MOD EVENT: WINTERMARCH WINTER MARCH

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone & Everyone
WHAT: Winter adventures as Riftwatch heads up into the Vinmark Mountains to do some work for (Provisional) Viscount Bran of Kirkwall
WHEN: Throughout Wintermarch and early Guardian
WHERE: Vinmark Mountains
NOTES: OOC post

Still-Provisional Viscount Bran has received a number of requests for aid from communities in the Vinmark mountains outside Kirkwall. He wants to keep them happy so that they continue to pay taxes to Kirkwall and don't become problematically independent or allied with some other state. But he also doesn't want to deal with this shit, and the City Guard isn't really equipped to go tromp around the mountains in the winter. So he has asked Riftwatch to deal with this, casting it as a shared danger (if any communities were to break away, they'd be more vulnerable to enemy collaboration, or hampering travel through the passes, and things like that) but if necessary will imply that Riftwatch's refusal would weigh unfavorably against the decision to allow them to remain in the Gallows for free.

This work isn't done at the exclusion of all else--other normal (and especially high-priority) work continues. Any work that isn't especially time-sensitive may be postponed, and otherwise agents will simply have to forfeit their free time and fit this work in on top of their other responsibilities. Something for people to complain about while they're tromping through the snow.

It's not a long trip back and forth to the Gallows, so people can come and go if they want, but Bran has also agreed to allow Riftwatch the use of the Viscount's hunting lodge, a rustic mountain retreat traditionally used for hunting parties, which happens to be in a roughly central location. As Viscount Bran is both Provisional and profoundly not the sort of man who holds hunting parties, the lodge has gone unused for some years now, and Riftwatch is bringing in its own supplies and a skeleton support staff to man the place for the duration. Those traveling up in the first group will have to help escort supply wagons through snowy, muddy mountain roads, unloading casks and crates into the cellar, and pitch in cleaning, making minor repairs, and generally getting the building set up after a decade of neglect.

The lodge is organized around a central hall with a massive fireplace, and a small library and study that will be used as offices shared between those visiting. Up the grand wood stair is a mezzanine level that looks down on the hall and leads to three corridors, each with a couple rooms. Rooms will be shared by groups of 2-4 people, the exception being the two suites generally reserved for the viscount and his wife, which will now be assigned to whichever of the Division Heads are in residence (and if there are more than two at a time, then to whichever Division Heads win a coin toss or something). Each room has basic furnishings, heavy and rustic, and its own fireplace. Bathing facilities are communal, provided by natural hot springs pools. While these are outdoors, there is a roof, and there is also a small springhouse alongside for changing, as well as a separate sauna.

The stables contain a number of sleighs in varying states of repair, which can be signed out for use. They're often the best way to get around this area in winter, and can be pulled by a team of Vinmark Goats, a big-horned shaggy breed of unusually massive mountain goats that are often used in place of ponies in this part of the world. The Viscount had a herd of them, which has since run more or less wild on his land and will need to be rounded back up for use.

There are a few communities with different problems, spread out some ways apart through the mountains:

• ICE RIFT: The village of Erith has been plagued by shades and despair demons, which can be traced to a rift that has opened under the thick mid-winter ice of the frozen lake just outside town. Trying to get at it from above would mean cutting into the ice and fighting off demons while underwater and very likely freezing to death in minutes. So instead they'll need to traverse the ice caves beneath the lake to reach it, which will be complicated by the nature of shades, which leech off the energy of the livings' psyche, causing confusion, fatigue, and fear.
  
  
• SNOWMONSTERS: Cragfield has been cut off by an infestation of what's only been described as "snowmonsters," that have been harrying travelers around the village or anyone who strays too far from the edge of town. They will prove to be some unknown variation of giant, even more aggressive, though a bit smaller and nearly covered in white hair. They have some resistance to magic, especially ice magic, and one seems capable of using ice magic, if crudely. They can be tracked through the forest and picked off a few at a time, or traced back to one of their lairs, usually in a cave or tucked into a rock formation.
  
  
• THE GRIPPE: Galssop has sent an urgent request for healers to help combat a particularly virulent strain of the illness many in Kirkwall are suffering. Most of the town has fallen victim to it, including their only healer, leaving the rest without care. Complicating matters, reaching the town in winter (especially while transporting supplies) requires traveling up the frozen Wye river, using skates and iceboats. The villagers there will be wary of magical healing, and Bran as urged trying to use non-magical means of healing first if possible, though he and the sick will ultimately come round to the necessity of using some magic rather than see dozens die.
  
  
• THE GRINCH: Lerwick's trouble is a young man who recently inherited Touraigle, the fortress above the village, and who firmly believes that Lerwick is also his inheritance. When the Mayor of Lerwick refused to enforce Lord Bertrand's taxes, the lord's guards ransacked the town, helping themselves to most of its winter stores, among other things. Riftwatch diplomats have been asked to help entreat the lord to be reasonable and return what he took. But the road up to the castle has been blocked by a combination of overzealous defenses and weather, forcing all visitors to climb a treacherous hill of downed trees covered in ice and the occasional, possibly-frozen (if they're lucky), booby trap.

In addition to these specific issues, Rift Watchers can expect to encounter the usual Vinmark winter hazards: unpredictable weather, hungry animals, bad roads, scarcities, and so forth. Once news of their presence in the mountains gets around, they may be asked to take on similar small problems for others, like dealing with wildlife issues, helping search for a missing child, rescuing a hunting party trapped by a minor avalanche, etc. There are also basic chores to keep the lodge running that will always need extra hands, like chopping firewood, hunting down dinner, safeguarding supplies on their way to and from Kirkwall, and so on.

Comments

Athessa | OPEN

[sulahnan]

I. ICE RIFTING SEASON!

The only good thing about fighting in the snow is that you're not stuck in one place, shivering your ass off. Athessa doesn't have any spare ass to give, so she's trying to keep it all attached if she can.

