[open] Satinalia/Hand Your Life To Me

[venenifer]

WHO: Riftwatch
WHAT: the greatest Satinalia surprise of all
WHEN: During the party.
WHERE: The Gallows' central tower top floor and Templar tower dining hall/kitchens.
NOTES: A smattering of violence and mayhem, but easy enough to opt out should you not wish to participate! Feel free to create regular party top levels if that's what you'd prefer, as the interruption will be fairly short in the grand scheme of things.

Satinalia has arrived, and with it a bitter rain which threatens to dampen any attempts at outdoor revelry. However, the staffed dining hall in the Templar tower is decked out with festive tapestries and garlands, extra candelabra to offer more light to the large stone room, and a feast appropriate for any celebration. Kegs of ale and wine sit at the end of the food table with an assortment of bottled spirits, carafes of tea and coffee, and at least one variety of juice made from the fruit of a northern region, just for the novelty of it.

The night’s music is largely provided by Riftwatch’s own, with enough variety of musicians among the ranks that they’re able to swap in and out at will, do some dancing and drinking, and return to the fun.

It’s LATE EVENING when the first revelers attempt to trickle off to their beds, but find their efforts discouraged by the entryway’s unwillingness to budge. It would seem that it’s been barred from the other side; it will also quickly become apparent to anyone who tries the door to the kitchens that it is equally compromised, much to the confusion of any kitchen staff currently in the dining hall.

Before too long, a voice begins to speak over the open network, echoing strangely from each individual crystal in the room:


This is the promise we make in her name. We lead by example, untempered by the words of heretics. We fall to pave the way for the Maker’s paradise.

As was blessed Andraste in her time, we must be cleansed in fire. The world must move forward, ever forward, and to do this it must end.

We must all end.

Comments

[nonvenomous]

The dead clank of Dick’s dagger hitting the floor seems to seal his acceptance of the immediate danger having passed, for all that Marcus is here and swirling spellwork around the kitchen. This is something like being circled by the toothy grins of orca whales who’ve just torn the shark that was trying to eat you in half.

His trousers are blasted clear through to patches of exposed dermis across his right knee and in ragged strips across his thigh. The damage chars deeper in places -- severe but not irreparable. The high rise of his boot has likely saved him from a more terrible fate, leather chewed and blackened crisp, broken through here and there and scorched beneath.

Elsewhere, cuts and burns range from superficial to likely to leave scars. He’s bloody up to his elbow on the same side where he swept at or patted out his own flames.

He trembles beneath the set of Derrica’s hand on his shoulder rather than answer her, tension locked down painfully through his core in an (unsuccessful) effort to wring the rattle out. One thing at a time.

[luaithre]

There isn't much to find on Brother Gideon's body. Most of it's been taken by the fire, but even then, there doesn't seem to be much. Marcus has ducked down, now, making quick work of rummaging through with bare hands, peeling aside ice-soaked, fire-blackened folds, unsqueamish as he encounters raw flesh. Pieces of paper, burned beyond recognition and now wet besides, are left to fall aside. A necklace, with the symbol of Andraste, wreathed in flame.

This, he snaps loose of its cord, pockets it. Lastly, Marcus wraps his hand around the dagger buried near to its hilt in the elf's chest, and jerks this free. Easy to miss, between all the flying rocks and bolts of lightning and fiery explosions, but not insignificant, the weight of it far greater than its balanced perch on his fingers.

He stands, holding it, and moves closer to Derrica and Richard. Questions start and die when he notes the severity of injury. Selects one, then, for its pertinence; "Was he alone?"

oops crashlands back in here

[tender]

Derrica's brow is knit into a sympathetic wince, looking Richard over. Her attention has drawn from Marcus to him in the course of her examinations. Richard's loosening grip on his dagger and Marcus' steady footsteps lend credence to the idea that the altercation has finished.

There is so much damage.

Her hands are very gentle when she eases him onto his back, the better to see the great sweep of what needs mending. One hand sets lightly at his hips, just above the worst of the damage to his leg, and the other sets over Richard's bicep. Two steady points of contact from which she means to begin. When she starts to hum, it's for Richard rather than to work the spell into his body. It's not a prayer or incantation. But it's low and soft and sweet, as blue-marked warmth flows from her palms and spreads across his skin.

And it lingers, cool light glowing beneath the splay of her fingers, even when she stops humming, raising her head to look up at Marcus.

"I didn't see anyone else when I arrived," is the best Derrica can offer, further compromised by the chaos she'd arrived to find. If there had been anyone else, there's a chance they'd departed before she'd entered the kitchen, or under the cover of smoke.

It's for Richard to contradict her.

[nonvenomous]

The roadkill, rigor mortis curl to spine is reluctant to release as he’s laid back, tendon twisted taut through the back of his scorched arm. Tears sting hot at the whites of his eyes, thinning tracks through the blood on his face.

There is an instinctive distrust to his watchfulness, how closely he struggles to track her through his rattling.

Clearly this is an operation he’d more commonly take charge of himself.

But he’s in no condition and the humming seems to put something in his soft mammal brain at ease besides, the more he listens. Remaining tension bleeds off with the ebb of five alarm pain to endorphins and healing magic. The floor isn’t so terrible, now that the kitchen is no longer on fire; he could stand to lay here for a little while.

“Thank you.” His throat is claggy with snot and smoke.

He nods, late, to confirm once it occurs to him: Gideon was alone.

[luaithre]

Despite the primacy of his question, Marcus waits out getting an answer and watches Derrica work. He is only half keyed in, an occasional glance over his shoulder at whatever noise draws his focus—a gesture, something that says it's fine to some query through the dispersing smoke. In his other hand, he turns the dagger around in a fidget of pent up and carefully cordoned energy.

Looks back and down at Derrica's report, eyes flicking to Richard for confirmation, which comes. Marcus nods, then kind of just—bends enough to place the weapon somewhere in reach, the blade greasy with blood.

"I'll come back with help," is more directed to Derrica, hand drifting to touch her shoulder, before he withdraws from the scene. The fragile web of her healing can be easily broken if they don't get a couple more hands in the necessary relocation to the infirmary.

slaps down bow

[tender]

"Thank you," follows after him. Derrica has come more or less to the same conclusion. If there were a lingering danger, it would have struck at them already.

Of course, there is the question here: why had this man acted alone?

But Derrica can pose that later. Richard's thanks is answered with the lightest squeeze of her hand at his elbow. Now, she draws in a breath.

"I'll try to keep the pain at bay until he comes back," she reassures. "Close your eyes, if you like."

No obligation to continue conversation, not when Derrica is fairly certain Richard would rather melt into the stone beneath him. So there is humming again, and the soft wash of green light from her palms, chasing the pain off to a manageable distance while they wait here in the wreckage of the kitchen.