DIPLOMACY WAR TABLE MISSION: BURN BOOK (CLOSED)

[hornswoggle]

WHO: Athessa, Marcoulf, Teren, Colin, Edgard
WHAT: disseminating information
WHEN: Early August
WHERE: Orlais
NOTES: war table ooc post

Comments

[esquive]

[Far, far below this disaster a storm of papers pours across the Anderfels encampment. Releasing an air drop early enough to account for the vagaries of wind, weather, and distance traveled while falling is such a particular thing and it requires clever timing to get the thing right.

—Is, hopefully, what Edgard will say in his report. It's significantly more dignified than five people shouting at one another hundreds of meters upward, being buffeted by wind and the crack of lighting, the surly buck of animals unhappy with their proximity to growling thunder, pin-cushioned with arrows and, here, as they break above a line of clouds, finding themselves rising unceremoniously into the first sheets of pelting rain.]

For fuck's sake! [is startled out of him, and evidently is the first crack in the damn for Marcoulf proceeds to swear a considerably longer (and more vulgar) blue streak following it. In Orlesian, emphatically: Fuck this, fuck that, fuck Andraste with the Maker's fat — — — and so on.

It's fine.]

[sulahnan]

[ The same curse, for fuck's sake! flies from Athessa's mouth at the same time as it does Marcoulf's, spat out into the downpour and lost to the wind and thunder. The elf wipes uselessly at her face once before resigning herself to being soaked through and not being able to see as well as she'd like through rapidly blinking eyes. At least her hair is braided back and not full-on assaulting both of them. ]

Are you hit? [ Shouted forward over Marcoulf's shoulder. ]

[esquive]

[A fantastic diatribe is interrupted to shout back—] No! [—the wind and rain sucking it away.

With a solid dig of his heels, he urges the griffon on. There's little else to do but to persist on their current course. At some point, they'll either all be struck by lightning or escape the weather.]