player plot: the battle for starkhaven.

[luaithre]

WHO: All
WHAT: Riftwatch and the rebel mages come to the aid of Starkhaven
WHEN: Last week of Wintermarch
WHERE: Starkhaven and outlying territories
NOTES: Open to all, with instructions/suggestions below for what your character can do, dependent on skillset and division. Violences within.



The news has been the same for seemingly endless months: the Tevinter Imperium stays encamped, entrenched, at the doorstep of Starkhaven. The Free Marches city is long besieged, strangled and dying, and its proud stone walls that keep Corypheus' forces out also entomb its own citizens as supply dwindles fast over the winter.

The Exalted March has not come. The scattered militias and militaries of the surrounding territories have not rushed to its aid. Riftwatch has done all it can with the personnel it has, sabotaging enemy movement, collecting information, supplying villages and redirecting refugees, but it seems as though all it can do for Starkhaven is stand vigil to its collapse.

That is, until some hasty conversations were had.

A trio of Riftwatch agents approached Grand Enchanter Fiona, ad hoc leader of the rebel mage forces currently under the Inquisition's banner, with a question: what would it take, for the rebel mages to lend aid to Prince Sebastian Vael?

23 Wintermarch: Stoneweale Fort

Closed: The Division Heads, Derrica, Fenris, Julius, Marcus Rowntree, Petrana de Cedoux

It rains for the entirety of the ensuing negotiations, ice wet winter striking the impassive walls of Stoneweale Fort and the tents erected within its walls. The fort stands south of Starkhaven at the edges of Tevinter's influence, and contains the entirety of Prince Sebastian's available forces and, newly, Grand Enchanter Fiona, several rain-swept griffons, and a collection of Riftwatch agents.

Not all of them take up space in the war room (for instance, the griffons don't need to be there), but those that do bear witness to a deal being struck:

Prince Sebastian speaks plainly: the situation is beyond dire. They are at the precipice of surrender, and between himself and his commanders, they've been preparing for a last-ditch effort to save as many of his subjects as he can spare. By directing his forces in a (likely suicidal) full-scale attack against the enemy, he has hope that this will distract them for long enough so that a select few of his soldiers can fell the far gate and evacuate as many citizens as they can. He welcomes any assistance the mages could offer.

Fiona, understanding the lethality of what Prince Sebastian and his men are going to attempt, first states that the rebel mages can be mustered to assist in this evacuation by destroying the wall and shepherding Starkhaven's people to safety. She also pledges to personally join the Prince and his men in their attack on the main force.

It's with gratitude that Prince Sebastian accepts her offer.

And there is little time to prepare.

23-29 Wintermarch: The Minanter River

In the coming days, Riftwatch redirects its focus towards the preparation of Starkhaven's last stand. The movement of a small army of mages from the Orlesian frontline to deep into the heart of the Free Marches is the kind of logistical effort that one would hope to have plenty of time to organise, particularly in the interest of evading the Imperium's notice for as long as possible, but time is a luxury, and there are few of those available these days.

To ensure a swift and relatively stealthy travel time, the rebel mages are broken up into still sizeable detachments – they ride on horseback, or travel on merchant vessels that have been acquisitioned for the war effort, quietly coursing down the Minanter. They camp in thatches of forest or huddle within long emptied warehouses in semi-abandoned trading settlements.

Riftwatch agents of any combat capability join them, ride with them, and stay in contact through crystals to ensure coordination.

In the sky, griffon riders are tasked with keeping close monitor of any Tevinter detachments that might push close to the small army of mages moving in from the west. The going is often lonely, long hours, solo flying with reportage over the crystal network, before gathering together in small camps to feed their mounts, themselves, and sleep in hastily erected tents that protect them from the winter-time rain.

When necessary, members of Forces and Scouting will be deployed to run interference and push back and redirect Tevene scouts or soldiers and Venatori. Sometimes, larger groups of Imperial forces threaten to intercede, in which event, Riftwatch agents may find themselves working together with rebel mages to not only prevent the enemy from interfering with their people, but killing them so as to ensure there is no reporting back of a sudden influx of mage activity.

Members of Research may find themselves based at Stoneweale Fort. After some convincing, Prince Sebastian allows his various commanders to coordinate with Riftwatch to identify locations and pressure points within Starkhaven and its defences for the purposes of sabotage in preparation for Tevinter's taking. Now is the time to plan, analyse maps, prepare explosives or enchantments, and try not to look too excited about it.

Meanwhile, those within Diplomacy, if not hovering helpfully around Stoneweale Fort, are sent to make ready for Starkhaven refugees by speaking to villages further south, negotiating for supplies and accommodations, rallying any militia that are willing to assist in their protection. It's all a little thin on the ground, but if there was ever a time to cash in some of Riftwatch's local goodwill, it's now.

30 Wintermarch: Starkhaven

The wall

A horn sounds out, long and mournful. Voices and horse hooves and sword clashing and magic casting beneath the stormy sky is reduced to a dull roar as Prince Sebastian, accompanied by Grand Enchanter Fiona, leads his forces in a frontal assault against the overwhelming Imperial presence at his gates.

As a result, the far gate has been left undefended.

Slaughtering the remaining unit of Tevinter soldiers guarding it is borderline perfunctory, but there is much still to do. The majority of the rebel mages (less those volunteers who have joined Fiona in Sebastian's host), along with any mages of Riftwatch who choose to join them, gather en masse upon the stone bridge and the shallows of the river – a small army of men and women in robes or in armor, but all holding a staff to mark them for what they are. As they begin to draw from the Fade, the air takes on the scent of bitter-storm, energy crackling and prickling across exposed skin, ruffling hair and clothing in unseen winds.

Stone cracks and wood splinters under gouts of raw magic and white-hot bolts of summoned lightning, slamming in unison against walls that have remained previously unbroken all this time. Beneath them, the ground rumbles and shivers, and debris spills where cracks form and open and widen from the base of proud walls to the ramparts.

A small group within the rebel mage forces then move together in coordination, and the stone wall before them all at once comes apart. Giant broken slabs of stone and support lift into the air as if in an explosion slowed in time, drifting away from one another as magic carries it in shimmering green-tinged telekinetic influence.

The ground shakes, again, as pieces of Starkhaven's walls land safely, if heavily, on the mud-thick river on either side, leaving a yawning opening where once were sealed closed gates of oak and iron.

On the other side, where rain beats down the rising dust, gathered citizens of Starkhaven, frightened and war-worn, stare out at an army of mages.