Which, at this moment, means ducking and weaving between shades and despair demons in the cramped underground caves, using the ice to her advantage at times to slide quicker than she can step, and being hindered by it in equal measure.

"When we get back to the Gallows, I'm gonna spend a full day in the heated baths."

II. ICY GRIPPE

Skating up the river should've been simple. Especially for someone as petite as Athessa, who was banking on her size to ferry her up-river without so much as a creak from the ice.

But of course, leave it to her to find the one patch of thin ice while her companions stay safe and dry above. One minute she's there, the next, there's a hole in the ice and a splash.

III. WILDCARD

[ You know what to do! ]

iii

[esquive]

They are sitting on a cold stone above a craggy, slate and snow-washed dell. In it, sheltered from the cut of the wind and feeding on yellowed shoots of grass and by stripping bark off stick thin trees, is the herd of Vinmark Goats. They are all shaggy, their topcoats matted with ice and snow.

Marcoulf lowers the little spyglass from his eye and passes it to Athessa.

"The big grey just there— that seems to be the leader. Pizzicagnolo said to deal with her directly."

As if the animal is someone they must parley with.

i

[inkindled]

"Never heard the one about the fellow that sat too long in a hot spring and melted away, did you."

Matthias, following behind, is careful to keep his voice low. Really he shouldn't say anything at all. The best way to keep from getting attacked? Keep your lip buttoned, idiot. And he knows that--learned it hard, kept the lesson because it was practical. But they're between monsters now. Haven't seen one in a bit. This part of cave is so quiet as to be almost tranquil, just their footsteps and the occasional drip of cold water off of cold ice. And they've been crawling through frigid tunnels for ages now. Surely they've earned a bit of levity.

Matthias ducks under a row of low-hanging stalactites all shiny with ice, and pops up again on the other side with his hood fallen over his head. Impatiently, he paws it out of the way with his free hand. Other hand is gripping tight to his staff, half for advance defense and half because it can be used to keep him well grounded on the icy bits of floor.

Continued: "Water was so hot he got cooked right up. Turned him all to soft skin. And his squishy inner bits like when you boil chicken's livers in a bag. You don't want to be like him."

ii

[okayimin]

This is why no one should make water the main way to travel. Frozen or otherwise. Sawbones doesn't so much manage to yell for help as she starts swearing furiously, slipping and sliding towards the hole.

"Duster down, I need hands over here!" is what she manages in between the swearing, kneeling at the edge of the hole and plunging her arm into the freezing water to see if she can grab Athessa. Rotten fucking time to be the one with the shortest fucking arms.

iii

[filthydipper]

Thing is that camping and travelling and all of it is, generally speaking, pretty shit unless you're a well-oiled machine and Riftwatch? Riftwatch definitely isn't. Yngvi's not sure what it is yet but it's too big and too loud and too messy, probably the thing that'd piss on the floor if you ignored it too long really which doesn't fit with what he's constructing in his head but does that matter when a dwarf is frozen to the bone and trying to work?

No. No it doesn't.

"Oi," he can just about spy Athessa if he cranes his neck. "There's word about some of the supplies needing folk to watch keep an eye, make sure no one freezes or starves. You in? Beats losing fingers and toes here."

III. time 4 hot springs~

[coquettish_trees]

In the lodge, like some sort of mountain lion, Alexandrie waits.

She waits for Athessa to leave for the hot springs, she waits for a handful of minutes more, counting them down in page-turns as she reads, and then she pops a marker between Harimann and Hawke in the book of Free Marcher nobility she'd brought along, closes it with a satisfying thud, places it on the closest end-table, and follows, predicting that it will have been long enough for the elven woman to have undressed and relaxed into the water.

She will let the rustle of her own undressing introduce her.

"It seemed a fine idea, so I thought I might join you." Alexandrie says with a bright smile once noticed. And then, a moment later, once she is near stripped to her corset and stockings with practiced efficiency and just beginning to pull the laces free, glances back over her shoulder with a wide-eyed look of query as if it is only now that it occurs to her Athessa might not wish company.

"May I?"

kneeslides in for a wildcard

[tender]

"It's cold," Derrica complains, seated on the floor as she works off one boot. "I'm never going to be warm again."

An exaggeration, but it feels like a valid complaint to Derrica. She'd been dismayed with the temperature change in Kirkwall. Existing in this much snow feels like a lot to ask of her, even with the fact that she could simply leave in the mix. Derrica looks up at Athessa, forlorn.

"I spent two hours today coaxing donkeys up to the lodge. Those animals have more sense than all of us."

wysteria | ota

[heirring]

a. ice rift

The instrument case at her side isn't heavy, but it bulky against her hip. It and the strap across her shoulder require constant rearrangement, and frequent removal and re-donning as they make their way through the narrower passages winding down under the frozen lake. She is often the last one through any particular chamber - an arrangement, she explains, which suits her just fine.

"After all, it's hardly as if I've a sword to wave around. No, the rest of you can take care of the demons and shades, thank you. I'm merely here to observe. And to help with closing the rift, I suppose, should worst come to worst."

b. ice hockey croquet (threadjacking and group hijinks welcome, but not required)

There are no croquet mallets to be found in the Viscount's lodge. There is, however, a truly spectacular selection of largely ornamental fire irons of various shapes and sizes. This in combination with the discovery of a petrified box of biscuits in one of the lodge's storerooms, made while doing inventory in her most solemn duty as Seneschal's assistant (after all, someone must handle the paperwork in Messere Pizzicagnolo's absence), and the assortment of skates with no occupation in the aftermath of the return from the stricken village, is simply too fortuitous to be denied.

