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

[illithidnapped]

"Well, that's good news, at least." Astarion snorts quietly on approach, one hand fitted tight against his own shoulder. The arm beneath it's gone straight and slack, a sign of injury even if dark fabric masks a great deal otherwise.

As if predicting the questions it might prompt, he's all too cheerful when he adds:

"Not to worry, he's very much dead." Without incident, if you subtract what lingers. "So I'd suggest we crack on if someone else would care to do the honors."

[arkitect]

"Really," he huffs out softly, on noting the state of Astarion's arm. There's no concern in his tone at all, only a touch of annoyance as he turns his attention to the door (though Astarion might catch a brief glance back at that shoulder. Very brief.)

"Well, if you insist it is safe enough, then- stay behind me, both of you, and be quick about it."

He's silent for a moment, though, focused; magic gathers at his hands, but he doesn't bother to weave it yet. Just drawing upon it, preparation for whatever they might find on the other side of the door... which he pushes open not long afterward, ducking into the newly-opened space ahead of the pair of them.

Judging by the sound of a surprised exclamation, those two guards weren't the only line of defense here. Depending on how quickly they follow, there's the sound, the sight, or both of a magical projectile thrown in their direction-- one that Emet-Selch just has time to counter with a brief barrier woven of shadow.

[heirring]

Wysteria is, for the record, not terribly hurried about bashing in through the doorway in Emet-Selch's wake. She can feel that first concussive burst of magic, and taste the lurium tang in the air, and sense how the casting scatters like a hundred water droplets across the surface of the Rifter's strange bartier just fine from here behind the protective edge of the doorway, thank you very much. And if Astarion is already fixed on having himself thrashed to pieces, then one of them must keep their wits about them.

Wysteria does however loose one of the little clay pot grenades tied to her belt, so that when the his barrier wavers she might lean around the edge of the doorway and lob the grenade past him. The little pot sails along in a sweet arc (her aim is surprisingly decent despite it being more or less a blind toss), and smashes spectacularly a few feet shy of one of the mages with an acrid guffaw of confusion inducing smoke.

She hardly sees it though, having already retreated back behind the doorway's stone edge.

obvs cw for violence in this thread

[illithidnapped]

Well. That’s useful.

The smoke does its disorienting work in quick order, and Astarion— twin daggers drawn once more, their glassy lengths clutched tight within gloved hands despite the injury he’d taken on— seizes on it without so much as a second wasted on thought: he darts from behind Emet-Selch's barrier, slinking quickly into that mask of fading mist before any opposing spellwork finds its way towards his heels.

Up close, against a target like this, he technically holds an advantage— and panicked as the mage is from that potent cocktail, they manage only to cast a paper thin barrier at the last moment, brittle as glass under the hateful dig of Astarion’s strikes.

Wysteria and Emet-Selch both know what he is. He doesn’t have to hide.

That barrier doesn’t last long.

So when his blades cut away the last traces of its magical nature, he delves fully into the benefit of proximity.

And sinks his fangs deep into the mage’s throat.

[arkitect]

It's more useful than he fully expected, from the admittedly very brief assessment he'd had time to make of her; he watches that billow of smoke with approval, taking a quick few steps to the side just to be absolutely sure he keeps clear of it. With Astarion disappearing into the smoke and Wysteria disappearing behind the door, he can only assume the former is handling one target and the latter is doing something, leaving the second mage to him for the moment.

Fine by him. His opponent looses another bolt of magic, and Emet-Selch counters it with his own, striking it in midair; the next he dodges, form blurring to the side much as he'd done against the guard, and while he certainly means to strike the mage squarely with his next return shot-- they manage to turn it into a less direct blow, a shout marking the strike as his spell takes them in the shoulder instead.

[heirring]

The something that Wysteria is doing is Not Getting Hit By Stray Blasts of Magic. For months now, she had discarded her archery work in favor of utilizing the anchor shard's defensive and offensive capabilities, her arm being somewhat more easily aimed than an arrow. But would it have made a difference if she had kept in practice? A bow needs two hands, and clever as the hooking implement Tony has designed for her, she is still rather limited when it comes to offensive capabilities.

So no. Ahe is concentrating now on staying well out of the way, thank you very much. If one were being generous, she might be described as a look out, her attention divided between the corridor leading up through the main portion of the fortress and the crackle and bang and lyrium stench of magic unfolding in the room beyond the door.

She tells herself she will wait ten seconds, and then chance lobbing another confusion grenade into the fray. Better to chance catching one of her companions than to allow the sounds of combat to continue unabted for very long.

(One, two, three—)

[illithidnapped]

Astarion doesn’t have time to mind his companions. Nor the eyeline for it, as a matter of fact, jaw run tight against the rise of welling blood, sweet and strange across his tongue.

Did you bind his hands.

An echo of a voice not heard in months. One that stings as much as it warms, dry as brittle paper in the back of his mind. His bite turns brutal for it, bruising already damaged skin— but before the mage has time to find the willpower required to cast, Astarion has their wrists clutched ruthlessly in his own.

