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

[bouchonne]

"About which? Your background, or your desire to help them?"

Again, a simple question. Even and easy.

[illithidnapped]

“The more irritating one.” He says, joking without an ounce of humor— and yet not joking at all.

Another inhale, another flick of ash, and then he foregoes what little is left of the cigarette entirely, letting it fall to damp stone. Quenching it beneath his heel.

“The latter, of course.”

[bouchonne]

Byerly hums thoughtfully. He's not done with his cigarette, and he draws another pull of smoke.

"I suppose my answer to that depends a bit upon that first topic we were discussing," he replies. "Whether you want to shoulder that burden all by yourself. Solve the slavery question without help from another damned soul." His smile is wan. "Is that your desire?"

[illithidnapped]

“Oh. Is there another damned soul here?” Soft. Punctuated by the performative lifting of his brows. He’s playing at being surprised in order to express...being surprised.

Hunting, in essence, for something more, even as he teases.

“Because if so, I’d very much like to meet them.”

[bouchonne]

That hadn't been his precise meaning, of course - he'd been using damned more as an expletive than as a proper descriptor - but, well, Astarion does like to play around, doesn't he? Even in the depths of misery. It's honestly why Byerly likes the dear fellow. That and this odd, vulnerable sweetness of his. It puts By somewhat in mind of himself in his younger years - perhaps not an apt comparison, given what Astarion has been implying about his age, but...But then again, being kept in captivity is a bit like keeping a boy on a crumbling country estate under the eye of a father who was tyrannical and neglectful by turns. Soon as he's let loose, he'll be quite like this - thinking himself suave, but truthfully, just made of raw nerves.

"Well, when I pass from this world, I shan't be called to the Maker's side," he says wryly. "Will I do?"

[illithidnapped]

“I’d have cut you loose on the spot if you said anything else.”

It’s all games between them. Teasing masking truth, layered on in alternating patterns like old, subtly peeling paint.

With his cigarette spent, he reaches low to fiddle with the dark span of his (thoroughly) shard-masking gloves, letting the edges of his smile go thin.

“But fine,” he exhales at last, as though granting the release of some great, tiresome burden. A performance in its own right. “If you know of someplace that might actually let these miserable creatures settle without ending in abrupt, easily predicted disaster, I’m all pointy ears.”

[bouchonne]

Byerly lifts his eyebrows. No doubt Astarion, with those elven cat's eyes, can see his expression in the dark. It was always so dreadfully obnoxious, back during By's brief dalliance with becoming a burglar, how much better elves were than him at the trade. Those sharp eyes exceeding his own human dullness.

"In the South," By says, "we detest the practices that the North sees as normal. The true South, beyond the Frostbacks. Not Orlais. Orlais is a shithole that is perfectly happy to tie its people to its land. But in Ferelden, all are free.

"Now, make no mistake; Ferelden is also a shithole. But at least it's a shithole that respects a man's right to make his own choices."

A drag. He blows smoke out through his nose. Then: "I still have a few friends here and there in my homeland. Exiled and despised though I am."

[illithidnapped]

Keenly that shift is noticed. Not that it matters much: Astarion does Byerly the mercy of opting not to acknowledge it in the slightest, instead letting the matter of Ferelden seep into the forefront of his mind.

Because he doesn’t imagine Byerly’s wrong, is the thing. The man— being much like Astarion himself— knows precisely how to take in rot and rime at a glance. And much as Astarion enjoys Orlais in dosed little sips every now and then, there’s no denying how cruel it can be.

Not to mention how tumultuous.

“And you being exiled and despised won’t have any effect on leaning on those contacts, I trust?”

An important question to ask, after all, unspoken details pinging in Astarion’s skull. Exile isn’t typically a common theme in departure from one’s own homeland.

