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

[nonvenomous]

“Dickerson! As-tu pris mon tabouret?” a voice calls over through some adjacent bustle.

“Va te faire enculer!” Silas bites back at volume, and something in the electric flash of his eyes or the gravel shot rough through the rile of his temper renders that the end of it. Spittle stings hot wherever it’s landed across Derrica and Jim both; he gathers himself with a huff and resumes his examination.

The rest of his swearing is quieter under his breath and in a sibilant tongue they may recognize but certainly do not speak.

It’s not just the stress of the day, surely -- there’s rapid calculation creased tight into crow’s feet, a wariness to his glance around them. In terms of privacy: they have no privacy.

“I can set it,” he decides. “I’ll have to hold it in place.”

Silas glances to Jim.

hope i remembered to tell you that its her collarbone that is broken as fuck

[tender]

To his credit, Richard is very light with his hands as he examines the damage. It's necessary, but he doesn't cause undue pain in the process of it.

But there is still discomfort. (Discomfort.) Her hand is very tight in Holden's.

"Please."

Are there other options? No. If there were Richard would have said. Magic manages most things, but it does not realign bone of it's own accord.

If she raises her opposite hand to swipe at her eyes, it would be agony. So she doesn't. Just nods once more as punctuation. Yes, this will be done. It will be painful and she will weather it because what else is there to be done?

Because she trusts Richard's assessment, regardless of whatever other names he might use within a healer's tent.

[acreage]

Yeah, he thinks, as Silas's eyes find his. He remembers this part from his own break in the summer.

"What do you need me to do?"

Silas is, after all, the expert here. Holden's promised before to be better about deferring to his judgment in things, and it's especially easily done in a situation like this. Setting aside the matter of, maybe, letting Silas decide who to treat first. Then again, who could choose differently? Derrica holds onto his hands for dear life out of discomfort, and this isn't even the hard part.

[nonvenomous]

Silas is looking back at Holden again, this time in colder measure, the way a cat gauges the distance of a rat from its burrow. There is something of temptation to the pause it gives him -- fuzzily familiar, as if from a dream.

It passes.

With both hands still on Derrica, he says simply:

“Keep her hands occupied.”

And then to Derrica herself:

“This will be easier if you lie down.”

cw broken bone description

[tender]

The impulse to ask Is it a very bad break? comes and goes. Richard's hands are cool over the angry swelling. Even without reaching a hand up to try and assess for herself, she has a sense of something out of alignment. (The lay of bone beneath Richard's hands juts at odd angles, fractured into unevenness beneath fever-hot skin.) And even without assessing for herself, just from the flat affect of Richard's voice signals that this process will be—

Unpleasant.

She's watching the look Holden and Richard exchange, meets Richard's eyes without flinching when his attention returns to her.

"Okay."

Though it does take her a moment to steel herself, and extricate her hand from Holden's grasp to ease herself down onto the cot. Drawing a deep breath hurts. The tears in her eyes flow back over her temples, into her hair. She reaches her hand back out blindly, though what can be done with the other? It hurts to lift too high.

[acreage]

He reaches out, supports her back as she lays down. And when she reaches for him again, he takes her hand in his, brushes the lightest of kisses to her fingers. He's here; he's here. It's the only thing he can offer. His hands are warm.

But the question of her other hand occurs to him too, and he frowns. Silas will need the space to work. She can't, actually, raise that arm anyway. He looks from her to Silas, questioning. Is this good enough, or are they going to have to try to figure something out?

[nonvenomous]

His discarded apron flops to the cot at her side before he climbs aboard after it, hardly a glance spared for what anyone else might think of that in the midst of so much pain and struggle. Surely they’ve witnessed more unusual maneuvers over the last several hours.

Barring protest (another exchanged glance) Silas’ll straddle her, this strange blood-smudged snake with a dagger on his belt and another in his boot and a third stiff up the small of his back. Knees braced at her sides to stifle any reflex to twist away, bony hands fanned wide at her shoulder and beneath her throat, he studies the alignment of her intact clavicle before setting his sights on the one broken into pieces.

He ghosts his thumbs along the shape of it, gauges the pull of tension in opposite directions.

