closed.

[cozen]

WHO: Alexandrie, Athessa, Bastien, Barrow, Derrica, Nell, and Poesia
WHAT: A Very Riftwatch Summer Vacation
WHEN: Late Solace
WHERE: Churneau, Occupied Orlais
NOTES: Violence cw etc. Bunch of details here.

Comments

spies.

[cozen]

OOC | Any pre-escape threads around the fortress.

prisoners.

[cozen]

OOC | Any pre-escape threads in the dungeon.

[thereneverwas]

i. home sweet home

After all his years of Templaring, de-Templaring, and being a mercenary, this is Barrow's first time having actually been captured. It's quite novel, though unpleasant, but far be it from him to allow a negative attitude to ruin any new experience.
Largely responding to questions with other questions or direct, droll obfuscations, Barrow spends most of his time in the cell by checking in on the other two: Poesia, of whom he's fond if a bit distant these days, and Derrica, whom he realizes expressly stated she no longer wanted contact with him, but... circumstances are different.
Aren't they?

"All right love?" he asks, to one or the other, angling his head against the bars to try and see into the adjacent cell.

When he's not asking after them, he's whistling, or even singing, trying to keep spirits up.

ii. rack sweet rack

At first he wouldn't say anything useful, he'd just tell jokes or sing, even through the pain. But, as tough as he may be, and as resilient to pressure, even Barrow just ends up screaming when the situation is dire enough.
And it is: between being near pulled apart and the Waking Nightmare, the occasional Silencing he instinctively manages to pop in before it can do any real damage and the whipping he receives each time he does so, Barrow is reduced to a shivering mass each time he's left to himself.
On display for the other two, he has the presence of mind to try and keep a stiff upper lip, but it gets more difficult with each passing day, and it becomes increasingly difficult to tell the difference between the truth of what he sees and the spell being cast on his mind.

ii

[bloodandsand]

Poesia is not the most helpful in that moment, with his struggle in parsing between reality and spell. Her own torture has prompted a rather dramatic change in her, though perhaps not the one their lovely host had been hoping for. What humanity and charm she possessed has fallen away from her as though it had been little more than an Orlesian lady's mask. She stands in the cell and smiles and smiles and smiles.

She's singing right now, sweet and hoarse. "Little rabbit, little rabbit, can you see my piggy dear, can you see my piggy's throat so white and neat a-" They're gifted with a few minutes of silence, "-nd dear. Little rabbit, little rabbit, can you see my teeth? At the throat of my little pig, digging into meat-"

Another few minutes of silence and "How very rude you are, cutting me off while I'm singing to my bunny. Aren't they rude, bunny. How shall I hurt them, bunny."

i.

[tender]

Fuck off, Derrica wants to say.

But it's not Barrow's fault they're in here. It's certainly not Barrow's fault that they might die in this dark, sunless little room. She doesn't even think he can help the Silencing, though Derrica would very much like to pretend it's deliberate. But it's not fair to snap at him, when what she really wants to do is break the neck of the mage who's been crooning at her about the Elder One. She turns her face towards the bars, eyeing Barrow tiredly.

"I'm okay," she answers flatly. She might even be better than him, all things considered. "But I'm not your love."

She can draw one little line. It seems reasonable.

gentle additional cw for blood and body horror cus it be like that sometimes

[bloodandsand]

a. Constructive Criticism

"How sloppy you are," she says, as though she were talking to a careless child and not the man who'd just spent the better part of an hour crushing and breaking her bones. It's painful, of course, but hardly life threatening. His dreadful little curse is likewise so. She screams because it's a pleasant relief and because it makes their host step closer.

"Come, let me show you properly," she says, "I've so many ideas for you, you know. You have such lovely skin, I so dearly want to peel it away from your flesh. You'd make the most charming skinned pi-" The paralyzation is more annoyance then pain. Mostly, it's a game. "-g. I'd hang it on the horns of your festering little dragon like a sweetheart's ribbon. And then of course, your tee-" Faster this time, almost impressive. One... Two... Three... Four... She counts the minutes dutifully. "-th, I would pull them from your head. You would be alive still, of course, it would be a difficult trick I think, but I must have you watch when I press your teeth in her ey-"

One... Two... Three... Four... Her sweet voice does carry most wonderfully in their cozy little dungeon, even when he steps out of her cell to see the other two. Even when the others scream. "Come here, dear, come here. Let me show you."

b. Small Talk

She breaks on the second day. Cheerful, descriptive threats giving way to screams as the pain takes her. She cries very prettily. Lovely in her weeping and her begging when that wicked little curse subsides and she can do more than scream at the horrendous pain of it all. She begs as prettily as she cries and their host seems quite pleased with it.

