faderift | ↠ WHAT PRIDE HAD WROUGHT

ooc | one thread only, but anyone is welcome to participate

When reinforcements arrive in the outer grounds, a knot of Red Templars and Venatori is clustered around a blasted crevice in the ground already slipping, one after other, through the narrow hole and into the crypts below. Jumping down directly behind them—trickling one at a time, into the dark and an unknown number of enemy assailants—would be suicide, and others remain above ground and need to be handled first anyway. But fifteen minutes later, when the situation is in hand, they can be pursued.

The crypts are dark, damp, and twisting, but the voices from ahead echo indistinctly. Forced-open gates and bashed-in walls as trail markers. Finally, closing in, there's light, faint and red—the glow wisps and of lyrium that's replacing limbs, chests, shoulders—illuminating passageways and casting shadows in the gloom ahead.

Edited 2019-07-21 00:17 (UTC)

Underground pursuit, surrounded by the glow of red lyrium, is a proper Warden's bread and butter these days. Less so dealing with Templars or Venatori directly, but there's a first time for everything.

Grasping the opportunity as soon as it's viable, Teren is off and seeking out the enemy, moving rapidly and keeping to the shadows so as to scout ahead for her allies behind, and to remain unseen as she investigates what lies before them. Her blades are out, and she's resolved to not be caught flat-footed.

Naturally, it has to be another dark, dank enclosed place. What else would it be? By now, Kain has long been resigned to this fate as a Warden, though he's still especially on edge about that familiar red glow. Still, he trudges along, sword drawn as he eyes the area warily. The glow at least makes it easier to see than it would be otherwise.

He's not far behind Teren, focused on watching and listening for signs of the enemies's presence. "We're closing in," he murmurs, preparing himself for the inevitable battle ahead.

What lies before them is a horde of monstrosities that grows smaller, one or two or three men at a time, shedding sentries where it's wise to leave them: before a bent gate, after a narrow passage. A surprise beyond a locked door. The Red Templars are powerful, fearsome, thankfully not invincible. Where the route has been blocked with a barrier, a blade will not suffice—those without magic will have to find another way through the ancient maze.

Some ways are more pleasant than others.

Fog crawls low along the wet stone floor, two or three inches of water spanning the middle third of the corridor. By now the Riftwatch party has heard the hollow, panting breaths, the occasional grunt or hitch of pain, and now they've come upon the source. On the other side of the pool are two misshapen bodies bristling with thick red crystals, lipless mouths full of teeth, eyes glowing like cinders.

Beyond them, in the shadow of an alcove, less visually intimidating but no less a threat: a mage, robed in the Venatori style.

Waiting.

Edited 2019-07-24 13:00 (UTC)

"Mages," Teren hisses through her teeth. It's not because there's more than one mage: it's because she fucking hates fighting mages. She also hates fighting with mages, but they're often a necessary evil in these matters.
Looking back to Kain, she presses her back against the wall and beckons him forward.

"We won't beat them alone," she whispers, "best chance is for a few more of us to draw the big ones away so we can take out the mage without being seen." Her eyes shift back to the corridor's opening, hoping for reinforcements.

He'd hesitated in the pursuit. It's something he'll have to think on later, when there's not a mess ahead of them, but thankfully he hears Teren muttering about mages and that means he's not too far behind.

Anders sighs as he joins them, catching what she's said. "I'm good at running." Does he like being bait? Absolutely not. But it's needed.

"Now, Anders, it coulds be worse," Barty tells him, with a conciliatory pat on the arm as he comes up aside him, "Not entirelies sure how, at the moment, but we gots a good fightin' chance, just the same."

There there, son. You'll be alright. Barty's confidence is clear in every motion as he steps back, and takes up an axe in each hand.

"Off you get. We'll haves your back, soon as we can."

"Of course it could always be worse." Let's face it, thinking of the worst case scenario is something Kain just tends to do. The whole place could be swarming with darkspawn, or there could be a cave-in, or... well, who knows what else? Mages are a real point of frustration. Even if they do tend to be physically weaker than other fighters, the problem always came down to getting close enough to stab them.

