CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

[poleaxed]

WHO: Erik Stephens, Gabranth, Diana, Benedict, Edgard, Tiffany, Dick & Jone.
WHAT: The Gang Fights A Dragon.
WHEN: Cloudreach.
WHERE: The Thenuviet estate on the Exalted Planes.
NOTES: if something looks wonky or is misspelled, please know I’m typing this on mobile & have mercy.

GETTING THERE isn’t a short journey, and they’re hardly traveling in comfort. Most of the horses are carrying equipment, armor, weaponry, and anything else those volunteered for this expedition thought to include. And there’s camping equiptment. Anyone who said the travel overland involved staying at inns was lying. Inns are notoriously stuffed with murderers, anyway.

Every night, there’s a campfire and food. Sometimes it’s fresh caught, but if it is, Jone certainly didn’t catch it. Just as likely that it’s rations, salt pork and jerky and whatever dried fruits and nuts Riftwatch can spare.

There’s a STOP AT A BATHHOUSE in the town near the Thenuviet estate, however. It’s stupid, they’re just going to dirty themselves up later, but presentation is important to these people.

Surely all of you brought fancy dress and masks, because IT’S TIME TO SCHMOOZE. There’s a small party of Orlesians dressed to their finest, having a cozy little soirée on the edge of a cliff. Literally on the edge. Don’t indulge too much in the fine wines and cheeses, because there’s a dragon waiting, but for now? It’s never a bad idea to look good in front of rich people of influence. At least, not these days.

Eventually, it’s time to move forward, which means PREPARING FOR BATTLE. Climbing down the cliff is easy stuff, if you’re good with rope or have basic upper body strength. But now is probably the time to set up any traps, get in good positions... because it’s not long before the party on the cliff above begins to cheer.

...Because a few dead swine are unceremoniously kicked off the cliff to fall into the ravine now filled with you and yours.

The cheers from the cliff face only increase as loud thrashing, howling sounds start and become increasingly closer. How long have they been feeding the dragon like this?

But then it’s DRAGON KILLING TIME. You probably know how that goes. Stormriders are huge, dark scaled, and shoot thunder instead of fire. This one is angry you’ve interrupted lunch time.

AFTERWARD, it’s time to heal, take a breath, poke around the dragon bits for fancy heirlooms, and climb back up that cliff.

Comments

[clawings]

"I joined the military as soon as I reasonably could, which was sixteen. Usually it's eighteen but I did some shit that let me do it earlier. I had to finish school first though." He's not going to bore the poor man with the bureaucratic details of what a child has to do in order to be seen as an adult in the world he's from, that sounds like some kinda torture.

"So that's a little more than twenty years of fightin'."

[clawings]

"Ah damn. Southern cousins or someshit, right? They think they created culture and y'all are just here." Erik shakes his head. "Rich people are the fucking worst."

[poleaxed]

Jone snorts, laughter withheld. "Well, they did try to invade us twice. What a fucked up family, eh?"

[clawings]

"Un-fucking-surprising, that." He shakes his head. "Is Riftwatch better than dealing with patrons?"

[poleaxed]

Jone considers the question, but comes up with nothing. "Depends what you mean by 'better', mate."

[clawings]

Erik hums, and then shakes his head. "I gotta better question: top three things that drive you nuts about Riftwatch, and top three things that drive you nuts about patrons."

[poleaxed]

Asking Jone to complain? That's the way to her heart, it is. She grins. "Our glorious employers don't pay in real money, take bloody everybody, and don't bloody train them."

Yes, she is in charge of training Forces recruits. She's mostly complaining about dear Ben.

"Patrons mostly think 'cos I'm working for 'em we're due for a shag, think they know how to do my job, and the fucking dogs."

[archademode]

It's a glint in his peripheral vision— whatever narrow field his helmet affords— the sight of his blade held fast in capable hands. What he's then left with is the shorter of the pair, and a set of armor scorched by the snap of spent lightning beside him.

