faderift | closed.

Entry tags:

closed.

WHO: Marcus Rowntree, Julius
WHAT: Visiting friends and family, in a way.
WHEN: Early Justinian
WHERE: Free Marches
NOTES: Violence

It all happens fast, after it all starts slow.

It is a planned journey, selecting the routes most recently confirmed as clear and safe. Slightly obscure roads that steer them through light forest, horse hooves picking carefully through rocky streams running with inch-deep rivers, or making swift paths through open plains. There are farm houses and villages, grazing cattle and the occasional rattle of a merchant cart moving at a slower pace. It's hardly the wilderness.

Over the past two days and change, Marcus had first summarised and then shown Julius the contents of the letter. A slightly enigmatic but very familiar piece of writing in a known hand, signed by someone named Jaqueline. It reports on Sima's health, hopes he has his own, and gently insists on his visiting them properly, and soon. He says that he suspects they're discussing a relocation, and of course would not commit their intentions to writing.

The sky is not yet beginning to darken, but the afternoon has begun to turn. That moment when you blink and notice the fuzzying of shadows, the shortening of the horizon. They've left the markers of civilisation, where the larger stretches of field on either side are given to wildflowers and rabbits, and there are no friendly flickering firelit windows in the distance.

"We could find a place to make camp," Marcus says, shifting in his saddle to ease the inevitable ache of long riding. "Or make a last push. This time of year, we'd likely just make it before night falls."

Obviously, on his own, he'd kick his stirrups and go.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Julius has been attentive, as they travel, asking questions when they're obvious ones but more or less letting Marcus take the lead for sharing or not. It's been pleasant, having the time traveling together, and Julius is mindful of the fact he's a guest on this excursion.

Now he considers the sky as Marcus asks his opinion. "...if you think we can make it, let's keep going," he says, after weighing the options. "May as well. And who knows, maybe we can have a bit of a lie-in as a reward."

(For the record, the only times Marcus has seen Julius actually sleep in significantly past the time he usually rises has been in the infirmary or just out of it.)

"Aye," in answer to whether he thinks they can make it, and the prospect of a slow morning. As it goes, with some things, Julius will just have to assume that Marcus appreciates his answer, as there is little beyond that besides a nod and an uptick in pace, beginning a steady run that will shave time off their journey. The big warhorse he rides, aged as Kevin is, seems willing and able, even eager to break into a different pace, barely needing a twitch of a gesture to compel him forward.

They slow, pause, walk, gallop again, and on in this cycle until entering new woodlands proper as the sky takes on tones of indigo, dark in the distance. Where Marcus is a quiet travel companion, even with Julius or Petrana, his silence is more intent now as they move down a quiet strip of beaten path, expectant and alert, as if trying to see for something through the trees ahead.

Which is, at least, promising. If there is a homestead near enough to see, if there are lights for him to look for, then they've made it.

There are no lights, though, which Marcus does not begin to think of as odd until something odd happens.

It's like a change in atmosphere, cresting the top of a mountain range, a density in the air and a pressure in the back of both of their heads as that fine tether that naturally connects them to the Fade is neatly cut. It is such a characteristic sensation that Marcus, without really thinking, snaps his attention to the right of him, then to the left—

And the sound of bolts leaving great crossbows, like handheld siege weapons. Julius will even feeling the impact when one sinks into the flank of his horse, the moment before the animal staggers and screams.

He swears, reaching for his staff with one hand while trying to keep his seat with the other. Even if he can't cast, it's a heavy piece of wood and his best shot at self-defense. His first thought is gratitude that he'd suggested coming, that Marcus had said yes; his second thought is he doesn't know how many attackers there are and that, under the circumstances, the gratitude might be premature.

His horse, in great pain, is not calming. It's only a moment before he realizes he's going to have to get off or risk being thrown. It's too dark for it to be a graceful process and the way his ankle turns when he lands is ... bad, and he grunts in pain. He doesn't think it's broken, so it will have to wait its turn in the queue of bad things that are happening.

Blood, fast, paints down mottled-grey flank where a bolt cut a deep streak through Kevin's hide. Eyes rolling and wide, panic, where the smell of blood and the sudden presence of predators is more than enough to override training, experience.

