faderift | closed / i call this sharp stick "public relations"

The Commander had been clear: they are to join the Inquisition's raiding party, then work to redistribute their spoils. Ellis has his Riftwatch uniform in his pack, specifically for that purpose.

However, the first four raids have yielded next to nothing. A bare scrape of near-depleted crates is all they have to show for their efforts, alongside a festering murmur of discontent that has simmered and sparked under outbursts and questionable decisions from Glas.

It's been put aside for now, just as it has in the wake of the earlier raids. They have business to attend.

True, all the other leads have been promising. But as they circle around the farmhouse, marking the number of Imperial soldiers. Those are fine horses, comes a murmur from somewhere beyond Marcus. A fair assessment, though they aren't here for horses.

Not only horses.

The man is being sporting, though his proposal for approach had been lifted out of his hands almost immediately after his recitation. Glas had repeated it with minimal change: circle the house, flank their escape routes. Armored combatants split, attend both front and back of the farmhouse to drive out any soldiers inside the farmhouse. Mages remain at a distance, pick off Imperial soldiers as they flee. No fire.

It's a good plan, even if the forging of it is rocky. Ellis still observes Ellie and Marcus for their assent before agreeing to it himself.

Maybe it's promising that they are met almost immediately with serious pushback. Ellis is halfway through the front door when a longsword cracks down over his shield, attempting to push him back. There are shouts in Tevene rise, armored soldiers shoving through to send a volley of arrows to meet those who had held back.

Only the briefest glimpse inside is enough to mark the stacks of crates. That shout goes up too among the Inquisition forces, all hungry for a clear victory after so many wasted excursions.

It reminds Ellie all too well of the raids on the bandits outside of Jackson. They'd been shock troops, specialists, opportunists. Not like this, organized and moving as a unit, well armed and armored. It had been Joel flanking escape routes, Tommy set back as a sniper to pick off any that get too cocky.

Ellie had been kept far away, but even Maria's orders and the combined protective instinct of both Miller brothers hadn't kept her from the odd tangle on patrol.

Ellis and Marcus are good, though -- really good.

She wishes they were good enough to make her forget Glas's too-loud laugh when she slapped Ellis on the shoulder when they arrived. She seemed all confidence and charisma, happy to have them aboard. But she doesn't like the way she looks at Marcus, or how quickly and sharply she twists shit, so abruptly that it leaves them all reeling.

Ellie's tried her best to keep a lid on the persistent ache in her lower stomach, but it's still shortened her already short fuse, and snapping "that's what he just said" right after Glas outlined the plan hadn't won her in any favors with commanding officer, and by the uncomfortable shift of a few of the others, including the man she'd just defended, Ellie gets the feeling that this isn't the first time.

So right now she's just concentrating on keeping Ellis alive.

"Go for the mages," Ellie says in an undertone to Marcus as the roar of voices goes up, nocking an arrow and pulling it back next to her ear. It's not an order so much as a reminder that Ellie remembers what they've agreed.

The man with the longsword crashes down on Ellis. He's larger, and using brute strength to force him back. There are soldiers behind him, shields up, pushing through the gap to ram the others, make room for their archers.

"Shit," Ellie hisses, holds until she sees the telltale blue crackle of electricity.

She looses the arrow, and it has a glowing, golden yellow tail. It's headed for a throat, but it won't be fast enough to outrun lightning.

It's been a necessary skill, learning how to fight amongst mixed company. Men and women with swords, battering shields, archers in the back and mages among them. It's a deeply different dynamic to fighting alongside only his own kind, in which the unique and diverse array of abilities amongst mages dictate their placement, rather than, say, 'everyone at the back'. And there have been times over the past four raids that Marcus has offered his input about how he might be best used, what tactics might be employed.

This time, as the plan was delivered and repeated, he'd kept silent, giving muted assent. It's the most diplomatic thing he can do, with how irritating past attempts had turned out to be. At least he isn't being asked to exclusively lay down protective magic for the frontline and nothing else.

