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

[illithidnapped]

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.]

Comments

[thereneverwas]

He sees it as though it's happening in slow motion: Astarion with the blade, Tiffany turning her back, the fire pluming out from the Venatori's hands.

If she dies, they all die. If she suffers grievous injury, they will all just waste away here, helpless and in pain, to be finished off by the enemy or animals, whichever comes first.
That's his reasoning, he thinks-- not how kind she is, the sweetness of her face, the noble bearing that makes him almost, almost believe in the Order he abandoned.
Barrow lurches forward, dropping onto his side and slamming his fist on the ground with a Spell Purge, dissipating the fire a split second before it reaches Tiffany.

Then he blacks out.

[fairforce]

The thing about wearing armor to a magic fight is, you can get cooked alive. Earl is the one who said that to her while they were huddled in the tower, in the teeth of the never-ending blizzard. Ice is better than fire. Fire cooks you.

Tiffany feels the heat of the spell too late, a roil like someone opened an oven and then pushed that over toward her. If she rolls out of the way, she might avoid the worst of it, she has to avoid the worst of it or she will doom them all.

Before she can even turn the heat is gone, Purged away. Thank Andraste. Thank Barrow, and Tiffany leaves the Venatori under her shield and draws her sword. White light spills into the cavern, holy pale. She thrusts it toward the other Venatori and Silences them, and the air is sucked out of their pocket of the ravine, pulled in and winched down and leaving the mage unable to cast.

[illithidnapped]

They’re not a finessed team, altogether. Granted, maybe if Barrow wasn’t choking on his own blood and Astarion wasn’t one step away from becoming Elsa herself, they might have something of a steady system between them. The potential’s there, if not the means.

As it stands, Tiffany holds her own with startling proficiency— her sword quick to find its target, piercing deep enough to draw out a howl of anguish rather than any intended magic. One half of a victory claimed, and it'd be a relief if not for the fact that for it she stands wholly occupied between sword and shield— and the dagger drawn by the agent beneath her shield, hurriedly plunged towards her armor in search of any purchase whatsoever, is anything but tethered by restraint.

[fairforce]

The dagger finds its place at the joint unprotected by Tiffany's pauldron. Its sharp blade digs in right between the links of her mail shirt. She gives a grunt of pain as she feels its bite in the soft meat of her armpit. Only a small bite, but it could become much worse.

But she was trained to ignore pain, at least for the moment--and any fear can be repressed. If she doesn't this could all be lost. She twists around, sword in hand, and takes a swipe toward the Venatori behind her. Her back is to the other one again, but the danger there is less, at least for the moment.

[illithidnapped]

Lessened, but not gone entirely.

And given the fact that she's on her own, they're dancing along the edge of a knife, so to speak: she strikes the first assailant— her intended target— and whether he dies there or doesn't, she's undoubtedly removed him from the fight, if nothing else. The other, however, is all the more vicious for it, even without magic at their beck and call.

Those strong arms rush to seize Tiffany and all Astarion can do—

What can Astarion do?

He hasn't the reach to bite, or claw, or plunge his dagger in deep. Instead he grasps for one of the twin knives Fenris had gifted him— Tevinter in make, though common— hissing through his teeth in tempered pain as he draws his own arm back against frost and torn flesh alike to throw it, blade first.

It lands in the edge of the Venatori's shoulder, just at the junction of neck and muscle, sinking in far enough to have them faltering for the faintest of beats. A narrow, narrow window of opportunity.

[fairforce]

She's wearing armor, but he's strong, and he doesn't need to crush her to be able to wrestle her to the ground. The Venatori that she'd struck is down in the sand, and his blood is black in the night. Barrow is somewhere behind her, spent--it's just Tiffany and this Venatori, and she can feel her right knee weakening, she'll be down in no time.

The knife strikes with that particular thud, steel into meat. Tiffany is well-trained. Drills since childhood, reflexes honed over the years, all down to this one moment. Her reaction is almost without thinking. The knife strikes; the Venatori grunts. His arms relax. She rolls her shoulders, flexes, and his grip is weak enough that she can shove him off, twist into him and knock him to the ground with a shove of her armored shoulder. The next thud is the sound of him hitting the ground and Tiffany pounces on him, forearm braced against his neck, which is now gouting blood into the sand.

[illithidnapped]

It's slow. Viscerally slow. Agonizingly slow. A symphony of dying gasps and grasping fingertips clawing at her forearms, the faint, wet sound of spilling blood.

Astarion, slumped flat across the ground, can't see over the rise of his own chest well enough to know if it's done— if she's all right— or if the only functional member of their assembly's just been mutually lost along with her assailants.

He grits his teeth, barely managing to press a hand across the bleeding frost at the center of his chest, hissing out a breath in some failed attempt at lifting himself again just to pull some sort of conclusion from this.

Instead he gives up, calling out with a voice tensed from throbbing pain:

"...is...is that all of it? Are you alive?"

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Astarion dreads the answer he's asked for.

[fairforce]

Across the sand, Tiffany pushes herself away from the dead Venatori. Sweat sticks her hair to her forehead, and blood leaves her hands sticky. She finds her breath again--breathes in, breathes out--and her next breath in is steadier, less shaky.

She hears Astarion's voice. Then she hears it, properly, the sound ordering itself into words, piercing through the ringing in her ears.

"Yes."

One word. Short. She swallows, rubs her forehead against her shoulder to clear her hair from her eyes.

"We're all three of us still alive."

She throws her leg over so that she's crawled off of the corpse. It is still warm, and will be for awhile. The sand has a different sort of warmth, softer and more forgiving.

"Thank you."

To Astarion. To Barrow. To the Maker.