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

will match format;

[clawings]

→ a. on the road

This is the first time in a while Erik's been on a mission with a group of people where he can just shoot the shit with whomever and not worry about who they're taking out at the end of the day. It's a dragon, for fuck's sake; his life has gotten thoroughly weird since he died.

Anyway.

Traveling by horseback in a group? A little boring. Especially when one person does not take off the helmet for any reason, and two of them are having some kinda fight that Erik, at least half on purpose, knows very little about.

"Do y'all... play games or tell jokes or any shit while you do this or is it just hoping some wild animal breaks the monotony?"

→ b. is for bathhouses

So this is nice, actually, though Erik is spending a lot of time in the products section of this experience, Mostly he's looking for something thick enough to be used as a binding for his locs. Months in a different world and his hair has gotten longer than he's used to, and a little messy. So he picks up bottles, reads them, opens them, sniffs them, and puts a little on his fingers before he settles on something that seems like it'll work and not have him smelling like night-blooming jasmine or whatever.

The last thing he needs is his hair to get attacked by pollinators or to be sniffed out by something else unpleasant.

→ c. ya schmooze or ya lose

Erik is in black and dark blues, his mask of nothing in particular but set in the same colors; he'd felt conflicted about that detail, but there aren't many large cats in this part of Thedas and he didn't know what else to do about it, so. Here they are. No one knows it bothers him anyway, so he's going to pretend it doesn't.

He's really good at pretending.

This is probably part of why he's with Diplomacy, actually; he's good at this part of things, anyway. He has on gloves, but doesn't hide that he's with Riftwatch; his accent places him as foreign and he plays that up. It doesn't hurt that he understands more Orlesian than he speaks at this point — he knows enough to explain himself but the rest has to be conducted in Trade. This means that people talk around him like he doesn't understand, and he smiles and nods and dances in just the right places to be seen as an enjoyable company for the evening.

These folks are the worst, quite literally. They keep talking about picnicking and it raises his hackles for unknown reasons. But he smiles, and nods, and eventually makes his way over to someone he knows.

"I think we're gonna have an audience tomorrow."

→ d. wildcard me

[ Do your best or your worst, I'm not in charge of you. ]

[nonvenomous]

”Death and suffering are all part of The Game,” says Richard, in clipped Orlesian.

He’s casually spiking the punch with an entire bottle of something he found on another table, easy to miss in shades of green and bronze that blend in well against the dust-blasted landscape. His mask has tall ears and a narrow snout, blue eyes sharp behind the vulpine brow. Big cats may not be part of the Olresian fauna, but there are foxes aplenty.

He is also wearing gloves.

“Punch?”

[clawings]

"Is that one of their mottos?" He's heard it before, tonight, but otherwise wasn't as well-prepared for this engagement as he could've been. Too busy studying about dragons, honestly.

He nods at the punch request. That looks delicious and drink worthy, thank you.

[nonvenomous]

“Just an unflattering observation.”

Glunk, glunk, glunk, the bottle empties itself, and Dick sets it aside.

He’ll ladle Erik a cup after giving the bowl a stir, chunks of ice and fruit stamped out in floral shapes drifting in a noxious, shimmering sea of liquor and juice and who-knows-what. Aunt Sandy would be proud.

He ladles a second cup more slowly for himself, reluctance close to contempt in the way he watches it slip from the bowl.

"Cheers."

[clawings]

Hey if it's guaranteed to get someone fucked up Erik is all for trying it; here is a man who has won an impromptu drinking competition once or thrice. He carefully bumps Silas' cup so as not to cause any spillage. "Cheers." His turn for Orlesian, which sounds like French but isn't at all like French, and thus Erik has a weird accent in it that few native to Thedas can place.

He takes a sip, blinks, and takes another. "Well. Ain't gonna win a prize for subtlety." Glancing around. "Jone'd probably appreciate this."

[nonvenomous]

“If they see you drinking it, they all will,” Richard replies, low over the rim of his cup. They could be spared an hour or two of further conversation if the party gets too wild and has to shut down early.

He drinks, and even behind the mask and beneath the trim of his beard, disgust carves a clear hollow into the clamp of his jaw after he’s swallowed. It takes him a distinct beat to collect himself.

“I should have asked earlier: will this be your first time facing a dragon?”

[clawings]

"Good point." Erik can take one for the team in that respect, certainly. The faster this party ends the better, in his opinion; the rich people are all the worst, snobbish and stuck up and making jokes like he doesn't have a lifetime of being able to tell when people are talking about him, half-learned foreign language or no.

"Yes." He nods. "I did some research, but there aren't dragons where I'm from." At least, not anymore if they ever did exist, but getting into sorting historical fact from fiction is an involved conversation he's not sure he's up for. "What 'bout you?"

[nonvenomous]

“It will be the first time I’ve faced a whole one,” sounds like an admission, for all that he’s never really had cause to clarify, and doesn’t now. He could've just said no. “Regardless, living dragons from my world are sapient creatures of great power and personality. Negotiation is the preferred method for settling territorial disagreements.”

