faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ AND THOSE WHO SLEPT (LOG)

MOD PLOT ↠ AND THOSE WHO SLEPT (LOG)

WHO: Nearly everyone
WHAT: A return to Nevarra City, where everything goes great
WHEN: Harvestmere 30 – Firstfall 1
WHERE: Nevarra City
NOTES: OOC and plotting post here! Consolidated crystal post here!

DAY.

They ride hard up the Imperial Highway, rising before dawn the last day and arriving in Nevarra City by mid-morning. There is no time wasted on settling in, barely enough to find their rooms at their assigned inns and change into whatever reasonably-practical costume they have chosen before getting to work. Most are sent out in pairs or trios to walk certain routes or neighborhoods, marking the locations of mummies and (subtly, ideally) observing them for any strange behavior.

Despite the looming threat of war the capital is packed with visitors for the Satinalia celebrations. The streets teem with those rushing about preparing for the evening's festivities, and plenty more spill out the front of every tavern, starting their revelry early. Masks are already a common accessory, and are recommended for those patrolling the streets. It won't be difficult to see why, since many Nevarrans still blame the Inquisition for the disaster at the Grand Necropolis. It's possible to run into groups discussing it, the mummies lining the streets a reminder for many of what was lost in that fire.

The Pentaghast mummies will be found stationed on all major street corners, outside government buildings, and in front of many notable monuments, especially those honoring Pentaghast heroes of the past. Some even guard their own statues, and pains have clearly been taken to make sure their arms and armor match those depicted right down to the mummified horse and the desiccated straw of its mane. But it isn't only the royal dead who've been trotted out for a day in the sun. Inspired by this gesture, families around the city have had their own mummies brought to stand sentry outside their homes, from the phalanx of knights outside the mansion of a noble house to the less-glittering but no less honored ancestors of the poorest communities wielding the tools of their trades.

Many such communities will be hosting parties for the whole neighborhood, and local leaders can be found out in the streets laying out tables or piling up firewood. A quiet word here and there about how they handle safety issues will find most have plans for drunken troublemakers, pickpockets, or gang fights, and a few will have considered how to hurry people home if, for instance, a Van Markham assault on the city were to begin. But on the whole people are preparing for a party, not for trouble, and there's little Riftwatch can do to change that now without risking a panic that could easily turn just as dangerous as a true attack, not to mention have disastrous consequences for Riftwatch's reputation if their suspicions prove wrong. For now they walk the streets and watch and wait for confirmation.

DUSK.

As the sun sets over the hills to the west, Satinalia begins in earnest. Bonfires are lit, musicians tune up, and people gather at tables and in courtyards or in taverns to feast and drink and exchange gifts. The last of the day's light and the first flickers of firelight limn the city in scarlet and gold, and reflect off the vacant eyes of the mummies standing sentry up and down the streets.

A cheer goes up when Satina is first spotted in the sky, the edges of the full moon sharpening as the sky darkens, Luna just a slender crescent above it. Parades begin to wind their way through the streets, growing in size all the while as masked revelers join their ranks, dancing and shouting, scattering flowers and sharing wine, bearing fools on thrones before them. At first it goes nearly unnoticed when the mummies, nearly in unison, turn their faces up toward the moon.

The silhouette of a dragon launching into flight across the face of that moon, on the other hand, draws plenty of eyes. The sight is greeted by as many cheers as screams, many clearly uncertain what's happening, expecting some sort of elaborate holiday prank. Then the creature wheels about, swoops low over the city, and bellows a cloud of toxic dust into a crowd. Its roar is a rattling, rasping cough nearly drowned out by the sounds of confusion, fear, and pain that rise in its wake. Again, the dead move as one, heads turned back toward the streets. For a moment they stare blankly at the crowds. And then they move.

Every mummy in the city lurches into action, raising their swords or pitchforks or knitting needles, their hammers or halberds. But instead of the defense that was promised, they attack whoever is nearest, at first methodical but then with a mounting frenzy. They are enough aware of their surroundings to parry a blow or chase a potential victim but without any regard for pain or fear or even whether they have defeated one opponent before they swing at the next. In the noble quarters, undead knights spur undead mounts forward, charging through panicking, scattering crowds of their own descendants.

