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They’re outnumbered, by the headcount made before the sun went down, and they have the low ground. The brittle grass and stunted, scrubby trees dotting the rocky hillsides offer minimal cover for an approach. The only thing that’s on their side is surprise—and talent, of course. But mostly surprise. With the moons hidden by clouds and the whistle of wind and occasional distant rumble of thunder to cover their footsteps, they manage to stretch that far enough to get within striking distance of the cluster of low-lying tents on the hilltop, and a little closer.
Then the lookout stops staring into the fire like a useless goon.
“What,” she says, noncommittal and quiet while she squints, not yet sure that the crouched forms aren’t rams or wolves.
But she’s about to be. That’s the cue for anyone who’s capable to set the tents on fire.
Then the lookout stops staring into the fire like a useless goon.
“What,” she says, noncommittal and quiet while she squints, not yet sure that the crouched forms aren’t rams or wolves.
But she’s about to be. That’s the cue for anyone who’s capable to set the tents on fire.
There’s no violence, at least, when they’re turned away from Lac-Vide. Just stony indifference to their scorch marks and scrapes, to their uniforms—to everything but their staves and the gossip that got there ahead of them. The watchmen won’t even open the gates.
The Inquisition would have them, but the front is several hours in the wrong direction. In the right direction, it’s an hour’s ride at least to the next town large enough for an inn, where the story might just repeat.
So camping it is. And camping might not have even been so bad, even injured and exhausted and setting up in the dark. But not five minutes after they’ve found a place to stop, sheltered out of sight of the road by a cliffside and cluster of trees, the heavy clouds overhead—previously so helpful in the attack—rumble a bit louder, and the sound of heavy rain on leaves and dry ground rolls in closer until it becomes a roar. A very wet roar.
The Inquisition would have them, but the front is several hours in the wrong direction. In the right direction, it’s an hour’s ride at least to the next town large enough for an inn, where the story might just repeat.
So camping it is. And camping might not have even been so bad, even injured and exhausted and setting up in the dark. But not five minutes after they’ve found a place to stop, sheltered out of sight of the road by a cliffside and cluster of trees, the heavy clouds overhead—previously so helpful in the attack—rumble a bit louder, and the sound of heavy rain on leaves and dry ground rolls in closer until it becomes a roar. A very wet roar.
Derrica's already swinging by the time the tents go up in flame. A spell might have worked better, but there's something satisfying in the solid thud of connection. The heavy, blunt weight of the crystal cracks across the lookout's temple. She goes down in a heap, and Derrica's brief, triumphant expression is plain before she focuses on the rest of the potential combatants.
"There's two more coming out of that tent!" She hisses, though maybe there's not much need for stealth now that they've very clearly made their presence known.
"There's two more coming out of that tent!" She hisses, though maybe there's not much need for stealth now that they've very clearly made their presence known.
Practice and instinct and muscle memory: Matthias clasps his hands around his staff and slams the butt of it against the dirt. There's an invisible whomp that rattles the dry brush and grass between their group and the tents--and a rush of hot air like an oven door opening.
And then fire blooms on the crown of the tent in question. It eats the thick canvas, and the crackle of it doesn't do anything to disguise the shouts and screams of distress.
Matthias grins. The fire bathes them all in orange light as a gust of wind pulls the flames higher. And there's no way they've not been spotted.
So that's done.
And then fire blooms on the crown of the tent in question. It eats the thick canvas, and the crackle of it doesn't do anything to disguise the shouts and screams of distress.
Matthias grins. The fire bathes them all in orange light as a gust of wind pulls the flames higher. And there's no way they've not been spotted.
So that's done.
camp.
Matthias is already working when the rain comes. He's been working, actually, having slipped away from whatever everyone else was doing and striking out on his own. He's been industrious with a triangular piece of canvas, crouched in the brittle grass, sharpening short bits of wood into stakes. As the rain begins in earnest, he squints up at the sky, and thrusts his knife into the dirt so he can pull up his hood.