He shifts grip on his sword. "I can aid in taking on those warriors."

"Go on then," Teren whispers, glancing nervously to the behemoths, hoping they haven't been noticed yet. "Barty and Kain, draw them off the mage. I'll try to come round."

She points lightly toward the center of the room, gesturing them forward. Go get 'em, lads.

He gives Barty a slightly aghast look at the implication he should run off alone with them following him; if they retain anything at all of their past selves he's the one that would get hit by Smite, but then Teren and Kain seem to have his back. Anders exhales and nods, leading the way around a couple of rocks so they can emerge from a spot Teren is not. Then it's unfortunately time.

"Oops!" he yells. "Didn't see you there! Bye!" And in case that's not enough distraction, he waves as he runs, letting lightning jump from fingertip-to-fingertip to make it even more obvious that he's a mage. Should they be able to tell from robes and staff? Yes. Could any Kirkwall Templars figure it out? No.

He's a helper.

Edited 2019-07-25 22:45 (UTC)

"Right then, shall we?" Barty clonks Kain companionably on the nearest bit of armor, every bit as if they were just stepping out for a nice lunch, "Don't mind me."

...and makes his own dash for it. Experience has taught him that very little attracts attention like a mad wee man trying to take chunks out of your knees— so he does that, best he can.

And then he legs it, puffing in an admirable zig-zag to dodge the inevitable long reach and heavy fists of the owners of said knees. Given any opening, he's got an arm like a blacksmith and aim like an archer, but he's no shield-arm and little enough room to aim. Back him up, Kain!

"Yes, let's have at it." Kain even manages a small smirk at that, feeling that thrill of a battle about to start. It's been a while since he's taken down some of these hideous brutes, so he's more than ready for it. They can surely manage this between them, they've got a good Warden team here, a mix of strength, sneaking, and, of course, magic.

While Anders does that flashy mage thing, Kain lunges into battle alongside Barty. He's a tall man in comparison to the dwarf, which means that these brutes will be dealing with attacks coming at them from all angles. He brings up his two-handed sword to fend off one of their attacks, cutting in with a heavy counter-strike in return.

ooc | one thread only, but anyone is welcome to participate

The world is quiet again, but not the way it was before. The air is hazy from extinguished fires. Outside the temple, the walls are scarred, the ancient magic that repelled invaders finally dispelled. Collecting and interring the fallen will take time, especially with less than a dozen of them left alive to do the work. And then?

They're known. There aren't enough of them left—and those who are left are mostly young, born here in the Temple, raised in dedication to memories they don't share. If they sleep again, the next time they wake will be to die. There's only one thing left to defend.

Abelas has decided. But in the absence of immediate threats, he isn't in a rush; he's sitting at the bottom of the stone steps that lead up to the Well, making sure none of the interlopers on the grounds approach it, and mending his armor. Like the walls and the well, it is older than he is. Unlike them, it's something he can preserve.

Edited 2019-07-20 22:28 (UTC)

Thranduil's approach is inevitable, really. And it's a walk he's made other times, to other elves (Merrill, Beleth, Iorveth, Solas) but that was not as weighty. But, oh, the curiosity burns in him all the more for there being no time for him to speak of the things he wants to, and this hardly the place. He minds his tongue. There is enough comfort to be drawn from being, for once, not one of the handful of responsible individuals in the room-- he is not alone. He was never alone, given, well, the furry nature of a certain someone, but just knowing that others, plural, exist--

The dead weigh on him more, for that.

"How will you do it?" he asks, in Trade, while Abelas works. He sits on something that may well have been a wall, once, legs folded. He did a great deal of walking today, and there will inevitably be more fighting, later.

How could Solas not be here? He can feel the weight and the pressure of the world on his shoulders, and when he looks at Abelas - looks at all the Sentinels, strong and powerful and marked with vallaslin that he once knew so intimately - he feels a pang, an ache, something that burns inside of him. It strengthens his resolve, if nothing else, and he moves forward to stand with the others, refusing to step back, refusing to do anything except be here.

He must be here. He has to be - for the People, for his past, for his mistakes. There is no undoing it.

