faderift | In the Armor of the Dead

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In the Armor of the Dead

WHO: Anyone in the Gallows
WHAT: An(other) attack on the Gallows
WHEN: The next night after Satinalia. Enjoy dealing with two weird attacks back to back, now while hungover! Sorry.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: This is the somewhat belated October mod event, as the theme may indicate. In addition to this open post there are also several open top-levels below with specific tasks PCs can help accomplish. There's also an open crystal catch-all post for event-related chatter. If you have questions, hit us on the Mod Question channel on discord.

Just after dusk, those standing guard duty on the walls will hear an odd rattle and clatter, like debris knocked by waves against the rocks below. Except it grows closer, scraping up the side of the fortress. Rats, maybe? Things do echo oddly here in this tall stone fortress with the sea crashing at its base on all sides, especially on evenings like this where the fog has rolled in across the harbor, catching some sounds and carrying others. By the time this noise is enough for someone to look down over the parapet, it's already too late. A host of dripping corpses has already clawed its way up the walls and now they come over it, pouring up and over the eastern battlements first but the others only moments behind. They come in numbers uncountable, crawling over each other, enveloping the Gallows in a wave of the dead.

Many are skeletal, the rest with the shrunken shrivelled flesh of a mummy still clinging to their bones. A few are dressed in the tattered rags of the long-dead, but many are in armor or finery from ages past or the blood-spattered outfits of everyday Nevarrans. It won't take long to figure out Nevarrans is what they are--surely the still-possessed dead of Nevarra City, old and new, somehow transported from that abandoned capitol to Kirkwall. A year out in the elements instead of in the protection of the Necropolis has not been kind, but the weather is not the only thing that has been working on them. Each and every corpse has red lyrium growing within it, crystals jutting out from bones or erupting through leathery skin, crusting stripes across skulls or adding vicious spikes to limbs.

They tumble down the stairs into the courtyards and flood through the fortress until they meet resistance or doors too heavy to batter down (there are some benefits to living in a prison). The spirits possessing the dead hum with the aggressive intensity that lyrium inspires. They fight viciously, without magic or any great intelligence but a primitive instinct for destruction of any life they encounter and an inhuman lack of fear. Some are armed, with weapons running the gamut from ceremonial swords and halberds to tools and household implements. They will all continue to attack as long as they are mobile, or until the demon within is destroyed. Their rage is indiscriminate but not undirected: anyone caught in the city when it happens can attest that the swarm is confined--for now--to the Gallows only, and any dead driven into the sea at the ferry launch will seek to climb back up rather than turn for other shores. No attempt is made to hold any particular position; they ebb and flow through the complex in constant pursuit of the living.

As Satina rises the temperature drops and the sky clears, the light of the full moon highlighting a merchant ship at anchor not far to the east of Gallows Island, though not so close as to have inspired suspicion. It has been there for at least a day, its position unremarkable in a harbor crowded by traffic too frightened to travel the Waking Sea further. But now a dark mass of lurching movement scrambles over its side into the water and on its deck are two spots of glowing red. A spyglass will make clear the details: a mage on the quarterdeck crowned with a strange helmet of red lyrium, chains of the crystal strung like armor down chest and arms, crusting his staff. On the fo'c'sle a Templar in an identical lyrium helm, armor studded with lyrium and cut to accommodate the crystals that grow out of her arms and shoulders. Their eyes glow red and lips seem to move in unison.

By dawn, the the eluvian the dead arrived through will have been destroyed and their flow halted, and the bomb they delivered into the Gallows disarmed or otherwise neutralized. There will need to be a thorough sweep of the fortress to ensure that all are located and re-killed, and the dead-again will need to be disposed of. The presence of red lyrium in the corpses may require some additional Cleansing of the fortress as well. The morning will also bring news from agents elsewhere in Thedas that Kirkwall was not the only target. A similar attack struck Cumberland, and another was intended for Val Royeaux, but the ship carrying the eluvian was intercepted before entering the harbor by the heavy Orlesian navy presence guarding the capital and instead the dead swarmed over several naval ships before they were destroyed.

