closed | it's now or nevarra

[wythersake]

WHO: Flint, Ilias, Leander, Silver, Isaac
WHAT: Meddling
WHEN: Vaguely future-dated
WHERE: Nevarra
NOTES: body horror, bad things happening to horses

threadjack away or make your own TLs i'm not your boss

Comments

opens this log, laughs again at the title

[hornswoggle]

Turning his attention from the departing rider, John eyes the carriage, then the ditch. He can't help his own apprehension at this gamble, but they've played their hand. Now they just need to wait for results.

And in the meantime—

"We may as well break out the windows while we're at it. And wrench the door off, if it doesn't come apart on impact."

[sarcophage]

"There's an idea," he says, of the potential for vandalism, and not only because it sounds dramatic. Were the company not so diverse, Leander might roll up his sleeves in preparation—but Flint and Silver don't need to see his scars, and anyway, he doubts he'll be among first pick to assist in the pushing. What with his comparatively waiflike build and lingering pallor. (With special thanks to no mage in particular for that last one.)

He's comfortable in black, at least, and there's some nostalgia in the spirit of the scene. All they really need are some wooden masks to achieve the enclave aesthetic.

"Does it lock? We might give it a few good chops, as if it were bolted from the inside." We—not him, probably, although if someone were to hand him a hatchet he'd have a good time with it.

[wythersake]

He hasn’t brought a hatchet.

Instead smashes the end of his staff through one window, then another —

(He may be procrastinating on the ditch. He hasn't brought a pirate's biceps, either.)

Be easier to just burn the thing. Easy, and unconvincing. Isaac himself looks as convincing a highwayman as he ever did at war: An ill-fitting costume, tight about the eyes.

"Ilias, then."

For the kind Speaker's defense. Orlok does ice; someone might know.

[libratus]

Ilias is wearing pants the way dogs do socks. Banditry suits him similarly. Treason, less.

The tight silence he's worn since Kirkwall doesn't break to acknowledge the instruction, save for the crunch of newly broken glass underfoot. Fingertips ghost over the jagged edges in Isaac's wake all the same, frost branching from them.

(The beads round the Lady Fabria's withering wrists had rattled like spines when he'd told her.)

"I can add horror for good measure, once it is in the ditch."

But they'll need to get it there first. He moves to help Flint. He brought his biceps.

[katabasis]

In the interim, he's been working at removing the lovely bit of woodwork at the back of the carriage. It's exactly the useless and notable sort of trophy some idiot might think to try to take with them as a trophy. That it comes away in splinters doesn't really matter so much as the fact that it was attempted.

He abandons it as Ilias joins him. On the count of "Three, two, push--", he throws his weight against the carriage and forces forward the wheel. Hopefully no one they run into on the road after this will think much of dirty hands and splashed mud.

[hornswoggle]

"We'll need blood."

The kind of statement that needs to be quantified, which John does as he follows in the wake of the carriage, observing the tableau as it glides to a satisfying crunch at the bottom of the ditch.

"At least on the door handle. It's a shame we didn't ask Orlok to provide some before we sent him off on that horse."

He is not unaware that only Leander seems comfortable in their current guise. Ilias' brittle silence and Isaac's discomfort are both noted, which is why John is the one levering himself down the incline, keeping to the tracks, to inspect the door. His eyes raise to Flint's. Unspoken: we'll need to take care of these prints. John in particular leaves a very distinctive set of footprints.

"Leander, if you'd come down here and take my sword to the doorframe..."

Then John will put some bloody handprints where necessary. Teamwork.

the most important natural 20 of his life

[sarcophage]

Leander brightens immediately—

No, not at the mention of a need for blood, but at Silver's other request. For him, here and now, it's more like the brightening of the gleam on a blade—fortunately, the blade is in a friend's hand. And in a moment, the pirate's blade will be in his.

"Certainly," he says, and doesn't get right to it, but takes a moment to feel the weight of the sword, to briefly examine the hilt, to take a slow, experimental swing at arm's length—and then a comfortable flourish on either side, to compare it to the feel of a staff spinning in the hand. It's not perfect, but his form isn't bad.

He looks pleased.

He looks up at Ilias, standing there above the slope of the ditch—in his trousers, with his biceps—and winks.

The following assault on the carriage door is comparatively matter-of-fact.