The sky

In the sky, over the chaos, Riftwatch uses the distraction of battle to send swift-flying griffons over the walls and into the city proper to enact acts of sabotage to Starkhaven's infrastructure. Below them, civilians flood the streets, pressing in a constant stream of bodies towards the crumbled wall. Up here, the sounds of a raging battle drift clearer from the front.

Everyone in the sky knows where they are going and what they are doing, under strict orders to avoid any harm coming to civilians. Either as a passenger or on their own, members of Scouting (and some non-Scouting mages) carry with them precise instructions from Research and the means to enact them in the form of alchemical explosives and enchanted grenade-like items that will detonate in bursts of raw Fade magic (or their own magical ability). Common targets include: the defensive weaponry and ballistae posted up on the ramparts, the chains that man the major gates of the city, certain storehouses and administrative buildings indicated on maps. Likewise, there are wealthy estates to pillage and deprive Tevinter of any coin they might find there.

But soon the city will be overrun, and those on griffonback may find themselves under assault of arrows and magic as they make their escape.

The retreat

On the ground, floods of Starkhaven citizens, soon to be refugees, flow through the crumbled wall, staggering across the bridge and through the shallows of the river that surrounds the city, helped along by mages and Riftwatch alike. It is a lengthy and exhausting process as hundreds of ordinary people, wide-eyed and terrified, are herded out of the valley and onto solid ground, streaming south for where villages have been fortified and prepared to receive them.

Then, the sound of cavalry.

Racing across the rocky plain, under Imperial banner, a horde of dracolisk and their riders come galloping at a furious pace towards civilians, mages, Riftwatch alike. Their presence does not speak well for the main battle, but they arrive all the same. Reptilian screeches and hisses pierce the rumble of thunder above, and frightened cries from the refugees begin to sound out as panic grips them, turning to run in panicked stampede at the sight of Imperial soldiers upon their poison-spitting mounts.

It was enough of a likelihood that the Forces members who have been deployed to ensure the security of the evacuation are prepared to move with the rebel mages to meet them. The battle is quick, bloody, magic crackling through the air in time with clashes of shield and flying arrows. Searing poison sprays across skin and armor and flame ripples across scaly hide as a brutal skirmish ensues.

But the battle breaks when the worth of continued harassment weighed against the potential cost. By order of Itaeus Ferra, astride his own beast, the dracolisk cavalry withdraws, tiding back towards Starkhaven, now lost to the forces of Corypheus.

31 Wintermarch: Southwards and Vallomire

Men, women, children march through the cold and into the night, but blessedly, the rain eases itself to an icy misting of constant damp instead of the driving downpour from earlier that day.

It becomes clear that among the refugees, there had been those prepared for this journey. Temporary campsites, guarded by mages and Riftwatch alike, strike up so that all may take a few hours of rest. There is some food passed around, if not very much, and as the sun rises on a new day, the procession resumes, if no less wearily.

Eventually, all arrive at the half-abandoned township of Vallomire, chosen for its largely empty barnhouses and warehouses on the shores of a distributary from the Minanter. It is not large enough or manned enough to permanently house so many of Starkhaven's people, but it will do for the next few days of recovery and rest.

There is food, gathered in from as many corners as was willing to part with it, and warm blankets, and, just as important, a reduced sense of impending doom amongst those that had lived under its shadow for so long.

Spirits are not high, but they are tired. Mournful, but alive. As the day lurches into the evening, as the rain finally withdraws and bonfires are lit, and mages and ordinary citizens of the Free Marches mingle in this moment of necessity, news finally trickles in from Starkhaven.

It is as feared: the city has been claimed by the Tevinter Imperium. Much of Starkhaven's military has been destroyed, giving their lives to buy this opportunity for escape. And, in murmurs that spread from campfire to campfire, two names in particular are spoken in low, reverent tones: Prince Sebastian Vael, and Grand Enchanter Fiona, have fallen.

Stories of prince and mage charging side-by-side into a wave of enemy soldiers, fighting back-to-back against overwhelming odds after all their fellows had fallen, rising again and again from the mud to continue the fight, to hold back the inevitable tide until the city was emptied. Toasts are raised and tears shed for the saviors of Starkhaven—its people, if not its stones.

Smoke rises in the north, a black mark in the sky, as the sun begins to set.

Comments

tsenka abendroth | open.

[delphian]

At no point in what elements of the planning process that Riftwatch's grunts are privy to is there any question in Tsenka's mind of where she'll end up. Before she's a scout — before, in fact, she's anything — she is a mage, and Starkhaven was once (for good or ill) her home. The rebel mage forces, too, were a home and a hope; if it hurts her heart to turn her staff against the city's own walls, there is a satisfaction to be found in doing it shoulder to shoulder with her own people. She doesn't regret joining Riftwatch, but she finds a sense of rightness in this moment that she hasn't known in years now — that this place and this moment are where she belongs. Her people, and her city—

just her luck, they're only the same when it's time to tear them apart.

The roar and burn of a controlled meteor strike is her contribution to the walls, sweeping her staff in a great circle and bringing it down like a hammer— the kind of magic that she thrives in, the kind she rarely has the opportunity to bring to bear now in a line of work ill-suited to the raw energy and frankly showboating nature of rift magic.

When the wall comes down, she doesn't allow herself more than a moment to scan the faces — is there anyone she knows? would she recognise her parents, after all these years, if they lived? — before she shoulders her staff to start running for the griffon-riders, to make herself useful in the job she signed up to do.

(Maker, if they'd been doing that sort of shit when she was skirmishing with Templars—)

( tsenka will probably get caught up in some of the evacuation, as well as heading to make herself useful raining havoc down from the sky with a griffon-rider (or several, trading off?), or feel free to wildcard me. hmu on plurk if you want to brainstorm something more specific! )

the walls, and then later.

[luaithre]

"Tsenka."

There isn't very much time. The wall has crumbled. The citizens of Starkhaven are flooding out of it, more people than he's ever seen gathered together. The rebels and the scattering of Riftwatch among them are moving to help shepherd them in a coherent direction. Boots churn through water, over rubble, track through mud. The clamour of many voices, confusion and fear and barked orders. In the distance, war.

So Marcus raises his voice to shout her name as she runs for the griffons, insistent on getting her attention despite the fact they really need to be elsewhere. He moves out of the water onto solid ground, the labour of it letting up once there, still headed in her direction.

the walls, earlier

[overharrowed]

Julius finds himself among Fiona's mages keenly aware of how he hasn't fought by their side before, at least not as a group. He was in the Inquisition long enough prior to Riftwatch that he knows some of them, and others he knew before the war, but there's an esprit du corps lingering that he knows he's not exactly privy to.

