faderift | [ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

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[ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

WHO: Tiffany, Barrow, Astarion and...you??
WHAT: an assignment gone terribly wrong
WHEN: week 5, segueing into week 6 of the plot, just after dragon tracking concluded with a terrible, literal bang
WHERE: the most silent portion of the Silent Plains, nearer to Hasmal, and not far from Tevinter's very nicely constructed base
NOTES: cw for injury, darkness, being stranded, absolute idiocy | OOC POST: here

Previously: having successfully scouted Primus Taxarchis’ base in the Silent Plains, Tiffany, Barrow and Astarion make an unsuccessful escape under the fully alerted watch of the base’s active forces— provoking a near lethal counter attack that sees them crash landing not far away, and forcing the stranded trio to desperately petition for help.

That’s where you come in.

The ravine runs like a crooked gash throughout desert sands, deep and layered, sloping inward at an angle too steep to safely (or reliably) climb. Easy to spot from above, not as easy to get into without breaking an ankle or an arm, and impossible to freely clamber out of once inside: the stone is brittle and flaking to the touch, lean too much on it, and you’ll drop right to the earth along with it.

The caverns connected to it are far more accessible— the only downside is they’re labyrinthine in their knotted nature: it’s easy to reach an end too narrow to be traversed, or so broad that it loops back on where you’ve already been, descending downward in steeper layers, becoming a near honeycombed network at points.

Of course, you also might not be alone in the dark. This territory isn’t as unclaimed as appearances might otherwise suggest, factoring in proximity to the base the three had been previously scouting. Luckily no overwhelming force has been sent to give chase and comb the desert in pursuit, but that’s not to say there aren’t still eyes to be found in the depths of lightless pathways. Armor-clad agents working for the exact same reasons you are, their noses to the trail.

Well. Not the exact same reasons.

The temperature is freezing cold at night, and in the fuller depths of the caverns where light doesn’t reach, that’s a near consistent constant. Firelight might draw attention, for better or worse. Magic, too, and— despite earning the label of Silent— there is wildlife occasionally to be found. Proof of life’s perseverance even in the harshes of places, fleeting and skittish.

Or dangerous.

Whatever approach is taken, one thing is clear throughout: none of this is going to be easy.

[ooc notes:

-The trio rest at the very bottom of those lightless depths where they’d initially fallen, in varying states of wellness and action.

-they’re lacking in supplies, warmth, healing, mounts, protection, a way out— you name it they need it.

-time is a given: none of this will go quickly, so feel free to handwave or assume anything you need to to make your dream threads come true.

-this timeline wise takes place at the end of week five segueing into week 6, when Riftwatch forces are free to head home if they care to, but given that this is technically hostile territory between Primus Taxarchis’ base and Hasmal, it’s probably going to be a deliberate choice if your characters decide to come here.

-pls just don’t do anything to officially alert the nearby base in full, that would be Bad— and super difficult to do from a hole in the ground but mostly just Bad. Otherwise chase your bliss and make your wildest spelunking/survival/heroic fantasies a reality.

-ooc post is here, for all your delving needs and details.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't move to stand immediately, concerned with making sure Astarion's a little more comfortable and stable first. He reaches out, makes a few little adjustments so the coat doesn't slip off Astarion, covers him more fully.

The comment earns a smile, brief, as he drops his head. As he looks back up, he comments, "It's not too late to take up knitting after all. I hear there's a lot less danger of nearly getting killed."

Pot, meet kettle.

“I said that we have to stop meeting like this. Not that I want to die of boredom instead of blood loss.”

It’s an important distinction, especially after the last few weeks.

Still, he shrinks a little more beneath the coat, relaxing. As much as anyone can under all present circumstances— though even over the leather and sweat, he can smell the iron tang of blood.

“...how many of the bastards are out prowling now?”

"Hard to say."

He says and breathes out, looks back towards the way he came as if to be sure there aren't any other soldiers back there.

"The caves don't make it easy to tell; we're finding out about them by running into them, more or less." Sometimes at least, they get lucky, can avoid or evade. "But with the base so close by, it almost doesn't matter what the count looks like."

More Venatori can always stream into the caverns, and, God willing, they can leave too. Any kind of encampment down here would be more temporary than theirs.

“Fleas,” he sniffs, curling his lip in disdain. “Vermin.”

A pity he didn’t manage to kill more on his way out of that damned base— in case you thought humility was the lesson he’d pull away from this disastrous fiasco.

“You’re going to freeze without this.”

The jacket, he means, setting his own pale chin across the collar.

One might expect James Holden, who'd gone back into the smoldering remains of Tantervale till it almost killed him, who'd treated refugees from the city the same as those from Tevinter, to take some issue with that response. Then again, maybe one wouldn't. Regardless: he lets it pass without comment.

