MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

i need a hero

[armd]

"Probably just fine."

Abby thinks he looks far too pleased with himself; of course he got rid of the one enemy seeking to take advantage of her blind spot while her attentions drew elsewhere. Namely: Her spiked mace is wedged deep in the body of a Tevinter mage, and now she has time to retrieve it with a hard yank.

It was helpful, having the cover, so. Credit, where credit is due. "Thanks," she offers, a blunt, dull grunt.

Then, "You look exhausted," because she refuses to be too nice to him.

I’m holding out for a hero til the end of the night

[illithidnapped]

“Flatterer.” Astarion scoffs, smirk twisting all the more for her acidity.

“Next time you bring down a massive shield preventing our forces’ very necessary assault, I’ll be sure to remind you how miserable you look, too.”

But his attention snaps beyond her shoulder at the sound of armored footsteps approaching from a bottleneck at her back. Easy prey in theory if they can be sorted out before they manage to reach Astarion and Abby. Dangerous if they actually make it to them.

So he’s quick to unhook his bow, twisting it in his own grip as an arrow’s snatched between gloved fingers, fitted into place and drawn back—

“Ahah— damn it—”

A grimacing, gritted sound forced out through cinched fangs as the arm he’d been depending on to fire with buckles under a menacing jolt of pain, weakening his own grip so severely that the arrow in hand slips too low, almost tumbling to the ground.

That’s too much time wasted. Shit.

“We need to run. Come on.”

he's gotta be pale and he's gotta be short and he's

[armd]

"That was you?"

Okay, okay... she's begrudgingly impressed. Up until the dissolve of the shield the situation felt almost hopeless, closer to fighting uphill, so his actions are appreciated, really. She jolts out of inaction the moment she hears the sound of footsteps, heartbeat spiking. Too slow. He's already in motion, knocking an arrow with sleek fluidity that reminds her far too much of somebody else- ugh, no wonder they're so close- and just as Abby is finding her mace again, something happens.

Or doesn't happen, because no such arrow is released.

Her gaze flicks to him in disbelief, hands tight on the handle, "What??"

Run? They're at a chokepoint, why would they do that. Even with him injured (guessing), Abby thinks they could take them close up, but if he isn't confident-

She swears, and quickly ushers him to steal ahead of her so she can watch his back on the retreat.

o o f

[illithidnapped]

There’s a narrow side street that twists away from the one they’re currently treading, Astarion had spotted it in flight from the fortress itself, and his heels scuff against stone as he pulls her down it by way of an outstretched hand across her wrist at the very last second.

Shocking that it works so well to give them an opportunity for escape, those dark, compressed confines that are almost invisible to a city at war— until just when they’re about to spill back out into the street, the shadow of an armored figure blots out the whole of their path.

“Hells— ” he barks, skidding to a halt, and looking just as caught off guard as the set of soldiers before them, who’d clearly thought themselves clever for aiming to take a side street as their route.

Of course, behind them comes the group they’d been hoping to avoid, and Astarion’s all sharp, fanged teeth when he adds:

“Well. It’s not exactly the sort of bottleneck I was hoping for, I’ll be honest.”

[armd]

"No," Abby pants, for once in full agreement with him as the two groups of soldiers slowly begin to realise precisely who they've got trapped in the middle of them, "You definitely made it worse–"

She punctuates this remark with a hard, overhead swing of her mace. The alleyway is so tight she can't swipe sideways, so while this does an excellent job of caving in half a helmet (and head, judging by the wet screaming), it only takes down one person. And then she has to wrench the thing back out again.

Hard to be a heavy hitter with her elbows pinned at her sides. Abby yanks, and her hands slip on the bloodied handle, and pop right off- she has to shove into Astarion just to get out of the way of somebody swiping at her with a sword in retaliation.

"Fuck," she grits, glancing wildly around them for something, anything, "Can I– boost you?"

Walls aren't that high. She could vault him out and he could cover her from above, raise the alarm. Her mind is racing.