"Oi," he calls out, cheerfully, to whoever is passing by, "c'mere. I need about six of these."
tent.
Once his tent is established, it looks like this: the circle skirt edge of it stretched and staked intermittently, and the tip of the canvas pulled taut and lashed to a narrow scrubby tree, leaving that whole side open. Matthias begins to build a fire easily, feeding it with his magic. The rain can't touch the flames, given sharp angle of the pointed tip of the canvas. The fire cuts a cheery patch of color in the otherwise dismal setting of their camp.
He's generous with it, too, and scoots over to make room for anyone that looks like they need it. The price you'll pay is conversation. Only a moment passes, and then Matthias--cloak pulled tight, huddled around his staff like a funny little hermit--will say:
"Not that good at this, are you?"
Just saying. Or, if there's more than one person, he'll wait for a lull in the conversation to speak up.
"Right, so. 'Cause this is boring. Truth or dare?"
Matthias is already working when the rain comes. He's been working, actually, having slipped away from whatever everyone else was doing and striking out on his own. He's been industrious with a triangular piece of canvas, crouched in the brittle grass, sharpening short bits of wood into stakes. As the rain begins in earnest, he squints up at the sky, and thrusts his knife into the dirt so he can pull up his hood.
"Oi," he calls out, cheerfully, to whoever is passing by, "c'mere. I need about six of these."
tent.
Once his tent is established, it looks like this: the circle skirt edge of it stretched and staked intermittently, and the tip of the canvas pulled taut and lashed to a narrow scrubby tree, leaving that whole side open. Matthias begins to build a fire easily, feeding it with his magic. The rain can't touch the flames, given sharp angle of the pointed tip of the canvas. The fire cuts a cheery patch of color in the otherwise dismal setting of their camp.
He's generous with it, too, and scoots over to make room for anyone that looks like they need it. The price you'll pay is conversation. Only a moment passes, and then Matthias--cloak pulled tight, huddled around his staff like a funny little hermit--will say:
"Not that good at this, are you?"
Just saying. Or, if there's more than one person, he'll wait for a lull in the conversation to speak up.
"Right, so. 'Cause this is boring. Truth or dare?"
Kitty squints over at Matthias, not certain whether or not to take offense.
"Not good at what?" Before she decides, she'll need a bit of clarification. "Camping?" To be fair, of course, she quite transparently isn't - no one good at camping would look quite this miserable. Still, it's not necessarily something that ought to be pointed out.
"Not good at what?" Before she decides, she'll need a bit of clarification. "Camping?" To be fair, of course, she quite transparently isn't - no one good at camping would look quite this miserable. Still, it's not necessarily something that ought to be pointed out.
"Oh - "
It's a noise of frustration and distress both. A quiet approach would have been good and smart, not this - But it's done now; there's no helping it. So Kitty turns - she's no good at setting anything on fire, but she's quite good at dealing with these sorts in her own way - and she pulls a knife from a brace at her belt.
Another mage emerges and sees her; he has quick reflexes, and lets loose a fireball at the same moment that she flings her knife. Both hit...But while she easily shakes off the magic, the knife causes rather more lasting damage.
It's a noise of frustration and distress both. A quiet approach would have been good and smart, not this - But it's done now; there's no helping it. So Kitty turns - she's no good at setting anything on fire, but she's quite good at dealing with these sorts in her own way - and she pulls a knife from a brace at her belt.
Another mage emerges and sees her; he has quick reflexes, and lets loose a fireball at the same moment that she flings her knife. Both hit...But while she easily shakes off the magic, the knife causes rather more lasting damage.