Like Siri but for useless information only, Richard only pretends to sip his drink the second time.

“Fortunatley their bestial nature here makes it less of an ethical faux pas to slay them for parts.”

[clawings]

So either they've got half-dragon, half-something else hybrids where Silas is from, or he's talking about a physical half of an animated dragon; either way, Erik isn't sure that he wants more information right now, whether or not Silas would be inclined to offer it in the first place.

He does drink from his cup again, though, because he can only imagine what sort of disaster this would be if they had to logic it out with something huge that breathes lightning.

"Any of 'em friendly, back home, or are they all just dangerous?"

[nonvenomous]

“Different breeds have different proclivities.” Richard can make for a tough read even when he isn’t wearing a mask, and has the air of a man trapped in purgatory when he’s forced to travel in close quarters, but there’s a little more life to his posture and the heft of the cup after Erik’s asked. “Gold dragons have a tendency to concern themselves with honor, and will meddle in the governments of other mortals if they’re dissatisfied with the state of a kingdom. Red dragons are ruthless and cunning, green dragons avoid civilization but delight in deception.” And so on.

There's a pause while he considers rambling on, finds his attention drifting to the fancy hon hon hon of laughter at some other story told nearby, and switches tack instead.

“It’s unfortunate that the sapient species of this realm are all so similar in shape and disposition.”

[clawings]

"That's fuckin' fascinatin'," Erik says, and he means it. The child he was who was fascinated by science fiction stories, stories of his father's homeland, also has a healthy respect for 'mythical' beings. He knows elves, now, has dealt with magic in a secondhand sort of way, and now? He's is here to kill a dragon.

It's kind of amazing when he stops to think about it.

"It kinda is. I mean, I wonder how long this fuckin' war would be on if dragons could be like 'nah, fam, cut that shit out'. If one just up an' ate Corypheus I'd be fuckin' thrilled, not even gonna lie."

He empties his glass. "What else is sapient where you come from that ain't here?"

C is for— well, party, in this case

[archademode]

It would be a lie to claim that any amount of transparency dwells within Gabranth; his armor is as unyielding as his own grip on whatever emotions he keeps tightly embedded beneath wrought seamwork— but there are, however slight, occasional glimpses of something akin to sincerity. This party, for example, has turned his already tight posture into something entirely closed-off: he keeps to the fringe of the fete, as far away from eyes and ears as possible, only pacing like a restless hound when the crowd's attention lies elsewhere.

And, as a matter of fact, there's also the tone he uses when he speaks— which as of right now, is Unhappy.

"They favor your company."

[clawings]

Erik has noticed his pacing; it's hard to miss, actually, considering Gabranth is not a small man and his armor has horns on it. Besides which, Erik feels like it's partially his job to keep tabs on what the others are up to at any given moment at this party. He'd hate for them to get separated and ambushed or something.

That seems like the sort of shit Orlesian nobles might get up to.

"'m just a good liar," Erik points out. "None of 'em know me; it ain't my company they're interested in, just the novelty of having met someone from Riftwatch who is probably a Rifter, can't you just tell." The tail end of that sentence is done in his best Orlesian imitation of Trade, which isn't that bad actually. "You 'n' Jone, make 'em nervous, but her less than you."

So what's up with that, compatriot?

[archademode]

“Conversation has never suited me.”

He gives that admission freely, without shame; they’ve been on the road at one another’s side for days yet, and so it must be obvious by now in some respects, that the man who says little and shows nothing fares poorly in sprawling crowds and demanding conversation.

Shocking, he knows.

“For now I make no apologies for the ill fit of my presence. Better they first witness the fight, and only then focus my effort in appealing to their nature once their bloodlust is satisfied.”

Admittedly, he still doesn’t sound thrilled about that notion, but sworn obligation is ironclad: he intends to see this through.

[clawings]

"Hey I wasn't expecting you to apologize, just callin' 'em as I see 'em." Erik gives a little shrug and takes a canape from an offering servant, murmuring his thanks in Orlesian. "You been a fighter your whole life, huh?"

[archademode]

"Is it not so with you?"

After all, Erik bears his weight differently than the nobles that surround them— a little more balanced towards the front of his feet rather than limply relying on the wedge of his heels to remain upright. That, and the fact that he is with them for the purpose of fighting a dragon: few would rush in to accept such a mission that weren't steeled some way to the idea.

Still, Gabranth owes a proper answer. And as much as he likes to claim the past holds no sway over him, there is a stiffness that seems to swim through his voice when he confesses as impassively as he can manage:

"War chose to claim my homeland early, and I've not left its grasp since."

[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'."

[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]

"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."

[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.

[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.”

[clawings]

Erik's eyebrows go up and he almost lets out a whistle, but he knows that doing so would bring undue attention over to their corner, so he just shakes his head instead.

"I thought dyin' was enough." His eyes scan the room, taking in the tittering nobles and the dancing people and the members of their party, scattered throughout. "Then again, I dunno how long I was dead for, exactly, before I got here."