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

has there not been enough violence

[altusimperius]

Though he's never an exceptionally loud or effusive person, Benedict has been downright taciturn, quietly and avoidantly going about his business apart from the rest of the group, answering in monosyllabic grunts and otherwise avoiding conversation.

It's likely obvious to anyone who knows him even a little bit that he's completely up in his own head, barely able to focus on anything but his ruminating long enough to speak a sentence, but he's self-sufficient enough in packing up his things and getting himself on the way when they set off again.

Even then, he walks by himself, a figurative raincloud hovering over him with every step.
Jone's appearance at his side changes none of this, but when he murmurs a "fine," he sounds almost apologetic.

[poleaxed]

Jone pats his head, idle and thoughtless. "Good," she says.

She doesn't give a wank how he's sleeping, why would she? It's what he does when he's awake that needs watching.

"Need a favor," she says, "advice, like."

[altusimperius]

Now that has his attention.

Focusing on her, Benedict raises his eyebrows in silent query. What the fuck advice could she possibly need from him?

[poleaxed]

She grins. That got his attention, didn't it. "I talked to some folk at the, you know, the bloody party."

The fete.

"Who d'you think'd make the best patron? I chatted up plenty, but I can only go back for one, you know?"

[altusimperius]

"Patron?" he asks. Surely she doesn't mean...

He makes a face. "They're all tossers." A Fereldan word learned from one Fereldan friend to speak to another.

[poleaxed]

"Ben, lad," she says, voice soft, hand gently finding his shoulder. "They're all cunts."

They always are.

"I've crossed out the ones I'd have to shag, lucky me, which narrows it down to just two blokes, would you believe it."

[altusimperius]

"Which ones?"

Some of the tension goes out of his shoulders when her hand rests there, but he's still feeling a bit strange, just by virtue of their last interaction.

"And why do you need a patron at all?"

[poleaxed]

"'Cos I'm fucking poor," Jone says. "Have some plans coming up that need a patron. Hold a moment, though. You're the only one horrified."

Having had patrons in the past, his trepidation is honestly refreshing.

[altusimperius]

"Doesn't Riftwatch pay you?"

It pays him, and that's evidence enough of their magnanimity.

[poleaxed]

She nods. "Yeah, but if I want to throw a party, it ain't enough. Mercs with patrons live good; I'd know. Pure luck I didn't run into some old flames at that fete."

[altusimperius]

Huh. His expression says he’s never thought about it like that before.

“Why not ask one of the wealthy Orlesians in Riftwatch? Maybe Madame d’Asgard would need you.”

She likes hiring people for sketchy shit, he knows from experience.

[poleaxed]

Jone's immediate flinch may answer that. She likes to think she covers it nicely, but who fucking knows these days. "I've lived in me patron's pocket before, mate, it's naught I'd like to do again."

[altusimperius]

“...sorry.” Benedict’s smile is sheepish.

“Tell me about the ones you’re considering.”

[poleaxed]

"Not your fault, mate," Jone says with forced ease. "Don't ever fall in love with Orlesians."

Moving swiftly on!

"Lord Thenuviet hisself, who has no interest in women but does like a good bloodbath. I don't think I'd have to do much to keep him happy, aside from keep winning, which..." She frowns a bit, "getting a bit on in years, me. Then there's his sister, who likes me well enough and I reckon is only doing this to get one over on her brother. Trying to figure which one has less family squabbling, you know?"

[altusimperius]

“You know,” Bene muses, his spirits raising bit by bit, “you could probably get the most out of one by letting them know the other wants you too.”

[poleaxed]

"Play 'em off each other?" She sounds impressed, and then skeptical. "I'll be honest, mate, I don't think I'm clever enough."

[altusimperius]

He shrugs.
“I don’t think I would be either,” he gently admits, “it’s just a thought.”

[poleaxed]

She pats his shoulder, "appreciate the thought."

It's always novel when someone assumes her to have, oh, average intelligence, much less the amount found in players of the Game.

"Don't think the sister has any interest in me, truly," Jone says, "but that might be good. Might mean she'd just sign me bills and fuck off."

[altusimperius]

"Ideal, I suppose," Bene muses, having never had a patron or any need for one-- though now that he's a typical working man without access to his parents' riches, maybe that's not such a bad idea.

But, first things first.

"Thanks, um." He looks down at his feet as they walk, suddenly shy, "for asking me."
It doesn't take a lot of social cleverness to see right through that to 'thanks for talking to me at all when I'm feeling vulnerable', but sentimentality isn't the strong suit of either of them.

[poleaxed]

She pats his shoulder once again. "Looked like you needed to have your mind on something daft. Lucky me, always ready for pointless conversation."

[altusimperius]

He smiles faintly, bumping his shoulder against hers, some of the tension seeping out of him.

"I suppose I thought you'd all be through with me now."

[poleaxed]

"You really shouldn't underestimate how bloody stubborn I am, lad," she says, laughter slight in the back of her throat. "You could get rid of me, but you'd have to really put in an effort. None of this accident nonsense."

[altusimperius]

The smile grows, self-conscious though it may be.
"Well, I don't want to get rid of you." He squares his shoulders, feeling as though he's treading carefully, afraid to dip his feet too deeply into whatever emotional vulnerability is lurking beneath them.

"...I'm afraid Gabranth--" he begins, and cuts himself off, shaking his head at the ground.
"...I don't want to get rid of him either."

[poleaxed]

"Gabranth..." Jone frowns, sighs, tries to decide what to say. She still doesn't trust Benedict not to open his gob to anyone he deems interesting, including Gabranth, so she has to craft her words without actually confiding anything.

Diplomacy ain't no joke.

"You know all the stories you grew up on? True knights and beautiful princesses?" A moment, wait, "well, we grew up on those in Ferelden, at least."

[altusimperius]

"I did too," Benedict says with a nod, "well-- sort of. Sometimes." When his nanny could sneak them in between the usual tales of superpowered mages.

"...he's a proper knight. Not like a Templar." Which, if anyone asks, are Shit Knights.