[bouchonne]

"Well, there's exile, and then there's exile," By says with an easy sort of smile. Every once of him radiates it doesn't matter to me; it's never mattered to me. Which is, perhaps, not altogether true; there is some measure of pain in how easily it had occurred to his spymaster that the perfect cover story would be Byerly has come to Riftwatch because he's had to flee his homeland in disgrace. But, well, By was the one who'd decided to look and act like a scoundrel; who could blame the man for accepting what By was offering up as his sacrifice?

"And while the loathing is real enough, it's never really gotten between me and what I want. It'll work out; you have my word."

[illithidnapped]

You have my word. A promise that in its broadest sense, to Astarion, means less than an outstretched hand or the taste of a cigarette on his tongue: even if he trusts Byerly to do everything in his power to ensure nothing twists around to bite them, something still absolutely might regardless.

How long has it been since Byerly contacted any of them. How long since he’s been home.

The world itself has teeth. A mind to use them besides.

He’s not ungrateful, just not a fool.

"Dare I ask what you did to earn it?"

[bouchonne]

Is it worth going around and around? Playing coy? In every meaningful sense, Byerly's cover is blown. His true profession is known to people who will, in all likelihood, be enemies after the war is over. And of all people who would reasonably give a damn...What would Astarion do with this information? He doesn't know any of the lords and scoundrels that Byerly used to tattle on.

By takes one last drag on his cigarette, then drops the butt and steps on it. Eliminates the light by which Astarion might read his expression.

"I'm a spy," he answers. "Exile seemed like a useful cover story to explain what I was doing at Riftwatch. Or, rather, the Inquisition, back then."

[illithidnapped]

You know, he shouldn't be surprised. Some part of him isn't, in fact, given the ways they run so uniquely parallel to one another.

He might not've been Cazador's agent in the strictest sense, but there's little he didn't do within all the typical notions of spywork here in Thedas. The reason he'd chosen to settle at the Scoutmistress' side when well and truly weighing his own options. Still, he can't stop the slight tug of his own grin at the news.

There's something funny about it, a spy seated comfortably at the head of the Diplomacy Division.

Bravo, Byerly.

"One of the better options, at least." Gloved fingers run high, the backs of his knuckles running thoughtfully (gently) against the underside of his own pale chin. "That or disgrace via indecent exposure. Adultery with a Duke— or, no. Bann, was it? Arl? That sort of thing."

[bouchonne]

A mild reaction, to be sure. A rather positive one, too; By can hear that smile in Astarion's voice. Which is...nice. Many who have heard his avocation have responded with mistrust at best, if not outright hostility. Astarion might be the only one so far who's been delighted.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you'd seen the current Arls," he replies. Then he allows - "There are a few fuckable Banns. Not too many, though. And the fuckable ones are generally devastatingly honorable and faithful to their spouses. Bastards."

Then a breath in. "Officially, I'm exiled for killing a...companion of mine. Who had come across me rooting through his correspondence and finding a letter from the Venatori. We said it was a brawl over an unsettled bill that happened to turn into something violent, and I, cowardly, fled rather than facing the Blackhallers' justice. But, officially, I have been forgiven in light of my current position; the Queen, officially, finds the Ambassador distasteful but necessary.

"Less officially, I have a favor or two to call in. Rather fewer than I had at this time a few years ago, but enough that I could probably find a place to tuck them away."

[illithidnapped]

It's a pretty story. Not the murder of a compatriot, of course, or the necessary flight that followed in its wake, but the Venatori paperwork. If Astarion had to pinpoint anything in it all to doubt, he'd look there.

But he doesn't care to, is the thing.

Because it doesn't matter to him if Byerly's former companion was a Venatori or a venerated saint, just like it doesn't matter whether or not Byerly did it because he hated the man— or truly did feel the need to defend either himself or the nation he served; to Astarion, Byerly is simply Byerly. A liar, a charmer, likely a manipulator, too, gauging all their similarities. The very same creature Astarion knew he was dealing with right from the start.

The nice thing about liars, is that they'll always tell you the truth of what they are. It's what you do with that knowledge that defines where things eventually wind up.