Ironically,

protective magic is his immediate instinct at that sudden and violent reprisal. Marcus rests the end of his staff against the ground, drawing through it magic that he flings forwards with an open hand. From where he and Ellie stand, there's only a minor flash of white-blue light that glances across his knuckles. Towards the farmhouse, however, that same light scatters runes beneath the feet of Ellis and the Inquisition combatants, dousing them in shielding magic that should buy them a few seconds of immunity.

Whatever is being stored within the house isn't simply provisions for the winter, he thinks.

Go for the mages, and Marcus' focus switches. That glimmer of lightning, barely seen through a window. Reacting fast, the bladed end of his staff cuts through the air as he directs a stream of magic that resolves from glimmering green light into hurtling stone, crashing through glass and wood to strike that source of magical energy within.

On the ground, in the midst of the immediate churn of bodies and clatter of iron, the combined force of these projectiles rachets up the desperate quality of this clash.

What are they protecting? Supplies, yes, but there's a dimension of this fight that feels—

Weighted with more purpose than it should.

At the very least, they can be assured that this is not a waste of their time.

Wall obliterated, Imperial soldiers swarm outwards like ants. The longsword comes down over Ellis' shield again, blow absorbed by the barrier. The force of it doesn't stagger Ellis, leaves him free to bring his mace up and over to bury into the open face of his attacker's helmet. The crunch of bone heralds a spurt of gore and a garbled scream as this man drops like a stone. Ellis steps over him.

"Flank them!" is maybe not Ellis' order to give. But sure enough, he hears it repeated from wherever Glas has positioned herself: out of sight, but near enough at hand to direct the proceedings.

"Again," comes as Ellis turns, planting himself once more in the flow of battle even as he calls back to Ellie and Marcus.

It's not that he doesn't trust the Inquisition's team. But he has the measure of Ellie and Marcus. If he is calling for anything, he is calling up to them.

Both the arrow and the blast of lightning find their mark, and the mage is left very thoroughly dead.

An answering roar goes up from the troops around them, the Inquisition soldiers taking heart in both Marcus' protection and Ellis' ready orders. Whether the cheer follows the echo Glas gives is immaterial in the moment.

They've got ants pouring out of the hill.

Flanking is Ellie's strong point. She can also see heads turning in their direction, trying to find the source of the golden arrow, the arced lightning, so it's best they disappear.

"Marcus," she says, and takes a very deep breath, reaching out to slap a hand on his shoulder, giving him a small push- he'll decide where they go.

None too soon -- the shutters bang open, and some archers hidden inside begin to return fire.

There's the edge of his cloak she can hold onto, and as soon as they disappear from sight, she'll feel a tug of momentum. This way.

Fast, too, unhesitating as Marcus directs them closer, aware of the limitations that Ellie had already described to him with her magic as well as the spill of Imperial soldiers. In their wake, arrows bite dirt, finding no purchase, the barely detectable sign of their passage being scuffed dirt, bent grass.

Nearer, nearer, and then Ellie feels Marcus' hand reach back to grip her elbow, warning her of halting, letting go. A few paces in front of her, she will see a shape laid into the earth, an invisible blade that sticks into the ground and drags through it in a wide arc, and this alone is all that might give a very keen eye their position before—

The ground trembles, a jolt that most in vicinity can feel, and then up ahead, a tectonic growl as the earth opens up beneath the feet of the swarm of Imperial soldiers, some staggering, others darting backwards, and then: an eruption. Lava, bright red liquid rock, bursts from that scar like white ocean breaking and crashing on rock, the force of it angled towards the group. Those who do not outright perish reel backwards in various degrees of injured and fright, and black smoke curtains up out from the earth in roiling gusts.

It isn't inside the house, and so Marcus is sure Glas won't have any objection.

He gasps in a breath, regathering his strength, before a second layer of protective magic is fired off towards the main push.

Will there be argument later, in whatever passive, pointed form Glas shapes objection? Perhaps. It doesn't matter in this exact moment.

If asked, Ellis will surely claim he was aware of what his fellows were planning.

Regardless, the absolute chaos in the wake of Marcus' handiwork is a blessing for Ellis. He is not a small man, but he is simply one man and they are collectively very outnumbered. The clang-clash of a sword grinding along his shield is less a problem than the bulk of the man bearing down on him, and had there not been some distraction—

Well, Ellis is very aware of the weak points in his armor. He can assume every other combatant on the field is as well.