As the dead begin to create more of their own kind, even the least magically-attuned will become aware of spirits flooding the air, a torrent of them rushing out of the Fade and clamoring to find new homes in the recently-vacated bodies. The newly dead then rise up to join the old, blood still wet and warm on their skin as they take up whatever weapons are to hand and turn on the living. Above the screams and cries—and in some homes and isolated streets the echoing of music and merriment not yet interrupted—rises a howling laugh.

At first he could be mistaken for Corypheus, the too-tall frame misshapen and crusted with stone and lyrium in similar ways. But Corypheus isn't really the laughing type, and this one can't seem to stop. Cloaked but unhooded, he rides the mummified dragon over the city before alighting on top of the Chantry cathedral, scampering across its roof with unnatural agility. Armed with a crooked staff of twisted wood, bone, and metal, he calls forth the dead—not just those already on display, but the contents of every necropolis and crypt in the city, even those long forgotten and built over. Mummies emerge from cellars and sewers and claw their way up between loose cobblestones, push out from walls and rise from the riverbed and set off around the city on violent parade, acting out some wild ancient celebration of Chaos.

NIGHT.

Night seems to fall with unusual speed. The dead hunt the living through the streets, and every fresh corpse joins them in moments, almost immediately possessed by one of the translucent, undifferentiated mass of spirits teeming about the city, clamoring for vessels of their own. Some shamble after their prey with heavy steps shuffling across the cobblestones, their own lethargy dragging the energy from the living around them, deadening legs and draining even the racing adrenaline of panic until their victims slow enough to be overrun. Others go mad with rage, throttling the life from their victims, or even tearing them limb from limb with slavering intensity. They come in all states of decay, from brittle bones that just about collapse into dust when struck to the well-preserved mummies with their tight, leathery skin, to those who've barely begun to go cold. The newly dead are the most dangerous, sometimes almost indistinguishable from the living until it's too late, holiday masks concealing their dead eyes.

As the mad magister capers about the city, rousting the dead wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of anger and confusion in his wake, the living suddenly driven to attack each other with mindless ferocity, and just as suddenly returning to themselves in time to witness the horror of their actions. Elsewhere, sections of the city are plunged abruptly into utter darkness, every lantern and torch for blocks extinguished simultaneously, leaving only moonlight by which to navigate the night's dangers, even that blocked out by the great bulk of the dragon when it dives to breath death into the crowds.

GRIFFON RIDERS

Ordered to retrieve the griffons at the first sign of trouble—or in some cases to stay behind and mind them—a team of riders makes it out of the city before the gates are closed and is soon in the air overhead, relaying information back to the teams on the ground.

Most of the griffons have never seen combat before. Their reactions vary, some personalities more daring or staid than others, but even the bravest griffon might take a moment to balk at the sight of the dragon they're sharing the skies with, and the most skittish might require coaxing not to ignore instructions and fly in the other direction.

From above, there's some order to the chaos. The black-marble Castrum Draconis lies at the center of the city, statue-lined boulevards sprawling out from it like spokes on a wheel. The city's structures grow shorter and less ornate the further from the palace they are, but even the smallest dwellings in the poorer areas are three stories high. The streets between them are rivers of light. But they're going dim where the living and their torches are pushed out or trampled by growing mobs of corpses. The darkness is pressing toward the eastern side of the city, where the undead seem to be organizing around a pair of dark, enormous forms visible even from above. Meanwhile, a steady glowing stream of spirits is pouring from a single building to the west of the palace, and a large crowd of the still-living, defended at its perimeter by soldiers and guardsmen, has gathered near the city's main gates.

Relaying that information back to the rest of Riftwatch is first priority. Second is the possessed undead dragon terrorizing the city—keeping it away from that growing crowd of civilians, at least, and destroying it if possible. Then, if there's time to spare, there are people trapped in the middle of the undead horde climbing onto roofs to escape them or in need of intervention from above as they're pursued by the streets.