Unideal, when the beast takes to flapping and baying, snapping its head and thrashing hard enough to shift the winds themselves.

Still, he doesn't fight the current. On the near-immediate heels of that lowered knock that'd snapped at the edge of Jone's arm, Gabranth sets the whole of his focus: letting the wind current drag him— arm outstretched— towards that ragged path in its throat cut already, snapping it into the exposed flesh as keenly as a climber's piton. He has little idea where veinwork lies, no anatomy to draw on compared to the dragons of Ivalice or world-eaters in the void, so he can't be sure his knifing efforts will do enough damage to dull its flapping assault, but when compared to the alternative, this seems a far better course.

[archademode]

“Mm. Much the same as my brother and I, then.”

Boring doesn’t seem to be the word in play at all: despite all stern, stubborn bearing and his own unwillingness to budge in regards to food or drink or alternative companionship, his demeanor is— as much as any suit of armor could be— fairly open as far as Erik seems to be concerned.

“And yet between the two of us, you flourish here.”

[clawings]

"Whaddya mean they don't pay in real money?" This is the first Erik is hearing about anything like that. Does she just mean that they don't pay enough, because he has suspicions in that regard.

Poor Bene though. He does seem a little ill-suited for... All of this. Except for the partying part, he's got that down.

"You ain't a dog person? What about cats?"

[clawings]

"Everybody got siblings," Erik replies, shaking his head. "Well, at least you 'n' Diana. Me, I got cousins, distant ones at that. I joined the military because I wanted to know how to literally fight for what I believed in and that was the place to learn. Also, it was somethin' ta do."

Would he make different choices? Maybe, but it doesn't matter and it's not the conversation of the moment anyway.

"Like I said, I'mma good liar. Also I know how to talk just enough to get people comfortable."

[poleaxed]

"They pay in suplimented wages. Enough to make you feel good. The real pay's in room and board, which is fine enough if you like living in a crowded bloody tower, eating whatever slop the kitchens serve up."

It sounds like she doesn't.

"I like horses," Jone clarifies, not pointing out the irony of a Fereldan in a dog mask who doesn't like dogs. It's all about image, okay. "I like animals that put a little effort in."

[clawings]

"Ahhh." Has Erik minded the closeness? Not much, not exactly, and there's a blessing to be found, in his mind, of not having to decide what to eat. But it's gonna be different for everybody and Jone knows what the fuck she's doing here.

Erik? Doesn't always.

"Yeah that's fair." Horses have a lot of personality and do work, so, he can see it. "Never had pets, personally. Never rode a horse before coming here neither."

[poleaxed]

"Good beasts," she says, thinking of Gabranth and his lack of experience. "They got horses where you're from?"

[clawings]

"They do, yeah, but it's either where people ain't got much else, or where they don't want for anythin'." Erik weighs his hands. "Wasn't really somethin' I was exposed to."

[archademode]

"But do you enjoy it?" He asks, careful to tilt his head— painted by the shift of those ornate horns— in order to be sure they are, at this moment, far enough isolated to be on their own.

He doesn't expect a truthful answer, of course, but it rarely hurts to ask.

[nonvenomous]

The vortex of the wing’s pull shrieks and whips and tears.

If Benedict has a chance to look down again, it will be to find that Dick’s stalwart, steady presence has been replaced by a span of naked earth and rock. He’s gone, ripped loose like a gecko from a windshield to tumble ass over teakettle out into the open, where blades are flashing and great splatters of blood pit black into the dirt.

No sooner has he skidded up to his feet than he reappears, clawing his way back to press himself flat back to the stone, panting, pale of eye, and substantially more dusty than he was before.

“No injuries yet,” he says with authority, as if he’d just stepped out to check.

[clawings]

Erik has also clocked the fact that they're separate from party eavesdroppers out here.