Wysteria is by no means a good skater (someone has either taken pity on her or advantage of the opportunity to boss her around by teaching her very recently), but what she lacks in skill she makes up for enthusiasm:

The biscuit ricochets off her miniature shovel with a tin CLANG! and hurtles across the ice, bouncing fantastically off one of the pick markers. She cheers, over balances, wobbles desperately on the blades of her skates-- and somehow manages to recover enough to stay upright.

"Did you see that? Impeccable work, if I do say so myself."

c. wildcard

[you know what to do]

b naturally

[coquettish_trees]

Alexandrie transfers the sturdy little fireplace broom from the set—a tool she holds for the first time in her life, it must be noted—briefly to the crook of her elbow so she can properly applaud the effort.

"Magnifique, cherie! Now where has mine gone?" In contrast to Wysteria she moves quite well on the blades lashed to her boots, having had ample opportunity to practice at court in the winters, although to her consternation her friend has proven better at aiming the biscuits. "I put jam on the top, it should hardly be a difficulty to keep track of."

Tavin | ota

[taxonomy]

snowmonsters
There might be a bow with him but mostly it's there as a necessary precaution, less for actual use as Tavin creeps through the snow. Quiet enough for a scholar with his spyglass in hand, stopping every so often to take notes, breath visible in the air as he huffs over his notebook.

Yes, it's ridiculous to be creeping behind trees and peering out to get a decent glimpse but this is how you get the job done.

Apparently.

"How close do you think we can get to where they call home?"

wildcard
[A noodly scholar who is up for anything, he is used to the rustic outdoors.]

[rakta]

Lauralae is quiet as she moves forward, head ducked against the roaring noise of the world around her as she peers at the monsters before her. She has never seen anything quite like them, has never witnessed anything as fumbling as these creatures blessed with the power of elemental magic, and she looks furious as she bows low to the ground. It's lucky she is already incredibly small; it makes her easier to hide, even if she is wearing pitch black in the midst of snow.

No one informed her that she would be dragged on duty such as this. It is no fault of hers.

"If we are quiet?" Her voice is low, teeth bared as she speaks, as if she's not used to being around people, to communicating. "Close. Very close."

Yngvi | ota

[filthydipper]

the grippe
Once upon a time when Kirkwall froze, Yngvi might've lashed things to his feet and done a good solid bit of trudging about where he was needed as well as up and down the Frostbacks and honestly, he thought it'd all be over and done with. But at least he's not stout. Or maybe not. He'd be shivering less. Or in fewer layers. His warmest woolens all worn at once, all of him bundled up.

"Buggering--" And he's down again, starfishing out over the ice, arms and legs flailing in an attempt to get himself back up.

"Little help? Rather be back in Nevarran than out here." Rolling over is about as graceful as you'd imagine it'd be, blades on his boots skittering about, hands not finding purchase as his fingers scrabble away all with a background of curses. "Didn't leave Nevarra with a bruised arse."

wildcard
[He's only a dwarf, don't lose him in the snow.]

Sister Sara Sawbones | OTA

[okayimin]

Snow Day

Sawbones has no love for snow. It's very cold and then once one manages to get somewhere warm, it all turns very wet. Furthermore, it comes from the sky, which still strikes her as unnatural. It's also incredibly difficult to move in. Particularly when one is roughly the size and weight of a child.

So Sawbones isn't really surprised when she manages to get herself trapped in a snow drift. But she's not happy either. She looks a bit like a holly berry lying in the snow, debating whether she wants to call out for help or try and dig her way to freedom.

WILDCARD
[ Prompts to be added as they come to me. Sawbones will be spending the bulk of her time attending to Glassop and generally bullying every healer she can find to help her. And then bullying the township to accept magical healing for the more vulnerable cases. HMU if you want specific starters. ]

The Grinch

[okayimin]

In fairness to her, it actually takes the better part of the day and a great deal of slipping, sliding and near booby-trapping before Sawbones' temper hits its limit.

"Right," she says with a great deal of conviction and Dust Town drawl, "New plan. We get in, break the little sod's kneecaps, shove 'im in the cellar and clean the place out. We can tell 'em he fell down the stairs."

matthias || ota

[inkindled]

Chores.
"Stupid--"

From one of the suites comes a loud CRASH, and the sound of something breaking. And within the suite, Matthias is now sitting among a great wreckage of glass. There's even glass in his hair, and he's at present shaking his head irritably, trying to clear it off. Among the first of Riftwatch to arrive at the viscount's lodge, eager to get out into the field, he's now been doing chores, finishing to ready the place for the larger contingents of Riftwatch members and division heads that will soon be here.

"Who's ever heard of a glass paperweight in a hunting lodge, anyways? And you saw it, yeah? It was massive--lucky it didn't crush my head in. How many papers would anyone have to weigh down at once? I don't care if this place does belong to some geezer viscount, no one needs a paperweight that big. And honestly? I'm glad it's broken." Which he might be saying to comfort or convince himself, and perhaps he realizes how hollow it sounds, because he looks about and bites at his lip. "Er... but getting rid of the evidence can't hurt either. Look--d'you mind helping?"

Chores, or, Not.
As Riftwatch becomes a more permanent presence, Matthias can be found doing little chores--washing up, folding blankets, chopping wood with surprising accuracy. Afternoons, he's usually sat at a table somewhere pretending that he knows how to organize papers, or else scratching out reports for Forces. Usually then he's got smudges on his face and ink streaked in his hair, from having rubbed at his face in stress.

When he's not working, he's skiving off work--taking a nap in some out-of-the-way nook and folded up so small it's a little scary--or making little fires out of nothing and magic out in a courtyard, burning away some of the snow and melting cool patterns into its soft face, and scorching the old brown grass buried somewhere beneath--or jumping into one of the hot springs in a moment that was otherwise quiet, disturbing the water and anyone trying to have a nice relaxing bath. He's a little sheepish when he surfaces after that, but not actually sorry. Your fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Avalanche.
It's chaos. There's the snow, first, thick and deep--up to your waist in some places--clean white mixed with a slurry of ice chunks and rocks that came down with it. The avalanche tore its way down the side of one of the peaks, spilled its way into the clearing, where it overtook the sentry line of the forest and crushed down like a heavy wave.

