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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"I thought he was alone," whispers Benedict, his voice edged with terror, "it sounds like an army." Perhaps the day has come, and just as he feared, he finds himself unprepared.

Glancing quickly to Edgard sleeping in a bed nearby, he's on the verge of considering a strategy when the door flies open and in bursts a wave of ambulatory dead.

With a high-pitched scream of horror, Benedict simultaneously manages to cast a barrier around himself and the nearby beds with the instinctive swiftness of a squid ejecting ink. The intruders crash against it uncomprehendingly, surrounding the three in their magical dome.

That's -

Certainly not what Byerly was expecting.

It's almost so outlandish that he wants to laugh. Of course. Yesterday, they were beset by a very commonplace sort of terror; today, the Maker decides that that is not enough, and sends this for them. An army of skeletons. How does one even defeat a skeleton? There is no heart to pierce, no blood to shed. No, they're fucked. They're going to die.

Fuck it. He does laugh, edged and pitchy and not entirely sane. It's funny. It's really funny, truly.

Were his wits about him, Benedict might shout at Byerly to shut up or at least do something useful, but he's too busy being utterly petrified by fear; resembling a mouse dropped into a washbasin by a gang of cats, he seems afraid to move entirely, let alone speak, lest his little heart give out.

He snaps out of it, briefly, when the barrier flickers-- it can only take so much pressure for so long before giving out. A strangled whimper leaves him as it does just that, though he refreshes it just in time, a little bit smaller, the dead a little bit closer as gravity pushes them inward.

Edited (icon) 2021-11-15 23:46 (UTC)

Byerly isn't a strong man. He's as gangly and lean as Benedict. But he's also someone who's used to getting jumped and having the shit kicked out of him. When you're a mouthy and penniless little Fereldan shit on the streets of Val Royeaux, it's going to happen. And so, even as he's laughing, unhinged, he's sensible enough to grab a bedpan (mercifully clean), and wind up wide, and use it to swing through the barrier and smash the skull of one of the skeletons clean off.

He staggers a moment later, gasping for breath.

"DON'T BREAK IT," Benedict scream-whispers, and the barrier flickers warningly with the breach of the bedpan. He watches the shimmering membrane, scrambling to center his thoughts in preparation of casting again the moment before it can run out-- but it's been a while, and most of his time in combat has been from a distance.

"Help," he says to no one in particular, and then his fingers remember what to do, clawing for the crystal around his neck. "Help," he wheezes again into it, "infirmary!"

There's no answer.

But shortly after, there is the sound of boots on stone, likely lost under the guttural tongueless snarling of the enemy. Which means suddenly: here's Matthias, arriving to the scene mucky up to the knees from kicking skeletons to bits. He's still got his crystal in one hand, having received the message and taken off running without stopping to reply. His other hand is clutching his staff and without introduction or preamble, he shoves it like a spear into the back of the skeleton and ignites it from the inside out like a First Day lantern.

The orange glow flickers, muted by the skeleton's tattered clothing. It makes a horrible croaking noise, fingers scratching at its chest. Matthias braces his boot against bony arse and shoves, sending the burning skeleton stumbling toward one of its mates, an answering flare to the flickering blue glow of the infirmary's barrier.

"Fuck," pants Byerly, and he laughs again, wheezing and miserable. But, well: if they're doing this, they're doing this; he picks up the bottle of brandy on his bedside (because of course there is a bottle of brandy there; one cannot recuperate sober) and unstoppers it and reaches through the barrier again (sorry, Benedict) to pour the volatile liquid over the non-flaming skeleton.

As soon as the one on fire makes contact, the flames ignite the alcohol coating the other creature. It starts to burn a merry blue.

Glad as he is to see assistance, Benedict can't help but wince at the expansion of flames; but beggars can't be choosers, and Matthias has, at least, given them an opening.
Eyes still wide and fearful, he beckons to the other mage, offering the promise of safe harbor in anticipation of refreshing the barrier again. In the meantime, he cuts his eyes to the sleeping Edgard, his hands poised and prepared to cast. He can try to drag him out, but he'll need help.

