faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD

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MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD

WHO: Nearly everyone
WHAT: Retaking Val Chevin
WHEN: Late Firstfall into early/mid-Haring, 9:47
WHERE: Val Chevin, Orlais
NOTES: Generated injuries here! CWs for violence, slavery mentions. Use content warnings in your comment subject lines as needed.

THE BATTLE

The battle begins just after dawn, once the distraction at the harbor has drawn as much of the enemy force to that end of the city as possible. Bombardment (magical or otherwise) is fruitless while the elvhen shield artifact continues to magically reinforce the walls and gates, but a Riftwatch team is on its way and will soon have disabled it. In the meantime, while the enemy's attention is focused on the harbor the assault begins. The first waves of soldiers are sent up ladders to try to fight their way over. Some make it, and fight their way along the battlements to try to reach the gate below, in hopes of unbarring it from within even before the shield is broken. The attacking force very nearly manages a lightning-quick victory, numbers pouring over a section of the wall left unmanned by the harbor distraction. They might have managed it when, suddenly, a rush of magic descends down onto the walls, physically, enough to blow their hair back and everything, and a glowing dome spreads over the city—essentially an enormous magical barrier.

Those at the tops of ladders suddenly find their blows absorbed by the magic rather than landing on the overwhelmed guards along the wall, while the defenders' blades still pierce through from within. The tide quickly begins to turn in favor of the Tevinter defenders. Some of the attackers are caught already within the walls when the barrier drops, and without more following behind them are quickly outnumbered, either killed or forced to flee deeper into the city to try to avoid capture. There is traffic jam at the top of the wall as forward progress abruptly halts, and at least one ladder accidentally falls in the resulting confusion, taking a dozen or so attackers with it. Attacks from the walls above now rain down with impunity as the attackers attempt to force their way through the barrier, reasoning that all barriers break eventually and it's just a matter of applying enough force. For a short period that feels longer, the battle stagnates, all the damage being taken by the allied forces, the Tevinters on the wall able to regroup and reinforce their ranks.

It takes longer than anyone had planned but finally the Riftwatch team inside the city is successful and the barrier dome dissipates as abruptly as it had appeared. A cheer goes up, flagging morale restored, and the assault takes on renewed intensity. Without their magical protection the gate is no longer unbreachable. Rams are aimed at it and magical force as well, protected by archers and more mages, with assistance from some griffon riders above. The enemy throws down scalding stones, oil, even Antivan fire, but their force is stretched thinner and thinner, and more and more attackers make it over the walls to harry them back. Finally the gate splinters, and the armies of Orlais and the Divine stream into Val Chevin.

The Tevinter and Ander forces don't give in that easily. They make a stand in the central square of the city, fighting on the steps of the Chantry and the lip of the great fountain itself with its four leaping seahorses. They retreat through the streets, broken up into smaller groups, some barricading themselves inside a building, others seeking to hide in a home, more running, or looking for chokepoints they can defend, mages tearing stones out of walls to block pursuit. Some of the people of Val Chevin, sensing an end to the occupation at last, join the fight, driving soldiers out of their homes and shops with pitchforks and butcher's knives, raining trash and debris down on them from windows, calling out warnings and directions to friendly forces, offering water or aid where they can.

By mid-afternoon, it's over. Some of the occupying force have managed to flee into the countryside or into one of the few ships remaining intact in the harbor. Many more are dead. The remainder, perhaps as many as a thousand, are gradually cornered at various places around the city and give themselves up. Not all surrenders are honored--some, particularly Orlesians and locals caught up in the fighting, are eager to dispatch the enemy occupiers once and for all and unless someone intervenes may ignore the laying down of arms. Stragglers still attempting to hide or escape are rounded up throughout the day (some even later), tracked down by searchers or turned in by locals.

THE "SAFE AND SECURE" SHIP

Anchored at what is believed to be a safe distance just up the coast to the northeast of the city, Riftwatch's shipboard base of operations provides a landing and launch area for griffons, triage for wounded, and on large tables and boards a collection of detailed maps of the area and of the city and its various districts on which action is tracked as crystal reports come in. Some are assigned to shifts manning the crystals: taking in reports, asking questions, soliciting aid, sending griffon riders where they're most needed. Others analyze the information provided, plot it on the maps, or coordinate with allied movements. Supplies are doled out from the ship as well, from spare weapons and armor to food and water, grenades, lyrium potions, healing poultices. Though the breeze only intermittently carries the sounds of battle out here, the ship is still a buzz with activity throughout the day.