DIPLOMACY

Members of the Diplomacy Division assemble at a small fortress near the city's main gates, typically an outpost for the city guard and tariff collectors. It's unusually empty now: everyone is in the streets. But captains and commanders still burst in and out of doors, exchanging information and orders that any enterprising Riftwatch eavesdroppers can pass along to the rest of the organization by crystal, dispatching members of Forces to assist a neighborhood no guards are near enough to help, or sending a griffon to rescue a family who have fled onto their rooftop and come to regret it, tracking sightings of the ancient magisters on one of the many maps lining the walls.

The crystal network of course allows for much faster gathering and distribution of information around the city, and before long the guard leaders can be won over by the assistance offered by their uninvited guests, and convinced to work with Riftwatch to coordinate strategy and pass messages to guardsmen and soldiers they meet.

Unfortunately, the one thing they won't consider is opening the gates. It's the only clear order they've received from the palace: contain the threat, don't give the undead an escape route into Thedas, don't let this become a disaster Nevarra has inflicted on the rest of the world. It sounds noble. But there's a swelling crowd of living civilians trapped just inside those gates, protected at its edges by the guard and soldiers for as long as they can stay alive.

As the night wears on, word from the griffon riders above indicates that the undead have organized and are on their way through the streets toward the crowd. Someone needs to get the gate open—if not for humanitarian reasons, then for strategic ones. The crowd is large enough to increase the size of the existing undead army by a third.

FORCES

The city isn't defenseless, and at first, the most sensible thing for the Forces Division to do is to coordinate with the larger number of guards and soldiers already present to intervene on behalf of civilians and funneling them toward the city's main gates. They're grateful for any assistance from anyone who knows how to wield a weapon, and healers, magical or not, are in high demand as the injured are dragged to safety behind the line of soldiers—if they die behind the line, they'll quickly become a danger instead.

But they're outnumbered by the dead to begin with, and every time another life is lost, the body is quickly overtaken by one of the disembodied spirits ricocheting through the streets in search of somewhere to settle.

It isn't only a lack of manpower hindering efforts. Most of the soldiers and guard fight the undead with the same hesitance they might exhibit if forced to fight their own ailing grandfathers. When one of the less reverent suggests fire might be called for, she's quickly shut down. The soldiers concoct plans to block streets with toppled carts and close off intermediary gates throughout the city to contain the mummies without needing to destroy them, but the planning and the execution both take time when there isn't much of that to spare.

And the guard and the army receive conflicting orders, both large and small: the guard thinks that the army is handling the market, the army thinks that the guard is. Friction and resentment between the two groups from well before tonight doesn't help matters, and the small contingent of Van Markham loyalists present alongside the Pentaghast's forces make accusations that nearly cause a brawl before an advancing line of undead cuts it short.

In that chaos, word reaches Riftwatch from the griffons above that the dead are organizing around apparent leaders, east of the palace. Tall, corrupted leaders. Waiting for the guard and the military to organize and decide what to do about them may take all night—so go now.

RESEARCH

With eyes in the air, the source of the spirits is apparent: they're emerging from a building just west of the palace, in a steady glowing stream, before scattering wildly through the streets, searching for something to latch onto. A Mortalitasi apprentice named Portia meets Riftwatch at the entrance. She seems trustworthy, for all appearances—genuinely panicked, searching for assistance already before they arrive, trying to be helpful despite relative youth and inexperience, clutching the possessed ceremonial skull that serves as her instructor for dear life—and leads the team inside, down stairs and through a narrow tunnel that avoids the outpouring of spirits while leading to its source.

That source is a cavernous underground chamber. Its underlying architectural elements are ancient Tevene, and the remnants of crumbling inscriptions reference Zazikel. On top of them are generations' worth of Nevarran additions, dating back as far as the Glory Age and as recent as the last decade. One tiled wall is lined with stone etchings of each of Nevarra's rulers, another a map of Nevarra as it existed at the height of its expansion in the Blessed Age. A third is covered in mathematical symbols, and a fourth in flat panels that hum with the magical energy of bound wisps.