When he finally yanks his teeth free against the grain, still gripping their hands like an anchoring tether, it’s lethal: they collapse into the tangled heap of their own bled slaves, spilling crimson by the second.

And Astarion watches.

He forgets he isn’t there alone. Doesn’t hear Emet-Selch’s struggle— or perhaps he's simply decided not to care, fixed as his stare's become in a world gone otherwise silent.

[arkitect]

It takes him very little time to note that he is still, effectively, alone.

Another volley of spells, a strike that comes up against a barrier, and he sighs in irritation as he reaches for his magic yet again. Wysteria he is unsurprised by, but their third surely should be done by now.

"Astarion," he calls out, sharp-- both for his attention, and to ensure he's still over there and conscious. Kindly hurry up whatever is going on over there.

...granted, the glance he'd spared in that direction may have been ill-advised during a fight. His gaze flicks back just in time to see another projectile of force flying his way, and the barrier he forms isn't as strong as he's used to them being, not with little time to prepare. It falters beneath the force, slowing it rather than stopping it, and while he sidesteps-- it still grazes him, catches him squarely in what had been his outstretched hand.

You don't really contemplate how many nerves are in a hand until exactly this kind of moment. He inhales, sharp, a strangled sound forcibly cut short before it can fully form into anything clear, and manages to blur to the side just before the other mage can strike again; it's difficult, with the distraction of the pain, and he'll need to gather himself before he manages anything more. There's no time to assess the damage, and he can't simply stop right now.

[heirring]

She counts to eight, but it's that strangled sound and the reverberating thud of force magic which does it. She can hardly wait around for a Tevinter mage to kill both of them, Wysteria decides. For where would she be after? Waiting to be killed or captured, obviously. In any case, the door must be closed lest someone be drawn down here and so all in combination, there is clearly no alternative but to step back around from behind the edge of the door, lob her second confusion grenade toward the most active portion of the melee, and jump into the room in order to firmly bolt the door shut behind her.

So she does that.

It probably goes great.

[illithidnapped]

Astarion—

It snaps him out of his own stupor, the quickened bark that catches his ear just before there’s a snap-bang of something gone horribly awry.

His head jerks away from the paler sight of twisted exsanguination, towards the sight of Emet-Selch— clearly wounded— struggling to continue bearing the worst an alert mage has to offer. From a third point at his back, he hears the clatter of light glass against stone, bouncing somewhere beyond the Ascian’s heels. The slam of a heavy door gone shut.

His daggers are drawn, but.

Well.

He’s still a good ways away from the commotion. What happens next, he won’t be within reach to alter just yet.

[arkitect]

To his credit, at least the other mage is also wounded-- but one hand hardly makes for swift spellwork, not as he's had to alter the way he works his stronger spells.

Fortunately, though, a weaker blast of magic works well for what comes next. That projectile flies in, and on catching sight of it-- he aims a spell in its direction, not his enemy's. There's just enough force behind it to knock it roughly between the mage and the majority of their party, more in the mage's direction, and ensure that's where it goes off.

Granted, the obscured sight will go both ways, but at least he hopes his capacity to see magic being woven will help in that regard; if they start casting, that should hopefully do it.

[illithidnapped]

Useful in some ways, more dangerous in others.

For Emet-Selch, he’s operating at a high advantage. For Astarion, whose catlike vision’s been snubbed by smoke, he can’t be certain if the grenade landed near enough to the mage to effectively disorient. And in order to get close enough to fight, well.

He darts forward at the same pace he’d struck up the moment Emet-Selch had called to him, stepping light over the sprawled out bodies stretched across polished flooring— and leaping right into the smoke.

From within, there’s a ragged gasp, and a burst of masked light.

[arkitect]

He curses to himself as Astarion leaps right in-- could he not wait a moment, he wonders, before simply diving in blind?

Well. Only one thing for it. He shoots a glance to Wysteria, sidelong; she seems reasonable enough to stay where she is, and so he just mutters a brief "We'll deal with this," before he moves toward that burst of light, readying himself to strike if that wasn't the mage's breath gasped out. Adrenaline is still sustaining him, for now.

[illithidnapped]

It’s all too loud.

That bang of burst magic, the sound of encroaching footsteps through fading smoke, even the sound of his own breathing— all overblown.

The mage is gasping, a single, glassy black dagger stuck beneath his collarbone— fatal, if the sign of that dazed, frantic clawing at their own chest is indicative of anything. Slow, if he’s left to it. Every noise like shredding paper held up to Astarion’s ears, who, coincidentally, is wincing unharmed a few steps away.

Whatever magic had gone off, it missed in the chaos of their initial, volatile clash.

One gloved hand is pressed to his temple, his expression pinched, one eye closed. When Emet-Selch draws too near, Astarion’s remaining dagger is brought up in threatened warning.

He can’t, after all, quite make out who’s there over the din.

[heirring]

The crack and the flare of alchemy and magic both burns brightly hot in the eye. Wysteria has already flinched back from it, though her hand has moved once more to her belt and the very last grenade strung there. Should the mage reemerge from the cloud of sharply sweet smelling smoke rather than Astarion—

"Cover your face of you can," she calls after Emet-Selch only a half beat too late. Otherwise, he may find himself lightheaded as he passes through the lingering fumes.

[arkitect]

"He's the fool who needs the advice more, if you ask me," he grumbles; he can tell his injured hand is going to be functionally useless, so it's that arm he presses over his face, the sleeve of his robe covering his nose and mouth. It's fine, he'll hold his breath while he can just to be safer.

The faint sight of the mage through the haze is enough to set his mind somewhat at ease, on approach. That dagger is familiar, and, well-- there's certainly no sense taking too many risks while the man still lives. He steps forward and pulls it out, not satisfied with leaving it slow, hardly eager to deal with a desperately-fired spell from behind as the life ebbs from him. Less a kindness than a practicality.

As he turns to Astarion, watches him raise that dagger (catches sight of the hand to his head, as well), he turns the knife in his own hand. Holds it out handle first.

"Come. Get out of the damned smoke," he says with a sigh (though not entirely unkindly), fabric still pressed to his face. They have more to do yet.

[illithidnapped]

He knows that voice.

Familiar. Distinct, even with so much overblown in terms of both awareness and surroundings. Brow furrowed tight, he steps forward— almost fumbling to take hold of that dagger, but catching it all the same. A tether of sorts, something to latch onto, leading him from the thick of it into clearer air.

His mind is a mess, admittedly, but—

“Never mind me.” Clipped, his tone. Curt, but only by way of priority itself. “The relic. Shut it down.”

Not just for their own forces. Not for the city, either.

He can still smell the blood in the air. It cloys.

[heirring]

The sound of Astarion's voice through the haze (and the distinct lack of destructive magic) prompts Wysteria to instantly make her way around the dissipating cloud in order to get her first proper look at the room in which she has found herself.

It's not a particularly pleasant one, defined now by the crackling green glow of a rift and the reflective gleam of the shield suspended at the center of a circle of corpses. The glyph fixed beneath the shield pulses like a living thing. She can almost hear it. Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

With a last glance toward her companions, Wysteria skirts in toward the fringe of the corpse circle. There, she hesitates. Rather then step across the dead, she begins to make her way around the exterior of the circle so she might get a full look at the arrangement of—whatever it is they're looking at here.

"The shield. It's somehow been connected to the glyph."

[arkitect]

He doesn't need to be told twice. Concern can be set aside, for now; there are more pressing matters at hand, and he's not one to stop and fret overmuch. Once Astarion's out of the smoke, Emet-Selch gives him a little nod, turning his full attention back to Wysteria and the shield situation.

"The flow is certainly linked," he answers in agreement, after watching it for a moment. "To the rift, as well, but with their connection... I do not believe closing it ought to be attempted outright."

It seems like they have a point to start with, at the least; he kneels at the edge of the circle with a furrowed brow. "If you are capable of working with the glyph itself, I may observe their relative stability." The magical equivalent of warning someone if they're touching the wrong wire, probably. Less for either of them to focus on individually.

np if this is too crusty to bother with

[heirring]

"Perhaps," is absently spoken, the vague agreement of a placeholder as Wysteria continues her circuit. She's frowning—

Yes, he seems quite right. It would be foolish to meddle with any individual part of the linked enchantment, she decides. It would almost certainly cause some sort of cascading reaction, over drawing on this source or that one. And it's difficult to see, but there is something heavy about the strands of magic linking shield to glyph as if it's a great fish tangled in a tight twisted net. What would happen, were that trap to loosen?

(And what will happen should she reach out and touch any of it with Astarion and Emet-Selch watching her? She has been so very careful. Perhaps she might convince them to leave the room, or—no, they'll have to stay to close the rift, won't they? Not for the first time, Wysteria feels a pang of real irritation and just the faintest whiff of jealousy for the loss of her anchor. It's not very fair. She might have done all of this herself otherwise.)

"Well," she announces, suddenly might brighter. If either of them were more familiar with Wysteria Poppell, that cheerful note might inspire a sense of sinking dread. "I suppose there's only one way to find out."

With a small hop, Wysteria broaches the circle of corpses. There's no need to stray any closer than that. She can feel the prickle of the arcane in the air about it. Can imagine it moving across her forearms—her forearm—and raising the small hairs there behind it. Standing there just inside the artfully arranged dead, Wysteria raises her remaining right hand absently before her. It drifts only roughly to the level of her waist and no higher, and it seems to be a largely unconscious impulse as the fingers of her hand in the nug-hide glove shift gently as if playing across the strings of some invisible instrument there in the air before her.

"I agree that it seems any unbalancing will make the whole array rather unstable. Mister Selch, will you please verify that Mister Astarion will be ready on his feet should something terrible happen? There was a pyramid, you know. In Emprise du Lion. It was a modified enchanted object like this one I heard that it froze everyone around it to death. Hopefully this wasn't designed by the some runesmith."

Ha ha ha. We have fun here.

(Her fingers are still moving gently, coaxing through delicate strands of energy—)