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

[archademode]

I: BATHHOUSE

[Presentation is as important to Gabranth as much as any among their number, but perhaps more important than that is the code of honor that continually dictates his every planned move down to the very last foreordained letter.

What that translates to in actuality, of course, is the strangeness of having one overbearingly tall knight (helmet still obscuring his face as it has for the whole of their journey thus far) positioned uselessly for a inordinate amount of time outside the baths themselves, as if counting the number of people making their way in— and then subsequently out again.

If needs must, he’ll concede his loss, but...

Well, perhaps a few minutes more will see the place emptied out.]

II: PARTY

[No fancy dress, no masks bought or brought for the occasion. He stands for most of the affair itself at the fringe edge of a cliff, mapping out the lay of the land: arms crossed, posture combatively squared off, unwilling to bother with either drink or offered food.

If nothing else, at least everyone else in attendance also has their face covered, though that does prove to make his own foreboding silhouette less of a deterrent for the more curious nobility.]

I'm afraid I must decline. [Said again, and again, and again. A mixture of— it is not my place, no thank you, I cannot and so on and so forth ad nauseum— offered conversation turned away as keenly as the fete’s own offerings, which in turn might equate to either further intrigue...or increased dismay for the Orlesians themselves, as there is a noticeable chill to Gabranth's own stiffened bearing.

He trusts one of the more diplomatic members of their party to smooth any ruffled feathers in the aftermath. A little more work hardly hurt anyone, after all.]

III: BEFORE THE STORM....LITERALLY

[Fools.

Drace would call them that, were she here to watch gathered Orlesians throw slaughtered stock down as enticement for a creature that would like nothing more than to swallow the lot of them.

Gabranth, on the other hand, was always too rigid— too locked into the concepts of rank and respect— to so much as offer up a sneer when in the presence of those higher up in caste, as it were. So instead he satisfies himself with the memory of her voice as yet another corpse lands listlessly on the ground below with a heavy thud, long-dead bone cushioned mostly by limp muscle and sinew.

He dislikes this. The game it seems to be.

But his work is to rend, not reign, and the anger simmering in his blood (the sting of an eye still faintly scuffed thanks to an indignant noble who shall remain unnamed), ought work in his favor when the time comes.

And it does draw near, based on the not-so distant sounds of throaty rumbling in the distance.

He'd been delayed at the party's end, which means that by the time he finally sets foot at the base of the cliff (his irritation carried in the hunch of his shoulders, the way his helm juts forward by way of an outstretched neck, akin to the posing of a hunting animal), most of the preparations have likely been made already.]

How fare your arrangements? [It doesn't sound friendly, or pleasant, that question— but very little is before a fight.]

[ooc: format swap however you need to and I'll match no problem, or feel free to set up a wildcard if you've got a different idea! Gabranth will spend the journey 24/7 in armor as an aside, so feel free to run with that if your character thinks it's weird. Because it is.

It really is.]

i.

[poleaxed]

Jone comes out of the baths clean and satisfied. Her hair is, for once, its proper bright color, instead of being weighed down with dirt and sweat. Her clothes are new, well, new-ish. Unsoiled by sweat stains and mud, no dark places where the blood never washed out. She's trying to braid her hair back when the spots Gabranth.

Not that it's bloody difficult.

It takes her a moment to understand what's happening. She looks, sees people coming in and out, looks back, studies his helm, imagines his eyeline. Imagines his face.

In her mind's eye, he looks like any other man.

"Alright, alright," she says, as though he's begged her. "I'll scare everybody out of the place. Give us a minute."

[archademode]

There’s a restlessness in his posture, in how his footing shifts from ball to heel where he stands braced against the edge of an outdoor balcony, entirely unrelated to the sight of her so renewed (though it suits her in ways she’d never care to hear, he thinks— the brightness of well-kept hair, the pleasant drape of clothing that isn’t weighed down by the ruddiness of mud or layered muck).

He’d not asked her to accommodate him. And truth be told there’s a difference between the deference shown to a Judge Magister in due matters of respect, versus a particularly precise decision to shoo an entire bathhouse out of their perfumed leisure.

“I can wait.” He counters, as if the refusal alone could ever possibly deter her.

[poleaxed]

"Get in last of the night, and barely have a second to yourself before the bath closes, you mean."

She doesn't sound particularly cheered by that prospect.

"That really what you want? 'Cos I could just run in and clear 'em out, tell 'em a leper's coming."

[archademode]

One hand is already raised, set apart from the middle of his chest— the midpoint where he'd held them tightly crossed for a good hour or two on end, not so much as minding the clutter of metal and straps pressing back in return— clearly intending to wave her off in absolute dismissal. To let her enjoy what remains of her evening in peace, without a thought spared for the rigidity of his own rituals.