But here is where Marcoulf's tutelage is exploited. All around them turns to screams and heat and magma and Ellis flips a dagger up from behind his shield and drives it into his attacker's throat. He goes gurgling to the ground and Ellis steps over him, into the house.

An archer falls. Then another. This is the best marker of his position Marcus and Ellie will be afforded.

The screams are horrific; Ellie's seen plenty of people burn alive but she's never actually seen someone get cooked inside their armor before. Several of the Imperial soldiers go pale, eyes wide with terror. One or two break entirely in their charge, crash into their fellows. The others are enraged, and fight all the harder.

The battle rejoins outside, the roiling black smoke making it hard to see, hard to breathe, and Ellie draws her attention to the window. She saw Ellis on his feet just a second ago and- there. They're inside.

An archer turns to them where they're visible now that Marcus has attacked, and just barely looses an arrow before he buckles, cut down from one side-

And the arrow zips towards them, perfectly aimed to take Marcus in the side of the neck.

It's all chance. Pure luck.

Ellie has only a split second to react, and that split second is drawn out as Gold takes her, a flaring scream that covers her senses. She doesn't feel faster when she does this. It's that the world is just a little slower.

On pure reflex and desperation, she swipes for it. Misses the blade. Her fingers and archer's glove skid along the wooden shaft, and finally close at the fletching. She squeezes down, and the extra force cracks along the arrow, snaps it in her palm.

Ellie sways on the spot, suddenly dizzy.

Oh fuck.

Marcus catches her arm as she sways, lending a moment of steadiness. There is a brightness to his eye that seems to clock the thing that just occurred too fast for him to have responded, reflexive magic manifest in the rise of smoke off of his shoulders, trickling upwards off the edge of his bladed staff.

Inside, the sounds of bodies falling, shouts, death throes.

It had been a mild autumnal day. The air is now smoke-tinged, brightly hot, every push of wind sending more radiating heat from where lava now pools on the ground, bursts of flame where it catches grass and earth alight.

Marcus steps aside from Ellie once she seems to have her footing, making room for himself to swoop his staff around and send another stream of magic towards where a knot of Imperial solders are regathering, dispersing them with a crash of Fade-summoned rock that batters shields and armor, knocks a few of them back towards that pool of liquid flame.

Meanwhile, there are no more arrows leaving the house. "Warden," Marcus barks across the way.

Edited (clarity) 2022-10-25 02:01 (UTC)

There are no more arrows leaving the house.

Inside it, Ellis is splattered all in blood and soot. The air is shimmering with heat. He is breathing hard, stationary as Inquisition soldiers flow past him. There is inspection to be done, items to take account of. It strikes Ellis as hasty to rush direct attention there already, without a full accounting of how this battle has gone, but before he can raise objection—

Marcus' call draws him to the hollowed out hole in the far wall.

His gaze sweeps immediately over the pooling lava and jagged earth where rocks have been uprooted. Seeking immediate threat before raising a hand to Marcus and Ellie. They are upright. Seemingly unharmed.

"Clear?" is entirely in search of their judgement, even if his voice is pitched to carry.

Without Marcus Ellie might've fallen to one knee, but thanks to him she keeps her feet. She takes a deep breath and then another, giving him a nod, and is fine with taking a breather behind him while he crunches through another handful of men.

She stares at the arrow in her hand, exhales shakily and makes herself drop it into the dirt.

There are soldiers entering the house, but the sounds of fighting have tapered off, and Ellie has a cold pang of fear as Marcus calls out for Ellis. Thankfully, he appears a second later, and Ellie relaxes.

"Clear on this side," she calls back, then adds volume to her voice for the second part, hoping Glas will hear.

"Need to check the other."

There are soldiers on that side too, and she doesn't hear the sound of fighting, but a few may have slipped away to wait in hiding.

Nocking another arrow, Ellie rallies feeling back into her legs and starts to head that way.

Slowly, the surface of brimming lava begins to form up its dark cooling crust. Marcus lets it, motionless for an extra beat as Ellie breaks away, before falling into step behind her.

A voice, shouted, as they round the building: they're getting away!

