up and the others go to inspect. Give him a second, he'll give up his dragon hopes and amble his way over with a sigh.

"Three mages, two Rifters, and one an elf." Iorveth murmurs grimly from the rock he perches on, crouched down and eying Etienne as he bleeds out. Yeah, buddy, it's not looking great for you, sorry. Let's all look to the future, no use crying over spilt human. "There aren't any better chances the Chantry accepts 'a dragon ate my charge and mangled the other' from us."

So, what do they do? Follow to the dragon nest and try to yoink out the dead cleric's skull, if the dragon didn't chomp her down whole?

These are all very valid concerns that need prompt attention. And Etienne isn’t very high on the list of people Kostos doesn’t want to die. But he is still on it. Nearly everyone in Thedas is. It’s a low bar.

Which, speaking of—the look he casts around at everyone is a little incredulous. Is this really what they’ve come to? Is he really going to be, relatively speaking, the sensitive one? “Andraste’s sake,” he hisses, then tromps closer to Etienne’s prone, partly splattered form, to crouch and—and not really do anything.

Healing spells are for moony eager-to-please hippies. But Kostos isn’t squeamish about moving some fabric aside to try to get an amateur read on the damage is before he makes a helpless gesture with both hands.

“You’re the professional,” he says. “What is the prognosis?”

"Your friends have a shitty bedside manner," is his blunt reply, because honestly.

Weren't rifters and elves and mages the bleeding heart sort who lamented any time someone looked at someone else wrong? That was what the ones around Kirkwall and on the crystals seemed to want to believe, and yet here they were, and the falseness of their propaganda was agonisingly transparent.

A glance down at himself, and he grimaces with the effort of the gesture, and the glimpse of entrails just barely peeking out from the gash across his abdomen.

"This may be slow, but not—" A hiss, pained, "slow enough for me to make an appeal on your behalf." His hand twitches, as he tries to reach for a potion at his belt, but his fingers are too clumsy and weak to undo the fastening. "I've a sleeping draught, if the inconvenience of my demise can be overlooked to grant me a little relief?"

Is it even really necessary to say 'Not it?' with regard to healing magic? Probably not, so he doesn't bother. No, this all seems like a very foregone conclusion, doesn't it? But hey! Look on the bright side. It's sure nice of everyone to be honest about the inevitability of Etienne's soon to be corpse. The wailing and shouting and general rending of clothes from breasts and so on that usually accompanies these human flashes of mortality is usually a real mood killer.

As it is, he's not really qualified for last requests and is of the opinion that there's such a thing as too many cooks in the kitchen when it comes to the attendance of dying men. So he leaves Kostos (and whoever else) to it, tottering around the blood spatter and the wiry brush Etienne had been dumped in on tender feet in favor of studying the cliff's edge and the jagged landscape beyond it.

You all have fun. He'll just be over here staying out of the way and throwing a few rocks.

"Not likely," Nell sighs in agreement with Iorveth, but she at least has the good grace to look sheepish at Kostos's reaction and Etienne's, especially when he takes it all so well, considering. She would've expected more shouting and crying, dramatic hysterics, accusations, please, that sort of thing. She moves to join them, crouching down (mindful of the gore on her boots but doing her best not to show it) to dodge Etienne's fumbling hands and, with a look at Kostos, rifle through the potions remaining in the doctor's belt pouch until she finds the one marked as a sleeping draught.

"Sorry," she says, with a crooked hitch of her mouth and a shrug, as she uncaps the vial and holds it to his lips. "Yeah, we can do that. Any last words? Family we should contact?" A beat, and she adds, somewhere between apologetic and self-conscious, "Do you want to pray?"

Edited 2019-04-15 15:18 (UTC)

Yes, okay, fine. He'll be less of a dick about this, though Iorveth finds himself missing Geralt for the eight millionth time this year. They never did spare much extra sentiment on dying assholes, and maybe Etienne didn't deserve a fate like this - Iorveth only engaged with him in perhaps one conversation sometime during the Rifter phylactory debacle. Though, one conversation is more than it typically takes for him to decide he dislikes someone.

Maybe he should be a little concerned that him and the Witcher that's been systematically stripped of emotion through magical experimentation and mutation hold the same level of sentiment. Miiight want to worry about that. Hmmm, nah.

