faderift | CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

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CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

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.

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a. TRAVELING.

It might be surprising to some more familiar with Jone’s reputation (fearsome warrior, etc) than her as a person, to discover she’s not big on the outdoors. She doesn’t whine about it, but it’s obvious in her demeanor, smacking at every bug that comes near her and sitting a little too close to the fire. Andraste Almighty, but she hates the quietness of it all.

“This outfit know any stories?” She asks one night, sitting by the fire.

b. PARTING PARTYING YEAH.

The nice thing about full plate armor is, when it’s been properly shined and polished, you throw a bright colored sash over your shoulder and you’re in fancy dress. Add a mask to that—- hers is painted half-face meant to resemble a snarling mabari, she knows her part and she’ll play it—- and she’s perfect for something as daft as this.

She downs a flute of champagne in one gulp, murmurs something in Orlesian to make the server go away, and says to herself, “do they only serve pisswater here?”

c. PIGFALL.

Once down the cliff, Jone is taking off her stupid mabari mask and putting on her helm when the pigs are dropped.

“Strewth,” she hisses, “bet they’ve been doing that for days. Bleeding miracle no one’s been et.”

d. ENTER THE DRAGON.

When the creature emerges, in all its black scaled glory, Jone is grinning ear to ear. Her helmet is designed to protect from major head trauma, more of a hat than a knight’s mantle: her blood-thirsty smile can be easily seen.

And maybe blood calls to blood. The dragon screams, thunder crackling out of its maw, and Jone screams back, all her fury mostly ignored by the creature’s advance. She doesn’t seem offended, rushing forward with her weapon handy.

WILDCARD.

idc go crazy. you got an idea for a prompt I didn’t hit? go for itttt.

i. Bathhouse

The bathhouse seems a reasonable enough offer to Diana, whose opinion might be discounted, considering her stance on bathhouses as a whole (there should be more of them and they should be widely available). She has the casual comfort of someone accustomed to being partially nude frequently and a great deal of hair to reckon with, even if it's spent most of its time braided and pinned out of the way.

She glances up and offers a smile to anyone who happens to walk in, gesturing with one hand while the other keeps place of the braid she's redoing. "Could you hand me that pin? I managed to kick it out of reach somehow."

ii. Party Time

The best thing she can say for the gathering of Orlesian nobility is that it's familiar. The location strikes her as a bit more precarious than most in her world would choose, but still. Familiar. The role she is expected to play fits as sleekly as the draped gown she's donned, even if the titles attached carry no weight in this world. The gown and the accompanied mask themselves are simple, pale blue with sparse gold embroidery of vines and leaves. Nothing that would draw much attention in between the drama of paneer skirts and large feathered hats.

But in another world, Diana is a princess and an ambassador. Head high and back straight, a grace too fluid to be something affected, she is every inch that woman still. And unsurprisingly, there are some things that cross all boundaries of space and time.

"If you cut my feet off right now, I believe I would thank you for it," Diana says, in the quite, serene tone of one who is dealing with very cramped toes.

iii. Scouting Interrupted

One can't always rely on opportunities to scout out the location of a battle before the fight begins. That said, it's usually safe to assume that dead livestock will not suddenly drop out of the sky, landing uncomfortably close to where one is attempting to scout.

"Ah. That might be a problem."

iv. Afterward

Diana sets herself down with a sigh, once the air clears and she finds all of them very alive next to a very dead dragon. She's tired and sore in a way that's different from normal fights. And also covered in dragon's blood, but at least that's expected. She'd almost forgotten the party on the cliffside until dainty handkerchiefs and flowers begin to flutter down to them, along with another rousing cheer.

"How much of a diplomatic set back would it be to kick the lot of them off that cliff," is the philosophical question she sets forth to anyone who happens to be in hearing range.

WILDCARD

Trust Silas to materialize out of her mask-obscured periphery, reserved and slight in her shadow. His mask sweeps up into a pair of tall fennec ears to offset her hound, ‘finery’ subdued in shades of green and bronze.

He has a flute in his right hand, and nudges the back of her wrist with a leather flask in the left.

“I didn’t know you spoke Orlesian.”

“Oh, bless you, mate,” Jone says, taking a strong pull from the flask before she hands it back, mouth wiped on her fancy sash. “Savior in sore times, you are.”

What was he saying? Oh, right. “Can’t. Not well anyway. Enough to make myself known.” She taps her mask. “Bark orders, mostly.”

“Significant,” says Richard, a little breathless. Not from the fight, but from the struggle of pushing slack jaws apart in the saliva-sticky dirt, with both hands braced around a fang under the curl of the top lip, and a boot set in a gap between scooping incisors at the bottom. He’s paused to rest but holds his position, huffing and puffing, lest he lose what little progress he’s made.