(also obvs cw for violence before I forget)

[illithidnapped]

“Mmph— ”

She shoves into him, and his grimace is choked, ending in a snarling growl that’s near animal in its cast, forced between the jagged gaps in his teeth.

Blistering pain is, admittedly, nothing new.

That said, he’d prefer not to swallow it down in the midst of a fight that’s less favorable than it should be, punctuated by the way he’s forced to shove himself forward, bodily, jabbing a dagger just through the soft tissue of an encroaching soldier’s jaw, prompting a gruesome, gurgle of a sound as they stay— for a single heavy beat— entangled with one another.

“You want me to— ” he scoffs, blinking against his own blurring vision. “They’ll flood you.”

Snapped against the grain as he wrenches free at last, the body sinking as a temporary barrier.

“But fine.”

oh shit, yeah, that (there's more)

[armd]

"Then don't let them flood me," she pants, and takes the opportunity he's gifted them, lacing her fingers together and bracing them tight over her knee, "Quick."

She's got seconds to do this. Her mace is still on the ground, the soldier she killed is not killed, at all, still yelling, bleeding, holding his fellows back as he staggers around. Only one person can come through at a time.

Astarion is clearly injured, she heard that hissy press of breath out of him when she squeezed against his size. Better if he gets above the common vantage point to aim down, with nobody to bump into him and ruin a shot. All Abby has to do is trust that he'll stay and cover her. After he's already tried to fuck her over once before.

But they're on the same side, and she's still darling (camaraderie), right, it'll be fine. Holy fuck he needs to go before she wimps out. She'll give him a good boost up the side of the wall once he's placed his shoe into her palm, perhaps too good, he's light–

[illithidnapped]

Seconds at best. He whirls the moment she gives word, uninjured arm fitted to the sturdy span of her shoulder, heel to her palms— upward momentum staggeringly potent as she hefts him high enough to reach for dented plaster, wall snared by gloved fingertips (and pinned beneath the wedge of his forearm).

It burns like fire in his blood, the effort he’s forced to expend in scrabbling up and over what he’s caught. Turns him dizzy in a way that doesn’t feel as thin as it did before. He thinks he’s going to retch, the moment his knees and hands hit cool stone.

He doesn’t.

‘There’s a trick to it, enduring torture.’

The bow’s once again pulled from his back. Dark arrow fitted to string, then another. His arm is shaking.

But when he lets that narrow volley fly, it pelts one of the advancing few in his shoulder, another jutting from just above his elbow, making the man look quilled.

With luck, he won’t be able to defend himself.

[armd]

She doesn't have time to look and make sure he caught himself, knows she'll hear about it if he didn't. The two arrows that proceed to find their quivering mark with a double thunk make her exhale in tight relief. She uses the brief panic of the guy in front of her to take him out, crunching him into the side of the wall with her weapon. Maybe if they can look very very menacing, the rest will turn tail.

Abby has a feeling some of them are at least considering it.

"Come on!"

She bares her teeth, gaze darting from side to side as she waits for the next unlucky asshole to fucking try it. The first one has finally stilled, and he neatly blocks the alleyway on one side, needing to be stepped over. Astarion has clogged the other end with a bleeding body.

Somebody hefts a shield out front in response: a broad woman, not as tall as Abby, but clearly just as stubborn. Abby brandishes her mace threateningly. Hopefully she remembers to shield above as well as in front.

[illithidnapped]

Pitch dark arrows. His specialty.

So no, there's no mistaking his assistance, even without call or confirmation from on high, the whole of his focus devoted to continuing to pull arrows from his half-slung quiver and rush them in against drawn string. He has to blink too often, too hard. Every second gone without and the edges of his vision fade like ink across damp parchment.

He can see his next target there as she draws forward, more reflected light than anything defined. Armor, he imagines. It must be. The problem lies in not being able to see where it ends. The seam lines. Her arms. Even her neck or head.