And there was a hunting party--that's what they've been told--six strong. One of the six had grabbed hold of a tree and had not been carried under. A woman, her hair matted with blood. She'd been half-frozen to the branch that had saved her, when the first rescue party had come. One of their number is seeing to her now, settling a blanket around her shoulders. Neither are from Riftwatch. They're wearing these thick coats common to the region. Only the woman looks cold, her face gone a pale gray.

Matthias is watching her. He has a shovel. That's what will save these people. But the spill of the snow is foreboding, all gray with the rocks that it tore down with it, and there's no sign of anyone, nothing to show where the people might be buried. I saw him there, the hunter is saying, to the villager, with this crack in her voice--and she points, dead ahead. I saw him there, he went under.

With his free hand, Matthias reaches around to touch the staff that's strapped to his back. He's wearing his heavier cloak over it, to hide it--could be anything, maybe a sword. The villagers are wary of healing magic; they'll be wary of anything he might do. But he's seeing it in his mind's eye already: a great bloom of fire that eats up the snow, melts it bit by bit, and frees those that are trapped inside of it. He wants to do it. It would be easy, to help.

He shakes his head, trying to loose that idea. Looks around him, for anyone familiar, for anyone of Riftwatch. Someone who might help him get out of this. Give him direction, tell him what to do.

Wildcard.
Like, what it says.

closed to lukas

[inkindled]

"It's gone this way."

Matthias jerks his chin to show the way he means: across the narrow stream, off into the dark line of the trees. He's crouched on the rocky bank with his staff laying on the ground beside him, ready to be picked up again. Which he does now, and hauls himself to his feet with it, as functional as a walking-stick as it is a way to direct his magic.

He knows what he's doing, and he knows what he's talking about. He's used to this weather. Spoiled by the Gallows, if anything. Out here, he knows how to dress for the cold: two cloaks over a thick coat, cotton shirt closest to the skin, socks on socks under heavy boots and gloves that round his hands to soft dollops. He's been tromping along behind Lukas for most of this mission, and back there, hidden from view, he'd peeled the gloves off once or twice, gotten himself a little handful of flame just to bring some warmth back to his fingers--first the left, and then the right, just long enough to feel the burn before he'd winked out the flames. Idiotic and pointless, but it had helped. It's always helped him.

Now it's the other end of the afternoon, and they're still out here. The sun sets quicker up in the mountains, like it tires quicker. Matthias spares a glance up toward the sky. Clouds are hanging low and fat. Might be snow in them. And they've still not had any real sighting of what they're hunting--not a real sight, only tracks and broken branches, and the stories from the villagers. Shambling. White. Thick leathery feet, hard like horn. Crisped with ice on its hair.

And now this sign: a great stonking footprint, sunk deep in the soft mud that lies between frosty rocks and running water. Matthias drops his gaze to it again, and gives it a study.

"Too small to be a giant, I reckon. But it did go this way. The branches are all broken back over there. See?"

yseult | ota

[hassaran]

I. OFFICE HOURS

[ The Division Heads seem to have some sort of rota going that sees at least one of them at a time posted up at the Vinnmark base to keep an eye on operations. For much of her turn there, the Scoutmaster may be found in the study/library that is being used as offices, either working at the Viscount's massive dark-wood desk or in am armchair in front of the hearth in the library, flipping through reports. When the crowd vying for space and air in the office grows too large, she sometimes cedes the desk in favor of repairing to a windowseat alcove on the second floor, paperwork propped on some tome or another on her knees.

She's generally present when meals are served in the great hall, and often works through them, lingering at the table as she drafts encoded messages, a bowl of oatmeal or plate of game cooling, forgotten, at her elbow. After dinner in the evening she'll sometimes repair to one of the great leather-wrapped chairs before the big hearth, working late by firelight with a glass of liquor or cup of mulled wine balanced on the arm. ]

II. HOT SPRINGS

[ Waiting until late at night to visit the hot spring pools outside the lodge might be taken as a sign of shyness, but it's the peace the draws Yseult here long after sundown. When the manorhouse is quiet, and the pools are empty, she can disappear in the billowing steam off the water with just a lantern and a bottle for company, basking until the night's brutal cold threatens to freeze the steam in her hair to icicles. ]

III. DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW

[ Most of Yseult's business up here is just supervisory. Her skills don't lend themselves to curing plagues or tracking beasts or closing rifts. But there are some errands that need running, contacts to visit, official missives to deliver to village officials, and the like, and so at times she is forced to leave the compound. Generally by sleigh, though she'll make someone else handle getting the goats corralled and harnessed, but occasionally by ice skiff sailing up and down the many small rivers that wind through the mountains.

The ancient gamekeeper, the only remaining resident of the lodge, gave a particularly ominous lecture on mountain safety when Riftwatch first took up residence, warning never to go off alone lest they get lost in the snow, or fall down a crevasse, or be attacked by a starving wolf, or any number of other grisly fates he claimed had befallen personal acquaintances over the years and could befall them at any moment if they didn't take care. So, whether or not an extra set of hands is really entirely necessary, someone gets tasked with accompanying her. Fun. ]

IV. SPYING ON THE GRINCH

[ The aim is to resolve the situation in Lerwick through diplomacy, but there's no harm in developing a Plan B. Gathering information about the young lord from his supposed subjects and surveilling his castle are tasks that can be delegated to others, but once enough information on defenses, guard rotations, and typical movements has been gathered, Yseult is on hand to scale the wall, sneak into the fortress and rifle through the young lord's things in search of some leverage. ]

office hours!