Today, however, is not in any way about him, and he shoves aside what he can't know is the mirror of Tsenka's emotions in favor of lending his aid. Literally, in fact, as he first summons a spell wisp and then follows it by letting his mana overflow, powering the mages around him in their initial attacks. It is, perhaps, less viscerally satisfying than the force magic he's learned since relocating to Kirkwall. But on the other hand, he's seen what a group of mages can do when they all turn their minds to the same goal.

Tsenka's meteor strike turns his head, literally and otherwise. He works his way toward her as the chaos allows. When he's close enough to be heard, he shouts "Can I help you do that again faster?" over the din of dozens of spells striking the wall in concert.

Vallomire hours

[sprent]

It has been a long day. There's only so much one can do from far away; this odd little guilt of Gela's is best solved by ferrying food and water from one side of Vallomire to the other. Tsenka is no exception, fresh from the fallen wall and visibly windswept. What Gela brings her is hopefully a welcome sight: cold ale in a cup. Not much, but some. She hasn't spoken to Tsenka personally before, but has seen her about the place in that 'the Gallows are so small, and there are only so many of them' type of way. It means she's a little more inclined to drop her overbearing enthusiasm, and allow her exhaustion to creep through (that and the accent, because a woman with a name like Tsenka Abendroth will see through her attempt to sound as if she's from somewhere else, as all Nevarrans inevitably do).

"Colkirk packed a couple kegs in with the grain they brought," she explains, "Thought we'd get it out before it turns warm. And I have food, for you to eat. Are you well?"

Tertia | open

[incaenstrix]

i. in battle
There is a way, sometimes, that a mage casts magic that makes a Templar take note of them. A way they can move and act and fight that will make that Templar look and think, there's a risk. The Templars, of course, don't have eyes here, but if they did, they might turn their gaze on Tertia.

Because here, on this battlefield, sweet-tempered, timid Tertia is a vicious thing. Not in the force of her magic: it is clear that she's a mage of moderate power at best, summoning flames of average heat and lightning that crosses but a normal distance. No; rather, it's in the fury that twists her face when she casts, and it's in the cruelty of her fighting.

Because, indeed, it is cruel. She scorches enemy soldiers brutally, bubbling their skin and roasting their flesh. Those who are fleeing, too - she doesn't spare them, but picks them off even as their backs are turned. And she steps indifferently over their bodies, at one point even standing atop a collapsed soldier and his mount to get a better vantage on the battle ahead.

If one were feeling charitable, one might think that it's for Starkhaven that she brings this ferocity. There are, after all, innocents to be saved. But to those innocents, she seems perfectly indifferent - indeed, she seems barely cognizant of them. No; her desire isn't to save, but rather to give vent to something deeper.

So. A good thing indeed that there is no one here who would take note of Tertia's rage and mark her as a threat. Perhaps.

ii. after battle
In Vallomire, Tertia sits before the fire, shivering lightly in the chill. She is amongst a mixed group, mages and civilians, but quiet within it, watching the others with an expression of shy reserve. She lifts her cup with the others when they propose toasts, but drinks little; she eats only lightly, waving away offers of meat to favor bread and cheese instead. Even given her usual shyness, she seems uncommonly reserved.

That reserve disappears only when she's attracted by a commotion at another fire - and wanders over there to find the elves formerly of the Starkhaven alienage singing folk songs. She doesn't join them - she doesn't know the words, barely recognizes the tunes - but she stands, and listens, and cries, tears flowing openly and unashamedly as they sing.

[ ooc: feel free to hit up any part of this or just wildcard something else or whatever. there are no bad choices here ]

ii.

[delphian]

It is for a different reason than a Templar might that Tsenka Abendroth had made note of Tertia, in battle. The young elven mage from Tevinter that her brother has taken beneath his wing, she recalls her more from passing conversation with Marcus than particular acquaintance in the Gallows—

that, and her battle prowess, are compelling reasons enough to draw Tsenka to her side, during the singing. It's unfamiliar to her, too, in a way that aches unexpectedly; her eyes travel over the faces assembled, up-turned, and she finds herself studying them more closely. The shapes of their eyes, their heights, none of them taller than her and herself quite a bit taller than Tertia. (At 5'6", she takes great pride in being a tall elf, even as Marcus has never had to do more than drop his knees a bit to hoist her over his shoulder like a caterwauling sack of potatoes.)

In another life, she might have been among them. Might remember the words to these songs not from the dreams she had walked in the alienage but from her family hearth within it — not half-dreamed melodies stitched together from a dozen sources, not the snatches of music she remembers hearing from outside as she swung her feet and watched her father unpack the contents of their meagre lives, new experiences and sounds, harshly brought to an end. She knows that she could be shoulder to shoulder with her own blood, now, and not know it. (Another elven woman, tall for the people and some years younger, sings in a voice that Tsenka cannot know is like their mother's; they will leave this place still strangers.)

She touches Tertia's shoulder, lightly, and then lifts her voice to the song — a thick Starkhaven accent that blends seamlessly, harmonizing.

marcus rowntree.

[luaithre]

open.

[luaithre]

WALL;

Magic can be a lot of performance, a lot of light and noise. Here, moving to stand in the shallows of water that is calm around his boots, Marcus only sets the base of his staff down against the soft ground under the surface, both hands wrapped around it, and concentrates.

Beneath them all, particularly those closest to the wall and gate, the ground gives a jolt. The water ripples in stranger patterns, an odd tidal pull that rushes one way and then reverses as the ground beneath it trembles. Another jolt, sharper, follows the sound of grinding and cracking stone as a fissure instantly forms up through slabs of brick, separating stone from mortar.

From another in the crowd, magic is cast and aims for that weakness he's created, in the form of comet or lightning or raw magic. It strikes stone, which tips, caught by a flash of telekinetic ability from another, and Marcus flinches out from his focus, breathing heavier than he was a moment ago. The urge to continue, to begin summoning whatever spells he knows to contribute to clawing down these walls, in gouts of lava or something else, feels like a precipice that he instead steps back from.

Reverses out from the river, and watches, instead, the wall come down, having done his part.

RETREAT;

[ ooc ; feel free to just do little action beats here! i'm reserving the last bit of battle for a closed thread, so others should take place during (or before!). ]

No such quarter is made when the cavalry comes.

He is among those to meet them, a greeting that involves the wide slash of his staff where, up ahead, the ground seems to part with the same ferocity of that movement, and between the mud and rocky terrain, hellfire glows out from the deep fissure that stretches across the ground.