"Lyin', or talkin' to people?" Erik sucks his teeth, considering. "I'm used to lyin'. Been doin' it for so long it's easy, but I ain't as fond of it as someone might think."

Dying will change a man's priorities, but not necessarily his habits.

"Talkin' to people is fine; I'm nosy by nature so I wanna know about folks."

[archademode]

Proof enough of that simple truth lies in Gabranth’s own tendency to remain in his armor. In the mask he wore in life, rather than letting old habits— old comforts— stay put to rest.

“It is always a strange thing, being misplaced amongst worlds,” his words are slow, cadence thoughtful, if only for a single beat. “You will likely never lack for new discoveries.”

“Perhaps time will even grant you fewer reasons to rely on old proclivities.”

[clawings]

"Have you done it before?" Been misplaced between worlds. The way he says it makes Erik think that he has some frame of reference for it, which Erik didn't before he got here but.

A server with drinks breezes by and Erik snags one of those, shrugging. "In the meantime I'll try to put 'em to good use for Riftwatch." An incline of his head and his drink at that statement. Cheers.

[archademode]

There’s a low hum given in place of an answer, affirmative only for the fact that it’s accompanied by a faint nod that mirrors Erik’s own.

“Death grants little respite for those who bear greater sins.” A pretty lie, that, for he’d seen too many with kinder hearts than he forced into that same chaos, only to shatter beneath the strain. The gods were cruel. Their punishments unjust.

But that is too heavy a subject for a place like this, and even Gabranth knows it.

“In the heart of all worlds was I thus banished and set to wander endlessly, until this one tore me from it without warning.”

[poleaxed]

"Hmm," Jone murmurs, stalling because she isn't entirely sure what he means, due to her own lack of imagination.

"You caught up, didn't you? Not like you need to use a battle horse. Any old nag will carry you from place to place."

[fairforce]

Positioned mostly behind the dragon by now, Tiffany is as good as deaf to most of whatever human yelling and shrieking and falling goes on--but not deaf to the dragon's screeches, and certainly not immune to the drag of the one-winged vortex. She has the advantage of the weight of her armor, which makes her a kind of living anchor. But a dragon is a powerful beast (no shit, Tiff), and she finds herself pulled closer.

Which: good. Closer is where she wants to be. There's a massive tail between her and the rest of the dragon and the battle going on at its front. That tail was lashing only a moment ago, but it is largely still now, the dragon's focus all on its pain and its wing. As she's dragged on by, Tiffany summons her strength, says a prayer to Andraste--and strikes out with her sword, stabs in to the meat of the tail.

The tail is thick, the scales laid like reticulated plate armor. There's a necessary suppleness to it, important for movement. The dragon is roaring and shrieking, there's dirt and leaves and debris everywhere, and Tiffany digs in her heels, gets a stance--fighting against the wind, she pulls back and strikes again, down, before the tail can be pulled away, aiming between the plate of the scales. Her sword bites in, through. This pins the tail, at least for a moment. This gives her a point to hold on to. This--hopefully--makes the dragon rear back in pain and expose more throat and stomach to her cohorts.

All she has to do is hold on, try to withstand the worst of that inevitable whip of the tail--and then also not get clawed whenever the dragon inevitably tries to pick her off like a nit.

[fairforce]

Gratefully, she hands over the brush, and finds a stool to sit on. He has a small height advantage on her, but the angle would still be less-than-ideal--and in Tiffany's experience, painting tends to take awhile.

"How aware do you think Orlesians are of their commonly-held reputation? I don't think I've ever met anyone who enjoys them as a group. Except for other Orlesians."

[altusimperius]

"I think they count on it."

Dabbing the brush into the powder, he holds it over her eyelid for a moment first, gauging the distance.

"Try to relax your eyelids." Assuming she complies, he begins to trace a careful line from one crease of her eyelid to another, taking his time.

"The ones in Riftwatch do, at least."