But then he pauses, helm tilting ever so slightly by degrees.

"...would that truly work?"

[poleaxed]

A soft sound, almost a laugh, escapes her throat. She raises her hands, palms up. "Always works for me. Ever since I was little."

So, this is a con she's been running a long time. She takes a step closer, "you deserve a fucking break, mate. We all do."

Selfishly, she thinks, she doesn't want him on edge during the fight. Still, she thinks she's just smart enough not to say that.

[archademode]

Clever girl.

“Do not spoil me, Daughter of Denerim.” Gruff as that command is, it’s more akin to the grumbling of a beast pulled away from afternoon sunlight: utterly toothless, nothing more than mild grousing brought on by a mixture of familiarity...

And trust.

Still, there’s a lingering consideration yet to be spoken of:

“...Will trouble find you for it?”

Surely someone might take issue with her elaborate ruse, if discovered.

[poleaxed]

"If I can figure out a way to spoil you," she says, cocky and self-satisfied, "I'll do what I like with the intel."

She looks back at the bathhouse, staring over her shoulder. "You'll come out looking the same, right? All black and shiny?"

[archademode]

“What else would I look like?”

It might be a joke. It in fact sounds like a joke. That said— this is Gabranth: if anyone were to be some sort of vaguely person-shaped void or three dwarven figures stacked in a six foot tall suit of armor for all the trouble he goes through to avoid the idea of visible humanity, it would be him.

ii

[fairforce]

You should tell them you've taken an oath.

[Tiffany is much better at fitting in to these sorts of functions, even pre-battle cliffside soirées. That doesn't make her keen on this particular function, or keen to rub elbows with Orlesians--but skilled enough that she can fake her way through. She has polished her plate armor, braided her hair, donned a blue cape that she'd normally eschew in case it became a hindrance in a real battle. She fits in well enough.

She nods toward the pair of Orlesians Gabranth has recently rebuffed.]

Orlesians generally respect oaths. It might get you out of--well, whatever they're pressing on you for.

[archademode]

I doubt they’ll even remember, once this fete comes to a close. [They’ve a dragon to slay, after all, and Gabranth imagines that however much he might rebuff their hopes for a charming conversation with a man utterly ill-suited for it, his own efforts in the field will mend any wounded pride.

Or perhaps wine will. Either generally works.

A pause, his helmet shifting to fix itself on her, exhaling a formerly tense breath in exchange for the sight of better company.]

...but thank you, all the same.

[He isn't half as unwilling to converse in earnest with one of his own, truth be told, and the way the sharpness in his voice lapses when he speaks of gratitude likely serves as proof enough of that fact.] I’ve no intention of disrespecting any guests present, so if it is worry that draws you so close, let nothing trouble you.

I would not be so cruel without cause.

[fairforce]

[Tiffany gives him a little smile. She's not wearing her helm yet, preferring to leave it off until the actual battle that they'll soon face.]

I was maybe a little worried. But only a very little. [Just being honest.] Orlesians have a way of getting under people's skin. I think it's something in the water of their country.

More than anything, I thought you could use a second to breathe. If we're talking to one another, we're at least guaranteed a free moment. I can't promise anything longer than a moment, but-- [She shrugs, a movement made geometric and blocky by the shape of her armor.] --better than nothing.

[archademode]

[For a moment, he says nothing. A little tilt of that helm, the slight catch of air against the back of his teeth, too easily missed against the backdrop of an entirely animated party.

But when he opts to at last, that mild tone stays fixed.]

I cannot claim to deserve such generosity. [What goes unsaid is that he won’t refuse it, either: not like the nobility that had wafted over as if drawn by a strong current, clearly aiming to press their way into his focus. She is different— and it shows.]

I find myself wondering if this is truly a common occurrence in this world. Turning a necessary deed into little more than a tiresome contrivance.

[fairforce]

I think it depends on where you are.

[Tiffany casts a look out over the merry throng. The cliff makes for a sheer backdrop behind them, a reminder of what is coming, what they're here for. This is no mere spring fête.]

I have done plenty of necessary deeds that weren't couched by a picnic. I have gone to plenty of contrived picnics that preceded a necessary deed, in some way. You have to fit yourself to the occasion. Or you have to choose not to fit yourself, which is sometimes more important.

[archademode]

In the past, it was never my place to choose.

[His stare lingers on her armor as if evaluating it— perhaps wondering if in some respect they might be alike, regardless of the differences between worlds. But then of course it’s rude in fair company to stare so openly, even with a helmet devoid of expression; the moment he recognizes his own curiosity for what it his, his attention shifts away once more, settling instead on the distant passing of nobility wreathed in feathers enough to provide the whole of riftwatch with finer places to rest their heads.

They look like birds, but he'll not say it.]