One front-most charging dracolisk stumbles, slides into it; another is hauled around, skidding to a halt; another doubles down, leaps to clear it. All three are subject to the assault that comes a split second after, an explosion of liquid fire, a bright eruption of lava that has the one who leapt rolling in a heap on the other side, the one who halted shrieking and reversing, the one who vanished into the trench not doing very much at all. Others nearby, catching errant lashings, dracolisks hissing and staggering.

It breaks that section of the charge, riders giving it a wide berth. But still, they come.

His casting is not elegant. Bladed staff is dragged through the air with great physical effort, as if its iron edge is doing the work in slicing open the Veil to pull through it magic by force. But there is force, in the form of summoned rock that slams into shield and staggers the rider, or walls of smoke and flame. When the riders close in anyway, there is simple scrapping, bringing his staff down against a Tevene soldier's raised sword, or a strike from the blunt end of his staff against a raised shield that flashes with copper-tone magic that sends his opponent sprawling backwards. The wet impact of iron blade driven into flesh, its edges red-hot and sizzling.

A look up after, only faintly bewildered, but looking for where he is next needed.

VALLOMIRE;

[ ooc ; bonus rowntree muggle sibling npcing if you want it! ]

Marcus is not found in the crowd very easily for much of that first day of recovery. It is, in fact, well into the evening that he does appear, out of his armor, wearing instead a deep blue woolen coat over rumpled clothing to guard against the chill. In modern parlance, he looks like he has been hit by a truck sometime recently, pale and ill and only just awoken, but clearly tired of lying down enough that he can tolerate this blow to his vanity. It's been whole hours, after all.

He missed that first round of toasts, but he has the sense that news has done its rounds. He will make his patient way around until he finds someone he considers to be at least half-way trustworthy, and ask, "What happened?"

Otherwise, later, he moves through this collection of Starkhaven's people and rebel mages alike, apparently searching in some quiet, slow-going way, for people he knows beyond that of Riftwatch. There is some silent observation, of men and women in robes and wielding staffs, speaking to those more common. Murmurs of gratitude, tentative curiousity. He does not seek out these conversations, only absorbing them as he continues his search.

Later still, he can be found near a fire, carefully going about the ritual of opening a slim copper case, setting a cigarette between his teeth and lighting it with summoned flame between his fingers.

WILDCARD;

[ ooc ; feel free to extrapolate anything you want! he will also be lurking around stoneweale fort during negotiations, and on griffon/skirmishing/guarding duty during the lead up. ]

Jude Adjei | Open

[foolsmakeitcolder]

i. The Retreat (cw: violence, injuries)

Jude's killed before.

It's a horror, always. His wolf doesn't relish it but doesn't cringe from it either. Wolves do not fight as humans do, army to army, pack to pack. Not unless something is going terribly wrong.

This, he supposes, is things going terribly wrong.

He's never been grateful to be locked inside his own head before, alone and feeling only stirrings in the vast ocean of souls around him. Now as screams and fire erupt over Starkhaven, fear and pain, Jude thanks whatever's out there that he doesn't hear them inside his head, too.

It's easy, though, when the dracolisk army comes for the civilians he is escorting.

This is not a battle. This is a wolf protecting the weak, the helpless, the pups. He splits the air with a high, haunting howl as they come, a warning and a promise.

Jude is ruthless.

The war-mounts are not terrified of him, but few riders can withstand the full-frontal charge of a wolf as big as small mount without flinching, and Jude takes even the smallest bit of hesitation to the hilt. He ducks under spears and past guards. He hamstrings mounts with slashes of his teeth. He drags soldiers from their mounts to the ground. He crushes gorgets and shatters bone and leaves them screaming, bleeding. Poison bursts across his fur, burning him, half-blinding him in one eye -- and he keeps moving, unable to feel the pain. Fights for his allies on either side of him, ready teeth and claws.

Jude fights until the enemy pulls back, retreating. He snarls after them, blood-streaked and with half his fur burnt away, a broken arrow in the meat of his shoulder, another in his side. There is bloody froth between his jaws, in his slaver.

He staggers once, then falls to his belly in the muck, panting and short of breath. His wounds do not immediately close.


ii. Vallomire

The whispers pass from fire to fire as the sun begins to set, hushed reverence and grief. They are alive. They are alive because of the brave people who gave their lives to give them this chance.

Still tender from his wounds, Jude circles the encampment at the outside, raising his face to the distant smoke. He's in his uniform, the light cloth sitting over his bandages. One his eyes is healing, but carries a silvery-white sheen over the brown, and he turns his head often to make up for the temporary lack.

He brings a tin cup of tea to someone whose face he recognizes, whether they are familiar in passing or just acquaintances, and uses the opportunity to look them over.

"You made it."

2

[indissection]

Sidony is far less gentle and giving in the aftermath of a battle than she is normally: she is more sour, quieter, a filled with a little rage and heartache. It comes hand in hand with being there as the life fades from people, as her own inability to do more haunts her in a way she cannot quite put into proper word.

The smoke helps dry her tears, or mask them a little - people may imagine she blinks them away because of the sting, not because of internal wounds.

Lifting her head, she pauses as she examines Jude: a face she does not know well.

"So did you. Are you hurt?"

Gela Baynrac (open)

[sprent]

1. In the South
Gela gathers not much happens in Anverness; the little establishment is surprised to find itself accosted by a more strung-out version of Riftwatch, late afternoon. Gela wears her uniform, and a plastered-on smile. The negotiations are... closer to pleading, but they work. When Gela trails back to recount her find it is with no less tension, but a scrap of good news:

"They'll bring food."

Relief. There are stores of it and some to spare, and Gela has their word, "To Vallomire, quickly as they can. I'll stay back an' help them find the way. Any more word?"

She cannot stop her eyes drifting north.

2. Vallomire
She has never been to the aftermath of a war before, and the collective mood wears on her. Gela didn't fight or come to the aid of anybody and finds herself weary anyway, and glassy-eyed for all these people, displaced. All the others, dead. Everybody looks tired, and sore, and sad.

She dutifully takes up a post at the entrance to the township, counting off the people as they come in. She marks the numbers down in a little book. There is only so much space in the township for them all, so somebody had better, and Gela, born to merchants, knows how to count costs. It is easy, distracting work, but even so, she has to pause in what she's doing to wipe her eyes every so often, sniffing against the back of her hand.

And later still she keeps in perpetual motion, criss-crossing between the people that she knows. She'll bring them what they ask for, too, it's no bother. Rumours are already flying in the way that they do when people don't have much else to do than sit around and talk to each other. Eventually, she comes to sit beside a fire, and finds she can't hold back her questions any more.

