faderift | MOD EVENT: WINTERMARCH WINTER MARCH

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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

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.

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“Yes,” says Richard, “thank you.”

He does not remove his glove. Dick Dickerson is impatient and thin and vulnerable to the cold beneath the hump of a pelt cowled thick around the shoulders of his cloak, shaggy fur streaked with ichor. It’s on his face and hat also, spattered wool pulled down over his ears.

But it’s his brass goggles that really bring it all together, centering his aesthetic somewhere squarely in the mix of scholar, mountain man and Cruella Deville.

“They’re still alive,” he answers for them, as if it might have been a matter of some debate further back up the path.

The greenish glow underlights the Rifter's faces--one normal, one freakishly and surprisingly bug-eyed. Matthias backpedals a half step back and raises a defensive hand before he makes sense of what he's seeing. Eyewear, not eyes.

Right.

He tries to turn that gesture into a brush at the front of his tunic and leather armor, like it was terribly important that he clean some dust off of himself before they enter into a fight. Then he straightens up and tries to look like he knows what he's doing, without staring at the black goggle depths.

"We're alive," he confirms, gruffly, "yeah. And we're fine. The rift is ahead of us, close--or that's what we reckon, at least. We didn't go too much further before putting out the call, 'cause it wouldn't have made sense to."

Just as little sense as, say, heading into the underground caves without a Rifter in the first place. But who's counting, or thinking about unfiled forms any longer.

Athessa stops Matty from backpedaling any further than a half-step with a hand on his back, rolling her eyes at his reaction and laughing softly.

"Probably just some clerical oversight that they sent us alone, right? Speaking of--" She nods at Richard. "You ever find the source of that stink in the group quarters? I have a bet going with Marcoulf about the culprit." She doesn't, but it doesn't really matter either way. As she asks, she turns and waves them on, leading the cadre further into the dark.

Their estimation of how close they are to the rift seems pretty accurate, judging by how at the next bend in the tunnel, Athessa peers around the curved stone and spies a pair of hunch-backed shades drifting in a low fog.

"I got left," she whispers, not waiting for whichever of the others decides to tackle the right shade--if they call dibs at all, she can handle two shades if the boys are too slow. For now, she rushes the left one, deftly decapitating it with her daggers, only to be taken by surprise when a third shade appears unfairly out of the wall and takes a swipe at her.

Before it can wind up all the way to bring claws down on Athessa, there's a flash of emerald-green fire blazing down the length of a sword, which swiftly finds purchase in the twisted form of the shade, terminating momentum.

Loxley, having chosen to pursue and assist the lady and leave the one on the right to whatever fates Matthias and Richard can concoct between them, drags his rapier out from the shrieking monster as strange flames of green flare and dancing across draping fabric, ropey and rotted muscle. Fanged teeth gleam in the dark as Loxley brings his sword around again in a fiery slash, ichor spattering on icy walls.

The nice thing about the glassy black gleam of the goggles is that Matthias won’t be able to see the contempt lined tight around his eyes behind them -- after he’s tensed and drawn back half a step himself from that raised hand. Not that going all cwispy in the bottom of a frozen cave system at the hand of two children wouldn’t be a fitting exit from this universe. And did he ever find the source of that mysterious stink?

“You’re exhausting,” he tells Athessa, four steps into following and already too prickled to play along.

He does, at least, say it quietly.

This turns out to be important, because there are shades.

Athessa springs into action. Loxley springs into action. Blades flash, ichor sprays. It’s all very elegant and heroic. There is a third shade -- the right shade -- that remains unengaged. Richard looks over at Matthias, goggles nose and beard.

Matthias can see himself reflected in the black of the goggles, weirdly and greenishly lit. The third shade is a hulking mass in his periphery, but there is something unnerving and compelling about the goggles. Or maybe that's his imagination.

Rifters are weird.

He tears his gaze free so he can get his mark and do his bit. The shade has, by some miracle, not noticed them just yet, too compelled by the real fight. Good. Matthias hefts his staff, flips it about so he's holding it like a quarterstaff, gripped right in the middle, and jabs its end toward that shade.

There's a whmp like the air has turned inside-out. Heat shimmers, invisible, and then arcs, and the shade roars as the fireball blasts into its side. The smell is bad, and the damage is good, if not amazing. The light, at least, is comforting, a bright orange bloom. Matthias grins, and practically skips backward, getting out of range.

"All yours!" he calls to Richard. Not that he's bowing out, but the rules of tag-team clearly state: it's not his turn.