“But if you only kick a few of them, the others might cheer.”

“That’s a pity. I could use the practice.”

But here they are with a small court of living, breathing Orlesians, and after a cursory effort towards pomp and flattery, he’s kicking it with the Ferelden.

He drinks after her -- less deeply.

“Some of them must have unique tan lines.”

"Whoever threw the pigs down. Or ordered the pigs thrown, if they couldn't be bothered to dirty their hands."

Speaking of. She pushes herself up and heads towards Richard, hands moving to help brace the jaws open. "Here, let me help."

Her strength might have been reduced from the norm, but she still has enough to help pry open a dead dragon's jaws without too much fuss.

I. Road Trip

Anyone who anticipated that Benedict would be a big whiny nuisance while trekking overland was... mistaken, actually-- he's not enjoying himself, per se, but he's done this enough times that, at this point, he's just glad to be in the right company for it (and the right clothing).
He keeps quiet most of the time, but alert, his gaze wandering the horizon or the trees. When they camp, he's pensive and polite enough, spending a fair amount of time just staring up at the night sky when he isn't helping set things up.

And in the mornings, he takes charge of the coffee-making.

II. Splish Splash

The lengths to which this individual will go to preserve his appearance, given the tools, are truly astounding: the bathhouse doesn't provide absolutely everything he'd need, but Benedict certainly goes about the process of exfoliating, washing, washing again, rinsing, shaving (more than his face), moisturizing, and preening with all the enthusiasm of someone who has not been able to do this properly for a long while and is certain to make it count.

"Don't rush me," he's quick to snip at anyone trying to hurry him along, "and if you really wanted to pull this off, you'd do the same."

III. Boozing and Schmoozing

Regardless of what some might say, Benedict does have quite a lot of natural charisma; it just reserves itself for occasions like these, when he's primped and pressed and has a glass of wine in his hand. Although he can't wear his wardrobe of choice, which would involve the finest silk brocade Minrathous has to offer, he's doing his best with what he has, and has caught the eye of more than one of the younger partygoers.

Whether he's tittering foppishly over some young baron's joke or patiently enduring conversation with a pretty marquesse, it's going to be quite difficult to pull him away.

[I will tag out for fite threads & aftermath :U]

Edited 2021-04-07 06:05 (UTC)

Anyone there in the moment might swear Benedict got halfway up the cliff just using his hands the instant the dragon came into sight, but the reality of it is one of scraped arms and a white-faced panic that, once it's clear a quick escape is impossible, simply roots him to the spot.

It isn't until Jone goes screaming forward that the spell is broken, and although Benedict looks like he's about to crumble straight to his knees, he instead jerks his staff toward her in a frantic gesture to cast a barrier over her retreating form.

"Here."

The pin is extended into her periphery, and followed by Benedict, who, by the looks of things, is mostly finished with his own bathing.

"You've got beautiful hair," he adds, with the air of appreciation that can only come from envy, not lust, "do you need any help braiding it?"

Back is the order nearly given, one heavily armored hand already poised just above the span of Benedict’s shoulder, more than ready to drag him bodily away from any potential draconic surges forward— but it’s in that moment that dread gives way to earnest effort on the young mage's part, and for that, Gabranth’s own would-be grip recedes in a single instant: traded instead for a reversed hold of his secondary sword.

“Keep watch over her.”

An uncompromising command, one that Benedict might not even register with his knuckles locked so painfully tight around his own staff.

But Gabranth cannot stay to keep close guard along rear lines: that he entrusts to those around him with keen eyes and level heads. His place is ever forward, beneath snapping jaws and in between mountainous claws where they sink deep into quaking earth— twin swords in hand, conjured heat gathering along the edges of their blades— he fits himself precisely where he intends with a running charge, lashing out at tender scales beneath its thrashing gullet.

A dragon is a dragon, after all, regardless of the world in which it dwells.

Her expression brightens somewhat, which just ends up looking clownish under the dog’s snarl. “Oh, I could teach you the swears. Orlesian has the best swears.”

She looks around at the assembled guests. “You’re assuming heaps about these knobs going outside on the regular.”

She’s had a barrier cast on her before, of course, but it’s a surprise. From the way Ben talked about his magic, it was as though he could only mangle people.

A column of blue lightning calcifies the tree nearest her. She feels the heat on both sides; there is Gabranth with his blades again. She’ll have to tell the nobles later that they are enchanted; Gabranth cannot be a mage. Not for his own safety.