"What happened? I wasn't there, I was south, did- the Prince really..." Die? Just like that?

2, beside a fire - lmk if you want any adjustments!

[wearyallalone]

Even if they're not close, he and Gela have done enough fieldwork together that he, at least, does not second-guess that she's addressing him. He's hardly been sitting more than she has up until now, but he also knows that he'll be more good to the people they're helping if he pauses to get something in his stomach.

Still, there are more important things. He rests his bowl of soup on his knee as he looks her way, quiet and steady, if not unsympathetic. "I didn't see the very end," he says. "But I was in the air for much of it. The Prince put himself between his people and death, or worse. It's what you hope a leader would do, even if you also hope it seldom comes to that."

Vanya hadn't known Sebastian Vael, but all his actions in the face of a losing battle speak of a man worthy of respect. It shows in his tone.

loxley.

[charmoffensive]

over starkhaven. closed to yseult.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley takes no issue with heights. An almost reckless lack of issue, really, a fan of high up places, narrow ledges, and flying, when he's ever given the chance.

He's not great with animals, though, and where he sits in the saddle behind Yseult, he's going to pull a muscle in his thigh for clinging on so tightly in his saddle, deeply conscious of animal form being powered under independent will—both Yseult's and the griffon's, and he being simply astride it. It is, at least, not his first time playing passenger, and as they lift off over the city, there's more to think about than whether the griffon may simply choose to throw them or something.

Strapped across his back is a light-weight crossbow, readily brought to bear as needed. Pertinently, he also has a satchel of small handheld devices that he is given to understand will explode into Fade energy on impact. A flask of alchemical fire which will burn and burn. His own magic, in a pinch. His sword, just in case.

He thinks of certain companions back home, who'd have been well keen for some purposeful property damage. (As if he is not a little anticipatory for quasi-legal breaking and entering, lockpicks stashed on his person for anything in need of a finer touch than explosions.)

Nothing spoken immediately, save for a quiet 'fuck me' as he watches the streets swarm with people. Glad to not be caught in that.

stephen strange

[portalling]

closed to gwen | the retreat.

[portalling]

This battlefield is familiar to Doctor Strange in a way which curdles the adrenaline: mages standing shoulder-to-shoulder, hurling motes of flame at their enemies, spirit shields raised as they try to break into the city. Standing with these rebel enchanters is the first time he’s reminded of fighting alongside his fellow sorcerers, a united front, wielding their magic in unison.

Yet these fights are never as glorious as they used to be, all soaring music and heroism. It’s ignoble and undignified and messy; Strange’s mouth tastes like blood and he has to strive in a way that he never did back on Earth, like his magic itself is an atrophied muscle, having to push harder and feeling that exhaustion licking at his bones.

But they succeed; the mages pull down Starkhaven’s wall in a thunderous crash of bricks; the refugees come flooding out.

It almost, almost seems too simple before the horns start blaring. Tevinter cavalry reinforcements barreling across the field like some goddamned sword-and-sorcery flick, some clash of medieval forces, but the Hollywood blockbusters never really focus on the hideous smell of burning flesh, the sight of someone’s guts spilling out onto the ground —

Strange is wading through the chaos, trying to help clear a path for those civilians to stream towards safety, when he sees a familiar face amongst Riftwatch’s forces. He gravitates toward Gwenaëlle, in a brief breather in the fighting. Just as he reaches her, the woman’s anchor flares blinding-bright around her unusual gauntlet — a massive pulse of green energy punching out, sending a soldier flying down the hill and into the mud —

“Christ, it really is bigger than mine,” he says as he joins her side, huffing.

It’s a serious situation, he’s well-aware of the gravity of it all — but Stephen Strange would still be delivering quips into his grave and beyond it. He already knows this firsthand, having once mumbled jokes through his own decaying jaw, mouth cracked open and the bone almost falling off. Even death just can’t keep that incorrigible gallows’ humour down; it’s an occupational hazard.

vanya orlov

[wearyallalone]

[hmu on plurk or discord if you'd like a starter/have an idea]

closed to gwen | aloft

[wearyallalone]

Vanya Orlov makes sense in a battle in a way he doesn't seem to much of anywhere else.

Keeping the rebel mages safe on their way to Starkhaven had made sense to him, but he'd been keenly aware of just how much distrust was still understandably directed his way, how uncomfortably aware some of them were of his every move. Monitoring troop movements from the air in the days before the city's fall was easier if only because it was more solitary, but he couldn't help the ache he felt for the people losing their city (or the corresponding anger at the Venatori causing it).

When the wall goes down, though, it's like something clicks into place. There's a calm focus about Vanya in a fight that he either cannot or does not access in other contexts, and Pamplemousse has learned to respond to it, seemingly aware that this is not the time for play. The mission is clear enough: leave as little of use as possible while creating cover for civilians to flee. It's tactical and specific. It's something Vanya can unquestionably be trusted with.

With his passenger well-secured, he's been pushing the limits of his griffon's speed. As they approach their first assigned target, a large warehouse, he leans back just enough so Gwenaëlle can hear him over the wind and the roar of what's happening below. "Where do you want me to put you? Over it, alongside?"

They're not going to have long until there's returning fire coming their way, but as fast as they flew to get here, they probably have a few moments before decisions will necessarily become more ad hoc.

john silver.

[hornswoggle]

[ get @ me on plurk/discord if you want a custom starter / wildcard me if inspiration moves you. ]

flint / 29th.

[hornswoggle]

It is near nightfall when John is delivered back to Stoneweale Fort. Sodden, muddy, but ultimately successful in having gathered up a clutch of able-bodied fighters from a spit of a village to the west.

His route through the Fort is winding. A report to Byerly, a conversation with Petrana, an appearance at this fire and that, before his travels take him to the inevitable conclusion: James Flint, wherever he has chosen to conclude his day.

For a given definition of conclude, considering the work that waits in the morning.

"It's decided, more or less," John is saying now, seated, leg stretched out before him. A hand presses hard over opposite thigh, against the spasm building there. "She and I will leave in the morning, and ride south. Before the battle begins."

Or, to name the thing more clearly: before Flint goes about his day's work.

derrica.

[tender]

[ get @ me on plurk/discord if you want a custom starter / wildcard me if inspiration moves you. ]

ota.

[tender]

30 WINTERMARCH

Walking through the Fade to the deck of an airship in a pair of borrowed boots, Derrica had been able to rise into the air. She had been able to see everything, direct the strike of lightening from on high.

There are no boots here.