One hand restrained will have to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says, polite, trim in the instant before he twists at the wrist to torque broken bone back into alignment. Whatever spellwork is involved may or may not be audible through his gritted teeth, depending upon any outcry.

[tender]

The irony of the situation is not lost on her. Almost a year ago, she had asked about Richard's magic. She'd wanted to understand it better. She'd wanted to know what it was like for him to call on it.

And now, if Richard is calling upon it, Derrica is in no position to observe. (Caught up in Holden's grip, the anxious tremors as Richard positions himself are subdued to some extent.) As Richard arranges his weight, carefully worked to pin her securely beneath him before he sets himself to his work.

She looks directly up at him. There is time to take a single breath before—

Richard twists and Derrica shrieks in spite of herself. Her nails dig into Holden's hand. That instinctive urge to try and kick free is impossible to quell, but she's well secured between them. The jolting movement of her one free hand comes to nothing, just a useless flinch outward, gaining no purchase but setting off a cascade of pain. The world goes white, everything momentarily blotted out and then returned as the pain consumes everything and then recedes, shrinking back down beneath Richard's palm where he's set it over her shoulder.

She tries to say something, but the words catch. Breathing hard through the shuddering aftershocks, her hand flexes in Holden's as she nods up to Richard. Again? Enough? She wants it very badly to be done, but can't quite discern from his expression whether he's been successful.

[acreage]

At the periphery of this, Jim is an island of stillness. He holds Derrica's hand securely, doesn't much flinch despite the dig of her nails. His eyes stay on Silas, and on Derrica, and the difficult business of mending her bones. It's hard to watch — and listen to — but it'd be worse if he trusted Silas less. He'd been the first person Jim had looked for, and for a reason.

Something else is starting to happen even as his attention is for his friends. His hands are warm; and so is the rest of him; and only getting warmer. He breaks into a cold sweat, skin pinpricking into goosebumps. The veins of his bad foot feel more filled with acid than blood, worse as time goes on, and a part of him notes that this is incongruous with the kind of injury he thinks he has.

There is no version of events where he interrupts Silas's work right now. There is no version of events where he lets go of Derrica's hand when she clings to him and screams.

It's fine, probably, and if it's not...there'll be time for that soon enough.

[nonvenomous]

The look Derrica glimpses on his face just before is distracted -- the why this reflection of one who is steeling himself to grab onto an electric fence to fulfill his side of a bet.

Silas doesn’t catch her looking. He just starts.

Wiry strength buckles in through his elbows, behind his shoulders, pinning Derrica and her bones down against her own struggle. The one hand is scarred across the knuckles where she recently helped to regrow burnt flesh, patchwork up the wrist to the carve of an older scar up the back of his arm.

Pain flinches in hard at his nose in milder mirror of her suffering; he bristles at the chops, sputters close to the end, that initial hot spike of pain drawn out into a numb pulse heat deep through the bone.

And it’s done.

Silas examines his work, mutters off a secondary spell that passes warm and light through his fingertips as they probe. He’s blanched pale behind it, breathing hard, dark at the temples from a cold sweat to rival Holden’s at the cotside.

“It will hold.” He rolls stiff aside to sit more beside her than atop her, yielding some of her space back to her while he catches his breath. "I'll make you a sling.” In just a moment.

[tender]

It's done.

And in the wake of it Derrica can't stop shaking, her body shocked into confusion at the agony of Richard's ministrations even as he schools the shattered mess of her collarbone back into some semblance of order. The pain dulls, receding from an encompassing static to a muted roar that flares only when she experimentally tries to lift her arm again.

Much improved. Even having curled in slightly on herself, breathless from the process, Derrica knows how much better off she is know than she had been when Jim and she had staggered through the door. Her grip is loosens by degrees on Jim's hand, but by any normal standard, it is an uncomfortably tight grip.

Maybe to keep him from getting up and slinking away before anyone looks at his foot.

"Thank you," she says immediately. Her voice is shaky, a little raw, matching the streaks of tears and flush of her face. "It feels better."

Which is true, even if it's still a miserable sort of injury.