His first few shots catch metal, the sound soggy with reverberation. The next— cracking forward against the top of her leveled shield— ricochets hard enough to splinter. It isn't a decisive bit of cover, but there at least the woman stops, warded by the thought of debris, and so half-raises her guard to angle somewhere between them both. Not inefficient, but not impassable, either.

Hip to chipped plaster, breath decaying in his lungs, he snaps out one last shot that finds purchase just beyond the rise of her shoulder, sinking deep into the muscle bracketing her spine and eliciting a howling yelp of pain.

[armd]

Miraculously, Astarion covers. He keeps the pressure on the woman who draws forward to meet Abby, giving her enough time to stab wildly out at a short, square soldier attempting to draw up behind her under the chaos of sound, the woosh of projectiles–

A breathless moment for Abby to wonder what the fuck is going to happen if he accidentally hits her instead of the person that he's aiming for–

Before she takes the fight to the retreating soldier, turning her shoulder to catch him hard in his wrists and hands when he attempts to block off her hit. She's stronger than he is, and he isn't gravely hurt but he drops his weapon with a shout that twines with the yelp behind her.

She bares her teeth at him, and he pushes backward, trying to get out. He knows that she'll kill him. That if she doesn't, death will rain down on him from above.

The collective confidence in their pursuers is definitely waning. Perhaps Abby seals it entirely when she kicks out at the woman in armor, too distracted by the pain in her spine to block. She goes crashing to the ground. By the sounds of it, the arrow was forced in a little deeper.

[illithidnapped]

He's flagging. A drowsiness that feels almost drunken for how unresponsive his movements have become, but even so there's something to be tracked below through the worst of it: a set of glinting outlines as Abby alters her focus, fending off yet another would-be attacker like a wolf snapping at its own heels with snarling determination. And there, drawn arrow drifting to try and make itself the antithesis of her alternating assault, he pelts the soldiers she isn't crashing down upon with vivid, primal fury—

Or he would be. Does, in fact: the snap of his bow string coming easy and catching that fleeing agent in his leg.

It's only in the split second chasing it that he feels an armored forearm lock itself around his throat from behind, dragging him bodily away from the edge and sending a useless cascade of unshot arrows tumbling down into the alleyway below. The noise he makes is strangled. Nonexistent, and more a reaction to inherent pain rather than any attempt to grab his already boxed-in companion's attention.

For better or worse, each of them scrabbling desperately for success, Abby and Astarion are going to need to hold their own, on their own.

[armd]

The clatter of arrows on the stone is sudden and loud during a brief lull in the fighting on Abby's end. Comically, she isn't the only person who looks up.

"Shit," she breathes, connecting the dots, stomach plunging. There's a beat or two of inaction, in which she's sizing up each end: one has two bodies stacked and blocking it, the other is busy accommodating the soldier that fled, howling as he goes.

Abby charges blindly after him. Miraculously, he's forced a couple of his fellows right out of the alley in his attempts to get away, and he has left her a wet little trail of blood... gross.

The uneven stone lining the alley provides few treacherous footholds. She hauls herself up them anyway, scrabbling inelegantly to reach the edge of the top. It's so fucking hard with the armour on, and she's gasping for breath, legs cycling uselessly in the air- somebody clanking back in to attack her shows up at precisely the right moment. She kicks off their helmeted head, and hoists herself up the rest of the way onto her knees, gazing wildly around. There's sweat in her eyes, and she has to blink furiously as she stares around for him-

There. Almost hoisted off his feet by a soldier. Abby shouts in wordless warning, getting to her feet-

(Realises she automatically dropped her goddamn mace in the alley when she threw herself at the wall-)

And zigzags toward them to throw a wild punch at their opponent.

thank u for living up to ur Naughty Dog origins and scaling a wall for him, Abby

[illithidnapped]

In the time it takes her to reach him, he's done his level best to fend off the potential worst.

He doesnt' know if his body remembers what it was like, needing no oxygen whatsoever to get by (aside from the simplicity of speaking or feigning life amongst the living), but he functions surprisingly well under that cinching hold: neck slung back lean to make the angle harder to maintain for his assailant, the hand of his injured arm wedged just into the corner to steal some nominal amount of air— though the dig of metal gauntlets admittedly negates more of that endeavor than Astarion had hoped for.

