faderift | closed.

It is nearing dusk when forward scouting locates a gathering of horsed men and women travelling a main road parallel to the Vimmarks, headed for Val Chevin. They escort a prisoner transport carriage which they will, for now, have to leave to faith contains the person they are searching for, as it is enclosed on all sides, slim barred windows on each showing only shadow inside at a glance, door latched closed.

Six armoured individuals, Templar plate, five on horseback and one driving the carriage. The driver is accompanied by a seventh individual sat beside them, someone in light leathers without any clear, distinguishable sign of affiliation. The open road ambles across gentle foothills with only light forest dotting the countryside, and they are making good time with a steady but not leisurely pace forwards.

Despite this quickened momentum, stopping them is a matter of blocking the road by standing in its centre, with a horse drawn carriage to contend with. If this is a group of charlatans pretending at playing Templar, they are very skilled at it as those on their horses all uniformly dismount and muster together, all raising heavy crossbows squarely upon the united front of Flint, Bastien, Tiffany, and Derrica.

After a pause, it's the leather-armored agent that stands where he was perched, and engages in what appears to be a conversation.

Why yes, they do have Marcus Rowntree in their custody. If the outfit known as Riftwatch wishes to petition for his release, it is best they take it up through official challenges. They have no authority, personally, to negotiate the release of a prisoner of the Chantry. As for anyone slain in the moment of arrest, certainly one should know better than to get between blade and quarry.

Speaking of which—

It's Derrica that spies the signal, and has the ability to act when, in near unison, five bolts spring loose from crossbow.

Edited 2022-07-02 04:09 (UTC)

Being in the company of so many templars makes her skin crawl. Derrica hides it well, but unease has been prickling up and down the nape her neck, along her arms, gathering tension in her back as they speak.

They are not receptive. Derrica had not expected anything else, not really. Not from templars. (If they are bandits, will they drop their weapons and run at the first sign of real trouble?) The casual dismissal of ostensibly dead Julius expected as well. They are not cowed, and that is their mistake, maybe.

Derrica is painfully aware of them. These six men in their armor with their crossbows, likely soaked in mage bane, unconcerned with the presence of the Commander, or of a Seeker are a threat. She has spoken gently, coolly, careful with her words and harmonious with Bastien and Theophania. She wasn't lying earlier, she would have liked to be able to avoid a fight, but—

It might be a fight. She doesn't wait for the signal to come to it's logical conclusion, just raises immediately a barrier between them. Not aggression in kind, yet. Her eyes cut sideways to Bastien, then Flint, both checking that no one has been hit as well as questioning.

Repayment in kind, or...?

'It's possible they may change their attitudes once they realize the extent of the problem they've created,' had been his exact words to Yseult. Put a handful of Riftwatch members in the roadway with every appearance of being prepared to act reasonably. Emphasize it with the presence of a Division Head. It's not beyond belief that the contingent holding Marcus Rowntree would consider making concessions in that light.

But in case not, they've kept two mages and a bowman posted in the sparse midsummer shrubbery of the offing. 'Aim to incapacitate if you're able,' Flint had instructed the trio as they'd waited for the heavily armored convoy to come rattling to meet them. 'Though if it comes to a fight, better to come clear of it than not. Julius, Tsenka—make use of whatever surprise can be mustered. Edgard, aim for their horses.'

Operating in good faith is one thing. Acting needlessly naive would be another matter entirely.

So: The hot crackle of bolts deflecting from the barrier pops loud in the ear. And while the flinch back from the aborted velocity is instinctive, so too is the disparaging thought of how stupid it is for the Templars to have fired their full volley at once. Even the best trained arbalist takes time to reload. That's plenty of time for Flint to spit out the sharp whistle that serves as their own signal.

In the immediate aftermath—so early that there may still be scattered edges being tended to and the lock on the transport may still be in the process of being broken open—, the man in the light leather armor is sat in the mud with his back against one of the carriage's heavy back wheels. He is inarguably indisposed. The buckles at the side of his leather armor's torso piece have been opened to permit him to cram his hand between it and his shirt so that he may judiciously apply pressure to the shallow puncture wound he's managed to sustain through the leathers.

Despite this considerable downturn in his circumstances, some of that air of casual condescension bordering on the driest of humor which had colored his earlier remarks lingers. He must come by it very honestly.