And even if she really wants to say, Look at Jim's foot now, please.

[acreage]

Oh, there's no danger of him getting up.

He's spent a lot more time being healed by Silas than watching him work, in these kinds of contexts. And there's something about it that strikes him, even if he isn't sure what — noticing without noticing. A vague pinprick of worry that may resolve into something when he's clearer-headed. Because the relief at seeing Derrica better able to use her hand, loosening her grip on his, saying it feels better is powerful enough to feel like dizziness.

And then it just feels like dizziness, concurrent with a fresh throb of pain from his foot.

He mutters a curse, bracing against the side of her cot with his free hand. Not that he's any expert on getting fucking shot by fucking arrows, but — now that Derrica's condition is more stable — he can admit to himself that this doesn't seem normal.

"You know, I'm starting to get the feeling," he says, tone pitched light, as he makes himself look back up at the two of them, "that there was something on that arrow."

[nonvenomous]

“You’re welcome.”

He means it.

Tucked away on his person is a black handkerchief embroidered with the curl of a serpentine S -- he turns it out of his waistcoat to sweep it across his brow, under his chin. He further works it across the webbing between his fingers while he collects himself, mind already four or five steps ahead to the fire outside, where he might settle down in short order with a blunt and a bowl of stew --

Jim’s words bleed through.

The hanky in his hands goes still; he looks from the arrow in James Holden’s foot to James Holden’s face. He says with total composure and only a hint of challenge to the inevitability of this he should have known:

“Are you serious?”

[tender]

Exhausted, pained, and shivering out the aftershocks of severe injury, Derrica's attention narrows instantly to Holden on the stool beside her cot. Her grip clenches tight around his hand.

"Are you poisoned?" is a question that everyone already knows the answer to. Of course he is poisoned. Of course. Derrica's distress is half in answer to the predictability of it. They might have seen to him first. Her broken bones were surely less pressing than poison. What was broken wasn't going to grow any worse than it already was.

"Are you too tired?" is directed at Richard, asked around a wince. It was taxing, what he'd done for her. Yes, they are in a tent full of healers, but those are strangers, and Richard can be trusted more than any of them.

[acreage]

"Well, I'd be glad to be wrong," is directed at the both of them.

Except, of course, he isn't. They all know. He'd never offer reason for them to worry if he didn't think it pressing. He hadn't even allowed himself the thought until the growing fever was too obvious to argue with. The high color in his face contrasts with the clamminess of his skin, the beat of his heart overloud in his chest, and he doesn't bother trying to sit upright again. The only thing worse than making this admission now would have to be making it and immediately falling onto his face.

Is Silas too tired? It's a good question, and likely unsurprising that he starts to follow it with,

"You don't have to — "

There's probably no good way for a sentence like that to end.

[nonvenomous]

He shakes his head -- not too tired.

Probably.

It is challenging to do the math under current conditions. With one hand anchored at Derrica’s side to steady against her shivering, he tucks his handkerchief away and surveys the ruckus around them once more. All the humor has gone out of him.

“Do you think you can walk?”

Nobody may be paying attention to them but the quarters are awfully close.

[tender]

"We do have to," is said so swiftly, interjecting as Richard's hand settles against her side.

Admittedly, she is a little surprised. But it's welcome, and it prompts her to make an effort to maneuver her upright so that they might present a somewhat united front.

"To where?" Derrica asks Richard. If it isn't too far, they might manage between the three of them.

[acreage]

Does he think he can walk? He thinks that if Silas is asking, there's good reason for it. So he says,

"With a little help."

by way of acquiescence. Something to keep him from accidentally driving a poisoned arrow further into his foot by walking on it, even setting aside the question of pain, or his balance.

[nonvenomous]

“To the collection of the dead we’ve been stacking behind the tent,” says Silas. “It would be easier than carrying him.”

The hood to his brow makes it unsettlingly difficult to tell whether or not he is serious.

Any accompanying indignation will hopefully serve as sufficient distraction for him to reach down and yank the arrow roughly free after dropping his boot toe over Holden’s to pin it there against the floor between them. He is careful, at least, to approximate the angle of entry to limit the damage inherent in retrieval.

