faderift | shocking art supply and craft

The Champion of Kirkwall has their neck in a noose.

Pulling hasn't made much progress, the statue’s feet are sticking more firmly than expected. The whole teardown would be quicker with magic — that’d also be a dead giveaway.

Isaac pauses on the exhale, drops his share of the rope to adjust the patchy brown cloak (an ascetic’s aesthetic) about his lower face. The armored figure stubbornly lifts its flaming sword against the night.

"This isn’t working," Fast enough. In the distance, a dog barks alarm. "Ideas?"

Edited 2019-04-20 20:36 (UTC)

An eye for culture, and friends in the right places have acquired the fuel for tonight’s bonfire (books, portraits, bottled Orlesian decadence). A crowd has been harder to stir —

But here they are, an assortment of the deeply pious and easily excitable, and a few paid troublemakers ready to distract Tantervale's ever-present guard. There are torches. There are a few more portraits of Our Lady than Isaac managed to screen from the haul, and the rabble are starting to rouse about that,

"Do you think," To the nearest conspirator, beneath a shout of Gertruda! "We should save those?"

Edited 2019-04-20 21:04 (UTC)

"Get someone on top of it?" Or someones, perhaps.

While Leander is not the heaviest among them, he is the most ready to climb, already shedding his cloak, and re-draping the scarf around his neck and head to make sure it stays put as a cowl—muscle memory from his time in Rivain—despite the question mark in his suggestion. This is not a man who climbs every day (anymore), and a statue is hardly the same as a tree, but since no one was thoughtful enough to leave out any hitched oxen for them: Ye Only Live Once.

"Boost me up—I'll get on her neck and start her rocking. If we keep the rope aimed over that corner, perpendicular to the feet, the ankles should break." In theory. Those are some rather sturdy ankles, there. Of course they had to sculpt the Champion in bloody plate...

Even if he did trust anyone else present to do it the way he's imagining it can be done, he'd probably still be trotting up to the huge stony plinth, ready to ascend. The light from the flaming sword makes a keen glint in his eye; he's having fun.

Edited 2019-04-21 00:17 (UTC)

"Do you want to risk your neck for them?" Byerly feels as though he ought to have a drink in hand to watch all this - but, alas, playing the role of a fun-hater means fully committing to the act of hating fun. So here he is, dead sober. Ah, well.

"Don't get squeamish now, dear fellow. What burns, burns."

"Well said."

Visible above the bunching of a light scarf: a peculiar nose, the corners of a smile, eyes the smile can barely reach. (The scarf's tone sways them grey-blue; an important consideration, even in disguise.)

"Let her be; she's on her way to the Maker now." It's only Lea, folding his arms as he stops on the other side of Byerly, incongruously looking down to see what the tall fellow's shoes are like, then tilting up to see his face, and finally leaning just past him to cast a more feline look Isaac's way. "Again."

That done, he settles with his attention upon neither man. "Look at them all. They're hungry for it, aren't they."

Yngvi of course put on knuckle dusters the instant this was suggested since there were a great many indignities inflicted upon Kirkwall but were any so ugly as this? (No. Not really, no. Not in the esteemed opinin of a native at any rate.) Alas, since he's not a stout dwarf by anyone's measure, he'd be less useful clambering up as much as he might like so instead he's below, hoisting more than anyone would expect - or want - from his coat.

"I've got traps, if someone wants to give a hand with getting the ropes in while I set it--" Or, since he's offering there are also some more alarming options.

Artificers tend to have spike traps that he could set off. Or mines. Which is more than the Champion deserves but no one needs dwarven ramblings on the subject.

"Hungry or —" A man in spectacularly tangled beard elbows Isaac into the pair. If he finds Leander's gaze, he doesn't hold it; though whether that's for the motion or not it's tough to say. "— I mean to say,"

To habitually say far too much to be heard above a mob. Beard's yelling, too, but he's thrown himself in front of one of the paintings (Andraste and the wyvern: Ever an apocryphal favourite, though this copy's shit) to wrestle off a fellow devotee.