One of theirs, yelling, over the sounds of skirmishing—the last of it, anyway, blades coming up red and wet over crumpled forms. Up ahead, a small knot of Venatori had been quick enough to determine that they've lost this battle, had mounted up on those fine horses the Inquisition had spotted on approach, and have gone for broke down the road.

Another spiralling turn of a staff, the sound of it cutting through the air to Ellie's left, behind her, and Marcus impacts the ground with its blunt end. Up ahead, there's the sound of whinnying as the earth beneath those few on the retreat shakes and breaks, forces two horses to rear and stumble, their riders tumbling to the ground.

But two more stay steady, racing away with scarcely a glance back. Beyond his range.

While Ellis has some passing familiarity with ranged weapons, his proficiency does not center around the use of a bow.

The sound of Marcus breaking the earth and the immediate consequence is only a sign to Ellis that the situation is being dealt with. The pair of them are attentive to whoever might not have been stymied by Marcus' ministrations, and it leaves Ellis to follow Ellie's instruction: round the far side of the building.

A pair of Glas' men scramble after him, which—

It's not unwelcome. Not when there is a cluster of Imperial soldiers attempting to heave crates into a covered wagon. But Ellis isn't unaware that how quickly the pair of them snap to his direction might become an issue after, if it's noticed.

Regardless, there is an immediate clash of sword and metal. No magic. Yet.

At the same time Ellis rounds the building to find the wagon, Ellie comes along the other side of it in pursuit of the riders.

She feels the heat of Marcus' spell hurtle past her and hit with devastating force, the horses throwing their riders. They'll be a problem in a moment, but more pressing are the two that have managed to escape the blast zone.

They might be out of Marcus' range, but they're not quite out of Ellie's. She pulls the bowstring back to her ear, narrows her eyes in focus, and the arrow burns with a golden light as it whistles through the air, punching through the eyeslit in the rider's helm as he looks back at his fellows tumbling to the earth.

He's probably not aware of his own fall.

"Marcus!" Ellie calls, gesturing with her bow towards the wagons, where Ellis needs backup that she can't give, if she wants to make this next shot.

Deep breath, pull- and loose.

For a second, she's not sure if even Gold can catch this one. It's at the very fraying edge of her range to begin with, and there are tree limbs starting to reach and claw down.

But it hits, taking the last fleeing Imperial soldier in the shoulder. The force of it knocks her off her horse with a scream; not a mortal wound, but enough to keep her from escaping.

His attention is easily hauled around, from the sound of his name through to the sound of clashing steel. As Ellie lines up that second shot, she can sense in her periphery Marcus moving away from her, a walk that moves into a run before

well, it is not vanishing, exactly. The substance of Marcus remains even as his body is both engulfed by and transforms into a rush of black smoke, full of embers and soot, that suddenly closes the distance between himself and the wagons in a split second. (A little unhelpfully, the trail he makes rushes through the two Inquisition soldiers who'd come to Ellis' aid, momentarily disorienting.) He resolves back into flesh and armor and an already hefted staff just at Ellis' shoulder, a grunt as he brings the bladed end around.

It cleaves deep into some weaker point, a flash of coppery light hinting at some tell of magic that is unclear to observers but made stunningly to the Imperial soldier, who buckles under more force than there should be, crying out, crimson spattering.

Edited (grammar) 2022-11-07 04:43 (UTC)

This isn't magic Ellis has seen before.

But he has fought alongside mages before. The crackle of presence at his back is enough to prompt Ellis to create space, feint one way as Marcus' staff comes around the other. It suits; it creates enough of an opening for Ellis to bring his mace around to connect with the soldier's knees. Seals his downward trajectory.

There is blood spattered all over them both.

"How many more?"

Aside from what they can see in front of them. Inquisition soldiers rushing forward. Ellis glancing back, trying to place Ellie in the fray.

Give it another second, and it'll be two more.

Ellie draws her knife across one of the soldier's throats; it's one of the two men downed when their horses threw them following the earthquake under their feet.

The other is lurching unsteadily, obviously hurt, drawing his sword and staggering. Ellie takes one step backward and stays out of reach of his wild swing, then closes the distance to catch him with her knife under the chin. He crumples at her feet, and Ellie turns back to Marcus and Ellis.