Instead, she stands in a crowd of mages. So many mages, gathering together, drawing on the Fade together. Power vibrating in the air around them, linking each of them. The weave of this power steals her breath. Her whole body is humming.

And then all that power is brought around to bear. The first crack in the stone echoes for miles.

Afterwards, when the wall is shattered and the battle is underway, her focus narrows to the task at hand: turning back the streaming tide of Imperial soldiers.

In most any other context, Derrica is a gentle creature. How often has there been occasion to see her truly bring all this innate ability, all the force of a lightening storm, around to bear? Healing is so often what she is obliged to reach for first. (It is as her teachers always intended, isn't it?) But here there is no mercy to be had.

Within the flow of battle, she is easily marked by the lightening strikes ripped from the sky, bouncing in great leaping arcs from solider to soldier to solider with nothing but screams following in the wake of each hit. In the days before, someone had affixed a blade to the end of her stave, and she is making use of that now as she moves through the throng. Brisk downward slashes make quick work of those she's felled.

No lingering over her work. She is in constant motion, turning towards clusters and knots of soldiers that beg to be dispersed, or dracolisks scuttling across the field. Need assistance? It's easy enough to get her attention, or at least, a stray bolt of lightening tossed back as a distraction if she cannot materialize.

31 WINTERMARCH

Vallomire is hastily arranged for the reception of so many Marchers.

In those first hours after arrival, smeared with blood and grime and gore, the spray of acid scarring the simple leather armor she'd donned, Derrica is occupied foremost with the evacuees streaming endlessly into the meeting points. Wounds are patched. Children are settled. Blankets are doled out. There is much to do, and she is eager to play her part in it.

Only well after dark, when the initial frenzy and flurry of arrival has settled, does she find her way to a campfire. Still marked with all the grime of battle, she has drawn a borrowed cloak around her shoulders. Settled herself with a dented cup, a little apart from the muted conversations happening alongside her.

An attempt to catch her breath, as exhaustion begins to creep in.

WILDCARD

[ you know the drill. feel free to assume in the run up that derrica was splitting her time between running interference and griffon excursions and shoring up any medical supplies. do whatever moves you, holler if you have questions. ]

ellis.

[heorte]

[ get @ me on plurk/discord if you want a custom starter / wildcard me if inspiration moves you. ]

tony / 29th

[heorte]

There is ice in Ellis' hair. Frost rimes the edges of his breastplate and pauldrons. Mud has spattered his boots, colors his knees in dark patches where he might have knelt in the course of the day's activities. (Sharp eyes can find the spattering of blood, dark where it has sprayed up along one arm, flecking the scale across hip and side.) He is drawing off his gloves, looking over the vestiges of Tony's work before his eyes raise to Tony himself, satisfied with what he has made of this makeshift workspace and it's present state.

Huffing, Ruadh has pressed on ahead. Equally marked by the day's work, the mabari has no hesitations about trekking towards the fire.

"You are going," is more observation than question.

And thankfully not the beginning of an argument, because it is clear to Ellis that Tony has no intentions of digging in his heels and joining the battle in the morning.

tiffany hart || ota

[fairforce]

the retreat. - [written as action beats! write yourself in here if u so choose.]

I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.

The sky is a hard winter gray, as if someone has drawn a curtain of gauze overhead. Griffons wheel far above like gulls, like vultures. Smoke and ash clog the air; lightning and gouts of fire burst at random. Though the darkness come to me. But there is no darkness, there is only gray.

Tiffany shoves her shield under the throat of the dracolisk, hard, brutishly levering back its muscled neck. Her arm is over her head and the dracolisk is screeching, and she pushes her dagger in the soft and unguarded gullet. The blood looks black when it washes from the gash, or maybe that's the smoke, clouding her vision. Spit sizzles with poison. Later, when she raises her arm, Tiffany will see a swipe of it marring her vambrace, like the faded scar of an old pox.

When the dracolisk falls, it falls like an avalanche. Its rider pulls free of his saddle and Tiffany drags her sword up and goes for him. My enemies are abundant.The Maker is the rock to which I cling. She offers a hand to a refugee, hauls her to her feet--and then to another, and a mage, and another.

Later she realizes that her hair has come loose from its plait. Wisps stick to her cheek, sweat and blood. Her elbow aches where it was struck. She puts her back against the bulk of a dead dracolisk and casts her gaze up at the vault of the sky, panting. Sound is muffled by her helm, but she hears a shout and looks around--an Imperial soldier, running for her. She summons her strength, pushes to her feet. I shall endure.

after battle.

When it's done, when they've retreated and gathered their wounded and dead and begun to patch themselves up, count their losses, make plans--

Tiffany sits withdrawn. She will join the others in a moment. It is cold away from the fire but the cold is cleansing. On the chill ground she lays her sword. It is already clean. She was taught to care for her arms so early that it feels more instinct than habit. The sword is a tool, and must be cared for, but it will never be the only thing that saves you.

In the murky night, bruised and tired and aching all over, Tiffany closes her eyes and, silently--her back to the refugees, the rebels, Riftwatch, her face to the dark untamed wood, the clear expanse of the sky, now clean of cloud and smoke and studded with stars so old they themselves beheld Andraste--she prays.

When she is done, she rejoins the fire. She's first to refill a cup of wine if it needs it, and when she sees someone of Riftwatch whose face strikes her familiar, she smiles, wearily. If they seem amendable, she will grip an arm, a shoulder. "How are you?" --such a stupid question, lacking in so much, but she means it earnestly.

[OR wildcard!! I'm open to anything, get at me on plurk or PM if u want to plan something specific.]

after

[favoriteanalyst]

They haven't spent much time around each other. It's likely that Mobius remembers her much more clearly for the fact that she's a Seeker, and such a thing stays with him. But he tries to live by his own rules. To judge a person by their character. What she is frightens him as many Templars came to fear Seekers. Who she is doesn't frighten him at all. He recalls her warmth, the bright curiosity, kindness, the sound of shared laughter while looking for a silly book.

He stares at her from some small distance. Doesn't say a word, doesn't seek to bother her, as it's clear she prays, and he would never try to interrupt something like that. He ought to make time. He ought to make time to do a proper prayer rather than reciting words in his head and hoping something far beyond them hears him. (Is that, however, not exactly what praying is?)