"Please... Please..." She gasps, limp in her bounds. The words are earnest and truthful and their dear host steps closer. Closer... Close enough and she lunges forward. She aims for his neck, but misses and latches on to his cheek instead. She bites. She rips. The blood is hot in her mouth. The guard very nearly breaks her jaw when he hits her. She rewards him with her mouth at his wrist, blunt teeth that feel uncomfortably sharp ripping into veins.

This time she laughs when the wretched little curse takes her. Long and loud. And when it has settled and the spells have worn off, she is breathy and hoarse and laughing still. Her voice is full of a horrible pleasure when she calls to the other two: "Come now, my darlings, my dears, come now. How shall we hurt the little pigs, my darlings. How shall we make them bleed."

10/10 good content

[tender]

It's not that Poesia had ever seemed completely on the level. There'd been something off to begin with, but now—

Derrica can hear her sometimes, past the crackle of flame and her own screams. Poesia talks, gleeful and sweet and so helpful. They've been wasting Poesia all this time. She should have been a torturer. Surely there's some problem Riftwatch has that could have been solved by that skillset, and Poesia sounds as if she's terrifyingly inventive. The one solace in this Venatori mage's approach is the predictability. Even when he's stroking her damp brow and whispering about Corypheus while he freezes a limb to the point where Derrica can't feel it at all, or passes fire across her body to leave raw skin and blisters in the wake of his hand, it's predictable. Poesia sounds as if she has limitless ideas, the kind that can't be braced against.

When they lift Derrica bodily from the table to pitch her back into her cell, she's laughing. It's a quiet, miserable wheeze, breaking on a gasp as she's dumped onto the floor. But even laying there, she stretches a hand to clang her manacle against the bars.

"You're scaring them," she says, not bothering to make her address specific. There's only one person talking very specifically about how she'd peel flesh from bone here.

log meat placeholder.

[cozen]

Where I'm gonna put the escape log once it's cleaned up.

aftermath.

[cozen]

OOC | For all your glamping needs.

[sulahnan]

i. on salves and the application therein

To ease the burden of healing from Derrica's weary shoulders, Athessa immediately busies herself collecting elfroot from the immediate area, using a flat stone and a smooth rock as a makeshift mortar and pestle. Dried elfroot makes for good smoking, or can be powdered, but nothing beats fresh green root for grinding into a paste or--if armed with the knowledge--creating potions.

"Here," she says softly as she sets a portion of salve, wrapped in a leaf, beside whoever currently needs tending. "It's not much but it'll help."

When it comes time to offer the same to Derrica, Athessa sinks to sit beside her and hesitates briefly before speaking. As if she wanted to say something else, first. "How's your hand?"

ii. on the road in the rickety cart on the way home or thereabouts

Nigh inseparable from Derrica's side, Athessa sits beside her on the cart, arm gently draped around her shoulders. It's impossible to imagine any of them not being thoroughly exhausted, even those who did not endure torture at the hands of their gracious hosts.

Mostly, she watches the scenery pass by, or hums a tune quietly to herself. If she catches Bastien's eye, she'll offer him a small smile. Tired, sure, reassuring if she can manage it, with an undertone of uncomfortable vulnerability.

ii.

[cozen]

Walking alongside the cart, he smiles back—also tired, also reassuring, with an undertone of understanding. Just for a moment. It fades quickly, and he comes closer. Close enough that the turning wheel occasionally brushes his trouser leg where it's a little uneven and wobbly, and close enough he can reach out and gently tap her cheek beneath the scab that's forming there, twice, with a finger usually twitched or tapped by bards in need of more information.

His hand is very steady, for the record, despite the unsynchronized wobbles caused by his feet and the cart both traveling over an uneven dirt road.

i.