He looks back to Astarion, short-lived confusion fading when his eyes fall back on the jacket. In truth, he's already broken out in goosebumps; but he'd thought to wear long sleeves, so he isn't completely exposed to the elements.

(He considers that, at least, Petrana isn't here to scold him as she had the last time. He could go a while longer without hearing James Holden in a tone of voice that makes him instinctively feel like he's about to be grounded.)

"It's just for now," with a shake of his head. "And I grew up playing in snowdrifts that were taller than I was. I'll be fine."

“Always those three words: I’ll be fine.”

He scoffs it in the same way he’d scoffed about Venatori— albeit with noticeably less ire, and something more akin to fondness, even in disapproval. Familiarity, maybe.

His thoughts are a mess and the sand is cursedly cold, and he’d burn the nearest body for a little fire if it was his choice to make.

“I’d ask if you ever get tired of saying it, but I know for a fact the only thing I’ll get back is I’ll be fine.”

His eyebrows climb up his forehead. If he's said that so often as to annoy Astarion this much, it hadn't been deliberate or even gone noticed. At least, by him. Clearly, Astarion has.

"If you'd prefer to freeze, you just have to say the word."

Would sound more like a threat coming from someone else; or at least, could sound more like a threat if he wanted it to. But they both have to know that he wouldn't, least of all after running all the way out here.

"What would you rather hear?"

"No." Astarion counters, drawing the coat closer to himself the way a child guards their own blanket. "...you wouldn't dare take it back."

You gave it, now he's keeping it.

Still, even as he hoards his meager consolation prize for an assignment gone terribly awry, he isn't so far gone that he can't stir up an answer that fits his own listless trains of thought:

"Sit down, for one. Tell me how things are going out there."

Well. Astarion doesn't seem in danger of freezing to death at right this moment, and Holden has a hard time imagining he'd suffer in silence. Bringing over a blanket can keep if he needs the company more right now.

So he shifts his weight, goes to sit down more comfortably. Astarion might notice that he still favors the good leg as he moves; he can use the one that'd been broken more or less normally now, but the strength hasn't fully returned yet, and the cold doesn't help.

He breathes out, says, "Starkhaven had forewarning, so they were able to prepare for the army. The siege is going to be goddamned difficult, but they were able to get some of the vulnerable out, mount some defenses, and stockpile supplies. Their prince and his forces made it back before Tevinter dug in. I'd just gotten back to Kirkwall when I heard Barrow and Tiffany on the crystals."

“—there’s a Prince, now?” Astarion puffs faintly, having once again manage to tuck the collar of that jacket high across his chin, letting it rest just against his mouth. In bright light, it’d probably look ridiculous. Humans, however, aren’t well versed in seeing in the dark.

And Astarion’s more interested in stealing warmth more than he is whatever Holden’s opinion of it might be.

“Is he wed yet? Or dead yet— if Starkhaven is doomed, I suppose.”

~~Asking for a friend.~~

"He was in Orlais," he provides, in the space between Astarion's question and the rest.

And if he notices anything about the way Astarion chooses to keep the coat on top of himself, it goes unsaid — especially in the light of the next questions.

"I didn't think to ask about his marital status," he says, bewildered. "But I can say that he's not dead, and Starkhaven isn't doomed. They have a better chance than Tantervale or Hasmal did."

"Better chance doesn’t also mean not doomed. It’s a zero sum game: they’ll either weather it...or they won’t."

And right now, shivering faintly at the base of a chasm, Astarion wouldn't bet money on either outcome.

"Did you at least see him before you left?"

Marriage doesn’t matter half as much as pretty. In fact, one might argue it doesn’t matter at all.

Edited 2021-08-01 06:41 (UTC)

"I'll try harder," he says, canting his head, "to be thinking of your love life, the next time I'm in a besieged city."

But Astarion's badly hurt, laying in the dark without much more comfort than a coat and the hope they aren't all found by Venatori before they can escape, so he relents —

"He was wearing armor, so it was hard to get a good look at him. He rode in on a white horse."

So it was, at least, very dramatic and fairytale.

Thank you.

Kind of you to realize exactly what sort of accommodations he needs at the moment.

“Well, that’s something.”

Not much, but something.

“I’ll count on you to work out an introduction once this is all finished.”

"I'll write him as soon as we get back to Kirkwall."

Astarion isn't wrong about the cold. It seems to creep in slowly the longer he sits, despite his best efforts to ignore it. There are a lot of things he's been able to tamp down on in the face of the work that needs doing here, but when he shivers reflexively, it can't be helped.

That doesn't mean, though, that he has to talk about it.

"What are you going to do if he isn't your type?"

Edited 2021-08-01 19:35 (UTC)

“You mean if he’s hideous?” Astarion asks slyly, the edge of it middling at best given the combination of breathlessness and chilled focus.