Oh, they look so cool. Bordered by flame of two different hues--well, to Athessa's eyes, the same color but nobody here needs to know she's color-blind to appreciate that the dodge that would have failed to get her out of reach blends seamlessly with a twist and flashes of metal as she shifts focus from one shade to the next. Loxley has the one that came at her, and Matthias' blast of fire gives her enough time and space to ready her attack as it knocks the shade back.

Athessa strikes, parrying the demon's flailing limbs and then thrusting both daggers up through the shade's deformed neck. She doesn't pull the blades out, but rather arcs them left and right, spilling more ichor and sending the foul beast's head rolling.

Flump.

The third body hits the floor not long after Athessa sends a head rolling, green flame sputtering and dying out where Loxley almost absent mindedly waves it and demon gore off of his rapier. In the half-gloom, he shows his teeth in a grimace, rolling a shoulder where the shade had struck him.

No blood, or even torn fabric. Just a steady collection of bruising. Grimace is quick to turn sharp, satisfied, as he casts a look to where the other dead shades are beginning to break down into slowly melting pools of bubbling, steaming substance.

"Nicely done," and to Richard, inclusively, wryly, "all."

Edited 2020-02-14 11:20 (UTC)

Twinned fireballs flash across the glass of Dick’s goggles, and are quickly countered by an arc of green flame. He supervises magnificently, confident enough in their combined prowess to keep his hands at his sides in spite of Matthias’ invitation.

“Do they ever speak?”

He asks the cavern at large, once the last head Athessa turned loose has rocked to a sizzling halt and begun to melt. Just curious.

At Loxley’s inclusion, he turns just enough to slant a brow in a semi-private invitation for comments and/or concerns. Also wry. The goggles make it especially difficult to interpret the intent behind a barely-there mutter under his breath in the beat before he steps away to continue along the path, but the ebb of pain from that fresh contusion is unmistakably arcane.

Who is this useless fuck, is now the way Matthias is looking at Serah Goggles. The look began when Richard didn't immediately take up his end of the fight, and it shows no sign of flagging or failing. As he follows back onto the path, Matthias takes particular and pointed care to track through the sizzling remains of one of the demons. Maybe not the wisest course of action, but he manages to survive it. The drag of his heel smears the goo partway across the cave floor. Just because.

"If they do speak, you'd best not listen." The crackle of the fire dies away without attention or magic to feed it. And they turn the next corner anyways, and the turn tucks them away in this new part of the cave, taking them out of sight of the site. "That advice'd go for anyone, but empty useless vessels are first what get possessed."

So.

"A useless vessel," Athessa chimes in, either ignoring or unaware of Richard's non-involvement. "Would be useless to possess, too, Matty. There'd be no point."

As they press on, the elf sheathes her daggers and falls in stride beside Loxley. Or, at least, as best she can with him being just about a full foot taller than herself. She looks at him sidelong, which might have been a subtle action in daylight but in the darkness, with her eyes reflecting like a cat's at night, it's painfully obvious.

So why not lean into it? She smiles, teasingly. "How's your shoulder? Gonna survive?"

The pressure of injury lessens in the wake of Richard's barely audible utterance, and Loxley rolls that shoulder in appreciation. He only doesn't issue a 'thanks' out loud for the sake of just in case Richard would rather not call attention to his talents.

He's obviously feeling a little sensitive right now.

Which is fine. Loxley, instead, pivots his attention to the woman who's sidled up to him, apparently likewise ignoring or unaware of the fun banter happening between the magic boys. "Will you tell my story if I don't?"

“Personally I would prioritize possession of a weak-willed sub-adult with fire hands,” Richard contributes to the conversation, helpfully. He pushes his goggles up onto his brow -- the better to meet Matthias’ scrutiny head on in the gloom. Further seeking his input on the matter.

They’re walking. Loxley is distracted.

Well ahead, a ripple of sickly green light diffracts through water and ice to wash thin over the cave floor. A scream echoes around the bend, singing in rounds with itself down the shaft towards them and then past, in doppler-shifting stereo.

Richard stops, momentum dropped like an anchor at the back of the line.

“What’s the plan?” he wants to know, suddenly. “Is there one?”

Personally I would fuck off if I were you is the meaning of the look Matthias gives back. It helps to disguise the prickle of hurt he feels at Athessa having corrected him in front of these strangers. It doesn't seem worth it to argue the point with her, and risk debate, or another correction, or maybe one of the Rifters joining in.

And anyways, here's the rift.