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty manages to largely avoid the department heads when everyone's back at the Gallows. Thranduil, she's perfectly happy to see, but the others she dodges with overwhelming success. Here, though, the facilities are fewer; the space doesn't allow her to isolate herself out in the Research space, the way she can back there.

And so, for a while, she's stuck (excruciatingly) in an office with Yseult. Thranduil is off elsewhere. Flint, mercifully, is not here; but Yseult by herself is painful enough. At one point, Kitty has to get up and approach her directly with a sheaf of papers, eyes averted, holding them out and saying - ]

Here.

bastien | open

[cozen]

i. the lodge

He’s here to work. They’re all here to work. But the lodge’s library shelves, few as they are, are largely occupied by the sort of frivolous books that a recreational hunting party and its guests might want to read after dinner. Romances, adventures. Many of them from the Blessed Age. Most of them by Marchers. Three-quarters, Bastien hasn’t even heard of.

So that’s why he’s on the floor in front of the lodge’s central fireplace, in the darkest and coldest early hours of the morning, alternating between lying on his back and his front whenever one or the other becomes uncomfortable. He’s been playing the one more page game for some time—right through one book, now discarded to his left, and into another from the short stack on his right.

He’ll have to be awake and ready to work in three, maybe four hours. But it’s either this or stealing books from the Viscount, getting arrested, and dying in a Marcher prison. So clearly he’s being reasonable.

ii. mountain climbing

Orlais is plenty cold in the winter. Maybe not windswept mountain peak cold, but cold enough. If Bastien were given to complaining at all, he wouldn’t usually complain about the weather.

That said: it’s cold. Midway up a mountainside only passable on foot—to visit Lord Bertrand, perhaps, or to track down a missing girl who went looking for her also-missing cat—when they’ve stopped to eat and drink something in a grove of scraggly trees that offer a little bit of protection from the wind, even his fairly intense ability to stifle involuntary movements isn’t enough anymore. The shivering starts and stops, spasming in his chest and up his neck. He hates it. And, on a strong suspicion, he pulls off one glove to touch his mouth and confirm his lip has cracked and started bleeding.

“This,” he informs his company, his tone mild and deliberative, his accent making it thees, and the sentence interrupted by another half-suppressed tremor, “is not pleasant.”

iii. wildcard

[bouchonne]

"Ugh," Byerly declares from behind Bastien.

He's been here for a few minutes at least. Watched his friend squirming for some comfortable spot with his nose buried in the book, like he's some scholar or something. And it's an utter and complete disappointment.

"Here we are, in this romantic mountain chateau, and I find you reading. You know there are wine stores we could be searching for, right?"

alistair | open

[byblow]

i. post-snowmonster, with potential for more

After enough daring sword-hacking and arrows and dodges, the giant falls, taking down a sapling on his way, and doesn’t get back up. The red already staining its fur spreads seeps into the snow. Alistair sheaths his sword.

He’s spent his entire adult life killing things that sort of look like people and things that sort of act like people, and now and then actual people, if they really insisted. And the giants here are being very insistent. This one started it, even, and Alistair isn’t convinced it didn’t crack some of his ribs.

So when he asks, while he returns his shield to his back, “Do you think he had kids?” it isn’t exactly mournful. More conversational.

ii. wildcard

sno monsters? sno problem!

[elegiaque]

Dismayed, and pausing in what had been the process of lowering her bow—inconveniently ice-themed in this winter-wonderland, its magic adding little edge and therefore obliging her (yes) to at every turn aim for the eyeballs—Gwenaëlle does not take that in a mournful direction.

“Do you think we can at least eat something before we have to kill them, too?”

petrana de cedoux | starters below

[ipseite]

( or wildcard me, or hmu keanuleaves to brainstorm. )

marcus. later, julius.

[ipseite]

( how much progress has been made with bertrand is debatable, and further debatable whether she is more worn out and aggrieved by the man himself or the bruises and scrapes acquired in struggling, badly, up his over-fortified and iced over hill. the latter had certainly worn her patience thin before ever arriving at the former, and though she had done her duty without appearing to do so between clenched teeth there had been more than a few moments in which she had wished, powerfully, for the days of sighing at a man's refusal to do something the easy way and stepping aside to allow the matter to be more forthrightly dealt with.

there is some comfort to be found in the thought that initial negotiations are, primarily, occupation for the lord whilst leverage to push him harder is acquired. this comfort would be colder than it is if not for the hot springs, the heat sufficiently soothing balm upon her bruises and aching muscles that the sting of water in her scraped skin is a lesser evil, though her hair remains tightly pinned around her crown because the mere thought of attempting to dry it here makes her tired and cold. )

I am still most sorry for my slip.

( the literal one, where she fell and took out marcus ushering her up and skidded the pair of them about six feet back down to mercifully collide with a set of sharpened stakes from the better, less-stabby angle. )

marcus rowntree. ota.

[luaithre]

ICE RIFT;

Sometimes, a fight is only as good as the chosen battlefield.

And this one is shite.

The cold, the close quarters of the low ceiling and claustrophobic walls of icy rock, the fact that the magic Marcus feels most comfortable reaching for would potentially bring the lake down on their heads, or poison them all with smoke and sulphur, or scorch skin with searing steam as fire or worse hits ice. Even his staff feels like an unwieldy and unfamiliar presence at his back, heavy and bladed and occasionally knocking against low hanging ceiling and stalactite.

He hasn't remarked on his relative uselessness, and gamely offered to scout ahead now and then, or lend a steady hand to help others over treacherous obstacles. At the very least, he can throw down Barrier spell after Barrier spell if need be, and keep torches alight with a wave of his hand.