Disaster doesn't strike until the afternoon, when a group of Tevinters fleeing the city manage to commandeer one of the remaining mostly-intact ships and somehow make it out of the harbor despite not entirely knowing how to sail. They straggle out into the bay, catch the wrong current, and are suddenly on top of the Riftwatch ship. Though smaller and already beginning to sink, the Tevinter vessel manages to tangle itself with Riftwatch's anchor cable, and the couple of mages on board make a doomed attempt to trade up for the bigger, more seaworthy model. They fail, but not before managing to do some serious damage to Riftwatch's ship, sufficient to sink it as well.

A hasty evacuation follows by griffon and longboat. The ship sinks rapidly, leaving just barely enough time to get all the wounded ferried to shore and still come back for the healthy before they go down with the ship.

THE AFTERMATH

IMMEDIATE NEEDS

First things first: the wounded from the battle need to be attended to, including not only those from Riftwatch's ranks, but also members of the Orlesian military, local civilians, and Tevinter and Ander prisoners—though opinions vary about whether or not to provide them with any assistance. The Orlesian military has supplies and surgeons, and Riftwatch will be welcome to either seek care or help provide it in medical tents that are set up on the outskirts of the city even before the fighting has fully concluded. During this first evening, this area is not a peaceful place to be, filled with shouts and moans and blood-spattered people darting between emergencies. Even with Riftwatch's help (and magic), resources are stretched thin enough by severe injuries that those who look like they're going to survive without help might be turned away to deal with their pain and cosmetic concerns the old fashioned ways: finding elfroot sprouting up between the cobblestones to chew on, or gritting their teeth and getting over it.

Throughout the night, paranoia persists about the possibility that belated reinforcements—or, worse, a dragon—might arrive to prolong the battle. Soldiers keep watch along the walls and at some forward locations, and Riftwatch's griffon riders are sent to observe the portions of the occupying force that fled north and ensure there's nothing amiss. Nothing seems to be, but continuing to lightly harass the Tevinter and Ander forces to hurry them on their way and keep them from pausing to ransack anything won't hurt.

In the morning, back in Val Chevin, those who look strong and uninjured are enlisted to help with clearing debris from the places where the fighting was heavy and magical enough to collapse walls and roofs or topple statues, or else loading bodies onto carts bound for the pyres outside the city. By mid-morning plumes of smoke streak the sky. The bulk of the damage and death is concentrated on the docks, where the dreadnought crashed and where the initial smash-and-burn fighting took place. Meanwhile, throughout the harbor, griffons will prove useful in examining the water for concentrations of floating bodies—which need to be fished out to avoid a walking dead problem in the future—or debris that's potentially either useful or dangerous. Given what the dreadnought assault team reports, there's also a careful search for any red lyrium-infested sea creatures in the harbor, but while other pens like the one that contained the very large red lyrium octopus they encountered, all have been destroyed in the chaos and no other beasts are spotted.

TAKING STOCK

Over the course of the week, supplies arrive by land and by sea from across Orlais—some from the government, some from charitable patriots who put together donation drives as soon as they heard the news. About eighty percent are practical and useful: winter shoes and clothing, flour and preserves and other long-lasting foods, bolts of fabric, apothecary supplies, a few dairy animals and chickens. The usefulness of the rest varies, including a crate of used toys (labeled FOR THE SWEET PEASANT CHILDREN), an assortment of expensive hats that were in season last winter, and collections of plain masks and face paints in case Tevinter was cruelly forcing anyone to go barefaced. Riftwatch is given leave to distribute these to people as they find needs to meet.

The surviving Orlesian civilians who have been trapped in the occupied city for the last two and a half years haven't been as starved or brutalized as popular imagination may have assumed, but the experience has been plenty miserable. Outside of a few public executions, agitators and those who fomented rebellion against the occupiers have by and large disappeared more quietly. Due to its collective general experience with the Tevinter language and magic, Riftwatch is given the fairly depressing task of sorting through the cells and torture chambers in Val Chevin's central keep, where records and other evidence of executions remain. It's enough to determine who died and how. Some had quick deaths; others were tortured or used for blood magic rituals. A handful appear to have been removed from the city and sent north to be held in Tevinter instead. Relaying the specifics to family members will generally be the responsibility of Orlesian officials, but family members eager for information may corner Riftwatchers coming or going from the fortress to press them for details.

Over the next couple weeks Riftwatch is also called to assist with handling other remnants of the Tevinter occupation, such as translating documents, evaluating evidence of blood magic, and sorting through relics and enchanted objects accumulated by the Venatori. Among the things left behind is a trove of elven artifacts seemingly extracted from nearby temples. None are as powerful as the shield; most seem to be completely unmagical cultural relics.