"I'll take a bit of water if you have it."

It is Derrica's immediate instinct to break away to see to Marcus but—

The unavoidable fact is: this is her duty, and she cannot abandon it midway through.

"We do," she answers. "We could spare some, to a man willing to offer honest answers to us in exchange."

Derrica is still sheathed in ozone and sparks, coolly serene in the center of all this crackling energy. The pop and spit of it builds as it draws in what is left from all the magic expended in the course of the brawl, passively gathering strength in the absence of a dismissal. Are they done here? Perhaps, but she will wait until there is no doubt.

Edited (fumble fingers posting before i meant to) 2022-07-04 18:07 (UTC)

Julius's first instinct is to see to Marcus in Derrica's stead, with a bit of relief that he doesn't have to be the leader of Sashamiri just now. There are plenty of other capable hands, if he wants to be selfish for just a moment. And the competing impulse, to use a spell to punch the smug captive's teeth in, is leashed for now, though few of his compatriots would have seen Julius well and truly angry before this incident.

He does shoot the templar a lingering look that's more fire than ice as he goes to make sure Marcus is in one piece, his staff still handy in case Derrica and the others need the backup.

A dozen paces removed, one of the Templars in her full plate has been induced to take a heavy seat on a stone at the edge of the roadway. Flint is there. He has both her sword and his tucked under his arm, and the details of whatever corroborating conversation is occurring are largely indistinguishable under the heavy clang-clang-clang of the transport's lock being broken.

Here, down in the mud, the man in the leather armor slides his attention from Derrica to Julius retreating toward the back of the transport, and back again. He's quite clear when he says to her, "Well, I can't make any promises. But let's see if a drink relieves this itch in my throat enough to make conversation."

He is maybe forty and sports a Marcher accent so broad that it's indistinguishable. Under a dark, closely kept beard, the man has a fairly unremarkable face excepting the scar that clips through one eyebrow. That said, his smile involves a fair number of teeth and might be charming were it expressed in less fraught circumstances. In these, it's something of an aggravating pretense.

Is Flint faring better? Derrica doesn't glance over to check, but she is as aware of him as she is of Julius departing towards the cart, and the efforts centered there to break the lock and free the man within it.

Her hands fold, one over the other, onto the worn-smooth grip of her stave as she looks back into his face. Wrestles with the urge to threaten.

Instead, she nods silently, and then turns to look to the nearest set of free hands that might pass her a waterskin.

Almost in tandem with Flint's whistle:

the same kind of odd subtlety yet oppressive discomfort of a shift in atmospheric pressure, and while glimmering radiant light flashes out, it's mostly Derrica that feels it. The staff in her hands, thrummed with potential, is now a slightly unwieldy stick as her tie to the Fade is severed.

It's joined by the whisper of steel and leather as three Templars, crossbows discarded, draw their blades, and advance on the group. The two others draw back to reload, and one helm seems to clock something about Flint's signal that has it turn to look to the trees.

Edited 2022-07-04 21:27 (UTC)

Locked doors and noises on the other side are the kind of components that factor into deeper dreams, so much so that there is a delay in parsing his own consciousness. That he is operating in a drugged-fog doesn't help, and by the time Marcus is mustering his wits, sort of—

Clang-clang-clang as the transport lock is broken, far more real in this space than any of the noises previously, vibrating through the shadows. It brings a shock of heady adrenaline, Marcus scrabbling properly out of his stupor, a chain dragging. Going through the necessary motions that turn fright into anger.

The lock gives. It wasn't too concerned about being a lock, on that side of the door.

One hand braced against the inside wall of the carriage, half-kneeling in an attempt to get to his feet, Marcus is less a few things since Julius saw him last: his staff, the outer shell of his armor, the opportunity to shave, and a few meals. There is bruising, dried blood, and manacles fastened around wrists with the telltale signs of runic inscription. A length of chain, fastening an ankle to a metal ring, allowing him only as far as the door.

He will react intelligently to individual identities in a moment, once he's finished simply determining friend or foe in the shock of daylight.

Whatever surprise can be mustered is considerable when your opponents believe you to be dead. In the split second between Derrica's barrier going up and the Templars drawing their blades, he has time to evaluate the exact placement of his spell where it will hit three of the Templars (the two reloading and one of the ones advancing) without hitting any of the Riftwatch agents or the carriage.