Later, what he actually finds himself doing when the time comes, is levering his staff to strike its blade into the twisted form of a shrieking shade. Cold metal sinks into tortured demon flesh, and unnaturally long arms and claws swing for his face, and catch on ice and rock instead, scraping loud. He bears down, trying to shove the monster away from him with it skewered on the other end of his staff, but it only seems to sense his cornered position, and presses hard enough into the weapon for the tip of the blade to break flesh on the other side of its body, black ichor spattering.

Around them both, the shadows seem to thicken, encroaching in on lit areas in a dark, otherworldly haze that seems to lift off their struggling forms like scentless smoke.

"SNOWMONSTERS";

The snow itself has ceased, leaving a sky marbled in total cloud cover with the sunlight diffused enough that it seems as though its glow is coming from all directions. On the ground, snow packs several inches high, perfectly smooth and white where no one's yet moved, weighing heavy in the boughs of naked trees. Even for those who might be used to these kinds of sights, it's breathtaking.

It is nothing that Marcus grew up with, where rare snowfall turns to water in the streets almost instantly. It is a good thing, then, that he is not here to assist in tracking -- although blanketing white makes that task easy enough for an amateur (he thinks, anyway, but is not actually sure), his ability to navigate the woodlands is limited to obediently following along with those that know what they are doing. He is here to kill monsters, primarily, which is not a profession he had ever dreamed of having, of the few he had. He moves slowly but relentlessly through snow, cloaked in grey and fur, with the large, heavy weight of his mage staff harnessed to his back within easy reach, its bladed end pointed at the forest floor.

But keen eyed interest seems reserved for the beauty of the wintery woodlands just as much as dangerous shadows and shades between the trees. At one stage, his attention catches on where long spikes of ice bristle along the underside of a branch within reach, and he reaches out gloved fingers to snap one free to look at.

Discarded, after a few more paces of walking.

WILDCARD;

[ ooc ; the above prompts can be taken as slice of life conversational prompts, or action oriented, just pick your poison! for wildcards, feel free to assume marcus is playing muscle/escort, helping set up a camp, literally just sightseeing, or hanging out at the lodge. also, feel free to revert to action spam. ]

ice rift

[swordproof]

These monsters are more familiar to Six.

She knows how to deal with creatures far better than she can deal with people; she does not have to worry about their redemption in a land where Sarenrae cannot hear them; she does not have to fret for their future in a world where the afterlife may be entirely different. Creatures are creatures, monsters must be slain, and her greatsword is a comfortable weight in her hands as she cuts through the shades, dragging the metal edge down as she summons flames to cover it, sure and powerful.

It has been some time since she truly fought; she is in her armour, her hair is tied back away from her face and she is filled with the knowledge that she is doing good.

Moving forward, her eyes land on Marcus and the shade his staff has made a home in and she moves over, quick on her feet despite the awkwardness of her heavy Paladin armour and the sheer mass of her greatsword. It does not take much for her to bring it down, to try and cleave the shade in half and twist, turning her body to try and protect him from the blackness gathering around them.

"Are you well?"

tony stark. ota.

[propulsion]

SNOW FUN, FUN IN THE SNOW, WITH SNOW ACTIVITIES;

There is a man outside the lodge. A shortish man, with a goatee, wearing a fur-lined jerkin, tall boots, and quilted clothing. He is trudging in place, half-bent, gloves thick with snow as he assembles a companion in the bright noon light.

And it's taken him more time than he anticipated. By the time Tony had finished forming the body, a boulder of snow that has collected up a whole host of dirt and forest debris, what had seemed like fluffy white stuff is more like slabs of cement. By the time Tony had hefted the head up onto it and packed in the ice with now numb hands to keep it stable, his ambitions for creating David Snow-ie had evaporated.

Nothing wrong with a traditional Jack Frost kind of outcome. Right?

Two pebbles and three sticks later for a janky nose and even jankier arms, he takes a step back from his snowman; it is vaguely malformed but decently sized, dirt cemented into packed ice, less articulately sculpted than he'd imagined. It has no mouth, and it must scream. Without really bothering to look around about whether he has company, Tony stiffly adopts a stance that the locals might interpret as a 'fighting? stance?', and then neatly brings the spade of his hand down atop the snowman's head in a clean geometric sweep.

Pressing his hands together, Tony gives a brief bow, and says, "Arigato gozaimashita," before straightening, and letting his arms fall slack at the sides. "Well that was fun," he says, convincing no one, and moving to leave with some purpose.

DON'T TAKE FROM MY PILE;

Thwak.

The wedge maul gets lodged fast in the wood, terminated momentum causing Tony to stagger a little sideways as it rocks on the tree stump. "Goddamnit," is muttered, and so begins the inevitable and slightly chaotic process of bracing his boot against the wood while balanced in snow, tugging at the maul and mostly trusting in karmic pity to not go ass over teakettle.

He doesn't. It's a near thing.

Once the only half-split hunk of wood is set back in place, Tony glances around with minimal surreptitiousness, moves back several paces, and tugs off the glove on one hand. Under the waning light, the green glow emanating from the centre of his palm is more readily visible, and more so as he extends his arm straight, spreads his fingers, and--

Well, 'fires' is a good enough word. A gust of green Fade energy strikes the chunk of wooden, exploding immediately into splinters and kindling.

WILDCARD;

[ ooc ; come give tony an actual job to do, or drink mulled wine by the fire, or participate in a grimly executed Fun Snow Activity of any kind that may or may not turn competitive, or whatever else your dark heart desires. he's mostly here for a vacation. as usual, feel free to switch to action spam. ]

snow activities.

[obdurata]

“Was it?”