Thicker plating also means his opposite hand can't seem to land any sort of definitive blow, even as he fights to leverage himself time and time again as the seconds tick on with a building sense of dread.

And then her strike lands, rattling the soldier through his armor from sheer force alone, stalling him enough that Astarion has time to finally yank the dagger from his belt without risking deadly interruption, ramming it high— backwards— between the seam lines of the soldier's chestplate.

Staggered despite that massive silhouette of his, the soldier staggers backwards.

Astarion, in turn, lurches forward to fit himself behind Abby. A difference of steps only; coughing— necessary as it is— quickly preoccupies the rest of his unwanted focus as their enemy furiously squares up once more, sword torn from the hilt at his hip.

The pale elf's still coughing when he moves to press the flat of his own black, glassy dagger to Abby's arm. An offering.

One of them needs it more at present.

*tips hat* m'bat

[armd]

Abby's knuckles singe on the breastplate. The scrape of metal is hot and uncomfortable, her skin shiny with contact when she shakes her fist out, checking- fine- so she can be justified in turning to throw a second punch.

It's barely needed. Their opponent, already off balance, goes wobbling backward toward the edge of the roof, arms pinwheeling.

A blade presses against her arm with a clatter.

This isn't her. It's how Ellie fights, snake-like, quick and calculated. Abby can't throw her entire weight behind this dagger or she'll break it. Astarion is crumpling behind her when she takes it, and stabs wildly outward to discourage an attack. A hand shoots out to try and arrest the weapon from her, and she stabs again, nicks the wrist, the answering yelp a nice reward.

"What are you doing-"

Flung at Astarion and not the soldier, whose wrist she's had to grab to stop him from coming back in hard and fast. He has a second fucking dagger suddenly, fuck daggers, "Are you okay??"

loud echolocation noises in response

[illithidnapped]

"Fine—" he chokes hoarsely, working enough air back into his lungs to make it sound faintly convincing. His eyes are watering, they feel sticky when he blinks, but it’s preferable to the alternative.

It’s all preferable to the alternative, actually.

The soldier isn't reeling anymore, not with a fierce mix of determination and adrenaline surging in his veins: warding Abby off by way of broader swipes, clearly aware of his own position near the edge— well enough to keep from being pressed farther.

Fine, Astarion says, if only to keep Abby's focus on the man in front of her before that blade finds a way into her throat the moment she thinks to begin worrying about Astarion rather than herself. The fight at hand.

Another set of swings. Near to nicking, if not outright cutting, and this time Astarion's had enough of watching it all: his bow's strewn across the ground some distance away (too far to make limping after it an efficient use of either energy or time) but he's still in possession of more than a few arrows— and as the Tevinter soldier lunges once more to try and grapple for a hold on her (or an opportunity to plunge his blade into her chest, or— ) Astarion surges forward in turn, one hand braced across her hold as an anchor, the other plunging an arrow deep into the wound he'd already made, prompting a terrible howl that seems to echo through heavy armor.

If they both shove, together...

[armd]

"You're done," a furious hiss, spiteful reaction to the infamous second dagger than finds the back of her hand whip-fast, and finally opens the skin on the backs of her knuckles, but–

Astarion is the one to disarm him. The arrow comes as a wailing surprise, and jolts Abby enough to make her pause for seconds neither of them have. It's lucky their opponent is injured enough for it not to matter. Recovering, she heaves a breath, and together (but more her, because c'mon), they shove.

He goes flailing over the edge, and clangs spectacularly.

The wheezing left behind in the silence is obviously not fine.

"What happened," Abby says, speaking to him. She's still staring off the edge and at the mess they've made below. The bodies that line the alleyway. They took out that many people at that level of disadvantage? Fuck. They did good. Really good.

She lifts her head. He's still braced on her, so she looks him over. "Did something get you?"