[tender]

"It will be alright," Derrica answers, though she wonders at it herself. How much energy can she spend patching herself back together? There are others who deserve her attention, and of course, the potential that something else attacks them before they make it back to Kirkwall.

But Athessa doesn't need to be worrying about any of that. Derrica reaches over to take lace their fingers together with her good hand. The burns had been easier to erase than the damage from cold. Or at least, it was a simpler task to ease the visible signs of the burns.

"What you gave me to chew helped. Isaac or Leander can take care of the rest when we get back," Derrica promises. "It'll take time, but I don't think they managed anything lasting."

I do what I want

[coquettish_trees]

[ we're out in the woods gathering stix okok ]

It seems a bit absurd to be gathering tinder in the slanted sharp-edged light of early morning, but they have traveled away the remaining small hours of the night and there is food to cook and cloth to boil and for that there must be fire. And for that...

Alexandrie is muttering under her breath, her foot braced on a fallen tree, the very promising looking branch in her hands apparently slightly too sturdy for her to break off alone, which has obviously not stopped her stubborn efforts.

[thereneverwas]

i. evening

The only thing Barrow wants is a cigarette, and he's furious he doesn't have one.
Well, that and a shirt maybe.
In fact, his entire, notoriously affable demeanor has turned brooding and stormy, and he stays as far away from the others as he can manage, seeking privacy or perhaps just solitude as he lies back and stares at the sky.
He won't snap at anyone, of course-- he's never intentionally rude-- but he gives the profound impression that he would rather not be bothered, and that in itself is quite unusual.

ii. traveling

He walks as often as he's able, resisting offers to ride in the cart unless met with absolute insistence. Barrow's mood seems to have shifted from quiet anger to total apathy, and he is still uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn as they make their way back.

i.

[cozen]

Bastien generally tries not to bother people who would rather not be bothered, as a rule. Unless there's a good reason. One possible good reason is being the man in charge of an elaborate plan that's gone wrong and resulted in someone being imprisoned and tortured for several days. Another possible good reason is offering food. So:

"Barrow?" he whispers, from several feet away. It's too late and everyone is too dirty for him to fuss with unnecessary monsieurs. "I found some nuts in the cart."

He also has cigarettes. He's smoking one right now. He only doesn't offer because he doesn't know how badly one is wanted.

ii.

[coquettish_trees]

“Will you sit in the cart with me for a few minutes, Ser Barrow?”

It’s Alexandrie, her bearing courtly again despite being in only a chemise, with strips of fabric draped over one shoulder. She holds up the end of one illustratively.

“I should like to bind the joints we re-aligned, to support their healing.”

[bloodandsand]

i. Transitional Periods

Poesia does not sleep, though neither does she seem ill at ease. She only hums sometimes (snatches of tunes Derrica and Barrow will find familiar from the number she composed in her cell) and she watches her companions with the same keen, predatory attention she's worn since they were pulled from the dungeons. Mostly she watches the dark surrounding their little hiding place with an air of patience. When she smiles and speaks, it's uncomfortably stilted, like a creature who's trying on the manners of a human.

And yes, she does still have one of Comintanus' severed hands. When she isn't watching the dark or her companions, she amuses herself with curling and stretching the fingers into different poses until the joints stiffen too much.

ii. Please Use Caution

Once they're on the road, she sleeps. Wrapped up in whatever fabric or hay she can find and curled up in a tight ball. She doesn't move to eat or do much of anything and whenever someone moves too near, a single eye will slit open and a low snarling growl begins to build from deep in her chest.

ii b. The Restorative Effects of Naps

It's well into the evening, nearing the docks when Poesia finally uncurls herself and stretches elegantly. She smiles at the person nearest to her and it does not stretch too wide nor too sharp across her face.

"Goodness, that was quite the adventure, wasn't it," she says, her silver bell voice holding no trace of the hoarse, deranged laughter from the dungeon.

i.

[cozen]

There's no particular sign that Bastien is watching Poesia more closely than the others. He's had years of training and more years of experience watching people without being noticed doing it at all. But he is: even when he isn't looking at her, while they move around the camp site, he's listening for her, and keeping her location relative everyone else in mind, just in case her inhuman air becomes a problem that requires a response.