At the center is a twisting structure of stone and metal—a conduit, with beams running across the ceiling to each wall—and at its center, a glowing ball of energy from which the spirits are emerging and funneling up through the ceiling. It is essentially a magnet, the apprentice explains: not a hole in the Veil, but a concentration of summoning power, carefully situated at a nexus of the Fade's unseen rivers of magic, strong enough to pull spirits through it. It was built over the ages for the sake of knowledge and potential emergencies. It is a testament to Nevarran history and strength. And it is also a puzzle.

Each wall is a piece of it, designed to limit the device's operation to those with a thorough knowledge of Nevarran history and heroes. The kings must be pressed back flush with the wall in order—not the order they ruled, but numerically by the combined number of dragons slayed and children sired. Tiles on the map signifying the location of major battles in Nevarra's several wars must be pressed in chronological order, but any lost battles must be skipped altogether, or the whole thing will reset. The symbols on the third wall are famous proofs put forward by mathematician-philosophers at the Duchess's Games, each with several subtle errors that must be identified. And the spirits bound to the final wall will budge only for demonstrations of a number of subtle, otherwise-useless Mortalitasi ritual spells.

Their guide is of limited help: she knows King Caspar I killed fewer dragons than King Caspar II, and she's learned one of the rituals, but she's hopeless at math and military history, and the possessed skull she's carting around won't stop shrieking about how offensive it is to have so many foreigners in the room touching his work. But she does at least know the way to the royally-maintained library, which may have some undead shambling among its shelves but may also have some of the answers—and she knows that the device can only be destroyed (and here the skull shrieks its loudest) after it's been fully deactivated, if they don't want a repeat of 7:32, when a half-dozen mages who were concerned about the device's potential for misuse vanished and left behind only their robes and some black marks still visible on the floor.

And after the device has been fully dealt with and the flow of spirits stopped, there is then the matter of escaping the city, still teeming with undead.

SCOUTING

As the Diplomacy team is able to relay, the crown has issued frankly terrible orders: to keep the gates closed, to send the population home. The city guard has been told that the military is handling the darkspawn leading the attack. The military has been told to leave it to the guard. Perhaps King Markus is officially addled beyond competence, or perhaps someone either very stupid or very terrible is speaking on his behalf. It is, altogether, some real nonsense, and people—more people than normal, in a standard attack of frenzied undead—are going to die.

The assembled Scouting team is tasked with infiltrating the palace, to appeal to the king or cut off bad advice at the source—whatever it takes. With nearby noble families and their servants retreating into it for safety, it's a somewhat easier prospect than usual. Split into small groups to attempt multiple entrances and tactics, whether talking their way through the servants' entrances or climbing through upper windows, they'll find the place in disarray. Pentaghast cousins and advisors are engaged in fierce, terrified arguments in half the rooms. In others, some servants have broken down crying, convinced they will die at work without seeing their families again, while others are determined to clean and cook as if nothing is wrong, and a handful roam the halls trying in vain to rouse the rest into organizing and escaping.

The throne room has scattered pockets of people engaged in whispered conversations and one old man wandering with an untouched glass of wine and a haunted stare, apparently overwhelmed. But the throne is empty. King Markus is abed, and the room's main doors blocked by a growing crowd of officials and relatives trying to get in to see him while six guards and three grey-robed mages attempt to explain that he is strategizing with his advisors and cannot be disturbed. Aurelia—self-proclaimed regent and perhaps the only person capable of commanding admission or countermanding the orders—is miles away, encamped on the road to Hunter Fell with the Pentaghast army in anticipation of a Van Markham attack.

Fortunately, there's a secret entrance. Two, actually: one royal escape route with a staircase down to the lower levels, one corridor connecting to a room that was once occupied by some king or another's secret lover and is now stocked with herbs, incense, and various Mortalitasi accoutrements. And once the king has been secured, he'll need to be ferried out of the palace and through the chaos to the fortress where Diplomacy is trying to coordinate information with the guard and military leaders.

DAWN.