Lifts one hand to wave, as if to say she's fine. Closes the same fist, points back over her shoulder at the last downed rider, tilts her head quizzically to one side.

Need her to get that one?

At that question, it prompts Marcus to glance Ellie's way as he tugs free his weapon, the sodden weight of his enemy collapsing and momentarily ignored.

"One," he confirms. Which is, maybe, an unkind thing to say of the two remaining Imperial soldiers in front of them, about to fall under blade and staff. They are, anyway, fighting with the knowledge their lives depend upon it, and seeing an opening, swings, sword edge connecting with the layers of armor at Marcus' side.

With a grunt, the next strike from Marcus carries with it a magical brightness, a coppery gleam off black iron that sees his blade dent metal and sink past it to the flesh beneath it, the sort of wild strike that would have been a useless expense of energy if not for whatever quality let him slice through chain. Another bared teeth growl, a sudden explosion of spark and flame from that buried sword, and Marcus pushes his enemy off his weapon towards Ellis for finishing.

Backs off, now, bruised and slowed and stamina waning. The fight is at its end, anyway.

Edited (editing woes) 2022-11-27 03:49 (UTC)

"We cannot permit it," is very blunt, worn rougher by exhaustion.

It has been a long day. Taking that farmhouse and it's contents was a hard-won victory. There is blood spattered across the Warden griffon embossed on Ellis' armor, dried in a crust along his cheek, his beard, over the scars at his throat. He is loosening the straps of his shield as he speaks, while Butterball crawks grumpily where he has curled up at the edges of their makeshift campsite. They are comfortably out of earshot, though Ellis is not saying anything that he will not repeat in the morning. Massive wings send campfire ash scattering as the griffon readjusts, dramatically attempting a more comfortable position as Ellis, Ellie and Marcus gather.

"I'm not mistaken," is a repetition of an earlier appeal, one that had been brushed aside by Livia Glas; not it is softened only because he is speaking to the pair of them and no one else. "I can't understand what is keeping her from acknowledging that.

Standing, Marcus lifts a hand to tame the scattering of ash, the embers they carry briefly flaring as their whirl and then blink out.

Starts, then, loosening the bracers of his Riftwatch uniform, which is overall now dark with streaks of soot from his own casting, muddying its deep green and optimistic presence of off-white. He usually treats these items as more of a dress uniform, but given the excursion, had decided to leave his personal armor back at the Gallows.

Marcus expels a breath through his nose at Ellis' last comment, having listened to the rest in what could be interpreted as an agreeable silence, and only suggests, "Derangement."

He tugs loose one bracer, moving aside towards his corner of their campsite as he works on the second, his back to them, but close enough to stay within range of the conversation.

Ellie has struggled to keep silent, to let Ellis and Marcus speak. The whole point of their engagement in this is for good things to come of their working together. Her outburst earlier hadn't won her any favors with Glas, and she knows she'll butt heads with Ellie on principal. A young upstart archer who didn't immediate disclose that she was a "mage".

"Yeah, no shit," she grumbles as they take their places alongside the fire. Ellie heads over to where Artichoke is lolling, gives his beak a stroke before she takes off her gloves, the movements sharp. The leather spills across her hands, the anchor shining in the gathering darkness.

"... and no shit," she adds, at Marcus' contribution. "Problem is, everybody else here doesn't want to rock the boat."

The breath hisses out between Ellie's teeth. "She used to be a templar, right? They love rules. So we throw the book at her. Everything we recover from the raids goes to Riftwatch. Those were our orders."

"Some do," is a flattened tempering of that idea.

Some templars love rules. Some love their own power, bend the rules to bolster that authority. Ellis has dealt with both. He has judged Livia Glas to fall into the latter category, to some degree.

There is a deep bruise rising up across the back of his wrist. Nothing broken, just bashed hard enough in that strip of space between plate to make contact.

"It might have been better if you had burned down that farmhouse," he suggests to Marcus. "It would save us some trouble."

Ellie's appeal to a Templar's love of rules is permitted to pass without comment, but only because Marcus has busied himself, and the expression that flickers across his face is angled away from the rest. As he returns, now free of bracers and pauldron, he allows a slightly wry look to angle off towards Ellis.