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(starters below; lemme know if you'd like one! she's fighting all over the place and will lend a hand if needed.)

They'll be working overtime in the infirmary, it's almost laughable that either of them thought there might be room. Gwen's injuries are, thankfully, minimal. She's already getting her clothing out the way of them, inspecting broken skin. Abby glances over the tops of many heads and draws her toward a quieter corner where she can sit on a stool.

"You need anything?" She wipes sweat from her eyes with grimy fingertips, blinking in the dull light, "I can probably wiggle through and get it for you."

“Something to clean it with,” she says, shrugging out of her coat and unbuttoning her leather vest—the shirt underneath is salvageable, she thinks, but has certainly fared less well than hardier items—to get a better look at what she's working with. “A needle, scissors, cat-gut—bring a lamp over here if you can.”

They've got glowing fucking hands, if she can't.

“Bandage would be nice,” while she's making requests.

"Got it," Abby tells her, and leaves her to her poking and prodding, cutting a path through the people and toward the little cupboards and cabinets up the back that houses supplies. Everybody is busy, moving constantly. Her fingers scrape the bottom of a container; there isn't any elfroot left. Shame.

She brings back everything but the scissors.

"Did I ever mention I came here from a place overrun with the undead," she remarks idly, handing over the needle and string of cat-gut. The lamp she'll hold onto, lighting the scene for her, "This whole thing feels a little... homey."

At least between them they certainly have more than enough knives to make up the difference. Gwenaëlle glances up from where she's in the process of unbuttoning half her shirt and her trousers to get at the slash between hip and ribs—it's more awkward to heal than life-threatening, it'll be better for cleaning and stitching in place—with a cocked eyebrow.

“Here I thought I was from somewhere fucked.”

She still is, that's the joke.

(And don't worry, she's got elfroot.)

The efficient way that Gwenaëlle sets about what she's doing speaks for itself to experience, though probably not the sort that Abby might imagine. Probably, she reflects, there is a great deal about their lives they wouldn't imagine of each other.

“Wardens get away with all their bullshit because they're so useful keeping that sort of thing at bay.”

"You are." It's Thedas. Demons are real.

She leans up against the wall in lieu of taking up a second seat, and lifts the lamp a little higher, bathing Gwen in soft yellow light. It flickers, due to the flame, but that can't be helped.

"Well, maybe Riftwatch can get away with a little bullshit after the dust settles, too." It's not too much to ask for, is it? To be appreciated by the people they've just protected (or at the very least, not feared by them).

The sound Gwenaëlle makes is indelicate, and before she actually speaks it isn't entirely clear whether it's a response to what Abby's just said or a reaction to the fact she's cleaning herself up in preparation to suture her own flesh closed. Either is plausible, but “Don't hold your breath,” does push it in a certain direction.

It's probably for Abby's sake and not her own that she ties off her shirt above the wound rather than just taking it off (there's nothing underneath it, because why would there be when she has no tits); too many nude portraits of her exist for it to be any actual modesty on her part.

“We're not going to get much credit with Kirkwall for something that can that easily be spun as just our problem in the first place. Motherfucker,” is an unrelated complaint, because this stings.

Yeah, even to her own ears it sounds a little too hopeful. Whatever. Abby shrugs, and watches her tend her own wound, and doesn't ask if she wants a hand because it's more than obvious that she doesn't. Besides, Gwen's having her hold the light, she's– helping.

"That's bullshit," she mutters anyway, because the kind of unfairness grates on her too easily. She's young, and has a strong sense of what's right, and: "We didn't do anything wrong."

She can see the way it'd be spun, though. City wouldn't have been attacked by skeletons in the first place if the city didn't house people worth attacking. She frowns, and glances out across the busy infirmary, and spots Margaery in among the bustle, the top of her head bobbing and weaving urgently through people, arms loaded with supplies. Abby watches her for a moment, quiet.