When he releases the spell, it requires standing, and while it doesn't require dropping his hood, when it falls he doesn't pull it back up. But presumably that's not the first thing the Templars notice. The first thing they probably notice is why the spell is called "fist of the maker," as it slams its targets to the ground hard enough to rattle their bones.

It would be smart to give Marcus a moment to register who it is, to let him catch up after expecting his captors.

Julius absolutely does not do that.

He's leaning his staff against the side of the carriage so he can climb inside instantly. "Maker," he says, without thinking; Tsenka had said he was alive, there was no reason to think that had changed, but the relief that washes over him at confirming it is uncharacteristically easy to read in his face. "We're going to get you out of here, just a moment," he says, coming a bit closer to either break the chain or try to clear Marcus's head, Julius himself hasn't quite decided which immediately.

By the time the carriage rocks a little beneath the weight of a second person, the confusion has cleared up. Tension leaves his expression, relief in kind (and Tsenka had told him so, too), and Marcus sort of relaxes back out of his crouch.

Decision making is nullified as Marcus does it for him and reaches out, a hand landing heavy on Julius' shoulder and snagging on his clothing with all the grace of a dog paw, hooking fingers like blunt nails. He reels the other man in closer, close, no matter how awkward it might be, and also grazes Julius' chin with the edge of iron manacle in the process of getting his arms around him in a trapping embrace. Clumsily leaden-boned, but determined.

Something spoken into his shoulder, muffled. Probably an echoed Maker, or less polite.

Marcus can feel the huff of Julius's breath against his neck when the manacle catches his chin, but he's reassuringly solid as Marcus holds him close. Julius stills, abandoning both of his other projects for the moment. When they'd last seen one another, neither had any assurance they'd get another chance. It feels, suddenly, as if everything else can wait; Julius just holds Marcus close, uncaring as to who might come in to see.

Force magic and rift magic have a lot in common, at least in the spells that Tsenka is most likely to reach for in a fight — pull of the abyss is not one she's under the impression it'd be a good idea to pull out of her arse casually, and firestorm is sort of overkill if you're not fighting a goddamn dragon — which means that they also work spectacularly well together in tandem. Julius rises, and at his side Tsenka drops into a crouch, sweeping her staff out as if she might knock someone's leg out from beneath them,

but when she releases stonefist and a boulder bigger than her torso fires violently across the space, the way Julius has already brought them down means the collision is not necessarily with their legs and the force of the impact on them, pre-grouped, is a mess.

Bastien’s quick to hand Derrica one: his, already open for his own use. Despite his best efforts, he’s looking rumbled. There’s only so much anyone can do about that, when they’re closing in on forty and fighting armored men in midsummer. His hair is damp enough with sweat to stay sticking up oddly when he runs his hand through it, and he picks intermittently at his shirt to let a breeze in the chest and sleeves. Maybe there’s some bruising, maybe a scrape. He’s very grateful not to have died for Marcus Rowntree.

He smiles at the bearded Templar. It’s quick, twitchy, temporary smile of someone who finds themselves drawn in by those many teeth, despite the circumstances and an unwillingness to be charmed. (It’s practiced. He’s not charmed.)

“What do we call you, Ser—?”

"Serah," sounds like a correction as he raises his free hand toward Derrica and the waterskin. It continues smoothly into— "Arlyn, will do. I wish I could say it's a pleasure."

But they've moved somewhat beyond that.

For a moment it seems like he might say something further, but then crack! The sound of the lock giving way at the back of the transport gives him pause and momentarily draws his attention.

In all of this, Bastien finds time for an eyebrows-up glance of gratitude in Derrica’s direction. He did not come dressed for being shot at close range. Or for being run through. Light leather fit for travel, metal scaling in a few key places, the Riftwatch half-cape in case it mattered—which it doesn’t appear to.

He takes a few cowed steps back from the drawn swords, hands up, eyes darting and calculating behind the alarm. When the magic hits (and hits), he moves, which he is dressed for. A forward dart, a downward drop into a crouching walk, and his blade out on the way to take a stab at the less-guarded tendons on the back of one of the Templars’ knees.

He pops up on the other side and segues into trying to wrest the crossbow away from the one who’d been distracted.

It's sickening.