By dawn, the gates are open, and Riftwatch and the remaining Nevarran guards and soldiers have retreated from the city with as many refugees as could be saved. Not all have chosen this route, but many have nowhere else to go, and so make their weary way back down the Imperial Highway, battered and blinking in the morning sun. The dragon is defeated, the magical chamber's spell ended, and one ancient magister slain, but the dead have overrun the capital. Research's success has stoppered the flow of new spirits, but those already possessing the dead remain in the bodies they've taken, hungry, angry. The gates are shut again once all that can be rescued have been, trapping the army of the dead inside, a problem for Nevarra to solve another day.

Without tents or supplies, and with mounts and carts in short supply, most are forced to walk, and all to sleep on the ground beneath the stars in just their clothes, and to eat whatever they can buy or the soldiers can commandeer from villages as they pass. Unlike the shocked, traumatized refugees they escort, Riftwatch's members will be expected to help the guards and soldiers keep watch, distribute food, gather firewood, tend injuries, dig latrines, and whatever else might need doing. Perhaps they should take it as a compliment.

On reaching Cumberland, the refugees are escorted into the city, which has been alerted by earlier arrivals and seems to already have gears turning to deal with this stage of the crisis. Riftwatch will get a hot breakfast, some handshakes, even a few words of thanks from the Nevarrans, but otherwise will be expected to fend for themselves from there. Thankfully, Salvio has arranged their passage, and it's a short sail back to Kirkwall.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( i. | "i need healing" )

Admittedly, Derrica's first instinct hadn't been to hang back to heal as needed. But it becomes very clear, very quickly, where her particular skills are needed.

She's small. That's an advantage now, as she darts through the crowd. People go down, she gets them back onto their feet. Her mouth is dry, and her fingers are going numb, but she slams bodily into a toppling Riftwatch member, knocking them out from under the tearing fingers of a mummy, grappling with the Veil as she casts.

"You're okay," she reassures, repeating yet again what she's been telling one person and another since the moment the dead turned on them. "Deep breath, look at me. Anything else hurting?"

There's going to be a point where she exhausts herself, but she's on her feet. If it keeps a few others upright too, that's something.

( ii. | damage dealing )

"Get the fuck—" Her voice breaks as she whips her staff around, clubbing an encroaching mummy in the chest and sending it staggering back, toppling a cluster of it's fellows. "Away!"

Do they hear her? She doesn't know. Maybe she could have asked Leander, but she hadn't really expected any of this. She had always felt spirits as something far beyond them, not anchored to bodies like this. But still, she feels some measure of guilt as she surveys the damage they're doing. How do they put anything back together after all of this?

Her eyes light on another Riftwatch member, and she shoves towards them. A few wayward soldiers trail in her wake as she grabs them by the arm.

"Come with me. The market—I don't think anyone's defending it."

Which means a mad dash towards more mummies, but what's the alternative? Leave it and hope for the best?

( iii. | aftermath )

"Here, let me," comes Derrica's voice, followed by soft footsteps and the scrape of her staff as she leans it against the side of the bed. Her fingers are clumsy, knuckles torn open. Casting is beyond her right now, but bandaging wounds isn't. She edges onto the edge of the bed, reaching for the length of linen. "It'll need to be cleaned first, if you'll let me."

Without the rapid pulse of adrenaline, she's become aware of her own injuries. But she isn't quite ready to sleep yet. This all feels like a defeat to her. Helping in some small way is the best way to process the night's events she has.

( iv. | wildcard )

[ do whatever, i'll roll with it. stuff during the day, stuff during the fighting, or miserable aftermath things, get at me. ]

Edited (slaps words around) 2019-10-31 15:00 (UTC)

Sawbones is even smaller, but that only goes so far when you're jumping into frays to haul Dusters out. Her first instinct is to pull away and hide when something tackles her, but then there's the magic. Always strange and nothing she'll ever get used to in a hurry, even when it's stitching her back together.

She follows the mage's instructions and looks up at her, gaze focusing sharply. When she speaks her voice is clear and grim, "We're going to need to find you lyrium."

"That would be helpful," Derrica says automatically. "I think if people die, they just..."