( i. camp )
A good healer tends to others before herself, one of her instructors had told Derrica once. She'd had thin, spindly hands, and delicate features, and very specific ideas about how a healer functioned in battle. She had imagined Derrica serenely waiting, out of sight; certainly not in the middle of things, collecting scorch marks and bruises of her own.( ii. tent )
But still, certain things stick in your mind. Derrica's thinking of her old teacher as she slides off her horse, eyes the rest of her companions. The adrenaline is fading. She's aware of the aches in her own body, the places where blood has been washed away by rainfall. Her hair has come loose from her braid, curling in the damp air. She'd imagined time to get settled, assess before deciding how to divide her attention.
Then the sky opens up. Derrica sighs.
"I thought we'd been able to outrun it," She says regretfully. "Is everyone alright to set up camp?"
The implication being: is anyone about to fall over from an injury before they start dealing with tents?
Derrica has never put up a tent, and it shows. It lists to the side, droops sadly in the middle. She regards it from a few feet away, considering the chances of it caving in on her and whoever else is unlucky enough to share with her in the night.( iii. wildcard )
She'd rather sleep in the rain, but—
"Can you help me with this?" She asks, a faint grimace in her tone. "I can't get it to stand up right."
[ whatever moves you ]
Edited (slowly breaks html) 2019-09-19 17:35 (UTC)
Kitty debates a moment longer whether to be sour or not about his obvious amusement, but, well...He doesn't seem mean-spirited about it. So instead of snapping, she sighs, and replies -
"It is so bad. The outdoors is dreadful. Full of nasty bugs - " She slaps at a biting insect for emphasis. "And why would you sleep on the ground when you could have a bed?"
"It is so bad. The outdoors is dreadful. Full of nasty bugs - " She slaps at a biting insect for emphasis. "And why would you sleep on the ground when you could have a bed?"
"Well, if you've got any spare beds in your pocket, I'll not turn one down. Otherwise I think we haven't got much choice."
He gestures, to their surroundings. At least beneath his weirdly-shaped tent, things are warm and dry, with plenty of open ground to roll out a blanket or a bedroll. Or set up a bed, if there was a bed about.
"You're from a city, then? Where there's no bugs at all?"
He gestures, to their surroundings. At least beneath his weirdly-shaped tent, things are warm and dry, with plenty of open ground to roll out a blanket or a bedroll. Or set up a bed, if there was a bed about.
"You're from a city, then? Where there's no bugs at all?"
She wrinkles her nose at him.
"Well, of course we've got bugs. But not ones like this." In truth, London actually had many bugs like this, but, well - she'd sound rather stupid if she admitted that. Plus, they were quite a lot smaller, which is enough of a difference to justify the claim, really.
"What about you? Free Marches, you said, yeah?"
"Well, of course we've got bugs. But not ones like this." In truth, London actually had many bugs like this, but, well - she'd sound rather stupid if she admitted that. Plus, they were quite a lot smaller, which is enough of a difference to justify the claim, really.
"What about you? Free Marches, you said, yeah?"
"Free Marches, yeah. Where the bugs are larger, but at least they haven't got Orlesian accents. Go proper bzzz instead of--" How do you do a bug with an Orlesian accent? Well-- "Bizzzet," and he does a little flourish with his left hand and bends forward slightly in a seated bow.
He continues normally, and sensibly, once he's sat himself up again. "If you slap a bit of mud on you they're as like to leave you alone. Only then you've got mud on you, and I dunno how your city sensibilities handle that one. It does work, though. Honest. Sounds as if I'm taking the piss, but I don't mess about with bugs. You can get sick off of 'em, y'know. Nasty. Saw it a few times in the field."
He continues normally, and sensibly, once he's sat himself up again. "If you slap a bit of mud on you they're as like to leave you alone. Only then you've got mud on you, and I dunno how your city sensibilities handle that one. It does work, though. Honest. Sounds as if I'm taking the piss, but I don't mess about with bugs. You can get sick off of 'em, y'know. Nasty. Saw it a few times in the field."
