Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2021-12-04 08:20 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2021-12-04 08:20 pm
Entry tags:
- ! mod plot,
- abby,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- byerly rutyer,
- derrica,
- edgard,
- ellie,
- james flint,
- john silver,
- julius,
- loki,
- marcus rowntree,
- obeisance barrow,
- tsenka abendroth,
- wysteria de foncé,
- yseult,
- { adrasteia },
- { astarion },
- { cassius black },
- { dante sparda },
- { emet-selch },
- { gabranth },
- { glimmer },
- { james holden },
- { jone },
- { mado },
- { prudence night },
- { richard dickerson },
- { sylvie },
- { vincent rovente }
MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD
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.
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.
no subject
"I also have a first name," he suggests, not yet looking up.
no subject
Silas hangs on the s as he tests it, emphasis just shy of disapproval. Holden had told him Silas was a stupid name, once. As if James isn’t.
Hello James. Where are you keeping the great gun Wysteria Poppell has entrusted into your care, James? She asked if you'd shown it to me, James.
He’s back to tracing at undesired stubble, restless displeasure to keep his hand occupied.
no subject
Since James is such an inconvenience, apparently. There's a here and gone thought that maybe Richard Dickerson went for the title because he just doesn't like any part of the name, James Holden. He breathes in, joint at his lips, adds,
"The only people who call me James are the Seneschal and my parents, when I'm in trouble."
no subject
“‘Jim,’ then,” he agrees, with a touch of lingering reluctance.
Dick himself is a master of keeping humor from leeching into the bony cut of his profile, but also very tired, that earlier side glance long since receded from baseline neutrality. Frowning faintly at his own boots reminds him of the state of the one Jim put an arrow through; he leans to collect it, one thumb hooked through split leather to test the gap.
“When you’re not in trouble.”
no subject
At least, he usually feels like he's on thin ice with (1) Dick Dickerson. Less lately, though, and not tonight. He leans over to get a better look at Silas's inspection of his boot, curious himself. There's an unmistakable tear in the leather where the arrow passed through, some fraying weakness around the edges of the hole. He sighs.
"I'll get it patched in Kirkwall."
Not as if he'd brought a spare pair of shoes with him to this battle.
no subject
He is some seconds in surveying the damage before he takes a breath in to begin whispering, and one might be forgiven for thinking he simply has something to say about Jim’s foolhardiness that is better said in his native, hissing tongue and under his breath. But there is a focused bite to the furrow of his brow, and a shift of his thumb shows a fresh seam of leather closing the gap.
It heals like flesh under his spell, knitting edge to edge, albeit more slowly and with less white-knuckled effort.
no subject
"I didn't know you could do that," he murmurs, impressed.
no subject
Only then is his hand free to retake his smoke, which he does (straight to a hit) in deft order. His glance over in the process hangs sidelong.
“We don’t know very much about each other.”
no subject
"I guess we don't."
Agreement as he places it back down with his other stuff. Funny, maybe, to know a person's moral code, how far they'd go for you, but not more basic information. Then again, it was that way on the Roci for a long time.
"Would you mind if I asked you questions more often?"
no subject
He does, a longer pause less a warning and more a pressing of the point while he rubs over joints caught stiff around an old break in one hand. If he didn’t, he might not have resorted so swiftly to the taboo upon discovery of Jim’s poisoned condition.
There might even be room to slip in a question now, if not for:
“Does it matter to you that most of these people do not care what happens to us?”
no subject
But none of that is the question.
So when he eventually speaks — he admits, soft, "No." It matters, of course. But that hadn't been the question either. "It'll be more of a problem after the war, whenever the hell that is. And for whoever's still here then. But it doesn't change what I do now."
no subject
That he doesn’t have anything to say in return is an answer to the sentiment in itself, hunched and scruffy as a rook on a wire.
no subject
"Do you think it should?"
Matter to him, change what he does. It's less a straightforward question — the answer is obvious — than an opportunity for Silas to say whatever he's thinking.
no subject
The tent is quiet, but not so quiet as to render this anything but a private conversation. There are snores and moans and the low talk of native healers over surgeries still in progress. The aforementioned scrapes of tools being sharpened.
“Being continually expected to make the same sacrifice here in exchange for suspicion and disrespect makes it very difficult for me to stay motivated.”
no subject
He doesn't drop the joint at that admission, but it's a near enough thing. It can't be surprising that he looks stricken, removed as he knows Silas is from that commitment at present. It's still his friend's life.
"Why?"
Hopefully, he doesn't need to clarify that he means why does your god expect this and not why would mistreatment affect your motivation.
no subject
And something he’s had over a year to reflect upon, now, matter-of-fact as a more medical prognosis might be while he flakes at a line of dry blood close to the bed of his nail.
“I could refuse.”
He won’t, obviously. It’s different.
no subject
And Jim sits back, breathes out slowly. Lets that knowledge settle, all of it, like a fall of snow. This conversation isn't about him, is the thing, or how he feels about that. He'd do the same thing.
"I don't know how to make that better here," is what he says instead, finally. It'd be a disservice to suggest something like, you don't have to do that here. "When I was in the navy, we'd talk about something kind of like this sometimes. In the heat of battle, it's not about the cause, or the leadership, or what anyone wants you to do. You fight to protect the person next to you. Your friends, your crew."
He shrugs.
"That's not what everyone in Riftwatch is to me. But enough of you."
Silas and Derrica, for instance. Gabranth. Ellie. Astarion. Tony. Wysteria. Petrana. Others, too, all the people he's come to care about here.
no subject
“Bleak,” he determines, rather than argue. There’s no argument to be made, really. This is their situation. Still: “I’d like to die with more than a soldier’s sense of obligation to coax me out of bed.
“You should rest while the elfroot has you.”
no subject
The mention of elfroot reminds him that he's still holding the joint, completely forgotten in the wake of this new information. He passes back whatever's left of it without taking a hit; Silas can have the last of it, assuming it didn't burn too far in his fingers over discussions of apocalypses and inevitable death.
Bleak isn't an unfair assessment. But it isn't one that had occurred to him, least of all in so many words. It feels like he's lived his whole life this way. Focus on saving the farm, or his fellow cadets, or his crew. Try to do good along the way, sometimes stumble into saving humanity as he does. If only it were so easy in Thedas as sending out system-wide broadcasts, or talking to alien artifacts.
"Are those doctor's orders?"
Asked with soft humor as he moves to comply, pushing himself backwards, straightening his legs, and so on to make it easier to lie back down in a moment. He is tired, and the elfroot makes him feel more relaxed than he ought given the subjects of conversation, and he'll need to be useful tomorrow. Sleep is part of that.
no subject
Sparks flush from a scrape of his boot.
“If that’s what it takes.” Doctor’s orders. He watches Holden settle back from on high as if ensuring that he intends to follow them.
“Please alert any healer if your injury shows signs of infection.”
gently ties a bow
Said, as he lays back down and draws a blanket back over himself, with only a little irony. Somewhere between, what else is he going to do besides go back to sleep, run for it? and it's probably fair that you think he'd try to walk off infection after what happened today. Or maybe just: hopefully he isn't so unlucky, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Regardless, he doesn't push his luck. Agreement spoken, he closes his eyes and, after a time, falls back asleep.