Joselyn doesn't sound entirely convinced, mainly because he wasn't particularly convincing about it. From the short distance at which she was standing, the tail end of this sequence of events was sort of bafflingly impenetrable—sort of like play as she imagines that a tranquil might perform play if asked to dredge it up out of their memories. Which is a thought that feels sort of uncomfortable immediately after she's had it, although she's not sure whether her unease is on his behalf or that of the tranquil.

There are less of them to be uneasy on behalf of, since the war.

Great, she thinks, of that unnecessary foray into bleakness. Now no one's having any fun.

“What are you doing now?”

Jenny Lou | OTA

[windyvoice]

i. inna one horse open horse

She's never seen this much snow. Like she's seen snow, but never like... snow. It's less cold than she thought it would be, which like isn't much, but it's something. Trying to walk through deep, unbroken snow when you're a shrimp sucks though. Like a lot. She finally gives up and stops entierly, depositing her pack onto the snow.

"Hey," she calls to whoever's nearest, "I'm gonna change real fast, can you throw this on my back when I'm done? I'll totally give you a ride."

ii. Ice Rift Baby

She's here to help. Mostly in a "Close the rift" capacity and less of a "fight the demons" capacity. Which like... being a liability really fucking sucks, but she's clumsy with the dagger somebody's given her and the wind in this world is... Kinda weird. But whatever, bad odds are ones she can roll with.

The wind needs a little extra direction here and Jenny Lou is doing her best Jackie Chan impression, sending blades of wind slashing through wisps while people way better at fighting than her take care of the icy boys. It's scary as hell and draining. And then she slips and suddenly there's a fucking despair demon darting right towards her.

"Fuck!" Her hands fly up, palms out as if to ward it off. A blast of wind roars through the cave, slamming the demon against the opposite wall of the cave. Holy shit- She scrambles to her feet, hurling a wind blade at the creature in a desperate attempt to cut it in half. It only slams it against the wall again. Jenny Lou's knees give out, all her strength leaving her.

iii. GOODBYE MOTHER I'M GOING TO LIVE WITH THE GOATS

She can't really shift long enough to be any kind of effective at pulling a sleigh, but she can help herd the goats. Except she's maybe cycling in and out of Gringolet's form too much, because like... Chilling with big ass goats is so soothing. Like. So soothing. Like this is where she belongs, knocking snow off bushes to browse and keeping an eye out for pesky predators...

The spell ends and Jenny Lou lies flat on her back in the snow. Among the goats, who at least have gotten acclimated to humans, thanks to their big horse friend constantly turning into one. "I've decided this is where I belong," she announces to no one in particular, "I live with the goats."

WILDCARD

derrica | ota.

[tender]

( chores )

Maybe there's a chore rota somewhere, with little tabs for each member of Riftwatch to be spun and send them off to do this and that. But when Derrica had gotten up this morning, she'd found the stack of firewood low and the threat of being completely without firewood propelled her outside in someone else's thick jacket to take up an ax herself and deal with the situation.

She hates the cold. Derrica had understood the inklings of just how much she disliked it back in Kirkwall, but being fully exposed to the frigid temperatures here has cemented her distaste. The exertion of chopping keeps the sharp bite of winter at bay, and she finds some satisfaction in the slow-rising stack of wood.

Of course, she'll have to tote all that back to the woodpile, and then carry another armful into the lodge itself, but that's an issue to consider after she's finished halving logs here.

She spins to sling the freshly split log towards the pile she's made, and only just barely manages to hold onto it upon realizing an actual person has crossed between her and her haphazard log pile.

"Careful," is the first, breathless greeting. "I didn't think anyone would be out here this early."

Though that's a bit foolish in hindsight. People are coming and going through the Gallows so often that Derrica shouldn't be surprised by people keeping odd hours.

"Do you have a moment to help me carry some of this in?"

( hot springs )

If it's possible to monopolize the hot springs, that's what Derrica is doing. At the end of every single day, her many layers are left in a little rumpled pile before she claims her spot in one of the pools. On any given evening, she can be found sunk into the water, luxuriating in the warmth with her eyes closed. Come on in, the water's fine.

( missing children )

They'd initially been sent to this tiny village to thatch roofs, root out unnaturally aggressive wildlife, and minister to whoever had come down with the grippe. That was the mission. But by the time they'd arrived, there was a bigger problem to address.

The story goes: three children had gone out to gather firewood and check traps, and now no one could find them. Furnished with a description and some extra supplies, Riftwatch had been dispatched to track the children down. Derrica's glad to have at least a very general description of where the traps the kids meant to be checking were, and to have an extra scarf to wind around her head, pull up around her ears.

"There's some broken branches here," Derrica points out. Snow crunches underfoot as she steps carefully closer, crouches to get a better look.

"And here...thread."

Her tracking experience is extremely rudimentary, and made up almost solely of what she's learned since joining Riftwatch. But whoever had gone tromping through this clearing hadn't been trying to be subtle. It's not hard to read the signs.

"Did you find anything?"

( wildcard )

[ do whatever, feel free to assume derrica volunteered/tagged along on any menial trip. bonuses given to anyone giving me trapped in an icy cave/body heat meme tier starters. ]

leander.

[tender]

It becomes a daily pilgrimage, healers skating up the river with a pack full of supplies. It only makes sense to send people in pairs, but Derrica still isn't exactly sure why it was Leander waiting for her at the edge of the river. It's been a quiet, awkward journey so far.

Derrica isn't steady on her skates. She's cold and the memory of their argument is burning in her chest. Hurt and embarrassment wash over her in waves, and she keeps indecisively considering things to say and then taking them back. Can they feasibly make it all the way to the village in silence? What will they do when they get there? Trade curt observations over the heads of their patients?

The back of Leander's head tells her nothing. He's pulled ahead of her easily. It wouldn't feel personal any other day but today. Leander's taller, his legs are longer, and it doesn't take much for him to move faster. But still, it stings a little.