Edited (i'm sorry i have to edit to break my icon repetition ugh) 2019-09-22 22:15 (UTC)
He's really a bit of a clown, isn't he, this kid? Kitty doesn't disapprove of clowns, really, not exactly. Stan had been one, and she'd liked Stan. At least she'd liked Stan during the peaceful times. Of which there hadn't been so many. All right, she'd actually hated Stan most of the time, but that doesn't mean that this kid isn't all right, for all his twitchy energy and flopping about and weird bug impressions.
"Yeah?" She cups her hands around her knees, and doesn't respond to anything that went before, because it's probably better that she not respond. "What kind of sickness?"
"Yeah?" She cups her hands around her knees, and doesn't respond to anything that went before, because it's probably better that she not respond. "What kind of sickness?"
"Bug... sickness." Vague. Matthias scratches thoughtfully at the side of his nose. "Er, like... yellowy, your eyes go all yellowy. And you have a massive vomit, really bake your guts backwards. Bleeding, a bit, usually. Anyhow, it's nasty. So, mud."
He picks a bit of twig up off of the ground and chucks it into the low fire. It makes a pleasant sizzle upon entry, and goes quite up in flames. Matthias watches it, tiny limbs twisting and embering and burning away.
"Why'd you come along on this?"
He picks a bit of twig up off of the ground and chucks it into the low fire. It makes a pleasant sizzle upon entry, and goes quite up in flames. Matthias watches it, tiny limbs twisting and embering and burning away.
"Why'd you come along on this?"
Well, that sounds...fake. Stan used to take the piss like that sometimes, too, make shit up and see what he could fool Kitty into believing and have quite a laugh when he tricked her. Though, to be fair, this kid seems actually rather sincere. Is it just that he's a good actor? Or...
Oh. She's thrown out of her train of thought by the suddenness of that last question.
"Why'd I - " That's quite a lengthy answer, and one she's not really ready to jump into yet. So instead, all she offers is a cautious, cagy, "Thought I'd be useful." Then: "Why'd you decide to come along?"
Oh. She's thrown out of her train of thought by the suddenness of that last question.
"Why'd I - " That's quite a lengthy answer, and one she's not really ready to jump into yet. So instead, all she offers is a cautious, cagy, "Thought I'd be useful." Then: "Why'd you decide to come along?"
"I used to be better at it," Derrica answers, a little sheepish as she crosses her legs and settles into the space he's made for her. "But it's been a while since I had to even pretend to try to make a tent."
It had never really mattered very much at Dairsmuid. There'd always been someone more capable for her to rely on the few times they'd strayed out into the trees. Derrica takes a deep breath and cuts that memory off before her thoughts snag on it.
"You did well back there," She tells him; the praise feels important to impart. "I always wanted to be better with fire than I am."
It had never really mattered very much at Dairsmuid. There'd always been someone more capable for her to rely on the few times they'd strayed out into the trees. Derrica takes a deep breath and cuts that memory off before her thoughts snag on it.
"You did well back there," She tells him; the praise feels important to impart. "I always wanted to be better with fire than I am."
"'Cause I'm a mage." Easy answer, for him. Matthias shrugs, a lift and fall of his shoulders. "And it was to do with mages, and mage stuff. Seems important to have mages along with for it. And anyone that wants to go out in the world and act like a bastard ought to know that they can't get away with it. It's something I care about. All of it."
Simple and true. Which means, for once, it's nothing that Matthias feels self-conscious about admitting. Passion can get him worked up, make him say things with such firmness and conviction that he goes too far, overshares, says too much, spends the rest of the day wanting to fall into a hole. This one's easy by comparison.
He tosses another twig into the fire. "You weren't not useful," he says, to Kitty, "so I s'ppose you managed what you came for all right."
Simple and true. Which means, for once, it's nothing that Matthias feels self-conscious about admitting. Passion can get him worked up, make him say things with such firmness and conviction that he goes too far, overshares, says too much, spends the rest of the day wanting to fall into a hole. This one's easy by comparison.
He tosses another twig into the fire. "You weren't not useful," he says, to Kitty, "so I s'ppose you managed what you came for all right."
