Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faderifting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2020-01-19 06:04 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2020-01-19 06:04 pm
Entry tags:
- ! mod plot,
- bastien,
- derrica,
- ellis,
- gwenaëlle baudin,
- james flint,
- julius,
- kostos averesch,
- marcus rowntree,
- matthias,
- petrana de cedoux,
- val de foncé,
- wysteria de foncé,
- yseult,
- { athessa },
- { ilias fabria },
- { joselyn smythe },
- { leander },
- { lukas },
- { marcoulf de ricart },
- { octavian sokolov },
- { sister sara sawbones },
- { tony stark },
- { yngvi }
MOD EVENT: WINTERMARCH WINTER MARCH
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
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.
no subject
Nods back. He gets to his feet, taking the unmoving stance of a caster who has the upper ground.
The initial flip of his staff into both of his hands is the last of practiced flourishing. Where casting is normally a graceful act in which the weapon itself passes through nothing at all, twisting aside a Veil that has no real life substance, there is an unusual sort of effort in the way Marcus brings his staff around, as if manipulating a greatsword. He drags the bladed end through the air as if meeting resistance, a green glimmer of light glancing off deep grey metal, runic symbols engraved into darker wood flaring a volcanic red.
Fire erupts from the crevice he'd already formed, and more than that, a billowing flag of ashy smoke mingled within the steam of immediately vaporised snow, a glow of molten rock beneath. It is heat without force that envelops the slack body of the creature, fur curling black, muscles made unmoving from knotted tension now still with slackness.
Not a painless end, but a quick one.
The fires die out on their own, and that initial rush of ash and smoke has ceased save for what licks of flame continue to produce where they crawl across the corpse of the beast. Marcus rests the blunt end of his staff in the snow to lean against it, catching his breath, evaluating his own work impassively.
Then, either completely devoid of irony, or of a deadpan nature, he projects across the way; "Well spotted."
no subject
Warmth on his face from the huge carcass scorched and smouldering between them, sulphur and smoke, the discordantly appetizing scent of burning meat. Two mages, finding their lungs, each one leaning on his staff. Mutual observation. A job well done.
Leander, pale and flushed, affects a dryly thespian bow of thanks in return, drags his staff loose of the snow and trudges back along the patchy footpath he'd made, picking his way with strides almost comically high now that there's no need to plough their way through the scenery. Bunny prints: a permanent association from days long past. He reaches more hospitable ground, stomps the powder from his boots.
"Never seen that one before. The fissure." Dragging the back of his wrist high across his forehead, shedding words in fatigue, "Starkhaven's spellwork, or yours?"
no subject
His eyes are still on the corpse, but the caution and assessment is gone. Replaced with another kind of calculation: how hot will his fires need to burn to turn this thing into ash and bone, to stop the gathering of any scavenging predators? It could also be enough to notify the people of Craigfield, have them send out people with the muscle enough and stomach enough to do a little butchery.
"Mine," he says, tuning back in. A glance, considering, before he adds, "Inelegant, I've been told," with that same strain of barely detectable humour. The smell of burning meat thick in the air. We have fun here.
no subject
There are certain things one should keep to oneself in front of relative strangers—but they've just killed a thing together. Like a throatful of wine, enough to raise the colour to his cheeks. And there are certain things, too, an artist may be excused for saying—
"Someone who'd look on this," gesturing with his staff to a spray of blood on the snow, stunning in contrast, chaos's perfect brush stroke, "and see only death."
no subject
Then, Marcus brings his staff around to set the blunt of it down against the earth -- with a slight push to ensure it connects, so, through the snow -- and steels himself with a breath. No tremor this time, but there is a dull sound that emanates up from the earth beneath their feet all the same, and light once again begins to glow from the fissure he'd carved into the earth. Fire leaps from deep within it, smoke climbs, thick with ash and whorling particles.
The heat is strange to experience in the winter wonderland. It hits them as a gust. If they were standing much closer, it would likely be painful. The effect itself is something of a devouring. Fire that runs as hot as it can thanks to the magic that produces it makes quicker work of the beast they'd slain as it sinks deeper into the earth, disappearing from sight. If the mud and snow don't bury it, the villagers will have only bones to discard.
Marcus's shoulders relax, the only outward indication of withdrawing his connection from the Fade.
"Tutors," he supplies, even though Leander had answered his own question, could likely have guessed at that one. "Ones who cautioned against magic formed too closely of feeling."
no subject
"Wise advice," he grants. His eyes are bright with flame. "For children, and those others unable to manage themselves."
The corpse sinks, sizzles, drifts upward in delicate carbon filaments—and Leander's attention follows this antithesis of snowfall, drifting up, and up, drawn into the branches above. Something like wonder plays in subtlety at the shape of his mouth, the skin around his eyes. His hair moves with the entwining currents of warm and cool air. His breath follows them as mist.
"And those who'd give such advice are only afraid."
no subject
But, you know. What fun. He looks to Leander who is looking to the affects produced by the spell. After a moment, he finds himself following that gaze.
"They were taught to be," does not necessarily sound like an excuse for this collective, so much as an observation, long pondered. The lilt of his accent makes it gentler than it is. "And so they taught us to be. It will be different, now."
no subject
Suffused in the serenity of their surroundings, Leander's question comes out more hopeful than its origin. Plain curiosity, maybe a little doubt. He's not looking for reassurance, nor for guidance, but perhaps it won't hurt to seem that way. From what he's witnessed thus far, Marcus seems the type.
His attention falls again to the other mage, and settles there, soft as snow.
no subject
He sounds certain, but even in that one single syllable, there lies a complexity as he parts with that truth. If he has read intent into Leander's query, he doesn't give much away, watching the fallout of his handiwork, one hand balanced on staff, the other arm crossed over himself against the chill.
"We fought a war," he says, sensing, at least, that there is room for elaboration. "And there are children growing into men and women who've lived only that, who've known only what it's like to fight for the things you've a right to. And men and women who are living lives made fuller than anything the Circles could have given them. And many of them intend to keep it."
He glances to Leander, then. "Maybe the world won't be different, but we are, now. We've been altered. Irreparably."
no subject
"All changes are irreparable." He's thought this before, learned it long ago: nothing done can be undone. "I've often wondered how our own war might've looked of its own, had this bigger one not come along to eclipse it."
no subject
He looks again to Leander, a longer and more considered look, this time questing after memory. Did he see him, at Andoral's Reach? Moving in a herd for Redcliffe? Or perhaps he existed among the smaller camps, fighting at the fringes, half-starved and desperate, or perhaps none at all. He doesn't know, he decides, and while he's sure he doesn't know this man's face, he doesn't discount the possibility he simply missed it in the chaos.
"The Grand Enchanter saved our numbers from many more deaths," he says. Evenly, neutral. "We were losing. Thousands of men and women with the power we have and we were losing, because we fought battle-tested soldiers clothed in iron, and they'd raised us to be humble school children." Or tried their best, anyway. "But, we'd not lost. Not yet."
The small chance at victory is well worth the effort, in his humble opinion.
no subject
A knot worth untying, should one possess both patience and nimble fingers.
"Were were you?" In the war.