"Next time," is, perhaps, nearly humour.

Then, to Ellie, "A Templar's love of rules is easily twisted, particularly when it comes to who it is they think they apply to. We throw the book at her," to borrow the phrase, "she'll continue to fight it. Who are we, to her?"

This is, after all, Riftwatch's chance to impress. The Inquisition, and Livia Glas, have nothing to prove to them.

Ellie closes her eyes for longer than a blink, pushes out a breath.

"She doesn't even want to check it. Which you'd think would be, like. Top priority. Making sure you don't poison hundreds of people you're responsible for."

There's a lump in the back of Ellie's throat, but she breathes past it.

"Maybe you should burn down that farmhouse."

Surely Ellie means this rhetorically, but Ellis doesn't immediately refute it.

Instead, there is a brief, considering pause. He covers the bruise at his wrist with one hand, thumbing at the purpling skin.

"The Commander has put us in a bind," carries no accusatory edge. This is only a summation of their circumstances. "The contents of that farmhouse are ours, but we're meant to answer to this woman. She'll poison her own superiors against us if we don't find a way to part her from that lyrium without wounding her pride."

And here they are. Three members of Forces and not a single diplomat among them.

Maybe he should burn down that farmhouse, communicated in a raised eyebrow, when some other third voice fails to temper it. It's not not an option.

Marcus leaves it on the metaphorical table for now, folding his arms, listening and thinking. Somewhere behind him, there's the unique and distinct sound of griffon talons raking themselves rhythmically against wood, where Monster scrapes hers against a fallen tree as a part of her grooming. Massive snowy wings stretch, flap, her rustling gaining only a glance from her rider, then back to the conversation.

"I doubt we're the first who've had to manage her pride," he says. "Or the last, if she's permitted to lead these missions. Her superiors should be made aware that she's unfit for service."

Artie trills softly as Ellie draws her thumb thoughtfully over his cheek, her hand lingering there, deep in thought.

"Yeah," she mutters, and it sounds more like a sigh than a word, but she looks up between the two of them.

"Reporting this is a good idea. But... that's gonna have to come after." None of them completely shelve the idea of a fire; they all know that it'll come to that before they let Glas poison the Inquisition's forces, no matter the consequences.

"Is there... I don't know, some way we can say that we need it more than her? So that she'll look like a dick if she tries to take it?"

"I'm not certain she cares how she is perceived."

Or if she is even aware of how she is perceived. Ellis has met people who are so distanced from the consequences of their actions, oblivious to the people they offend or alienate. It could be a kind of blessing, to be so detached.

But here and now, it is another aspect of this that they must try to contend with, as delicately as possible.

"It is poisoned. It needs to be destroyed. No one can make use of it who isn't trying to do harm."

This too flat, blunt. No space in which Ellis might entertain anything otherwise.

"Not after," Marcus says, to Ellie. "A message back to the Gallows and a raven sent today."

He looks to Ellis, to the pair of them. "Whatever need happen now to separate Glas from the lyrium, we've spoken to the truth of it, and the actions we're required to take. We say that we needed to act decisively against Glas, as she was compromising the safety of her unit and the Inquisition entire. We go over her authority and we do so with confidence in our mandate and the spirit of cooperation."

Appearances is not something he even has the luxury of minding too much. Perception will always act in favour of a Templar, even one half-maddened. But if it is paramount that they prevent poisoned lyrium from entering the Inquisition's supply, then so too is it important that an unreliable authority be removed as well.

So says the slight edge to his tone, sharper consonants between gentle Starkhaven syllables.

Edited 2022-10-24 22:06 (UTC)

Ellie can't help but nod; both at the assessment of the lyrium needing to be destroyed, and the plan that Marcus puts forth. No matter what they need this done, and no matter what happens, both the Inquisition and Riftwatch need to know why they chose to do this.

"Sounds good to me. So how do we want to do this?"

Preferably without this turning into a bloody fight, but she can't completely discount the possibility of it going there. Not when the alternative is so dire.