He is so tired, and he knows his age must show on his face when they run into each other a little later. The question is--not brushed off, exactly, but redirected. "Have something to eat," Mobius insists quietly. "The Maker's peacekeepers," champions of the just-- "won't be doing much in the way of keeping peace if they don't see to themselves."

darras rivain || ota

[staysail]

the river

The thing is, Darras is no coward, he's seen battle--but battles on land are still--still! after all this time!--somewhat foreign to him. Or that's what he's saying, anyways. "It's too close." Ostensibly he's saying it to Hugo. The griffon is very busy eating out of a bag of feed, so noisy he nearly drowns out the rain beating on the frozen mud outside of the tent.

The tent is more of a canvas pavilion, with room enough to house a handful of people. Wasn't built to house a griffon, but where else is a griffon to go, once he's on the ground? It's with this argument that Darras had gained Hugo's entrance, and once a griffon is somewhere it's difficult to tell him to go elsewhere. Here on the ground it's rainy and bloody cold besides--but it is colder in the air, and there isn't a fire up there. There's one in here. Darras has his hands stuck out to warm them, gloves tucked under his armpits for safekeeping and for drying. He and Hugo make a nearly comfortable scene under the canopy of the tent. Both of them smell--wet feathers, wet wool, wet hair. Hugo is steaming gently beside the firepit. Darras is keeping in good spirits despite all of it--weather, danger, battle, death--making pleasant conversation with the griffon.

"Too close, too muddy, too long. You get engaged on open sea, well, it's quick, over and done with. Anything drawn out is just a chase and one more chance to get away clean. You don't know how rough we've got it, boyo."

Hugo snorts into his bag of feed. Darras' grin glints in the firelight as he looks around for human company.

"Any news?" Never mind that he's meant to be carrying news. You first.

the retreat.

The ash falls like soft gray snow. It would have been wiser to keep on his helm, but Darras had disliked the way it narrowed his field of vision to slits, and he had taken it off at some point, thrown it aside. Now there is ash in his hair. Fires are burning all over the field--good fires, set by rebel mages, bad fires, set by the enemy--fire is fire is fire, in the end. The ground is sodden and slippery, equal parts mud and blood.

His sword shears off limbs, cracks heads, breaks shields. The dracolisks are a nasty bit of business and Darras has survived them so far by running. One turns on him now, and there's nowhere to run, hemmed in by the dead and dying and the earth so churned up by the charge and by magic. Its rider is busy with hacking at a mage in a muddy robe, screaming on the ground. Darras tosses his sword to his off hand, then back to his right, fingers flexing on the hilt. The dracolisk lowers its head, its jaws shiny with spit all streaked with poison. Its hiss makes the hairs on Darras' neck stand on end.

When it rushes, he's as ready as he might be. It gets him in the shoulder, teeth scraping at the armor Yseult had convinced him to don. The bloody helm, he ought to be wearing the helm, vision be damned. No time to shout. He hacks with his sword, meat and muscle and gristle and the teeth like needles, thick needles.

Help.

[OR wildcard!!! open to anything, plurk or PM for any specifics.]

retreat (+sorry for how late I am to the party);

[katabasis]

The long gun had been perfectly serviceable in those first dreadful minutes as they'd been forced to watch the Tevinter cavalry come bearing down on them across the rocky flatland and before the dracolisks had actually managed to close range past the length of a bow shot. But here among the chaotic fray of swords and axes, the concussive boom of edges finding plate and bursts of magic, and the shriek of animals and fleeing Starkhaven refugees, the heavy weapon has quickly become more liability than boon. It's heavy over the shoulder. The folding balancing fork screwed into the stock must be pinned into place lest it come unfolded and risk tripping him, and the rate at which it can be reloaded costs precious seconds against a hand crossbow, or a charging mount and rider. Were the weapon less valuable or if he'd a reliable alternative, he might have already thrown the cursed thing away.

Somewhere in the Fade where the spirits console themselves with re-examining reality, there is a version of this moment where Flint, who never sacrificed his ability as a swordsman to the whims of the Arlathan, is armed with the kind of blade with which he has so routinely made his living. From twenty paces off, having no reason to have climbed onto a stone slab to briefly distance himself from the slurry of violence down in the mud, he might not have even seen Darras squaring off with the lizard much less been in any position to do something about it. As it is—

The electrified crack! of the shot is no louder than any other burst of magic. But for all its temperamental setup, the projectile which finds the dracolisk and explodes in a burst of elemental fire does considerably more damage than a crossbow bolt might.

matthias || ota

[inkindled]

the retreat.

Matthias is a mage before anything. He belongs among mages, among war camps and desperation and blazing conviction.

In the battle, time blurs, vanishing the past and the future until there is nothing left but the instant. All pain and fear and thought flee and there's only the fight and the foe, this one and then the next, and they will be growing afraid and tired but Matthias is not, and will not. He's planted like a pillar on the field and when he slashes his staff, flames spring up from the ground.

It's fire, and fire, and more fire. A blazing wall here that stops a dracolisk in its path, cuts it off from its prey--a mage in a robe that singes a little in the heat from that same wall what saved her. Matthias feeds the fire, gives it more--and the wall bends when he curves his palm. It bends until it closes over the screeching dracolisk and its rider. The smell of cooking meat; the oily black smoke.

At a fleeing solider he throws a fireball. There's a particular whump as it hits--the impact, and then the flame, rising high as it consumes. It needs no more magic. It has flesh to feed on, bubbling and melting and devouring.

There's fire in Matthias' eye and sweat on his brow and he is still working, pulling flame from the mud and the blood. He isn't looking at who he is fighting. He's only fighting. His fire might catch a friend as easily as it would catch a foe.

after the battle.

The news is on everyone's lips. The prince, the Grand Enchanter. Matthias cries when he hears. The tears leave tracts in the grime and soot on his face. He doesn't think to wipe them away, or wipe his face clean.

By the fire, he sits, cross-legged. His leather armor has from the heat of his own fire. It belongs with the rubbish now. In his lap is laid his staff, now split into two halves. He isn't looking at it. Sometimes he will reach, blindly, and push his thumb against a splinter where the wood has split raw. Mostly he is staring at the fire, hunched forward so close he would be easily pushed into it.

If offered a drink, he will take it, with a mumbled, "Thanks," or maybe with no comment at all. He doesn't join the toasts.

[OR wildcard! open 2 anything; PM or plurk for specifics.]

wildcard, after-after.

[luaithre]

You imagine that the land around Vallomire, during the spring or the summer, is a joyous bounty of green grasses and wildflower—at least some of the time, because let's not get carried away, with regard to the Free Marches. In the latter end of the winter, it's far from it; and worse, for the people that have flooded the town. Earth churned to mud, enough that some work has taken place in the pre-dawn to lay down thatches of hay to make pathways through the camp.

