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

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.

[fairforce]

[She nods, sympathetically.]

I'm a Seeker of Truth. Our lives are about service--taking orders, protecting the Chantry. In the lines of the Chant of Light, there's order to be found. In the direction of the Order, there's order. Then you get outside, in the real world-- [She gestures around them--the Orlesians in their feathers, the other members of Riftwatch (as varied and as motley a crew as they come), the dragon and the cliff and the countryside around them.] Nothing makes sense, at first.

I miss it, sometimes. Knowing exactly what to do.

[archademode]

Forgive me, my understanding of your world remains shamefully thin.

[The Chantry he understands, of course. Its purpose, the service it provides in teaching and perhaps— most poignantly— the control it holds over the broader span of Thedas itself. But her title...]

Can you not return to your Order? [Is she so mired here in the real world, as she herself put it?]

[fairforce]

No, of course--it's rude of me to assume familiarity--

[She looks down. The eye of the Seekers is on her breastplate, a sigil done in thin beaten gold. Carefully, Tiffany touches it, the way she might touch a talisman.]

I will someday return. My work right now is with Riftwatch. I was sent to offer assistance, and to send word to my Order about what happens here. Still following orders, but there's autonomy to it. I'm never truly alone, but it is lonelier.

[archademode]

I know the feeling well, though its embodiment through you is unique to this world.

[There's something there, really. Something he cannot impart or offer in the midst of a gathering like this, when so much depends on the matter of masks and obscurity.

Best he say nothing of Judge Magisters— or himself.]

If there is anything I can offer you to ease the pain of it, know that I’ll see it done.

[fairforce]

[There's a touch of surprise in the smile she gives him--and genuine gratefulness in her voice when she says,] Thank you.

[It might be an idle offer, but Tiffany doesn't read that. They've only formally met on this mission. She still feels a flicker of familiarity, something that she couldn't put into words. If he knows the feeling she's described, she can likely say the same in reverse. A particular kinship makes for a kind of comfort.]

I feel that we have a duty to watch out for one another within Riftwatch. We've come together in a particular way, not all of us by our own will. Supporting one another, internally, is the least we can do. But beyond that duty, I'll offer the same to you. If there's anything I can do for you, I'll gladly do it.

[archademode]

Your credence is correct. [They are, in the wise words of ye olde High School Musical: all in this together. There's no motivation to divide their assembled rank that isn't purely hostile lawlessness, as far as Gabranth is concerned— and he's never been a man to tolerate chaos.] Yet I make my offer not as a member of Riftwatch, but as one who no longer has an Order of his own to return to.

[A beat, the weight of that admission hovering there between them.]

It is a selfish desire of mine, to want to see you returned to yours all the better for having been away.

[And with that, he shifts, clearing his throat in order to once more dismiss any and all undesired significance that might yet linger in the air.] I've taken too much of your time, I fear. You will no doubt be missed by those in attendance.