Elsewhere, many locals were evicted from their homes to make room for Tevinter occupiers. While Orlesian officials sort through claims to those homes, including several contentious competing claims, Riftwatch is sent into them to sort through what the enemy left behind and make sure they're safe for their occupants to return to. In many they find the ashy remains of hastily burned private documents and a variety of fairly mundane magical objects: spoons that stir themselves, hats that are always cool on the inside, candles that light and extinguish in response to clapping.Each is the work of a bound spirit that can be released or destroyed—or left to continue its eternal work, if someone wants to pocket an object rather than restore it to its original inanimate state. Throughout the city, there may also be opportunities to reunite grateful civilians with appropriated belongings ranging from fine art to beloved old horses.

Orlesians aren't the only ones in the city in need of assistance. A small number of Tevinter slaves—exclusively those performing menial tasks, as far as anyone can tell—remain in the city now that their masters have been killed or captured. With the Orlesian populace and military inclined, on average, to consider them threats and collaborators, Riftwatch's intervention on their behalf is necessary. Interviewing them and checking their stories against witness accounts and Tevinter records, to ensure none of them are Venatori mages or gleeful torturers in disguise, will allow Riftwatch to vouch for them confidently. They may also be able to find sympathetic locals willing to shelter and hire those who would like to remain in the city, though there aren't that many who do want to stay.

Throughout their time in the city, Riftwatch representatives are asked to report what they find regarding the treatment of the locals and any practice of blood magic. While Orlesian officers ask for Riftwatch members to give this information to them directly, it's quickly clear that it's likely to influence Orlais' decisions about how to deal with the thousand-odd Tevinter prisoners. Individuals identified as responsible for atrocities are being tortured or executed, especially if they're unlikely to have or provide information, and there is nothing ensuring the entire group won't be ultimately executed after the dust settles. With that in mind, Riftwatch receives instructions from the Division Heads to instead bring the information to them so it can be compiled, double-checked, screened for any individuals Riftwatch may need to question themselves, and delivered with a diplomatic touch.

GOING HOME (OR NOT)

Approximately a week after the battle, as the majority of Riftwatch is preparing to leave, Empress Celene and members of her retinue arrive in Val Chevin. They're greeted by a restrained military parade and less restrained enthusiasm from the civilians, who will line the streets to catch a glimpse and celebrate the symbolic return of the city to full Orlesian control. Riftwatch's attendance is not mandatory. Most of the organization leaves that day to return to Kirkwall and their other work. However, a small number remain behind for a few more days, overseen by the heads of Diplomacy and Forces, to provide administrative support while the Ambassador and Commander liaise with the Empress' people about their plans for the Tevinter prisoners. As thanks, they might be invited to endure a few stifling fancy dinners.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ starters, hmu if you want something specific that OTAs below don't cover. ]

I. Afternoon:

As comforts go in the field of medical attempts fresh struck at the city’s outskirts, the best that can be said for Mister Dickerson is that he looks like he looks very assured in whatever it is he’s doing, jackson pollacked as he is in arterial spatter. He’s a lean man with a severe haircut and keen eyes, scarred across one cheek, a snip missing out of his ear. His sleeves are rolled crisp past his elbows in spite of the cold.

At times he’s twisting tourniquets tight or helping to pin thrashing survivors down while they’re stitched by defter hands. At others he’s doing the stitching.

The clawing and screaming doesn’t seem to reach him.

II. Smoke break:

Long after the sun has set, he can be found sitting at a campfire near enough the tents to hear the groans of the dying. He smokes as he scrubs blood from around his wrists with a wet cloth, an empty bowl of stew and a pot of filmy water on a flat stone near the fire.

Though he’s hardly the only one smoking, the drift of burning elfroot on the wind makes him easier to find.

So too does the splinter of Fade green glowing in his palm.

III. Graveyard shift:

Later still, he passes between rows of makeshift sick beds like a shade while other healers work on into the night. Tapped, too tired to sleep, he’s buckled up in his armor and the mangy bristle of his cloak to search for familiar (or suspicious) faces among the resting injured. Here and there is someone lying awake in pain or terror, and he’ll pause to share his joint or a sip of whiskey while he assesses their condition if they’re pitiful enough.

His step is near silent in spite of the armor, the tug of a limp at one heel. Glimmers of candlelight show how closely his face is drawn against the bone by exhaustion.

Even once he’s out of weed and drink and standing dim outside the tent to squint at the temptation of a nearby campfire, he’s coppery sharp and smoky with the stench of his evening so far, booze warm on his breath and watery in his eyes.

Edited 2021-12-05 09:10 (UTC)

The next time Richard sees Tsenka, they are both wearing pants.