Another painless, invasive dampening of silencing magic, sourceless and oppressive. Marcus loosens a stirrup of one boot as Kevin turns and staggers, and manages to dismount without being thrown. (He remembers, once, hiding in the trees, taking out their horses first, disabling the transport, summoning glyphs of raging fire while Templars were still trying to unstick their blades out of their sheaths—)

It could be Venatori. Corrupted Templars. Even bandits with a trick up their sleeve. It is no surprise, however, when the figures emerging from cover of dark woodland are in heavy plate, bearing shields.

Clang, just behind Julius' shoulder, where Marcus had first closed in to instinctively cover his back, and trust the reverse is true. It's the sound of a long sword parrying the heavy swing of heavy wood and iron as Marcus immediately strikes out once the Templar has moved close enough, bladed edge of his staff scraping across steel, a raised shield.

Julius's first thought, perhaps tellingly, had been red Templars. Then again, given his position, he spends a lot of time thinking about that particular threat, and it's almost jarring when it isn't that.

The loud clash of metal against wood shakes him out of his brief moment of surprise, and then he's engaged as well. Unlike Marcus, he doesn't routinely carry a staff with a blade; in general, if he's gotten this close, something has gone wrong. He supposes that rule isn't disproved by this instance, as things have definitely gone wrong. Still, he isn't fully without resources, and he shoves aside the small part of his mind that was trained from childhood to be afraid of exactly this in favor of trying to lever the Templar in front of him backward. He's a tall man with long arms: his staff can give him better reach than a sword, generally. But it would have been easier to keep an opponent away initially than it is to force one back now.

He sees an opening and takes it, ducking under a high swing to go for the joint at the knee. But it's a hair too slow and his staff bounces hard off the armor, jarring his shoulders.

Edited (was trying to post quickly and was *too quick*) 2022-06-11 01:16 (UTC)

A third silencing makes excessively certain that the Veil stays as closed to them as it does for anyone. The near mundane sound of clank and thump of weapons and armor and shield is small in this forest road, the stamping of hooves nearby, the twittering of birds in the trees.

It's a losing fight. They should likely be dead, faster, if that was the object.

The Templar that Julius strikes out that turns to bring around a short, heavy-ended mace that connects with bone-rattling force into Julius' side, bruising without breaking. Fast, Marcus pivots around with the full length of his staff in a wild swing out at this attacker, but a raised shield knocks the strike back.

A long sword from another angle enters the fray, locking along the grip Marcus has on his staff. A stubborn refusal to let go is rewarded with a slice carved across his forearm, which elicits a shout of pain and—a continued refusal to let go. Another strike of a blunt weapon knocks his leg out from under him, and two more press in, weaponed assault abandoned in favour of simply wrestling him down to the ground.

It happens fast, with all the determinism of a rockslide. Clanking armored forms move in on Julius, with one raising the pommel of their sword with the intent to connect is sharply with the back of his head.

Julius, too, registers that they should be dead by now, but in a distant way, while most of his attention remains on the fight. Even as a younger man, he likely wouldn't have been much use in this kind of brawl. At this age (and this recently after being poisoned), he's hyper-aware of the relative slowness of his own reactions, how little he feels he can do without his connection to the Fade.

If he could light them on fire with his mind alone, he would.

The blow to his ribs followed by Marcus's pained cry is enough to get him to twist, his attention drawn over his shoulder. It's the full turn to try to get to Marcus as he's pulled to the ground, though, that leaves Julius open to the blow to the head. Stars explode behind his vision, and he collapses straight down as if his strings had been cut.

There is no part of Marcus that wishes to make whatever is happening easy on anyone. Not himself and certainly not this contingent of Templars bearing down. Once his staff is finally pried free of his hands, fists swing and fingers claw at cold metal until rune-inscribed iron clasps around his wrists, and enough subduing blows land to slip grey time between seconds. Arms locked into a grapple, legs dragging in dirt as he's hauled away.

He can see a few of them more casually occupied in standing over Julius, one of them pushing him to roll onto is back. Discussing something. One of them, holding a mace, adjusting his grip. Marcus shouts something half-coherent and bloodied, and—

It's quiet when Julius wakes. Nightfall. Even in the summer, the coolness of exposure stiffens every new ache he's accumulated, and the silence seems thicker for the darkness that's fallen.

Julius comes to slowly, rather than all at once. He's aware of pain in his ribs and a raging headache before he's aware of anything else, but eventually he blinks his eyes open and registers that it's dark, which could mean anything from half an hour to many hours, at this point. He takes some effort to sit up, but gets that far, hearing the sounds of insects and animals that indicate the lack of anyone human nearby, or at least probably anyone in full plate.