His smile stays lopsided. Tired, but easy.

"Deeply troubling to hear the very ugly Ferelden portrait I swindled is now likely an accurate representation of the Lord depicted." Vaguely, Astarion wonders if Byerly might even recognize the man.

"But...all right. Call your favors." Hand falling to his chest, tapping there as an idle sort of percussion. "I've a few people who already want to help ferry the wretched things once they've got a place to go. So if you can get me that, we might have the start of something moderately functional, I suppose."

[bouchonne]

Byerly hums. "There are parts of Ferelden that are still quite barren from the Blight." He tucks a hand into his pocket. "Redcliffe, for one. My own home, for another. Where the Darkspawn swept through. These people won't be perfect, mind you; we're mostly looking for farmers and fishermen and miners and the like. But."

He gives a little lopsided smile. "We've a practice in our land where if your lord displeases you, you can band together with your fellow freedmen and strip him of his title. It doesn't happen too often, but it happens. I hope that some day, these fine fellows will destroy some unfuckable bastard."

Then a shrug. "I'll write the necessary letters. Point your fine fellows with ships in my direction."

[illithidnapped]

From there, departure's simple. A canting nod, far from stiff. A raised hand before he presses past Byerly to slink further into the city's freshly battered alleyways. Only—

“...I don’t get it.”

His footsteps stop. He doesn’t turn.

“I know already why I’m stuck committing to this mess.”

The sight of all those cluttered, bled-out slaves left in a lifeless tangle around that churning relic. Not even set aside. Moved away. As unregarded as discarded parchment— something only to be swept up later. He told himself he was satisfied watching that blood mage bleed out at their side, equally as helpless. As written off in those final, desperately wretched moments.

It's only now that Astarion realizes he’d lied.

“But. Why do you care.”

[bouchonne]

There are any number of answers that By could offer. Many of them lies. The simple, I told you, Fereldan will benefit as well - enough of a half-truth that he could say it without guilt. Or a mysterious, Perhaps we're not so different, or Does it matter?

And maybe he would, if Astarion hadn't been through what he'd been through. If he was just a dilettante playing at supporting the poor unfortunates. But he's not, and a man who's been through all that - Well, he shouldn't be wondering if he's going to be stabbed in the back by a fickle spy.

So. By shrugs, and stretches his neck, and says, "Because I've a certain fondness for seeing people get what they deserve. Often for worse, but occasionally for better."

+10000 approval

[illithidnapped]

There are any number of answers that Byerly could offer. Many of them lies.

So why, against every furiously bolstered fragment of his own instincts, does he hope Byerly’s telling the truth? More than that, why does he believe him, stuck standing there with his weight resting along the edge of a booted heel in pockmarked streets, hollow stare lidding when a fainter smile works its way across an otherwise muted expression— tangible as spreading warmth.

There’s a chance Byerly could be lying. Padding the truth with something that resonates, rather than rooted reality. But Astarion—

Astarion simply likes it too much.

Gods above, he’s going soft.

“You truly are Ferelden, aren’t you.”

+10000 approval right back

[bouchonne]

That - That draws a laugh from him. A little bit amused and a little bit aching. Because he is not truly Fereldan, and he's never been allowed to forget it - that he's too thin, too weak, too Orlesian, too mincing, too fanciful, too decadent to truly be a Fereldan. The country he loves will never, never love him back.

But for all that he's admitted here tonight, all of that - That's a bit too personal a confession. So instead, he says, "Don't repeat that in front of any real Fereldans. They might well sock you in the jaw for saying it."

[illithidnapped]

“They’re more than welcome to try.” He snaps back coyly, chin drifting lower— turning the hollowed catch of his pupils all the more bright for the barest of beats.

“Unlike those hideous, deposed lords, I don’t go down easy.”

A beat, just before he amends:

“Well. Not in terms of violence, at least.”

wink wink