“Not far,” he tells Derrica, either before Holden hits him or in the time it takes him to decide not to. He's still sweaty, pale in the gills. “We’ll need privacy.”

[tender]

From her vantage point, newly upright with a clear line of sight, Derrica is easily able to observe the trajectory of Richard's hand.

And since there is nothing objectionable in it, she holds her remarks until the work is done. Still squeezing Holden's hand, she nods to Richard. The last thing she really wants to be on her feet and moving, but what other option is there? Holden is hurt. She has to help him, in whatever way is possible.

"He can lean on my good side," she agrees, before pointing out, "Is there privacy?"

It seems unlikely, but Richard has been working in this tent. He'd know.

[acreage]

"You're funny," he says with a brief eyebrow raise.

The unamused look he cuts in Silas's direction means he does, at least, have that much warning before the arrow is ripped unceremoniously from his foot. It's quick, at least. Already over by the time his hands — one in Derrica's, one in the fabric of the cot — contract reflexively, a pained sound caught behind his teeth and swallowed down. If he entertains the idea of clocking a snake, well. The thought's certainly gone by the time he's taken enough of a breath to follow the direction the conversation's taken.

"Outside?" he asks Silas, unsure of where else they might find privacy around here. And then to Derrica, with a frown, "You need to rest."

Which is a ridiculous thing to say, for a lot of reasons. Of course she needs to rest. So does Silas for that matter, threadbare already when they'd showed up and more spent now. That doesn't mean anything this close to a battle. That doesn't mean he doesn't feel a flicker of concern for what helping him is going to cost them.

[nonvenomous]

A quick study and a sniff to the arrow’s tip don’t yield much insight beyond the coppery stink of bodily harm. This latest glance to Holden is purely to gauge whether or not the danger of being clocked has fully passed. It seems that it has.

Outside is the answer, agreed with a nod.

“I can take him,” isn’t that strange of an offer to make, under the circumstances. He leans to stand, placing the arrow neatly aside on a neighboring table as he goes. Derrica should rest.

His turn back to them is well-angled to receive argument.

[tender]

"He can lean on me," Derrica presses, a point made more to Richard than to Holden. His hand is drawn in her lap. Moving her opposite hand is still painful, but less so once she's set it onto Holden's, trapping his hand between hers. "He might need to lean on me while you work."

Even without an idea of what needs to be done, this feels like a safe assumption to make. Holden does not seem as if he could stay upright for very long on his own.

[acreage]

He goes to stand, but that's complicated by Derrica's insistence on keeping his hand. It's easy to feel better than he is, not moving; and it's easy to look better than he is, too, when the closest he can get to standing without disturbing her is really just sliding off the stool with both hands on her cot. There's a fresh bloom of pain when he puts weight on his bad foot, of course, but he can off-set that some by favoring the other. If he's starting to breathe a little hard, well.

"I'll be okay," he says, and who it's directed to is clear enough with the light tug he gives his secured hand. There's not much force to it, for fear of hurting her; nowhere near enough to dislodge it from her grip. "It's going to be fine."

Then, directed more generally, is a stab at dry humor.

"I crossed Eros with less help and radiation melting my insides," is not a thing he's told either of them about Eros, actually, or anyone in Thedas. It's common enough knowledge back home, and with a haze blurring the edges of his thoughts from pain and toxin, he forgets the difference. "I doubt a meter or so will kill me now."

[nonvenomous]

Dick furrows his brow, first in doubt…

“If he collapses you’re likely to re-break the clavicle -- “

…and then in a more earnest twinge of concern, as he processes through crosstalk to parse the jumble of unfamiliar words Jim has chosen to reassure them with. An uncertain hover sees his hands paused mid-reach -- he glances only fleetingly to Derrica before snaking himself up under Holden’s near arm to bolster him the rest of the way upright. Perhaps she should join them but also let go please.

This isn’t the first time another rifter has referred to some specific otherworldly nonsense in his presence, but it might be the first time this one has.

“We can sit him down around the back.”

Some other fresh case is already halfway into their freshly abandoned cot by the time they’ve ushered Holden out of arm’s reach.