Freed of several pieces of armor, finding where blood had soaked into his gambeson, Ellis is weighing all that's been said. One piece against the other, Marcus' summation alongside Ellie's, and arriving at—

"I will lay claim to it," Ellis says. There is a beat of quiet in the wake of it that says Ellis only continues because he's realized Ellie might not fully understand what Ellis is proposing. "On behalf of my Order. Wardens can act as they see fit to protect Thedas, and it's people."

This solves only half their problem. Perhaps it even creates a new one.

But they are low on options.

"Maybe, when she lays blame, she'll direct it towards the Grey Wardens."

Marcus looks to Ellis—and he is, obviously, native to this world, but has spent enough time apart from it that understanding only clarifies when the other man goes onto explain his meaning to the rifter. It is barely detectable, that something in him untenses, relaxes.

His agreement is implicit in his silence, thoughtful, and a shallow tip to his head at this last part indicates some measure of whatever, at the prospect of where Glas' blame lands.

"Oh, man. That will make it hard for her to argue," Ellie agrees, her eyes widening. It's... a tidy solution, much better than she could've hoped for.

And if Glas blames the Wardens, then. Well. It seems like there are very few groups who are more used to outsiders assigning blame to them, though the few she's met have all been exactly the kind of people she'd want defending the world from Darkspawn.

The loss of one cache of lyrium, especially if they prove it's tainted, is a small thing overall.

(... or so she hopes.)

"Okay. That just leaves actually telling her."

Edited 2022-11-05 05:02 (UTC)

"I might do that as well."

Not out of any particular diplomatic skill, only due to the griffon embossed on his armor, his shardless palms, the heavy mace he carries instead of a staff. Stubbornly ordinary, apart from his allegiances.

"It is underhanded, but I would say we take the cache and secure it between us before I speak with her."

Of course, there is the obvious: they can destroy the cache regardless of who has it in their possession. Ellis has had several raids worth of observation of what Marcus and Ellie are capable of when they work in tandem. Ellis would only ever have to act as a distraction at best.

But they needn't take their chances. This will already be a difficult conversation.

Marcus looks back to where his own griffon has settled, head ducked down to groom the feathers beneath her wings. Assessing.

Back to them. "I can guard it well enough," is his offer. There are precious few benefits to carrying along the reputation he has, of demonstrating it with open eruptions of magical ability and no effort made to appear much friendlier than he seems. Acting as a deterrent towards the stirring of conflict is, however, one of them.

Ellie gives Marcus a long look, then a nod; the two of them have been effective together on the field, and she has confidence that she and Marcus can hold together if Glas tries to wrest it from them by force.

What she's less sure of is Ellis' safety.

"What happens if she decides to attack you?"

"She'll regret it."

Ellis' voice is steady. He is not concerned about Glas, and he is not certain her men would support her if she initiated a brawl.

"Are we agreed?"

It isn't acknowledged nearly enough—you know, in Marcus' opinion—that the Templar Order is still considered to be a powerful, formidable, and perhaps most importantly, a widely respected organisation amongst the people of Thedas, low and high. Common folk and nobleborn alike sleep comfortably knowing that the Chantry's holiest are empowered to protect them from the evils of the world, even now without Circles to stand sentry within and around.

For example, a Templar of Riftwatch's lot need only make it as far as the docks to find near-unanimous respect and admiration. Amongst the odd echoed chamber of the Gallows, it's an easy thing to forget. But it would also be easy to assume a Warden, given his duty, might share sympathies.

Ellis speaks comfortably of the violence of a not improbable outcome, and Marcus does not anticipate Ellie to raise her voice in objection either.

Something held tense in him eases, but he only nods once. They're agreed.

Edited (finish the thought) 2022-11-27 02:00 (UTC)

Ellis makes a good point (and a compellingly badass argument).

Ellie can't say that she has perfect faith that things won't go to shit, but there are times you need to trust somebody when they say they can handle something, and she's learned that lesson well. If they don't take this shot then everything will go to shit.

Giving Ellis a long look, she squares her shoulders, nods at the same time Marcus does. She, on the other hand, gathers herself up to become ready.

"All right. We've got you."

closed / i call this sharp stick "public relations"

raiding party.

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post raid debrief.

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