Doesn’t matter now. Now, focus on the fight. The poleaxe is a bludgeon and a javelin all in one, though she’s no intention of throwing the thing. But a hearty stab at the dragon’s underbelly is all she needs to get swiped by the creature, coming down hard in the dirt.

Perfect.

When she stands, which she does and with evident ease, it’s with a new strength. Rushing forward, she joins Gabranth with a new strength. The swing of her poleaxe goes deeper into the beast’s flesh, making it flap its wings and howl.

Difficult for some.

For Gabranth, the fete can only be described as a miserable affair filled with music and the sound of laughter— and the overpowering scent of wine lingering on the wind. Jone may have been insistent on the benefit of granting Benedict free rein in regards to matters of diplomacy, but the hour draws late, and soon enough they’ve an obligation to meet, or all of this will have been for nothing.

And Benedict will not drink himself into a stupor beforehand, nor rest through the deed itself.

“Lord Artemaeus,” His advance is audible amongst silks and soft lace: the heavy clatter of armored footfalls meant for giving chase, rather than delicate exchanges. His visage does not fit, his presence an intrusion. A hound amongst nightingales.

“It is time to depart.”

The intrusion merits an audible gasp from those in the circle of conversation, and Benedict, recognizing the voice, gives a little sigh through his nose and looks over his shoulder at Gabranth.

"I'm in the middle of something," he says, exasperated, "it can wait a few minutes."

When he turns back to the others, he shakes his head with a little roll of his eyes. "Bodyguard," he explains, rather than get into it fully.

"Thank you." She gives him a brilliant smile for the offer. "I would very much appreciate that, these styles are giving me a bit of trouble. I'm sure I'll end up a mess without help."

There's a reason she normally wears her hair loose.

Bodyguard, he says, and though there's a touch of truth in it even by Gabranth's own admittance, the dismissive nature of Benedict's entire exchange acts as something of a pulled trigger in that moment: like gripping a squalling pup by its scruff, heavy fingers latch themselves onto the back of Benedict's finely-sewn collar, so firm in their grasp that it threatens seamwork as he turns.

And pulls.

"It cannot."

It's hard not to smile back, even for one who can be a bit reserved, and Bene does as he takes a seat beside her. Combing his fingers through her hair, he first inspects the braids she's already done, and shakes his head.

"I don't know if I can do it the way the Orlesians do, but it'll still look nice," he muses, pressing the side of his hand on the back of her head to find the point of symmetry.

Diana had been scouting ahead to get an idea of terrain, but now comes hightailing it back, slinging the bow off her back.

"How helpful of them," she says to Jone as she passes, falling back to a more elevated spot and notching an arrow, "Pity they didn't see fit to poison the meat at least."

A slow death isn't her wish for any creature, but if someone is going to be a problem to begin with, they could at least have the decency to be a little helpful.

"Then you will already have made a much needed improvement," Diana says. She shifts slightly to hand him a comb over her shoulder. "Your name is Benedict, yes? You're the Ambassador's assistant."

"Yes," he confirms, accepting the comb and beginning to work, his braiding slow but precise.

"I don't think I caught your name."

A loud gasp leaves Benedict as he's suddenly dragged off-balance, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the ground, its contents splashing over the shoes of himself and the nearest partygoer.

"Gabranth-- no--" he stammers, reaching up above his head to claw helplessly at the gauntlet gripping him, his heels digging into the ground as best they can.

The whispering has already begun, and this is already a catastrophe.

Jone considers it. “Wouldn’t put it past ‘em, honest,” she murmurs, almost thoughtful. This is the calm before the hurricanoe. “Doubt it was the right dose to matter. Stormriders’re awful huge.”

Dick has found a sizable jut of rock to put his back to at the floor of the ravine -- broad and robust enough to catch the worst of any lightning that might crack sizzling overhead, but low enough for him to twist and peek over the top when the dragon howls. He's familiar enough with the tone of Jone's cries to read them without obvious concern.

There is room for one more with him, in his hidey hole. Maybe two if they’re creative and flexible -- he’s long and lean in thieves’ leathers. The sort of armor a single talon could easily punch through front to back.

But that’s what he has this rock and the sense of self-preservation needed to stay behind it for.

An avoidable catastrophe, Gabranth would argue if asked— though he hasn't a mind to voice anything at all until they're well outside the bounds of the soiree's inner workings, ignoring the scrape and scratch of Benedict's heels along the way.

When he finally relents, it's on some less-than-crowded ledge, behind a narrow row of somewhat wilted trees and a small, stony outcropping. One without much view to speak of (which is likely why there's no gathered guests present to play witness to any conversation).

His grip goes slack, he leaves Benedict to right himself.

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CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

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III- go to bed cinderella

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