Looking at Abelas, he knows; he clings to all that remains of his world because he does not have the power to restore it. Solas will have that power, sooner rather than later, and the only fear he carries is that these elves might note the strength of the Shards and know where it comes from, know who's strength has birthed the Rifters and their marks. He hopes that knowledge shall not come to pass.

It is good that Thranduil is here, that Solas can stand by his side, because for a moment - seeing the Well, knowing it - he cannot breathe.

"Aneth ara, lethallin."

Athessa is there, too, but she doesn't approach. She's really only there peripherally, incidentally. Accidentally, even.

She definitely isn't slowly getting closer, to the edge of earshot just in case the three actual elves say something interesting. Oh, no. She's only around here doing the little things that she can; tending to wounded, clearing away debris and broken weapons, avoiding Sentinels like the plague they seem to think she is because she refused to lay herself bare to the Pilgrimage.

If it's not one thing, it's another. Not Dalish enough, not city enough, not...whatever-the-fuck enough.

Always other.

A scoff puffs out just as Solas speaks, a coincidence more than anything because Athessa is only reacting to her own thoughts, but it could pass as a reaction to them, as well. The three wise men, holier than thou and probably with shit that smells like roses, the way they act.

The scoff, more than anything else, raises Abelas' eyes, and saves some present company from outing, because he knows—thinks he knows—something of whom he may be dealing with, in Solas. Not specifically. Not his name. Only that they are similar in a way Abelas has not been similar to elves for longer than the continent's new inhabitants have been accurately measuring the years.

The other is something different.

But they're being listened to by a child, and the scoff gives Abelas reason to consider that, to consider the way the explorers and thieves they've questioned and killed over the years had explained away their existence, to consider what it would require for one of them to live among the shemlen, and to exercise some discretion.

"Aneth ara," he answers one, and then, "I learned the ritual when I was a young man," to the other. "My teacher laughed about it. She did not think this day could come."

Wondering whether or not those who came before him would be disappointed, if they could have done better—that will have to wait. He will have plenty of time to think about it.

It takes Thranduil a moment to place her, but as there are less than a hundred of them, and he much accustomed to memorizing names, he eventually summons it.

“Ah,” he says. “Athessa. You are uninjured, I hope?” She’s been lingering near them—the sentinels. Something Thranduil might have been guilty of himself, the little errant glances, but that was earlier, and now the leader of them has sat to talk, and Thranduil wants—what, witnesses? He supposes that to be the truth of it. He likes her boldness well enough. “Will you come sit with us?”

He turns back to Abelas. “And what will you do, after?”

Solas watches Abelas and, hesitating, bows his head once in a long, drawn-out nod. Perhaps the man understand, perhaps he knows, but there is something that bonds the two of them; they are of the People, and perhaps there is something in him - his accent, the way he stands, the way he speaks - that gives that away. If he and the Sentinels can read that... Then he can accept it.

Thranduil knows enough. The new elf less so, but Solas is unconcerned with her. He cares for these People.

"I understand the drastic nature of your choice," Solas adds to what Thranduil says, voice low and quiet. He feels... Drawn to the Well, drawn to the power he knows is there, and it knots in his stomach. This, more than anything else, is an agonising memory he cannot ignore or avoid. "Is there nothing else that can be done?"

She freezes at the sound of her name--neither expecting to be acknowledged, nor expecting any of them to know her--and briefly considers pretending to be someone else. No, no, I'm not Athessa, you must be thinking of some other...person.

Mumbling her response to Thranduil, yeah fine first, and whatever following, she leaves off attending the man whose arm she'd bandaged and rebandaged twice already to seat herself unceremoniously on the ground roughly equidistant between Solas and Thranduil. Maybe a smidge closer to the latter.

At least now she can listen without eavesdropping, which is a little better than being a child hiding around the corner while the adults talk about stuff beyond the child's comprehension. This way, they can talk over her head directly. She props her chin up on the heel of her hand, and listens.

↠ WHAT PRIDE HAD WROUGHT | NPC LOGS

BOSS FIGHT

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ABELAS

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