"What happens next?" After they patch everybody up, after the sun rises and they have to face all the damage left behind?

It's happened a time or two, here and there, scattered through recent years: that disorienting moment when Gwenaëlle realizes how far she's come only through the prism of someone else's youth. Of realizing how much younger they feel, even as she knows perfectly well she's still stumbling around like an idiot herself, that there are certainly people in Riftwatch who'd like to put a cloak on her and see if there's an adult she could be returned to.

(Thranduil. Ha, ha.)

“A couple of years ago,” she says, taking a breath in before she pushes the needle through the first pass, “a group of us were lured into a trap and then some dickhead tried to sell us into slavery. Nearly quite successfully, actually. We escaped the caravan taking us north, and had to walk back with nothing. All of our weapons, personal effects, traveling supplies, that was all gone. Took weeks.”

She is, actually, quite good at suturing.

“We got back to our own memorial service. Matthias had learned to pronounce my name and he was really proud of it. S'how I met him. Anyway, we saw healers if we needed to. Got cleaned up, recuperated. And then the same thing that always happens next happened—put your finger right there, I just need you to hold the skin tight—we made a mental note of how fucked up it was, and went back to work.”

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She knows that she's injured, but having time to stop and tally the hurt would be a luxury in this situation. Until that moment of rest Abby can run ragged on adrenaline, she's used to it. She pushes her wounded body, digging into reserves so she can continue the fight.

It's so much later that Abby crests the infirmary with some poor soul far worse off half-draped on her, supporting his weight as best she can with one arm tight around his waist. She helps him to a bed and leans up against the wall near the door, eyes shut.

Her arm, side, hands, fuck, they've blistered from where she touched the skeletons upon occasion, the skin tight and red. Abby exhales, exhausted, and has to wipe sweat out of her eyes with her fingers before she opens them again. She's hurt, but not as hurt. She'll take herself off to rest in– a minute, after a moment in which to catch her breath. Needs to figure out the best way to peel herself out of her armour, too...

Margaery's seen so many faces at this point that her own grandmother could stroll into the chaos of the infirmary and it would probably take Margaery a few seconds to put her eyes, nose, mouth all together for proper recognition. But this is how she prefers it, after the agonizing quiet of waiting for a battle to be over: the nonstop bustling, the tasks that line up for her and help her ignore the ache of her back and the soreness in her feet. There are poultices to make, bandages to change, children to soothe, potions to deliver, bodies to move to make more room -

She's exhausted enough to almost miss Abby's presence the first time she finds the newest addition to their infirmary, bleeding all over the bed he's now occupying, but her eyes find her, a statue against the wall, and Margaery immediately moves in.

"Abby."

There's no regard for personal space, no flirtatious greeting, just a soft calling of her name, the warmth of her hands cradling Abby's face, and the whiff of herbs and blood she carries with her.

"Abby." she says again, more urgently, a thread of fear needling through her calm.

Maybe she takes a little more than a minute in repose, a warm blanket of exhaustion settling over her as she folds her arms loosely across her chest and allows herself to ache. The ragged, unhappy pain in her body, the wet drip of her blood on the ground are both reassurances that she's alive. All wounds scar and heal eventually.

And suddenly, Margaery.

Abby opens her eyes immediately but her gaze is filmy, unfocused. Tired more than anything in need of real worry, but Margaery repeats her name with a warm softness Abby isn't to, and cups her face, guiding her to look.

She focuses. "Hey," she says, voice slightly thick, tongue dry in her mouth. Sweaty work, fighting the undead, "I'm fine." Because Margaery has a little knot of worry in her brow, right between her eyes. "Promise. Are you okay?"

Her first instinct is -

to hug.

Because there's something disarming about the way Abby looks at her and dares to lie to her (or perhaps to herself) before asking if she's okay. Sudden pressure burns from behind Margaery's eyes and she blinks it away, smiling instead and suppressing her initial desire for something more practical.

The relief can take center stage later. For now:

"I'm perfectly okay, but I'll be better if you let me take a look at you," she says, voice already a soft cajoling hum, thumbs gentle as they caress high cheekbones. "Please, darling?"

She sighs, and leans her cheek into Margaery's hand for a moment, a second of pressure before she pulls away. Flyaways stick to her forehead and temples, parts of her braid that have been yanked out of shape, the hair fuzzy. She's a mess, unconcerned with looking that way in front of her, and turning her head to take in the state of the room.

A frown. "Are you running triage?"

Abby won't take her away from somebody who needs the help more, but somebody is tending slowly to the wounded man prone on the bed, hands passing over his body. Nobody seems to be waiting.

Her shoulder aches. She makes a face, rotating the arm uncomfortably in its socket with a hiss of breath; fine. "Where can I sit?"

Abby's standing. She's coherent and she's well-oriented with where she is, and in the small pocket of time they share in silence, with Abby's cheek against her hand, Margaery allows herself to also take a breath.

"All the stools have been taken for different stations throughout the infirmary," she says; a smooth little lie to keep Abby from looking too hard as she guides her through the organized chaos. "But we've got several cots here that should be more than useful after I assess your injuries."

She waits to make sure Abby sits down first before fetching a gourd that volunteers have been refilling with water.

"Drink. And let me take off your armor." Neither are presented as requests.

She didn't know that Margaery assessed injuries. Abby is very sure that there are a great many things she doesn't know about Margaery, but that's why she likes her; she takes her seat with a grunt, and a dull clunk of armor. Taking her weight off her feet helps immediately.

Always strange to be on the other side of this. She frowns into the gourd, and holds it for a moment between her knees before she lifts it to her mouth.

"Okay," she mutters, into the lip of it. There's no arguing with that, clearly. "It's– here, somewhere." A vague gesture at her left side, palm circling the gear that protects her hip and waist. "Hurts the most."

That and her hands, which of course she had to ignore as best she could for most of the fighting. She shows them dutifully: her palms are chapped and irritated, and there are large blisters underneath of her fingers, broken open on the hand she held her mace in, bloodied and tender. "I– don't know what happened, but I touched them, and it burned."

Edited 2021-11-09 09:14 (UTC)

She'd begun today with a lot of fumbles, delicate fingers struggling to free stiff buckles and undo tough knots, and the press for time hadn't helped any. Now, though, Margaery has clearly taken off enough armor for her not to flinch at the heaviness of it when she carefully orchestrates pulling it off. Nor does she openly react to the endless amount of raw, irritated skin Abby presents, although there's a tense jump in her jawline if her patient manages to catch it.

"I'm going to lift your shirt up to check for any deep injuries that might require a healer's attention." she says, once the armor's been set against the cot.

In her effort to stay true to her white lie about the stools, she kneels on the floor beside Abby, hand gently resting against her knee.

"But once that's settled, we have a paste that will help with the burns, and I can clean and apply salve for your blisters. It does not mean you can walk out of here anytime soon though," The jump of sternness in her tone indicates she's had plenty of these conversations today. "The real hidden dangers are exhaustion and dehydration and you're suffering from both."

Her hands hover around Abby's shirt, curling gently around the hem but not lifting it just yet.

"Do I have your permission?"

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The first dim rays of sunlight slant across the wreckage of the main hall, piercing in through the narrow, high windows set into the stone walls as John makes his way towards the great doors leading out into the courtyard. It's all quite a mess, but that's something for—

Not tomorrow. Later today, perhaps.

It's not John's responsibility to consider the toll repairs might take, but soon he will get to his feet and wind his way up, up, up to the Forces office. And there he will certainly spend some time considering the toll repairs might take, in the course of assessing injuries and cursing at this clever ambush, and talking of what might be done. It is perhaps too late for sleep. John will consider that later too.

