faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The hand finds strong purchase between the collar of the elf's robes and the durable leather collar hiding just underneath - it's almost nothing to tug him back, willowy as he is in build, voice too choked to so much as yelp as he is tossed away from the sudden rush of fire.

He has no idea who this is, but he is grateful; there is no doubt in his mind he would have taken that blow, that he would still have been staring, standing in chains of his own imagining. The momentary obstruction of the corpses from view has shaken him out just enough. It would have to be enough, anyway.

The panic is still gripping him, agonizing, holding his breath hostage. When his reply comes, it's wordless - a curt nod and a trembling, brief crouch to snatch his rapier from where it had clattered to the earth. His expression is pale, terrified, wild...but there is, at least, some sort of resolution in his eyes, a fire that is more than only the reflection of the spell.

I can try.

It isn't him.

They aren't him.

It is no bolstering recovery. The elf seems withered throughout, clinging to the precipice of fear and disaster in equal measure.

But it is all they have. And it is better than fighting alone.

Thankfully the cluster that pours through once flame dies down is no swarm yet. Felled by shared effort, perhaps with tenacity— perhaps with perseverance alone— a break eventually forms, enough that Gabranth is able to gesture to Diabhall for a retreat: the corridor at their back leads to a shuttered cloister, and if they can make it there, they stand a better chance of defending themselves.

“Come. Now.”

If Diabhall cannot manage the walk, he’ll soon find himself carried.

If one thing can be said for Diabhall - at least he tries. Even when he's panicking, even when he's down, he is a man who claws his way out from the pit, time and time again. That's why he pried his heart out, after all, why he has done everything.

To fight. To build.

And that's how he manages to help clumsily beat back the little throng with movements that might be graceful under normal circumstances. He's not an excellent hand to hand fighter, but at least he seems trainable, quick.

But not now. Now, the moment there is the opportunity and the signal for retreat, Diabhall moves to do so with no question.

They run as they must. Contrary to common belief, there is no shame had in retreat: those smart enough to know their own limits fail to fall prey to them— and if a last stand must be made, one ought always stride to claim as many enemy lives as possible in the moments before death rises.

For now, that is not their plight.

Heavy doors slam behind them as Gabranth moves to brace gloved hands against their span, gesturing with a nod towards a nearby block of wood intended to bar the doors themselves. Heavy, but as the doorway shudders and groans, he knows he cannot let go.

It must be Diabhall’s burden.

What Diabhall lacks in strength, he at least carries in speed - when it is time to run, he is lithe and light-footed, white hair trailing in a banner behind him. He comes to a skidding halt behind the door, watching warily as Gabranth shuts it, braces it.

He catches the nod, and returns it, sucking ragged breath through his teeth as he scrambles to it. He is not what one would consider a strong man, but at the least, he is no stranger to moving beams - and so, growling with effort, he leverages it upward, hauling it to rest one end on the bracket nearest him.

Putting his whole weight against it, he shoves it home, shoulders trembling with more than just the exertion.

“You did well.” He calls, panting through his own teeth as he pulls the helm from his head, slipping down to lean against the door for a moment— and ignoring the sound of clamoring undead on the other side, rattling a fortification they can’t hope to pierce.

His blond hair is matted with spent sweat, pale eyes lifting to at last survey his companion.

“Are you all right?”

Once the door is barred and the moment of relative peace settles in, the elf's knees give out, sending him sinking down to sit beside his armored companion. His breathing is still ragged, his eyes still darting to and fro as he comes down from the panic attack that had hit him.

Pathetic. He feels pathetic, but at least he's in. He's safe.

Diabhall drags his hand across his forehead, pulling hair out of sweat before finally responding in something just a little more unsteady than his traditional drone.

"...Thanks to you. That wasn't precisely what I had in mind when I thought I would practice my sword handling."

"Yet you did well, when ruin set upon you." Gabranth counters, recognizing now the voice he'd heard once before. The one he'd spoken to across the crystals some time ago.

How different Diabhall sounds now, laced with fear.

"This world is unkind in its make. It affords little to those of us who dwell now within its expanse." A warning by way of subtler suggestion— and then not subtle at all.

"There will be more of this to come."

"Thank you."

The compliment is appreciated, as this fellow does not seem the sort to give them needlessly - even as inwardly, the elf is seething at his own conduct. He froze. If this man hadn't come to his aid, he may well have perished, then and there, thinking of torment from years and years ago.

That won't do.

"...Of course. Nothing is ever simple," he agrees, tone grim but understanding. He looks down to his hand, pressed to the stone of the floor, still shaking.

Why is it shaking?

"I shall have to get a better hold on myself again. This...this isn't sustainable."

"Was it your first time seeing battle?" Asked in earnest, still wiping the heavy sheen of sweat from his brow.

Long has he fought this night.

Reaching briefly into his robes, Diabhall pulls out a handkerchief, passing it over with weariness in his expression. This man has clearly been fighting so hard...he has only just made it through one battle, and just barely.

"No...but my first without magic at my disposal. I was cut from it, upon my arrival here."

Accepted not ungraciously, Gabranth makes a show of bowing his head in gratitude. The kerchief set to his neck in the next few beats, relieving the worst of that chafing, irritable heat from armor run too high and too hot for too long.

“Here, they would call you tranquil if they knew.”

What he was. What he lost.

At that, the elf only shrugs, expression faded from panic to stone.

"I make no secret of it. And if they were to refer to me as Tranquil, I don't believe my lack of magic to be what would cause the connection."

It's the stillness that would do it. He bears no mark...but there is that hollowness to him, that placidness dulling all his edges. Or...at least, it was that way. Some of those edges are breaking through, now.

He doesn't like it.

In the Armor of the Dead

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