"This could get out of hand."

That doesn't necessarily hurt their cause, but it could make getting out of here a trick. Beard and Burner have begun throwing punches.

Edited 2019-04-27 19:49 (UTC)

"So it could," By says, looking utterly tranquil in the midst of the chaos. Someone jostles him from behind; he steps forward, turns, and proclaims, "Andraste's grace upon you."

Then he looks back to the other two with a cheerful wink.

"Shall we go?" he suggests. "I've seen a man torn apart by a mob before. On stage, admittedly, not in person - But it's not something I fancy a reenactment of."

Edited 2019-04-27 19:57 (UTC)

Isaac pushes a breath through his teeth. It's a bleak day when the three of them are relying on his mass — where's the Avvar when you need her? But Leander's already moving, and it's a miracle they haven't run afoul of the guard or citizenry just yet, and so he braces against the statue; gestures for Leander. Get on with it.

(The dog sounds closer.)

"Can they give us some distance?" To Yngvi, "I'm not digging caltrops out of anyone tonight."

Ideally. But they could use something to deal with oncoming trouble.

"No looking up my skirt, now," he murmurs, laying both his hands on Isaac, closer to his collar than necessary, suggesting the preamble to an embrace before it becomes something more ordinary. "And try not to drop me."

Briefly, Lea's hand is heavy on Isaac's shoulder; somewhat less briefly, Lea's boot is heavy in his hands. Not quite heavy enough to make light work of this caper, but at least no one will herniate anything in the process—
"Steady—"
Well. Probably they won't.

There: up he goes. He wastes a second or two looking for the next handhold, not as quick as a sailor would be—some of those fellows climb like monkeys, with absurd arms, have you seen them—and the last push for the shoulders involves a bit of precarious clinging and slithering, but he does make it in the end. And it'll be their end if he doesn't get on with it, so on he gets.

"Sorry about this, darling." No he isn't, but it's the polite thing to say when one is hugging a very large lady's helmet with one's legs, crotch against the faceplate. Once in position, he leans to have a look down at clever Yngvi and his clever implements, and grins, bright-eyed and breathless from the climb. "Are we ready?"

The clumsy commentary, the wink, the immolation of the irreplaceable and replaceable alike, the electric tang of aggression filling everyone's nostrils—it's all quite lovely. He's almost sorry to leave.

"The play was probably more exciting—" Lea barely shrugs his arm and shoulder away from an overexcited woman in time to avoid becoming the third casualty of indiscriminate mob jostling. Alas, she strikes again immediately. "Why don't— oh— dear. Well, that was friendly! Let's leave them to it."

(In the growing number of collisions, with the persistence of a gnat, an idea's come buzzing at him: to unfold his humble peasant knife and quietly stick a body or two in the confusion, simply to see if he could do it and walk away unclocked. Just a boyish whim; he dutifully ignores it.)

It takes a lot to keep him from parroting back sarcastically since he did get to come along on this venture, instead nodding as he starts setting everything out that might be required.

"Isaac I'll dig the caltrops out of your arse. Little mage boy you're on your own." There's only so far he's willing to go for this, it'll be sacrifice enough for Isaac. Honestly in his opinion some caltrops to the backside could sell this an act of vandalism if they got caught, honestly, guardsmen serah, you just missed them, we did our best to repair Hawke's stately bosom. A little tasteful caltrops to the buttocks goes a long way but that is the ways of the Carta not known to most folk.

So Yngvi sets traps, looks up, wonders if there'd be something to it if Leander fell, if a mage fell breaking part of the Champion here in her city or something as he gets the pieces together and chooses just the right mine.

"Ready! Just blame it on us," meaning the Carta, "if it goes tits up!"

(Unless she goes tits up, which is the plan he's assuming.)

shocking art supply and craft | OTA

KIRKWALL | Hawke Statue

TANTERVALE | Burn bb burn

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