"I could do you one better." Iorveth tells the dying man with a sigh, pushing up from his rock perch to pace over, digging out a pipe and what he has left of the elf-weed he'd brought from home. The very last of it, my dude, but death seems like a good reason to spare it. Want some drugs?

"It'll mute the pain. Can you inhale deep enough for it?"

—that's better.

Not for the doctor, obviously. It's not getting any better for him, only potentially less painful. But the fact that other people are being humane (shut up Iorveth) (and Bartimaeus) about it means he can retire from the leading role in tending to a dying man with whom his last real interaction was an all-out head-smashing rib-cracking brawl on the dining hall floor.

He takes the sleeping draught from where Etienne was trying to reach for it, though. Takes it and takes it with him when he stands up and steps back. If they can keep him alive for a minute—alive and lucid and not a total shithead—maybe his dying words can be they didn't do it, into a sending crystal, aimed at a few Division Heads in particular.

Or maybe not. But on the off chance, Kostos doesn't want anyone letting him fall asleep just yet.

"You prat," he exhales at the mage, as he takes his fucking draught. The curse might sound odd coming from an Orlesian, and the intonation doesn't sound very Orlesian, but whatever. He shakes his head very slightly. Denying a dying man an easy end - typical mage behaviour, probably. Honestly.

The rifter elf, though, had already surprised him more pleasantly. That offer keeps Etienne's quiet disbelief from escalating, so his utterance sounded more tired than indignant, and then he looks up at the... far too tall elf. His ability to focus doesn't feel right, and it'd be just the thing to document, if he were at all in a position to benefit from it. Alas, science faced a loss today.

"I'll certainly give it my all."

And then, to the other mage— she'd said something, hadn't she? His mind is becoming a little less quick and able. "No family." A faint flicker of a smile, "but I'd be grateful to hear the Chant."

--Hey now! That's something.

Certain individuals present have recently made quick (some might say desperate, but that's just patently untrue) study of this very topic. And so, with one last lob of a small rock off the edge of the cliff, Bartimaeus clears his throat and makes big show of rolling up his sleeves before launching into a slightly off-tempo-- "No, hold on. I've got it," --mostly on-tempo rendition of some nice bit out of the Canticle of Benedictions. He'd gone over that particular section with a fine tooth comb while in Tantervale. People like benedictions. They make everyone feel warm and fuzzy on the inside and no one asks hard follow up questions in response.

Does he get a little muddy around the middle? Who can say. No one can prove that verse isn't 'Blessed are the faithful, for their faithful faith.'

Anyway that's not the point The point is, look at him being helpful so the rest of you can go on interrogating the victim.

Nell cuts a look at Kostos as he snatches up the sleeping draught before she can administer, and then another of surprise at Bartimeus as he, of all people, begins to Chant. And then, just as she's about let that look wear off, another for Bartimeus again and his faithful faith. There's some relief in not having to be the one to do this, but somewhere buried deep is still a kneejerk offense at the bumbling.

She pushes to her feet, out of Iorveth's way if he's offering weed, or someone's going to offer a crystal, or something. It all seems to be handled, leaving her free to sidle up to Kostos, voice lowered, "No one is ever going to believe we didn't do this. You, maybe. This rifter," she jerks her chin at Bartimeus, "Maybe. Me? That one?" Iorveth, by process of elimination, "Not a chance. This is bad."

After getting the pipe going, Iorveth holds it for the dying man long enough for him to get a few puffs from it, casting a narrowed, incredulous eye up at Bartimeus for faithful faith. Look, he doesn't know the Chant all that well, but he's pretty sure that isn't in it.

Nell trails away towards Kostos, and Iorveth's eye didn't miss the sleeping draught taken away, and he watches the both of them intently, past Etienne. Not that he hears her from a distance, but the concerns Nell has are his exactly. It's no secret who and what Iorveth is, and where he came from, and what his opinions on Thedas and the Chantry are, and he doubts it'll matter that he hasn't actually attacked anyone he wasn't told to attack as of yet. Well, aside from bar fights. And an unfortunate message board.

If they're going to have Etienne send a message to clear their names, it needs to be done soon. From the side facing away from Etienne, Iorveth pulls his crystal from a pocket, giving it a shake for Kostos to see. The unspoken question being - we doing this, dude? You're the one he seems to get on with most, so this sounds like a you job.

open (with caveats): a dragon did it

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