“Depends on how rich he is.”

Red eyes watch Holden in the dark. Perceive that shiver as it slips in, even as they both work to pretend— to varying degrees— that they aren't here. That this isn't so terrible. Or risky, all things considered.

“...wouldn’t hold it against you if you needed to get up and roam. Venatori might. But I won’t.”

He just makes a hmm sound in response to both things Astarion says, a prince's relative wealth and the offer, such as it is. He does move to stand, actually, walks a few paces towards their supplies. He's going to make this concession to his own comfort useful. Of course.

"I will," he says with a brief look over his shoulder as he looks for a blanket, "be fine," because making himself useful doesn't mean he won't be fucking annoying, "especially if I can find — here."

The blanket appears in his hands, and he approaches Astarion again, goes again to sit nearby.

"What's the backup plan if he's ugly and broke?"

Which the prince might be, or may be soon enough, considering the situation on his hands. Jim unrolls the blanket and drapes it over Astarion, jacket and all. It's long enough that there's a small length left over, enough to pull over his lap and cover his hands with. Which is a significant improvement over, you know, nothing.

"Then I imagine I'll have to pass." His eyes draw shut beneath the combined pressure of the blanket alongside that coat— alongside bandaging and the remaining wounds beneath. Just a silent moment of wordless acclimation, offering up a narrow opportunity to catch his breath for the sake of continuing conversation. "An impoverished title doesn't amount to much in terms of conquest, and no human royalty in a world like this is going to sling their arm around mine to even grant the benefit of land or claim, so..."

Astarion's attention wanders lower, briefly, surveying the way Holden's tucked himself barely beneath its edge. Just a passing glance.

"Nothing against ugly people, of course...It's not their fault. Most of them have winning personalities."

"That's generous of you to say."

Though he says it with genuine amusement, makes it a long way from being a barb. And he goes on, with similar good humor:

"I didn't realize conquest was what you were after."

He thought it was just attention, let's be real.

"Sometimes." He admits, without shame in his voice. It's instead laced with the tension of a swimming mixture of pain and stubborn cold (hard to work up body heat under a blanket when you're missing it to begin with, and what lingered in Holden's coat is already ebbing). Maybe— just maybe that's why he confesses a moment later, "Sometimes not."

Again, his eyes trail down towards those hands, and the lining of the blanket. Again he seems to mull something over before he murmurs, thinly:

"...come here."

His assumption is, of course, that there's something Astarion needs. That he's in pain, that he'll ask for a healer, or for another blanket, or some food or water. There's no hesitation as he moves closer, concern puckering his brow.

"What is it?"

Well. Things being what they are, he can’t exactly reach out and drag Holden to him in an effort to get his point across. Probably for the best.

He’s never been the brute force type anyway, perhaps shocking to no one.

"Must I spell it out for you? Get under the damned blanket, darling."

Astarion tips his head to one side by a nominal difference of degrees, attempting to both look at Holden whilst simultaneously avoiding pulling at the mending wounds peppering the lower slope of his own throat. A delicate balance.

He does well enough.

"...no point in us both freezing for pride."

Astarion probably realizes that he made the right choice in how to word that. Just insisting that Holden keep himself from freezing would've made him dig his heels in. But if Astarion suggests it's going to help him...

Well.

His lips twitch by way of acquiescence; and he comments,

"Try taking a guy out to dinner first, next time."

Which is not, of course, a no. He lifts the blanket cautiously, not intending to expose Astarion to the elements unnecessarily, and settles himself down beneath it. There's only so much space underneath, but he tries to keep some small distance between the two of them; God forbid he move without thinking and hurt him more.

“I tried making a reservation, but apparently the nearest location is hostile.”

Humor, brittle as the sand beneath them, makes everything a little more comfortable, after all. A little more bearable. A little more normal, when all the world feels tilted on its side and deeply imperiled.

There’s thought that could be given to the idea that if even one Venatori agent manages to persuade someone higher up to truly commit to this search— that it might be a deeper threat to them— there won’t be enough time or supplies to crawl out of here unscathed.

But that’s hopeless cynicism. A problem that hasn’t yet reared it’s hideous head.

And there’s no point in entertaining that.

So instead he focuses on something else. On the warmth beside him, bright as embers compared to deathly chill. A balm.

“Who’d have guessed.”

Brittle though the joke may be, it earns a soft laugh, no less genuine for the necessity of quiet. Bleak humor is as much as you can get sometimes, isn't it. Morale can be as important as the wellness of the body; despair, in times like these, would actively hinder their ability to survive and escape.

"I hear their service is terrible, anyway."

There's an echo in the room, or it seems like it. This might be a moment to make a promise like Astarion had made to him not so very long ago: I'll make sure you die before they take you. He could. He doesn't.

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