She gestures at the current chaos tearing through the streets. She'd already seen one soldier fall prey to that cycle. The woman had bent to help what they'd both thought was a fallen shopkeeper, and the newly-made corpse had wheeled around and torn into her throat. The danger is very clear to Derrica, as well as the looming impediment of her own physical limitations.

"Should you be out here?"

She realizes after the fact that it might be an insulting question, but she doesn't mean it to be. There are going to be so many people hurt. They can't afford to lose the people who can help without the use of lyrium.

"Ain't anywhere in the city that doesn't have the dead crawling on it," Sawbones says, grim conviction hardening her Dust Town drawl, "Prayer ain't gonna fix this one any."

Even if that was the only thing she was good for, she wasn't inclined to it. This was the worst case scenario for any Ozammar dwarf: the surging, unending horde. That fact they were mummies and not Darkspawn only made the slightest of differences. They needed out of the city, not gathering the faithful in the Chantry for prayer. But on that note... Sawbones sets off immediately, gesturing for Derrica to follow her, "The Reverend Mother should have a few vials of lyrium in her office."

The kneejerk urge towards disdain softens slightly at the blunt irreverence and what seems like the potential for theft. Or at least, borrowing without asking.

And whatever her personal feelings, the absolute urgency of the current situation makes it impossible for Derrica to do anything but follow this Chantry sister. She can be cutting about it when they aren't being overrun with Nevarran ancestors.

"How far is that?" She asks. If they're lucky, it's close by. Derrica might even be better off that way. She can keep the dead off them with the reach of her staff for the time being, and conserve her own capacity for healing spells.

She'd like to think the two of them were easy to miss. In less dire circumstances, they'd easily pass unnoticed, but the dead seem to laser in on anything living.

They crossed the line of potential theft at least three hours ago, the only reason Sawbones hasn't started smashing storefront windows to grab supplies they'll inevitably need is because it attracts the dead's attention.

"Not far. Small one in a square close by had a templar barrack before the war." The one before the sky broke open, of course. "Come on."

She sets off at once, ducking into an alley with deep shadows. There was a chance the dead couldn't see in the dark as well as a dwarf.

No, Derrica can't see very well in the dark. She has to scramble after Sawbones, wary of what might be waiting for them in the dark. And it's almost fine, almost, right up until something lurches out towards Sawbones as she rounds a corner.

"Wait—" She gasps, and it's lucky that the instinctive swing of her staff can pass right over Sawbones' head to land with a satisfying crack.

"Wait, there might be more." Derrica cautions, even though it's not as if Derrica's going to be the one to see them.

It's the Deep Roads. Brimstone and screams and the stink of death as hulking figures surge over shuddering stone. And then it's not and the girl behind her shatters the dead thing's head with a clean blow. Her breath hisses out in a growl.

"Aye, there would be. Wait a moment." She gestures for Derrica to stay put, no idea if human eyes can see that movement in the dark. Either way, she slips forward a few steps in the dark, eyes sharp and ears pricked. She's back a few moments later, nudging Derrica back, "Got maybe four or five of the fucksters ahead of us."

"Okay."

She reaches down, finding Sawbones shoulder to give her a little nudge.

If she were taking a more physical approach, it would't matter so much where Sawbones was standing. But Derrica has one spell that isn't geared towards healing, and it's made for moments like this. A crackle of energy sparks around the tip of her staff as she brings her staff down with a quiet thunk.

"Stand behind me? I don't want to hit you by accident."

"Well, fuck." And Sawbone promptly scuttles behind her. She really hasn't seen a whole lot of magic since coming to the surface, she can't help being a little wide eyed. Especially when that weird light sparks up.

He'd known enough to prepare for this. He'd known what it would look like if it happened; Berenike had been a constant enough companion for that, and Kostos had said he felt it, the spirits leaning to the red lyrium's song. He'd felt enough on his own, gut twisting at the news of fresher corpses piling up amongst those they'd sent to give warning. They'd chosen the wrong people to trust, the way he always does — always the wrong person. If he hadn't trusted anyone at all (if he'd just taken care of this himself), would they be here now, engulfed in this wave of bodies he was meant to protect?