That's what she's thinking, wobbling slightly as she strays towards the middle of the lake. The ice gives beneath her so suddenly that she barely has time to shout before she's plunged into the icy water.

ellis | ota.

[heorte]

( avalanche )

As it turns out, chasing your quarry into a cave doesn't pan out in this weather. Or any weather, Ellis would protest, but now isn't the time to argue about what should be done about chasing something deer-shaped towards an inevitable conclusion.

"No one's hurt," Ellis begins, after a few moments of increasingly agitated questioning. "At least, not that I can tell."

Shouting back and forth from the depths of a cave behind a wall of snow and rock isn't very conducive to passing information. Ellis claps his gloved hands hands together unthinkingly, trying to shock some warmth into them.

"I'm not sure how easily we can shift the blockage, but we can't leave them in there. Not in these temperatures."

This is a prelude to Ellis saying: We better start digging. Trying to ease people into the idea that they're going to have to shift a ridiculous amount of rock and snow might be futile, but it seems like he might as well try.

( hot springs )

Ellis can be found in the hot springs either absurdly early or absurdly late. The idea is to have some privacy, but Ellis recognizes that they're here for an extended period of time. It's unrealistic to expect to have the hot springs to himself every time he needs to bathe.

Still, an attempt is made. He has a little stack of towels on hand, a bar of soap and the hopes of peace and quiet.

Cannonball in on him while he's trying to wash his hair if you wish.

( bad roads )

No one had really expected this delivery of supplies to go smoothly. At least this time the crates and sacks had stayed lashed to the sled, but unlike last time, the road is blocked off by several newly fallen trees. Ellis sighs heavily, surveying the mess.

"Help me drag the smaller ones to the side. We might have to come back to chop the bigger tree apart before it can be moved," he instructs.

It was supposed to take them an hour to bring these supplies back to the lodge. Ellis was meant to join another group to hunt those strange snow creatures. Now that's looking less and less possible.

What also isn't helpful is that the second he tries to shift one of the trees a cluster of shrieking, weirdly aggressive birds fly out from the disturbed branches. Everyone take cover.

( wildcards )

[ literally do whatever, i'm up for it. feel free to assume ellis is available for all your tank needs. he's here to lift and carry and fend off bears. bonus points to anyone who gives me body heat meme fodder. ]

[hat sprang]

[nonvenomous]

In the coldest, darkest grip of night, a pale, lean shade of a man slips quietly into the water at its furthest edge. Steam still folding into fill the swath he cut through it upon entry, Dick Dickerson sinks in up to his ears and glances flat across the surface to Ellis.

Just ‘Ellis,’ who may remember Richard as someone who took one look at the aftermath of an avalanche, remarked (very reasonably) that the people shouting on the other side of it were already dead, and returned to what he was doing before the call for help came in.

Now he is here, like a rattlesnake crawled up into the warmth of an engine block. Barely visible.

Bathing accouterments mottle the rock slab behind him, near the spot he slithered in.

thranduil - ota

[rowancrowned]

i. closed for gwen .

( he’s lived a few thousand years—or not, depending on who you asked, but either accounting did not include the muscle memory of ice skating. That required muscles completely different than, say, riding or climbing or swimming or sword-fighting, which were the limits of thranduil’s physical activity for nearly four years, and his body counted his inexperience against him, holding him to every pound of supplies.

without the hot springs, he might well have laid down in a snowdrift. Thanks to them—similar enough to skyhold’s that he compared them favorably—he took his aches and pains over, rinsed with snowmelt, stripped, and slipped into the pools.
Head tipped back against the rim of the pool, hair over his shoulder, he rested with eyes closed until he heard footsteps. )

Where have you been all day?

ii. chopping firewood.

( the suites set aside for the division heads had fireplaces, and it was only right that thranduil contributed. The rhythm of splitting wood and the physical strain itself was peaceful, and warming—already, his cloak was draped over the branch of a nearby tree, and his scarf.

the pile of split pieces lay a few feet away, on a square of waxed canvas. he brought the axe down and the log split. one half, he left on the ground. the other, he placed on the stand, preparing to split it again. )

iii. wildcard .

( plurk or PM or go for it! )

hot springs.

[elegiaque]

( how he always knows it's her she isn't entirely sure, but it's a warm and pleasing thing all the same and she slides down into the water next to him and not in his lap as a courtesy acknowledgment that this is a semi-public area where they're guaranteed no privacy. )

Chasing goats and snow monsters, ( she informs him, beginning the process of unlacing her braids. ) Everything here loves the ice, I should have brought Iorveth's bow instead.

for flint. post-monster.

[elegiaque]

( probably, flint's going to have a heel-shaped bruise on his thigh where gwenaëlle had (politely, she will say, because she yelled thank you! as she vaulted off him) used him to launch herself up into a tree. possibly, this will have some weight to how he feels about hearing, )

I don't think I can get down from here, ( thoughtfully from somewhere above him in that tree from which she'd been firing off arrows from iorveth's bow, secured in the most recent supply run because it pays to be able to make eyes at your authority-figure husband to have fetched your preferred weaponry.

the leaves rustle, and then her little face: )

How good are you at catching things?

[katabasis]

[Between the point of his belt knife and levering the arrow shaft back and forth, the crossbow bolt finally comes free from the monster's midsection with an unpleasant squelch. The jerk of transferred force has him stumbling backward, nearly sliding in the ankle deep snow turned slush from the heat of spilled blood and the trample of boots and foot falls and the whole narrowly avoiding being pummelled to death by a yeti thing. It's by some miracle that he's still just winded instead of winded and splayed in the snow when Gwenaëlle reappears.]

Catching— [What.] What?

[Flint shoves the bloodied bolt back into the quiver at his belt alongside the hand crossbow, and then turns to squint up at her, red faced in the cold.]

What?

[Eloquence. Grace.]