It's a severing, concussive pressure that smothers the sparks gathering at the tips of her fingers and the heavy, blunt weight of her focus lashed to the top of her staff. It knocks the wind from her.

But only for a split second.

And then she is abruptly so angry. She feels the venom gather in the back of her throat, vicious sentiment: How dare you.

Bastien goes one way, and she breaks towards the other. Dances outside the impacting wreckage of stone and force to swing her stave with all her might at the first helmeted skull that presents itself.

Negotiations, over.

It is the absolute height of unfairness that under the circumstances, even Tsenka is not actually going to do something like gag loudly from about a foot away or gleefully declare that this is further proof Marcus has despite his many claims to the contrary ever had sex in his life.

(“I've heard you fucking.” “You misheard.”)

If he hadn't just been abducted by the Chantry, it'd be a perfect, uninterrupted moment for both—

but what she actually does is say, “I told you both I was coming,” with some satisfaction. Tsenka Abendroth does not make threats, she makes promises.

Edited 2022-07-05 09:33 (UTC)

For what it is worth, Marcus is pale and sweaty and bleary-eyed with dried blood flaking around a continual leak from a swollen split on his face and visibly does not do Tsenka's argument many favours, to look at him. For all that, there's plenty of strength in his hold of Julius (unmindful of bruises, either of theirs) even as his head spins, and some romance can be derived from feeling steadier for being held in return.

Once the relief has followed through on this first impulse, Marcus fiercely, all at once, wishes Petrana were here as well—

Well, there is Tsenka.

He relaxes his grip, Julius now only passively trapped in the closed loop of Marcus' arms and the length of chain between his wrists. The world opening up enough to incorporate his sister chirping up, and he'll have to address that too.

Julius is in a state mainly to flash Tsenka a wan but grateful smile; he'll need a better way to show his gratitude, when he's a bit less all at sea, but he hopes she can undestand how much it matters, for now.

To Marcus, he says, "Derrica is here, so she'll be able to do more than me, but are you in pain? I can tide you over until she's ready to take a look at you, if you need." He'd normally examine Marcus more closely rather than take his word for it, but that would mean drawing away, which doesn't have a lot to recommend it at present.

Edgard stands still a moment as 'negotiations' fail. His eyes dart wildly around. He'd been told he was needed on this mission, but only if he could keep his head. It was the wrong thing to say, now he questioned every step. And after all, who was he in combat among mages?

He shuts his eyes and takes a breath. Horses, He thinks, Flint said horses. He opens his eyes, stands tall and aims his bow and takes down a horse. As the magic hits, he misses, his hand shaking. Don't be useless! He takes another breath: Bastien pulling a crossbow from a Templar. He aims for the Templars' eye and lets fly.

It's quick. One minute thin lips and terse words, a barely kept air of civility. Then it breaks: the whistle of arrows, spells and stones, the air bending and flexing, and the earth itself crackling. Nothing should come to this.

Riftwatch's volley lays half the troop low. Then Bastien cuts one way, Derrica the other--another arrow whistles from the treeline, counterpoints the dull crack of Derrica's staff, two grunts of pain earned. Tiffany moves center, bullish, hands wrapped tightly around her sword. Her step is surer, her intent focused. She's not lived this, day in and day out, but she trained for this--the part where peace fails, where something goes wrong even if you wish it didn't. Now it's brute force for brute force.

Her eye is on the leather-armored agent, the one who had done the talking. One of the Templars--twice laid low, first by force and then by stone--shoves himself up, helm crumpled around his head. Tiffany shoulders him back down to the dirt, and smashes at his face with the pommel of her sword to keep him there.

"Arlyn," is pointedly familiar. Derrica, who rarely uses titles, would have said this very warmly, were Arlyn another sort of man.

The breaking lock underscores all the ways in which he is not.

She passes him the waterskin regardless, maintaining the arm's length of distance between them. Anger is still simmering in her, held in check but present. She is at work here; it cannot be indulged.

A step back. Waiting. Some small, sidelong look at Bastien, seeking less his thoughts in this moment and more for any blooming spots of blood on his tunic. Arlyn may have his drink, before they begin again.

closed.

preamble and negotiations.

rappels in

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the part in the scooby-doo episode where they take off the rubber mask.

and they woulda gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling kids.

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dick in a box.

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slides in one more before someone else arrives

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