Matthias sidesteps the blazing skeletons almost casually, and without flinching at the heat. He has nothing to fear from the fire. It is his, albeit encouraged by the brandy, the smell of which is a welcome bright pop over the stench of charring bone and strips of old rotten flesh. There are others nearby, they aren't free and safe yet, but the situation has momentarily improved. Time for a breath, and a plan.

He steps beyond where the barrier will protect him and makes a quick assessment of the scene. Benedict, the Ambassador's assistant, a wet toff Vint and no one he knows much about only that he's a mage. Edgard, rough and dim and like someone from the village, so much so it irritates Matthias as much as it inspires a grudging half-endearment. And Byerly, who Matthias looks at the longest before he turns back to consider the burning skeletons who are twisting like leaves caught in a bonfire.

"Best if we run for it," he says. "If we can. Is he dead?"

Edgard. He gestures with his chin, staff tucked into the crook of his arm as he raises his hands, an echo of Benedict's gesture and an offer of help. Two barriers are surely better than one while they sort this.

"Run where?" By returns. "I doubt very much these are the last ones. Is the fortress altogether lost? Are we completely fucked?"

There's a grim humor in his voice. And there's a sort of gallows courage, too, the way he hoists his improvised weapons, the bedpan and the bottle, even as he totters and wheezes. He's ready to take this to the death, it seems, even though he's perhaps roughly as capable a fighter as the unconscious Edgard.

"No," Bene says quickly to Matthias, with another glance to Edgard-- at least, he doesn't think he is but based on the fact the man's still breathing, that's a fair enough assessment. "...Byerly, please sit down."

He keeps his voice low, as though the corpses have set some precedent for caring about volume (they haven't); it just seems like the thing to do.
"I can... I can buy us a moment," he adds, flipping through his mental spellbook, "how many are in the hallway?"

Matthias doesn't echo that sentiment. If a certain someone wants to cause himself to pass out by standing around, then he's welcome to do so. It is a pleasant surprise to find Byerly armed and willing, and the glance Matthias flicks at him at least lacks a bit of its usual darkness.

"We're not fucked, as we're still alive." Obviously. "This spot's ruined for hiding and shit for defense. We need to think of somewhere better, and we need to find numbers, if we can, 'cause right now, us together're not exactly the dream team."

(The dream team, a group of knights made famous by bards across Thedas. Don't @ me.)

"So we've got to run for it, as best we can. There's six, maybe seven at the other end of the corridor, and there were four behind me. Hopefully they trip and fall on their mates there while we're dragging dead weight out of here. Unless there's a better idea on offer?"

Byerly looks at Benedict, and at Matthias. He looks at the way they're so bloody young. Make no mistake, he has no love for Matthias - and his feelings for Benedict are grudging, if bordering on fond - but the fact remains that they're both absolute children. And honestly, Edgard isn't the only dead weight. By can feel how thin the breath is in his chest. He'll slow them down nearly as much as the unconscious man will.

"Another idea," By suggests. "You two arseholes escape while the skeletons are distracted by this useless lump and I." His smile is grim. "Send help if you can, fuck off if you can't. Eh, boys?"

Benedict's mouth has gone dry, his hands shaking and gripped by the feeling that they won't do anything he wants them to, even if he tries. He's inclined toward despair and resignation in moments like these, even if the logical, weapons-trained part of his brain tells him he has a chance.
He nods dully to Matthias, but it isn't until Byerly's suggestion that something flips around, shifting from abject, crippling terror to a more welcome indignation.

"Don't be an idiot," he snaps, the pitch of his voice a little higher than it should be, "...I'd never hear the end of it." And, maybe, if he squints, there are some deeply distressing emotional pangs that come with the notion of abandoning either Byerly or Edgard to a violent end, but he's not wrong about the rest of it either. Twenty of him might be worth one Byerly, in the long run.
"Hold onto one of us," he decides, to Byerly, then asks Matthias: "can you help me with him?" He nods to Edgard, who they'll have to drag.
"We can just..." his gaze goes distant as he strategizes feebly, "...keep casting barriers. And move a little at a time."

Matthias, meanwhile, gazes at Byerly and very seriously considers the suggestion.

But, no, there would be too many questions, and anyways, Benedict is right here and he seems rather set on keeping the man alive. And Matthias did recently go on about saving non-mages. So that's got to be on, at least for now.

"We can always leave you to your hero's death if it gets to be too much for us."

Definitely he doesn't want to be the one Byerly finds himself leaning on. Quickly Matthias leans his staff against the wall and goes over to size up Edgard.

"Big bastard, isn't he." Luckily not so much, there's bigger, but even so. He tugs the blanket from the bed, preparing a makeshift and awkward sledge. "I prefer offense to defense myself. But if we're lugging around this," with a grunt of effort as he pulls unceremoniously at Edgard's arm, to roll him off of the bed, "it'll be a bit difficult--"

One more grunt and Edgard hits the floor with a thud. Somewhere down the hallway comes distant garbled noise, something trying to speak without a tongue.

"Guess we have to do it your way. We ready, then?"

Byerly grimaces in response to Matthias looking positively intrigued by the thought of leaving him to die. What a fucking shit. If a comrade offers to sacrifice himself, the obligation is at least to protest or make some mournful noises, not brighten at the prospect.

When they'd talked on the network some time back, By was carefully guarding and measuring his words to seem like a good person. But with that look, By is confronted with the very real possibility: he might actually be a better person than Matthias. Dear Maker. He so rarely is the better person in any given relationship. But Matthias might actually be a shittier, more wretched, lower person than By himself.

Which allows him to be a little sanctimonious - "Maker's breath, you're going to break something of his," he snaps, "don't - " But Edgard has already hit the ground hard, and so By shakes his head.

To Benedict, he says, his tone a little gentler, "I don't need to hold onto anyone. I do mean it. If I start falling behind, leave me."

Reacting to Edgard's impact with a gasp, Benedict's hands curl into worried fists at his chest as he stoops to check on him. There's going to be a nasty bruise, but it would seem, fortunately for all their sakes, this is not the worst fall that Edgard has ever taken.

"We're not leaving anyone," he mumbles, in a sullen and defiant way that masks his rising upset; being in a position of actively campaigning for everyone to live, rather than just himself, is unexpectedly stressful.

He hoists Edgard by the arm, hoping Matthias will take the other one, and glances darkly at Byerly.
"Are you ready?"

A real shit person would not heft Edgard's limp arm and hoist the other half of him up off of the floor--which is what Matthias does now. Surely that balances out some of his dispassion. And maybe balance out at least some of how he'd allowed Edgard to hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"C'mon."

It takes heat to properly burn bones and Matthias' attention had been focused elsewhere, so the fire has largely died down. But even so, the remains have not yet burnt out. The flames cast weird shadows on the walls of the corridor outside of the infirmary. Down the hallway is a steady thudding noise, a hissing of air through death and rotting teeth. A group of five skeletons are bashing themselves against another door. The curve of the hallway puts them mostly out of sight.

Matthias hefts Edgar a little higher on his shoulder as he spares them a glance. "Not looking this way," he reports in a mutter.

Edgard's eyes flutter open and he drowsily looks at Matthias. His head then absentmindedly looks behind him where he catches a passing glance of the five skeletons bashing themselves against the door before they go out of sight..

A small pause.

Edgard releases a loud high-pitched undignified scream.

"What the FUCK?"

He squirms out of Matthias' and Benedict's grip and falls to the ground in a heap.

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In the Armor of the Dead

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