But in the dark, while she's playing with a severed hand like a child plays with a jointed doll, he has no problem watching with open—curiosity is probably the right word. His expression is a little too dazed and unfocused from exhaustion to show any distaste. His nose is wrinkling in his heart, though.

"Whose was that?"

shortly after pick-up:

[cozen]

Fortunately, Bastien has the sense and the sensitivity not to say looks like I missed all the fun to a group of people that looks (on average) this completely fucking slammed. He had his own adventure earlier the day before, anyway—though the only evidence is some bruises hidden beneath his clothes—and since then he hasn't slept. So he's all business. Getting everyone situated, sorting who needs to ride from who can walk, handing over the reigns to whoever seems too tired to walk but awake enough to to manage the pair of mules pulling the cart, passing off a full water skin so it can make the rounds.

It's only after they've been moving for a little while with the road behind them quiet and clear that he asks whoever is closest, "How bad was it?"

[ Just one thread pls because hearing the story told multiple times doesn't sound that fun, but multiple people/threadjacking is rad. ]

[coquettish_trees]

“I have calluses, Bastien,” says Alexandrie, who walks gamely beside the cart in deference to those who had spent the last days in the dungeon, “from work.”

[coquettish_trees]

i. on the road

While she walks, Alexandrie is undressing herself. Partially, at least; she’s still got a light shift—although if she hadn’t it wouldn't have bothered her overmuch—but the cotton dress she wore in the kitchens is going up and over her head with little remark. A paring knife is retrieved from her garter shortly thereafter, but the muttered curse in Orlesian seems to suggest that whatever it is she’s intent on doing is proving unwieldy.

“Will you hold the other end of this for a moment?” she asks, glancing over at whoever’s nearest. “It shall drag in the dirt, else.”

ii. camping

After branches are gathered and water is fetched, fire lit, and then let to burn low, Alexandrie sits by the glow of it and watches the stars pensively. There’s a flicker of constant movement in her lap as she absently and repetitively palms a small runestone and then makes it reappear.

i.

[sulahnan]

Athessa is nearest, and she holds aloft whatever it is that Lexie is handing off, watching with mild curiosity but not putting the question to words. What are you doing?

ii

[bloodandsand]

She has an audience. Poesia, drawn by the motion and still a bit left of what one would call "human", watches her keenly. She does not reach out to try and snatch the stones, but the temptation is very clearly there.

Instead she says, "You're very good with you're hands."

And if that sounds like a come on... That's because it absolutely is.

[tender]

minor mending.

Aulus had been a competent healer. Derrica knows this, and it makes her angrier in retrospect that he chose to spend his talents helping a torturer. He'd done just enough to keep them in one piece, but not enough to prevent serious damage.

Knitting wounds back together would be easier if she weren't so tired. But she is still happy to offer on that morning, after the first attempt at easing the aftereffects of frostbite and burns on her own body, to attend to bumps, bruises and other scrapes acquired during the break out from her perch on the back of the cart as they rattle towards home.

glamping.

One of the first things Derrica had when they'd made camp was tear her stolen cloak into more serviceable strips. Some are covering the worst of her burns. Some were helpfully sacrificed for kindling. And the last had fashioned a neat little parcel to obscure the hand Poesia had gifted her. Derrica doesn't really intend it as a conversation piece, so it's tucked by her side where her save is propped as she watches the flurry of activity around their campsite.

"That smells good," Derrica says, eyeing the stew pot. Maybe she'd have said anything smelt good after days in a dungeon, but still, a sincere compliment. "What's in it?"

Potentially a foolish question, but hey, what's the worst thing that could be in that stew pot?

wildcard.

[ whatever your heart desires ]

minor mending

[bloodandsand]

She's not fully restored just yet, but she is rather fussy, having woken up from her nap from an unpleasant thump of the cart wheels. In the past, she would have gone to one of her lovers or perhaps her Beloved if she were feeling compelled towards softer sympathies. of course, all of them are quiet dead.

Feeling particularly in need of coddling now, Poesia shifts and settles her cheek against Derrica's thigh, looking up at her with a plaintive little pout.