"Why wouldn't we make a plan?" Just because they didn't come down here with Rifters to close the rift? So what. "I say we go quiet so we surprise them. But before that we ought to see what type we're up against, if anyone is good at sneaking about and wants to go forward and get a look. I could do it, but it's not a specialty of mine or anything, so."

As is the way of turn-based timing, Athessa doesn't get a chance to answer Loxley's question with anything more than a cheeky smile before her expertise is called upon.

"Too bad we don't have anyone like that, eh Matty?" She nudges him playfully on her way past him, then gestures for everyone to stay while she scouts out their opposition. As if that's even necessary.

The area before the bend is darkest and Athessa briefly disappears into it before her silhouette reemerges just this side of the bend, backlit by the sickly green glow of the rift. There, she stays, pressed against the wall of the cave and silently working one of her daggers out of its sheath. A quick swipe against her trousers and any smudges are cleared away, letting her use the flat blade like a mirror and see around the corner.

When she turns back to look at her companions, she shrugs and holds up one finger. I only see one. Weird.

Well then.

Loxley leans his arm against some cave rock as he watches Athessa disappear ahead, content to play 'guy with a sword' for this particular expedition. Even as he notes her tactics, form, with the specific kind of interest of a person so used to doing exactly what she is doing now.

Which is why, when she reports back that there's merely one, he says to Richard in quiet aside--

"Would you care to verify?"

“I don’t know,” says Richard. “Why wouldn’t you?” Matthias is asking the hard questions.

At Loxley’s aside, only Richard’s eyes move. He looks first, inevitably, to Loxley, pupils blown out wide in the semi-dark, carefully weighing their friendship and what it means to him. Then he looks over to Athessa, and her 🤷.

He sighs, breath furled out in an impatient fog, chin turned down.

Fine.

Outward appearances aside, without any kind of pink panther slink or pressing of back to wall, he is remarkably (suspiciously) quiet. He’s nearly to Athessa when he plants a boot down on a slick patch, and starts to slip. Starts to, because he catches his balance upright with a feline seize of muscle through his middle, one arm out, teeth grit. A pair of loose pebbles skirt across the ice like dice where he dug his heel in, clickety clack. He breathes out. Slowly.

Ten feet of glowing demon erupts from the ground at his feet and plows him (and itself) into the cavern wall, rocking cracks deep into the ice. It shrieks as it holds him there, all glowing, twisted sinew and horn, blind to Athessa at its turned back.

Dick’s cuss is indecipherable to all in attendance, hissed bloody through his teeth in a language nobody else in Thedas speaks.

To his credit, he manages to produce a dagger from somewhere, and rams it up fist-deep through the thing’s ribs.

The demon springs from the ground like a whipping top at the moment of release, unfurls and screams--anger, first, and then pain as Richard stabs into it, and Matthias--

He's not thinking anymore, and he's not sulking about being the less-than-sneaky one, or gloating over anyone falling. He's not anything except the way he snaps his staff around, instinct and hard-won muscle memory. Hands gripped together first, then flat and open with the staff slapped between them. Fire leaps to his call, wreathes down his arms and hands and focuses down furious into a fireball, which then--thrust of hands and staff--blasts out across the distance.

The fireball hit the demon with a whop and bursts like a rotten pumpkin, spattering flames all down the demon's front. The thing shrieks again, more pain, flailing blindly. To make it worse: friendly fire is possible, and fire is neither discerning nor friendly--so if nothing else, Richard (too close to avoid) will definitely get his eyebrows singed. Athessa might as well; Loxley is probably casually stunningly safe.

Nothing personal to anyone.

She manages to escape the flames purely by virtue of being on the other side of the demon, but it's still close enough to be a close call.

"Watch it!" Her shout is embarrassingly squeaky, more of a yelp, really, but it doesn't stop her leaping onto its back, sinking both daggers into the meat of the abomination's sinewy shoulders. Its thrashing gives her enough momentum to swing one way, then the other, then direct herself back down towards the floor of the tunnel, pulling the demon with her in an uncomfortable-looking back-bend.

And, as it crashes to the ground with its head at Athessa's feet, Dick is officially out of its grasp.

Loxley is only slightly slower than the fireball that Matthias shoots from hands and staff, skidding to a halt on gritty ice in time to see the roll of a demon's head. He looks to Richard, and the funneled steam of his exhale is sharp, connoting a measure of relief.

Short lived. A demonic growl emanates a little further into the cavern, and then another, joining the one that Athessa had already spied that pivots to them now.

"Ah," he says.