It's the first thing she thinks of, underneath Julius's arm on his right side, skimming the tent for any faces she recognizes and promptly hauling him in that direction once she has. A surreal combination of surprised pleasure (Zseiless is a healer of some kind, how useful, how good to know) and silly disappointment (it really would have been delightful if they'd at least met one more time without pants, three for three).

She is filthy, in basic armor that looks dented and a little smoky, using her staff to brace both herself and Julius, but it's clear at even a glance which of the two of them is here for medical attention.

“I can't bring him back to my brother in bits,” she says, in lieu of a greeting, “but none of it seems fatal unless I roll him in dirt and leave him there.”

Julius gets a pat on the back, reassuring, a silent: not that I were going to.

Tsenka’s surprised pleasure is met with a behind-the-curtain pang of bone-deep confusion, Silas’ (Zseiless’? Richard’s?) brow baffled in its furrow when he looks up from the saw he’s rattling to rinse in a barrel of -- frankly rancid -- water. This is just to get the chunks off, surely. There is a clutter of similar tools awaiting a more thorough scrubbing nearby that he drops it onto.

It may instill more confidence that he pivots to a pot of fresh-boiled stuff to rinse his hands before he turns to receive them properly. There’s a spare cot nearby with sheets about as bloody as his sleeves; he’ll lean in to assist in levering Julius into it.

“What happened?”

He has the good grace to ask Tsenka only after he’s started thumbing open fastens, buttons, buckles -- whatever barriers there are to flay off of the blood-sticky injuries beneath. His hands are still wet.

“Enchanter,” he thinks to greet later still, as is polite in the process of swiftly relieving a mage of his armor.

Edited 2021-12-07 21:24 (UTC)

He raises his right hand, a little, in acknowledgement of the greeting. He considers, and rejects, the idea of protesting the idea that he is in anything like bits. He has had worse, but it's not the time to split hairs.

(That said, he does have the brief thought that he remembers popping back up from blows more easily during the Denerim. Whether that was due to his level of terror or just being 28, he couldn't say now.)

There's a shallow gash along his left shoulder, but the more immediate problem is the wound to his left side. Like most mages, his main approach to melee is "don't get into it, if possible," but it hadn't been that sort of day, and the Barrier he'd thrown up had been a fraction too late. It meant he wasn't dead, and might not even have weeks of recuperation ahead, as nothing vital was in the thrust's modified path. But in the immediate, he probably does need to stop losing blood.

To answer the question, though, Julius is a bit more succinct. "Only partially succeeded in deflecting a sword. I set the man holding it on fire, but you know, he'd already done the slashing." Win some, lose some.

Despite his face's best efforts to convince people generally otherwise, Julius is by no means twenty-eight any more. To be fair, though, neither is Tsenka, presently looking like the difference between their positions in the medical tent could only be down to sheer luck. Inconsiderate of war not to pause longer for recuperation.

“It all got a bit confused somewhere in the middle,” she says, leaning her staff against the cot and lending her assistance in getting discarded pieces of armor and clothing out of the way — it's not as if she didn't meet Julius wearing even less — and she might as well be useful, if she's going to be standing here offering unnecessary editorial comment. “I felt the barrier when he was already going down behind it. And I think that's a burn,” pointing at his shoulder.

Clothing stripped away, one hand already tacky with blood, Richard splays it firm over the deeper of Julius’ wounds while he’s still upright. He is not particularly gentle in testing the pucker of split hide over muscle, any gushing revealed beneath in the process eyeballed at a slant that would surely be more urgent if the good enchanter was unconscious, blue in the lips, visibly contaminated with poison, or single.

“The burn can wait,” he decides. “Lie back, please.”

He leaves a five-fingered stamp in crimson across Julius’ chest when he uses it as a pivot to turn himself away. There are supplies for him to collect from an assortment nearby.

To Tsenka, he adds more quietly as he goes: “Keep him awake.”

Edited (pointless edits hello) 2021-12-14 08:11 (UTC)

Julius moves to lie back, carefully but without protest. It is, in fact, slightly better to be lying down; he's mildly woozy, which he assumes is the blood loss.

He wonders, absently, how many Riftwatch uniforms are going to have to be remade. The brief math of personnel hurt badly enough to ruin the uniform but not so badly they won't need them anymore is only fleeting, though. It's not a helpful thing to dwell on, he knows from experience.

Instead, he says to Tsenka, "I don't feel in any immediate danger of passing out, if you need to get back out there. You've already done plenty."

silas.

aftermath - healing/medical tent OTAs

afternoon + julius.

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III

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smoke break

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iii

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