In the moment, he has found a seat on the steps, and busied himself working free a cork of a bottle that had rolled beneath a table and against a wall and somehow gone unshattered in all the commotion. His crutch is close at hand, tucked in at his hip and slanting down across the steps parallel to his leg. At the sound of boots on stone, he glances up, but doesn't pause in his work.

"I'll have some fortification in a moment," is open offer. "Hopefully this isn't that swill Riftwatch was gifted last month."

"I'd take the swill."

Abby's voice is hoarse, rubbed raw. The night has been long and she's exhausted. Small wonders that anybody let her escape the infirmary but she's been given her stitches, drunk her fill of water, and let the healers at her. The wound on her side is tender only when brushed accidentally by her arm. The elfroot paste on it is doing all the heavy lifting, and she wants to sleep in her own fucking bed. It's the least she deserves, she thinks.

"You good?"

He looks as bad as she does, probably. Abby's out of her armor (small mercies), but sporting a blood-stained shirt and pants. She's very sweaty. She takes a seat beside him, lowering herself with a soft grunt of effort.

She needs a rest before she starts to take the steps anyway. Provided she can get back up on her legs after this.

Drink'll help.

Is he good?

There is ever only one answer to such a question.

"Yes," is punctuated by the muted pop of a cork. "But I'll be better once I've had some of this."

And washed the grit off himself, taken stock of all these newly acquired bruises and scratches, managed some sleep before all that had to be done in the course of the day. Because it is a new day, regardless of what had taken up the entirety of the night.

John swigs from the bottle, and then tips it out towards her.

"Busy night?"

Ha, ha.

"Don't start."

She takes the bottle, glancing at it briefly before she has a tentative sip. It's good, it's strong. She has a grateful swallow, and passes it back for him to take, and hold.

At least everybody seems to be accounted for. Abby hasn't heard of any deaths, only injuries. Pretty good, considered they were ambushed so suddenly after what happened at the Satinalia party.

The silence that follows is tired, but comfortable.

"Stuff like this doesn't happen often, right." She's working at her neck where it meets her shoulder, massaging, her expression slightly pained.

"In the Gallows?"

A considering pause.

John is thinking of a man standing in the Gallows, his face crumpling into grief and then into rage before he burst into flame and warped into a demon. There had been other inconveniences, other attacks, but this is the one that sticks in his mind.

He does not volunteer the details. John watches Abby with the bottle in her hands, and then turns one palm up in a noncommittal gesture. A shrug of a hand movement.

"At least once a year, or so. We've gotten it out of the way just ahead of the new year."

And then they could do it all over again.

"Perhaps I should open a betting pool as to what new disaster might come."

"... Fuck," Abby says, fingers pausing in their ministrations against a tight spot in her neck. She sighs, "Nah, don't do that. Don't jinx it."

She wants a goddamn break. Everybody else will too. She knows by now, all too well, that if anything else is going to happen before the year is out it's more likely to be sooner than later. While they're scattered, licking wounds.

John doesn't seem too bothered. He's been here longer than her, and she's pessimistic, so after a beat she keeps rubbing.

"Are there celebrations? For the new year."

Do they get a holiday. Say yes.

"Perhaps, if Warden Adrasteia takes it into her head to arrange something here. Otherwise, I imagine there will be some celebrating in the city."

It isn't unnoticed, that edge of—

Exhaustion, or something close to it. John has carried that before, hasn't he? He still carries it. Exhaustion so deep that it feels as if it weights down his very bones.

And he recognizes too, that there is no sweeping it aside as neatly as John has always done himself. That's not the way forward, with Abby.

"It won't be hard to find some sort of party, if you're so inclined," is what he tells her instead. "Or solitude, if that's your interest.

"M'not really a party person," she admits after a moment of mulling it over, almost brooding, her gaze on the distance. Hard to think that if she had people to go with, she would. When it's just her, getting started is difficult. "But I could be, if somebody put something on."

Would be a welcome change of pace, at any rate.

"What about you?"

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In the Armor of the Dead

abby a.

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