And then dives in, green flaming flickering along the length of his rapier.

Richard’s swearing stalls into a monotone bellow of protest against the gout of flame that scalds his retinas and scorches the flank of his face. He rips his dagger free and spikes it in once more, blind. The demon howls; Athessa bows it back. Its talons spasm and unlock.

DIck slides loose to land on his ass in a leggy heap, oily with hot ichor and stinking of burnt hair. Bits of ember still chew orange through the ruff of his cloak, but he never stops moving.

One eye forced open, the other still screwed shut, he spits out blood, pins an elbow back and plants his hand, already pivoting to follow after Loxley. Somewhere in this, he tips off the world’s weariest nod of thanks -- to Matthias or to Athessa or to his god or to this entire plane for sucking so hard -- and reaches long to twist his dagger out of the downed demon.

He will need it where they are going.

"Bloody fuck," Matthias grumbles, and scrambles forward without offering any nods back at Richard.This time he does his best to avoid treading through the mess of demon remains, lest he, too, slip and fall on his arse. Certainly he's no coward, but who likes facing demons on demons way down in an underground tunnel?

Then again, this is what Riftwatch is about, isn't it. And it's better than scratching away at reports in an office somewhere, so, get it together, Matthias.

The tunnel funnels them out into the next open cavern, which is maybe the size of the stables back at the Gallows--but with a soaring ceiling, and without all the horses and stalls and hay and shit and things that make up an actual stable. Craggy wet rocks, white shapes that look like bones--animal, probably, if there's human remains among them, it's too dark for Matthias to tell, even with the green glow off Loxley's blade. And here's the demons that are doing the growling: one slumped and glowing orange, one hulking, spiney, plated almost as if it is wearing armor. Its growl almost sounds like a laugh, a greeting that Matthias pulls a face at.

He pulls up short just inside the cave, takes quick stock--could do a glyph if he can dodge in close, seal off the fire mine so none of the others will trigger it--and there's that peculiar greenish glow just ahead, around another bend, and that's got to be the rift, waiting to be sealed. He can hear it crackling away, even over the guttural growl of the smaller demon as it approaches, gliding across the cave floor like a swimmer, its brutish arms pulling at the air as it moves.

Athessa gets into the open cavern just after Loxley, and doesn't waste time engaging the same demon as he in a pincer attack. Even as four more demons crop up closer to the rift, she affords them only enough attention to assess the imminent threat, count their number, and return focus.

Once the bickering stops, they do work like a well oiled machine. Loxley's blade flashes here, Athessa's own glints there, parry, thrust, riposte--at one point as the demon is beaten back with steel and flame, Athessa dodges aside to get a clear shot at the short-arse attacking Matthias. Her throwing knife does little damage, but it staggers the slumping figure long enough that Matty doesn't need to dodge an attack while casting, and she can shift focus to a new target.

The closest of the new four is a rage demon, hunched and pulsing, hardened bits of its lava-like substance cracking and sloughing off as it moves. Athessa steps out of the way of a clumsy swipe from its claw-like hand and hacks the limb off. Of course, in the nature of rage demons that pisses it off and it swipes again, with the other arm, which it then loses. They'll regrow before too long, but Athessa is quick; she spins around the demon as it charges her, easily placing herself behind it and slashing both daggers down its back.

From somewhere in its blindspot -- a guess based off its attacking movements, given how this thing of lava and smoke barely has a face -- Loxley strikes with a blade that is no longer wreathed in green flame. Stands to reason that something made up of pure heat wouldn't take much offense to a lick of fire.

No, instead, in the strange half-light of volcanic glow, the air around his blade seems to tremble like watery surface tension, and as the blade plunges deep into shifting fiery mass, that same unstable, invisible energy ripples across the rage demon's flank.

He ducks as the creature twists with strange preternatural flexibility and slashes a clawed hand, and he twists the blade out with the intent to do damage as he does. Staying in melee, Loxley shouts;

"Will closing the rift hurt these things?"

The crackle and spit of the largest demon’s lightning whip splits the party as it lumbers into the mix, sending a stiff shock up through boots and into spines. Pressed back against the chamber wall, Richard reflects violet light as well as the ice, saturated with offal as he is.

Later someone will have to scrub him off like a tar-soaked loon.

He waits for this latest contingent of demons to fan out into the fracas, barely breathing, and by the flash of the next whip he’s slipped well behind their ranks, right hand raised open to the rift. If closing it doesn’t hurt them, it should -- at the very least -- stop more from crawling through.

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