He checks for his sending crystal first, and then his staff; he expects the horses are either dead or long gone, and he hopes if it's the latter that they're found by someone who will take care of them.

He will get to thinking about Marcus. He's not there yet.

His shirt collar has been pulled open, his pockets emptied, a quick looting in which almost everything has been left behind either where he put them or littered on the forest floor—all, of course, except his sending crystal, which is nowhere to be found.

Beneath the pulse of a headache, there is also that sense of something restored, the long-faded effect of the silencing enchantment gone in favour of his connection to the Fade. A good thing, as it's likely too dark to see by on his own.

His staff lays on the ground several feet from him, likely kicked aside when he'd first fallen and then discarded.

There is, it is increasingly clear, no one around to watch him react. He swears, quietly but feelingly, when it's clear he is going to find the sending crystal. His staff in hand, he takes a moment to cast a field healing spell, largely to ensure that he's not bleeding internally or concussed worse than he knows.

The spell doesn't erase the pain, but it does ease it, which turns out to be a mixed blessing. The clarity in his head allows him to fully realize what just happened, and he swears again, much louder. It's tempting, very briefly, to give into either rage or despair, but he does neither. One breath, then two. If they'd meant to kill Marcus, they could have killed both mages handily when they'd ambushed them. That means he's been taken somewhere for a reason, which means he can still be found.

(Julius tries not to think about the fact that his own continued life indicates that they didn't think he'd have the time or the resources to stop them from whatever they're planning.)

Another few breaths to steady himself, and then he summons a spell wisp, which gives off a faint glow; better than full darkness, at least, as he looks for the path they'd been on when they were attacked. Either it will take him toward a settlement or back the way they came, and both choices are an improvement on his current situation.

The scuffle had not caused them to deviate far, and the soft glow of the wisp shows that wide gap in the trees that veins through the woods. Marcus hadn't had an opportunity to indicate how far they were out from the settlement, but it was, it seems, not far at all, as the dark shapes of homesteads in a clearing, one that gives way to long-neglected farmland, looms into view.

There are no lights, which is fairly regular for any late hour. Why waste wood or oil on activities after dark? But it's more of a sense than immediate evidence that there is no one here, not in any of the buildings that Julius finds himself amongst.

There is a garden close at hand that is wildly overgrown, portending the empty, abandoned nature of any of the sheds or homes he might check. Dust covered but also stripped mostly bare, indicating a considered departure more so than some scene of violence and ransacking. If not immediately very helpful, only strange.

It is becoming increasingly clear that whoever Marcus had intended to meet, they aren't present, and probably never had been. The signs don't suggest the Templars raided the area first, though he supposes the party they were supposed to be meeting could have seen the Templars and scattered before he and Marcus had gotten close. (It doesn't seem likely.)

Finally, worn out, he admits to himself that he's not going to do any good walking at random in the dark. He decides to wait at least until dawn. He'd like to go after Marcus himself, but he doesn't have any hope of catching up on foot, and he's likely to lose access his abilities in short order if he doesn't make the most of the element of surprise anyway. Miserable, he builds a fire in the hearth and settles down near it, not expecting to sleep. At first light, he'll head back the way they came. It seems agonizingly slow, but he doesn't know what else to do.

Night drags on, slowly, but ends faster than it does at nearly any other time of the year. An early dawn encroaches, until Julius might realise he can see the grey and hazy details of the room he is in without the assistance of the low burning flame.

The quiet sound of clinking metal, rustling, air funnelled noisily through flaring nostrils might sound so ordinary as to escape notice, until it is noticed.

Having not strayed so far, perhaps drawn by the safe path of the trail, the smells of a place that was once home, or maybe even Julius nearby, a weary and wounded warhorse of deep dappled grey moves slowly through the clearing, nosing after summery patches of grass and weeds. Blood has dried across his hide, and he swats at gathering flies with his tail, muscles twitching now and then.

It's a relief to find him, both for sentimental reasons and practical ones. He approaches Kevin slowly but unhesitatingly, murmuring quiet reassurances as he gets close.

The wound is nasty, but it seems to have been confined to the practicality of forcing Marcus to dismount, removing the option to flee. He gives the warhorse a moment to get used to his presence, letting him nose another patch of grass before Julius touches his staff and murmurs another spell. The horse will need proper looking after (so will Julius), but the healing will ease some pain and undo at least a bit of the damage in the meantime.