[fairforce]

[Another thing Tiffany is good at: being looked at. If she wasn't a Lady Seeker, she'd still be a lady--country, fairly common, but still respected. A Seeker and a lady both have many opportunities where they might be observed. And just because her compatriot has no eyes that she can see doesn't mean she cannot sense the gaze. She bears it without complaint or comment, and--friendly--she looks back, considering.]

Do you appreciate the opportunity to choose now, or is it uncomfortable?

[archademode]

The latter. [He confesses, exhaling a low little noise in his throat for the trouble of that admission. ]

There is an ease to be found in the surety of service. A world made simple by order alone.

[A knowing pause, before, with some small amount of care:] ...but such things cannot be clung to forever.

wildcards you.

[poleaxed]

The Exalted Planes really are a sight, whenever Jone comes across them. They're a sight you want to leave as quick as can do, but a sight all the same. They're a strange and varied place, especially at night, when you can only smell the smoke, hear the rustling of dead trees.

And Jone can't sleep.

She's kept herself carefully unaware of how Gabranth has been sleeping, trying to give him privacy at night. Maker knows he doesn't have much, does he? She hadn't thought of it until the bathhouse, and now she can't stop.

(Har, har.)

Now, as the sun sets, she crashes into the underbrush of the forest, and calls Gabranth up on her crystal. "Gab, luv, if you've a moment, thought we could have a chat. Watch the stars, dead romantic."

She can't help but cringe when the message is sent; her taste for crude jokes in Gabranth's direction is fading quickly, and she isn't sure why. It just feels wrong.

[archademode]

He arrives as he’s bid— hardly a surprise, regardless of who it is that beckons him (that it's Jone in this case might see him in a more acceptable mood, though with all his armor fixed in place, it would be impossible to know his current disposition regardless). Glints of dawning moonlight on metal in the nearing dark, passing beneath the shadow of tall trees.

He is, admittedly, exhausted. But she need not know that.

“What is it that has you so restless, Daughter of Denerim?”

Surely she did not call him out here simply to gaze at the stars.

[poleaxed]

When he arrives, she doesn't bother trying to hide the smile that arrives on her face, gentle and pleased. He's here, because he likes being around her? No, because he has a sense of obligation. But it's obligation to her. He's not under firing squad. He could choose to burn that obligation.

But he hasn't, not yet, and that's to be cherished until it's gone.

"Oh," she says, voice light, "you know. World's on fire, Darkspawn're trying to eat it again. Nothing ever changes. That don't matter; I mean to ask you, how d'you like this living on the road business? We haven't bored you with salt pork and ghost stories yet?"

Maybe if she changes the subject quickly enough, fills it with meaningless words, she won't have to deal with how quickly and easily Gabranth pegged her as restless.

[archademode]

He would be irritable for that, were it anyone else. Instead, his response is little more than a thin sigh:

“It isn’t my preference.”

In Ivalice he would have had a private escort, a ship with room enough to stretch out and prepare as he pleased— in the realm of the gods, he’d simply had time. The luxury of drawing away whenever he wished.

Now he feels more footsoldier than ever. And it is difficult for a pawn to play Judge.

“Your world has no airships, no quicker flight from one place to another. I’ve yet to acclimate to that fact.”

[poleaxed]

Jone clicks her teeth, squinting in the gathering dark. It's not quite the answer she wanted to hear, but she isn't all that surprised. This is new for him, and no one likes building callouses.

"Then I'll tell you there's no force in this. I'm asking you, and you don't have to go," she says. "Got an assignment a while back; I'm to make contact with some mercenaries in Ferelden. It'd be faster to leave from here than going all the way back to Kirkwall first."

He can figure out the rest, she reckons. Instead, she turns her eyes to the sky, trying to find the Celebrant's constellation.

[archademode]

There’s no force, she says, and of that he has no doubt: past courtesy is a promise of truth, but he offers no hesitation in his response when he moves to sit beside her, one elbow pressed across his knee, his back far from rigid for a change.

“I go at your side.”

[poleaxed]

She moves toward him, leaning in to snake her hand under his pauldron in the spot she now knows his shoulder truly rests. "Thank you," she says, voice tentative. "Been ages since I were back to that pit. Better with a bloke I trust."

[archademode]

The unexpected warmth there— her palm resting across the higher point of his arm— causes him to stiffen briefly in a flickering response; it is different, when compared to tugging at his cloak, his gauntlets, his helm. But as is so often the case when she moves to press him, there is no subsequent snap of his jaws meant to chase her away.

"Will you tell them of your departure, the others that remain gathered at the edge of this forest."

If not all, then at the very least the sullen man who's spent their journey back towards Riftwatch looking sunk into his saddle, no doubt mired in some shackling mixture of old misdeeds and future aspirations.