He'd known enough, but it isn't until the first mummy lunges from their stand that it feels real. Real knobby shoulders slam into him, real branch-like fingers claw for his throat, and a very real rusted blade slides quick between ribs. Ah. The staff hasn't dropped from his hand; he just hasn't used it. Slumps upon it now. Ah, so this is how it goes.

Only it doesn't. A flurry of movement, a wrenching, spreading warmth washed away by the cool touch of the Veil, and there's a far more living woman saying— something soothing. He doesn't catch the details.

"You shouldn't—" Isn't a thank you, and he balks from the words like he can't stand to be rude on top of everything else. Trying again, "Please— do not waste your strength."

Her hand is sticky with blood and dust, but Derrica folds it over Ilias' where he grips his staff. Her other hand is pressed against his chest, splayed over the space where blood is spreading. The blade nicks the skin between her fingers. Her magic is a ripple, spreading outward from her like the tide. This barrier, forged almost entirely of kneejerk panic, is meant to ease and repair. As long as Ilias does his part by staying on his feet, she can do the rest.

"Speaker Fabria," Derrica begins, erring on the side of formality before her voice dips urgently. "Ilias. I'm not going to let you join them."

Because that's what happens. Derrica knows that's what happens, and she couldn't bear have to tell Leander about it. There is no room for doubt, or error, or Ilias' objections.

"I need to take this out. I promise, you'll feel better once I do."

There's some space here for him to give her permission, maybe to brace himself before she does what he has to realize is necessary. It's only polite to give him that much before she proceeds.

Solas is carrying a new staff in his hand and he looks dangerous.

He has never been the kind of mage to hold back in a fight, and his eyes flash as he steps forward, summoning the power of the Rift to tug enemies closer before flashing them with electricity, the power of lightning that the staff itself prickles with enough to make his eyes twitch, just a little. When he breathes it sounds as though laughter is echoing around him, enough to make him wince.

He knows that laughter; he is haunted by it.

Moving up towards Derrica's side, he reaches, touches her shoulder, and nods.

"There are too many innocents here. We must make sure they are given time to flee."

"There's too many of these things," Derrica says, though she immediately feels some twinge of shame. She had heard everything Leander said about ancestors and respect, but in the heat of the moment—

Well, her attention centers around the living.

"Every time we knock them down, more of them rise up." Delicately avoiding exactly what is rising up. "And none of these people will fight."

For the exact reasons why Leander and Ilias hadn't wanted them to hurt the mummified ancestors. But it's costing them their lives. Derrica's seen it already.

"There is only so much we can do. There is little time for other options."

Solas is a firm believer in the strength of defending what is old and could be lost to time - his present is built around it - but they cannot risk the lives of people who deserve a chance to live. He has to ignore the knot in his stomach at the thought.

Breathing out, he twists his staff, summoning a barrier.

"The best we can do, then, is force them to stop. Ice magic, traps, barriers - anything that might slow them. Then we must as the Nevarrans we know for aid."

Again Derrica considers the merit in learning to do more with her magic than heal. She feels the ripple of the barrier he's summoned wash across her skin. It might be her imagination, but there's a chill to it. She breathes out, knuckles white on her own staff.

"I can try to keep everyone else from dying," She assures, with more confidence than she feels. It's a daunting task. "They're just bones, but..."

She trails off. The screams of pain and fear demonstrate exactly what those bones can do.

"Maybe if we can corral them? I don't know."

Funneling the dead somewhere harmless is the first thing Derrica can think to do, but where is harmless? The chaos has left so many people vulnerable.

Solas knows barrier magic as well as he knows the Fade itself and it feels calm and familiar as it settles around him, something he can rely on even as they move together, his expression tight and drawn.

"They are the bones that matter to someone." Frustrating as that is. He can keep himself and others safe, can heal a little, but he is well aware of his own limitations. There is no need to push his luck or his certainties.

Moving closer, he makes sure that he can keep Derrica safe if necessary.

"I think that may be possible with Rift magic. If we can begin to pull and urge them in one direction it may be possible to trap them."

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MOD PLOT ↠ AND THOSE WHO SLEPT (LOG)

derrica | ota.

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ii.

team height difference

high five tbh

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