That earns Matthias a look. "Of course I wasn't not useful," she sniffs. "You lot were, and are, absolutely lucky to have a bit of my time, because I'm very good at what I do, and you're welcome."
Another slap at her arm. This time, a darker smear shows that she got the little bastard.
"Anyway," she says, arrogance ebbing away, "I've known plenty of mages who don't mind bastards if the bastards are their own. Plenty of people like that in general."
Another slap at her arm. This time, a darker smear shows that she got the little bastard.
"Anyway," she says, arrogance ebbing away, "I've known plenty of mages who don't mind bastards if the bastards are their own. Plenty of people like that in general."
"Thanks," Matthias says. And then he looks very hard at the fire and tries not to fall to pieces over a few words of compliment but, really. How can he do anything but fall to pieces, or at least grin, hugely--which he does, now, even though he fights against it.
Look: he likes being good at things. He likes people recognizing him. He likes especially people that he likes or respects--likes and respects, sometimes--recognizing him for a job well done. Enchanter Peggins used to call him puppy out of that eagerness, you'd kill yourself trying to earn a kind word, Matthias, but even shame hadn't curbed that instinct in Matthias.
He hunches his shoulders and leans forward, hoping the fall of his hood will shield his stupid smile from view. At least until he can master his expression.
"I mean, like, so, fire's always been easiest for me. Probably 'cause it's quick and it, y'know. Destroys the way that it does. First time I did magic it was fire, and it's always been there for me since. Which is it you're best at, then?"
Look: he likes being good at things. He likes people recognizing him. He likes especially people that he likes or respects--likes and respects, sometimes--recognizing him for a job well done. Enchanter Peggins used to call him puppy out of that eagerness, you'd kill yourself trying to earn a kind word, Matthias, but even shame hadn't curbed that instinct in Matthias.
He hunches his shoulders and leans forward, hoping the fall of his hood will shield his stupid smile from view. At least until he can master his expression.
"I mean, like, so, fire's always been easiest for me. Probably 'cause it's quick and it, y'know. Destroys the way that it does. First time I did magic it was fire, and it's always been there for me since. Which is it you're best at, then?"
He grins a little at that look, but holds his hands up in surrender. Fair play, that. It was a bit cruel to pretend like she'd counted for nothing. And he's not so arrogant that he thinks mages are automatically better than everyone. They're not worse either, mind; he'd not absorbed all that shame that loads of other people carry about with them. But all the same.
"Right, but all that means is you've known bastards, and bastardy mages. People who're worth knowing and hanging about with, they're not about to start behaving like tits just 'cause they get a moment of freedom to act in. So it's not a fair comparison, is it."
"Right, but all that means is you've known bastards, and bastardy mages. People who're worth knowing and hanging about with, they're not about to start behaving like tits just 'cause they get a moment of freedom to act in. So it's not a fair comparison, is it."
"People turn into bastards when they get power, though," she replies with a shrug. "Doesn't even always matter how much power. Could just be a little bit. But when they find they can control people, they start turning into wretched monsters. Even if they had the potential to be worth something."
She flicks her hair from her eyes, and turns a look on the kid, honestly rather curious how he'll respond to that.
She flicks her hair from her eyes, and turns a look on the kid, honestly rather curious how he'll respond to that.
But Kitty shakes her head, leaning slightly forward. "Anyone can become one, I think," she says. "If they've got power. Where I'm from - the ma...The people in charge, there's nothing special about them, really. They're chosen when they're just kids to be the ones in charge, and they're not chosen 'cause they're bastards already, it's just...because. And they all turn into 'em. Anyone can be awful, if they're taught to be."
"Well, yeah, but that's teaching, right. So if you're surrounded by bastards, learning to be a bastard...." Irritated at this logic puzzle, Matthias scratches at his cheek. "I mean, I wouldn't become one. I know that. Even if someone came around and made me a viscount or bloody duke of the mages or something, I wouldn't. So there's something that makes a difference."
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