He considers looking for the other horse, and decides he doesn't have the time. If the noise of Julius and Kevin's departure draws the animal's attention, well and good, but it is full morning now and Julius wants to get moving. His muscles won't get less sore, and Marcus won't get less abducted, the longer they wait.

"Let's go get help," he murmurs, as much as himself as to Kevin, as he catches the horse's bridle to nudge him toward the now-visible road. He would see how Kevin walked the first hour or so, at a minimum, before he would venture trying to ride.

It is a horse best characterised as ever-hungry and unexcitable, which are pretty good and useful traits. The task of acquiring him, steering him onto the road, is easily done. There is a warm snort of air through wide nostrils that one could anthropomorphise as being companionable. The willing quiet is not so unlike travelling with the horse's master.

When that hour or two goes by, and Kevin is given another healing touch or two, there is no resistance to Julius climbing into the saddle, no confusion either about being handled by someone new, and they set off much slower than they began, with an equally pleasant summer's day of riding ahead.

Eventually, of course, he has to sleep.

It is

a classroom. Julius has dreamed this classroom before, has walked it in one circle or another, full of children with eyes turned toward him, ready to debate the validity of various different animals souls. And rifters, once, with a little girl who wanted to know if she was allowed to leave.

In his dream, then, perhaps it's easier to recognize the same eyes in Tsenka's face, sitting on his desk in a room empty of chatter and laughter and curiosity, some relief carved into her features and a cat winding around one wooden leg.

“Where are you?”

He's startled enough to stop short, the strangeness and years of training allowing him to realize: This is a dream. But it also has a weight to it that gives him a different sort of pause. "...Tsenka?" They have met, awake, he knows who she is, but he doesn't know why he's dreaming of her, or why she's asking him such an (admittedly pertinent) question.

“You're dreaming,” she says, which—

feels like agreement, specifically. Not confirmation, not a statement, but specifically as if she is agreeing with the realisation he has only come to that he is dreaming. The space around them warps, strange and irrelevant, and she says, “I was here the last time you had this dream, too. I wanted to know if it was safe here, and you told me that it was. We don't have a lot of time, so I need you to focus up for me and tell me everything you remember about what happened on the road to Wildervale.”

He is dreaming, but it is not his dream any more.

There is, always, the brief suspicion when something unusual happens in a dream, whether this is a trick. But he finds, in the moment, he doesn't care, because if it is real, it is his best chance of getting word to someone who can do something about Marcus's abduction.

"It was an ambush. Templars, though the fight was brief enough that I couldn't tell you much about any of their descriptions. They were expecting us, though. Marcus, rather, they took my sending crystal after they'd knocked me unconscious, but otherwise left me where I fell."

“I'm coming,” she says. “This is how Marcus found me— I came to him, and I showed him where to go. I know he's alive because I've been to him. Stay near the path that you took and we will find you, I'm coming, Julius,” taking his hand. “Do you have Kevin, or your horse? Are you alone? If you need to rest and it's safe, stay where you are, I'm coming.”

On this point she is emphatic, repetitive; determined that what she's saying will survive his waking, unfamiliar as he is with Tsenka's means of dreamwalking, unaccustomed to listening for things in his dreams that he most urgently needs to remember tomorrow.

(She thinks, at any rate. Riftwatch has had a time, with dreams.)

Marcus is alive.

He hadn't let himself truly consider any other possibility, not consciously, but the relief of it is still nearly overwhelming for a moment. (He's slightly more expressive, in his dreams, but this relief would have likely shown on his face even if they'd been having this conversation in the waking world.)

After a moment, he's absorbed that. "I'm fine. I have Kevin, though I lost my horse. But Kevin and I are both alright, we're heading back the way we came. I was hoping to get to someplace I could send a raven, but if you're already on your way, I can meet you somewhere. If there's somewhere convenient."

“Stay close to the path you took,” she instructs, “I've seen it and I can find you.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth—

“He'll be glad about Kevin.”

The warmth of it suffuses the dream: he'll be glad about you.

"He's fine," he says again, quieter. We're fine. "When I meet you, I'm in shape to come get him. I'll be more use this time, we were caught flat-footed in an ambush before." It's not quite an apology, but it's in the neighborhood. "They didn't break my staff; I don't know if they thought I was dead and didn't bother to check properly, or if they were just confident I couldn't catch up to them."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

closed.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject