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

[rebellionyell]

"That is a good point, would I be able to survive separation? It does seem risky," Date tapped his chin with his finger almost as though he were taking a moment to seriously process this new conundrum, "I'd just spend all of my time worrying about whether or not you were pining over my absence. That's hard work."

"Besides," Dante said leaning forward a bit so that he's face to face with Astarion, lopsided grin sliding into place, "I've gotten really fond of Genevieve, Leopold, and Marielle and I'd really miss them if they weren't around."

Yeah, he hasn't mentioned his unilateral naming of Astarion's facial features yet. Who are these people?

[illithidnapped]

Dante leans in. The way he always does, in fact— the way that Astarion’s so unused to still, given that he’s normally the party given to press the limits of personal space.

Others have tried, of course. But in general they lack the innate confidence necessary to undermine Astarion’s own. Dante, on the other hand, manages it with consistent ease, prompting a rise of pale brows. A slower blink as confusion sets in.

“Fond of— who?”

What in the Realms does he mean?

[rebellionyell]

Schooling his expression into something as serious as he could possibly manage for a moment that was anything but serious or on the verge of being anything but serious, Dante reached up with one hand and lightly tapped three different spots on Astarion's face.

"Genevieve..." tap "Leopold..." tap "and Marielle..." tap.

Really, Dante's invasion of personal space knows no bounds, whether he's teasing, comforting, or playing. After a moment, however, he withdrew to give Astarion time to process.

[illithidnapped]

The tip of Dante’s finger, suffused with comparative heat, presses down against his skin as he counts out—

Ah.

Like a cat whose tail’s been pulled, Astarion’s expression sinks into narrowed deadpan, blinking so slowly there might not be any real way to aptly describe it. But all that said, it’s not exactly uncharming. He isn’t snipping for one when he answers with a tilt of his own head (and a lifting of his own hand to sort of feel along his own cheek as if trying to figure out where those marks have been hiding— he’d studied his own face when he first realized coming here meant he could see himself again, but somehow— well, somehow he’d missed them).

“...just when did you decide to name them?”

When did he even notice them, in fact, given how difficult they are to spot from afar.

[rebellionyell]

"In the Fallow Mire when you were sleeping," likely the only time Astarion was that close to him for such an extended period of time, "I was trying to occupy myself without waking you up, you're adorable when you're sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you up."

Spoken as if he's trying to recall a fond, but amusing memory, there is definitely something different about Astarion when he's passed out. After a moment he waves his hand dismissively trying to get back on track.

"Anyway, wasn't much else to do but sit there and stare at the walls so I began memorizing your face, naming them, they have personalities too," how long was he sitting there investing himself in this task? Who knows, but he did go all in.

[illithidnapped]

“Adorable.”

His tongue meets the back of his own teeth, clicking softly in a sound that’s all dry amusement tangled up in faint, nearly nonexistent scolding. Not for Dante’s confession, but—

Well. Handsome. Beautiful.

He could’ve picked a better adjective, as far as Astarion’s concerned.

“...which one’s the meanest.”

congratulations on successfully distracting Astarion from all present stress

[rebellionyell]

At the admonishment Dantereturned in kind with a wink, suggesting if Astarion wanted more substantial compliments he'd have to fish for them. Of course, Dante didn't have to tell them, they were already the A-Team, A for attractive.

"Hmmmm...the meanest? That would have to be Joeli: powerful, precious, and just full of wrath," Dante traced a line from his current spot on Astarion's cheek to the quirk of Astarion's mouth, "piss her off and she might even bite."

[illithidnapped]

"I like her already."

Warmth trails light across his skin, slipping down to rest just along the corner of his mouth. Time and place, some might say, given the state of the city itself and all the distress locked tight within its walls. Given the importance of Astarion's current work, and how those he scattered only minutes prior might still need him.

So it's a deliberate choice, then. When he turns his head just so, moving his mouth closer to the shape of Dante's thumb. Pressing his teeth to it, so gentle that even their sharpness doesn't manage to break skin. Testing.

[rebellionyell]

Dante wasn't so obtuse that he had no idea what was going on, he'd played, flirted, and teased and was recipient of Astarions own brand of such. Still, Astarion was unfathomable, not always easy to read and Dante himself was impervious with a preference for levity for the sake of it. This felt different, however and not even the half-demon and there were no sweeping gestures or one-liners in his bag of tricks for such an occasion.

He watched curious, interested, anticipating. Not too long ago he'd made an offer to Astarion, of course he was ruffling his feathers at the time, and he was aware that Astarion didn't require blood, but every now and then he had a want about him that had not escaped Dante's notice. What he couldn't parse out was whether or not this was a request or a push.

Cupping Astarion's jawline with his four unoccupied fingers Dante took note of just how gentle his companion was, how sharp his teeth were and if he applied just enough pressure how easy it would be to break the skin. Without really thinking about it, Dante did just that, a little force was all it took to break the skin barrier and create a well for blood to coat Astarion's teeth.

[illithidnapped]

What a strange twist, for someone who'd killed to keep his blood from being used. To give it freely for the sake of— what, not presumed need: Astarion had already confessed to getting by without it here in Thedas. To not caring how and where it might exist in his vicinity. No, this is a gift, clearly. Unmistakably.

One his mind struggles to parse the moment it touches his tongue.

Feverishly hot. Bold, for lack of a better word, like a liquor fiercely made rather than long-steeped, catching in the back of his throat when he swallows. So completely foreign compared to either Ellie or Emet-Selch, or the wretch of a Tevinter mage Astarion had brought low without an ounce of spared mercy.

His exhale is sharp. Acclimating.

He doesn't pull his mouth away.

"Stay here like this, and you won't be leaving at all, you know."

[rebellionyell]

Astarion couldn't use his blood to power an artificial demon or attempt world domination and Dante had already made the offer, even if he'd made it in jest. Granted it was just a taste and the wound was small enough to heal on its own if he failed to apply pressure on it. It wasn't the thick fount it might have been had Dante bared his throat, which is also something he's done to take the piss, but was oddly not opposed to.

It was an unusual situation considering what had taken place moments before, and maybe he was trying to distract Astarion from the seriousness of it all. Maybe he would miss him if he weren't around, though Dante wouldn't admit it out loud...it was less isolating. Maybe.

"Hmm, and what would you do with me?" It was the barest hint of a playful challenge, a smile tugging at the corners of Dante's lips as he added, "I'm a handful, you might have noticed."

[illithidnapped]

"You're not half as fearsome as you think." Astarion counters coolly, though like an animal strained for touch, he's left his chin fitted heavily within rough hands. Warm where his own skin runs cold. He wonders if Dante knows what he's walking into.

Then again, he doubts the man would care.

Uniquely dauntless as Dante is in perpetuity, there might still come a day when he opts to attempt charming even Corypheus himself— ill advised as that venture would be for so very many reasons.

Arched fingertips find their way to the familiar leather of Dante's coat, skirting high along its edges. Ending their wandering somewhere along the center of his chest, the pads of his fingertips resting light along the border between shirt and skin. He could be crude about this if he wanted to be.

But that, he leaves for the deed itself.

"The real question is how skittish you might be if we're spotted rutting in the streets."

All right.

Maybe a little crude.

[rebellionyell]

"That's true, I'm more of a write-off than a horror story," and Dante doesn't dislike the fact that Astarion doesn't view him like a monster or something to be feared even after witnessing what he was. While he didn't care one way or the other what people thought of him in the end it was very clear a demon's presence wouldn't be welcomed. Having a certain level of honesty with Astarion made that aspect of himself seem less dauting in a way.

Then there was this, something a bit more terrifying than any demon was another person so hallowed and ready to fall into the sable blackness of his embrace only to be lost in it. That kind of entanglement was always worth the price of fear, it's a good enough reason to take a step back and be the grow ass man that he knows is in there somewhere.

Damn.

There was the right thing and then there was this, disengaging himself just enough to wind his arms around Astarion's slighter body so he could hoist him up and brace Astarion's body against the nearest wall. He made a point of cupping the back of the other's head with his hand rather than letting it lull back against the hard surface. He held Astarion's body in place with his own aware of just how close they were now that he could feel the coolness of Astarion's body leeching the heat radiation off of his own.

He was capable of making good choices, really, when he wasn't defaulting to flippancy and his own screw the rules philosophy. Maybe he was just calling a bluff.

"You sure that's not a trick question?"

Of course he was stalling a bit now, giving Astarion the opportunity to call it or push it forward if he wanted to.

[illithidnapped]

His laugh is only stifled by the possibility of alerting someone else to their devilment, legs already wrapped tight around Dante’s middle well before his spine settles lax against cracked plaster, hands perched just against Dante's shoulders on either side— quite comfortable to be mostly supported by the wall at his back. Visibly so, in fact, if expression is anything to go by.

“I’ve been poisoned, stabbed, saved an entire city from binding rule— without thanks,” ears, being the unspoken footnote, “toiled away parsing Tevene of all wretched things, and now I'm topping it all off with ferrying along a pack of useless strays with nowhere to actually go.”

One hand lifts to fall cool and insistent against the back of Dante’s neck, urging him closer. Near enough to steal a kiss that’s all teeth. All rough-edged demand, though he takes care not to scrape— or bite. Deliberate, when his hips shift. When he presses against the grain, still fascinated by the novel scuff of Dante’s shadowed stubble across his mouth. His chin. His cheek, even.

How long has it been for someone like him, Astarion wonders.

“I deserve a little release, I think. Don't you agree?”

[rebellionyell]

The answer to how long would have been too long given Dante's inclination to keep his distance, afraid propinquity would only lead to someone being injured, killed, or used to exploit him. He was notoriously bad at relationships for the same reason, usually the failure was of his own design. He had no children for the same reason and very few people he cared for, but those few that had worked their way inside of him he cared for deeply.

That wasn't to say he didn't feel attraction or desire, he just rarely acted on it and had plenty of other outlets to keep himself busy. Demons to kill, debts to pay, hobbies to divert his attention away from how pleasant and exhilarating contact with others could be. Then there was Astarion: seductive, capricious, and unafraid--these were all qualities that Dante could appreciate, they were also attractive. Of course there was an ethereal kind of beauty about him as well and it certainly helped, not that Dante would mention it out loud, not yet anyway.

Whatever it was he felt less alone in Astarion's company and more impulsive than he should be considering. He surrenders easily to the kiss, releasing a sigh that sounded almost like respite. As novel as the shadow of his beard must have been, soft, generous, careful kisses were just as singular and it didn't take much attention from those lips to inflame him. The molten heat pooling in the pit of his stomach had the effect of wiping his mind of any and all responsible thoughts as he bore his weight into Astarion a little harder and a bit more insistent.

With Astation wrapped around him securely now, Dante was able to free up a hand, unable to stop himself from wandering, nimble fingers insinuating themselves underneath the fabric of his companion's shirt to coast his palm over flat planes of stomach muscle and the curved plateau of his chest, feeling him up shamelessly. Withdrawing from the kiss a bit he focused on peppering Astarion's jawline with light pecks, all the way up to the delicate point of his ears.

"Mmm...you are the hardest working man I know," Dante's voice was a soft, sultry whisper in Astarion's ear, he was reverent in his attention, lightly running his teeth along the delicate shell nipping lightly at the tip of his ear, "it must be back-breaking...I guess I could help work out some of the knots, help you untwist, grant a wish or two until we're all satisfied."