The sun is very slow to rise, the sky thickly overcast. Everything is still dark and grey enough that the campfires lend assistance. The air tastes like smoke and earth. Rebel mages and Riftwatch mages alike take patrols, watching the north, waiting for the potentiality of the worst.

Marcus has not been called upon to tend to their borders, but he is awake anyway. He is also not looking for Matthias, particularly, but sees him, and approaches. He had gone down, hard, in the wake of the battle, barely seen since then in healing and recovery, and carries with him the pallor of ill-health, a less imposing figure out of his armor, his own staff nowhere in sight.

His expression is also stone-carved, grim, and he says, after a looked flicked over the young man, "Come with me," before moving for somewhere with less people.

[ let me know if anything needs changing!! ]

for josias.

[glossator]

He likes to think he's getting good at this part: sneaking off in the grey pre-dawn on a horse with little more than traveling kit behind the saddle and his staff strapped crossways behind his calf. He's certainly more worried about the semantics of being in the saddle as opposed to the work they've been scattered south to attend to—fetching aid and supplies, extracting promises out of strangers and reminding various friendships of their obligations. That part he thinks they can manage well enough. Meanwhile, here they are in the burgeoning daylight cutting a somewhat less than auspicious pair. Despite Laurentius's formidable height and glowering brow, they both look more or less like a pair of clerks scampering away from a brewing fight.

"Have you done much traveling in the Marches?"

This is an absent question from Laurentius as he studies the scrap of a copied out map he currently has flattened on the pommel of the saddle. The little borrowed bay mare, amiable enough about the looming shadow of her stork-like rider across her shoulder, plods obediently along the track despite having little more direction from him than the occasional touch of a heel. Not like there's much of anywhere for her to go otherwise—the patchy woods to either side of the cart track are just scrubby enough with the later winter sodden expired undergrowth to deter the horses from wandering.

[dastardly]

In all honesty, Josias thinks this might be someone's idea of a joke. He can see the image he and Laurentius must make, the two tallest and most bookish of diplomacy's members, balanced atop horses like a pair of those teeter topple dolls. Hilarious.

He might have more empathy for someone attempting to find some levity in their current grim circumstances, if it weren't at his expense, and if he weren't already near incandescent with frustration. The Tiger could do more here, far more, and yet his hands are tied, as always, by playing the fool.

But at least the fool also has good reason to be exhausted, uncomfortable in the saddle, and in something of a bad mood. A release of pressure that was akin to a rattling tea kettle letting loose only the tiniest stream of steam, but a release all the same.

"None," he replies, grimacing as he scrubs another layer of sweat from his brow. He's never liked riding, act or not. "You as well, I would guess."

It would be sharper, if he were himself. Maybe some jab at Laurentius' possible position in the enemy ranks. But he is not himself, as ever, and so his tongue is curbed. Probably for the best.

clarisse

[laruetheday]

[ closed starters will go here! if you'd like anything please hmu on plurk! errorchord ]

for gwen

[laruetheday]

During the retreat and immediately afterward, Clarisse doesn't let herself slow down—first she is busy with the fighting, and then with helping whoever needs whatever limited help she can give them. And there are still all the people who need to be led away from the city on foot.

For somebody who made a lot of noise about how little she gave a shit about this whole war a handful of months ago, she does her job well, and she doesn't complain.

She knows she's banged up—everybody is, at this point—but she doesn't need a healer, and she's saving the small amount of nectar that came through the rift with her for Serious Emergencies Only. But by the time they make it to the first campsite, the adrenaline's worn off and Clarisse is starting to feel the pain. A gash on the back of one leg, just bad enough to pull and make her limp whenever she takes a step, and a smaller but deeper cut on the opposite arm that keeps bleeding every time she thinks it's finally fucking stopped.

During a break in guard duty, she sinks next to the fire with a quiet hiss, barely noticing whoever's nearby.

after. for gwenaëlle.

[deuselfmachina]

The sky is inky and purple where it struggles through the dense ceiling of cloud. Fires light the way, bonfires and torches and lanterns. The exiles of Starkhaven are filtering into tents, barns, warehouses, the barest semblance of civilisation maintained through a different kind of labour that which takes place on a muddy battlefield.

Florent does not in fact compare his efforts to His Highness Prince Sebastien or anything, but he is working, and he has been doing so long enough that he is tired.

Currently, the task is: fishing folded blankets out from the back of a wagon, and handing them to whatever bedraggled person shows up asking for one. At a certain point there will be no more blankets and that will be stressful to have to deal with, and he has taken to asking if they have sturdy shelter or no.

He is—perhaps not a far cry from his usual state, more like a moderate shout, but he scarcely ever feels a need to tie back his hair, and his quilted jacket is sensible and smart in contrast to flowing silks (or velvets and furs, in this weather), and there is mud on parts of him when normally there would not be.

What a long day.

[elegiaque]

The day is nearly over. Not quite; there's time before she'll make it to her bedroll, probably face-down from sheer exhaustion. But it's nearly done, and close enough to that when Gwenaëlle catches sight of Florent she thinks nothing of detouring to him, catching a hold of his elbow—

it's fine, she's not getting blood on the nice jacket she made for him, she's washed her hands so much today tending the wounded that they're starting to feel raw and dry. The rest of her, on the other hand, tells a clear story about the sort of day that she's had.

“I didn't know you were here,” is more pleased than otherwise. She's been occupied enough in the crush that someone further back from the chaos was easy to miss, and if there's a hint of surprise, maybe it's tempered by her obvious approval. (For someone else, maybe not, but Florent does love praise and has, she's observed, an incredible knack for honing in on it like a truffle-hunting dog.)

abby

[armd]

(Closed things going here, hmu if you desire something bespoke!!)

for Gwen

[armd]

The end of the day is weirdly anticlimactic. There was a lot to do in Starkhaven, all at once, and with an intense degree of urgency behind it; here in Vallomire the displaced stand around, hand out food and drink, and direct those hurting beyond physical repair to a healer. Abby does some work where she can, sitting with people she can help to stitch. She's glad she can do it, it takes her mind off the battle and the steadily looming issue of having to count the cost of Starkhaven's last stand.

By the time she's shooed away to eat and rest she's tired, seam-ripped along one side of her leathers. She suffered little, comparatively, the worst of a large acid burn soothed by magic and bubbling skin coaxed back to almost-normalcy. There is a strange rash on her leg where she was hit and it's hot to any touch, but she can move.

Gwenaëlle's face hovers in the dark by the light of her lantern. By this point everybody looks more or less the same: sweaty, strained. Abby doesn't bother to ask her how she is.

"I got a good corner, in one of the shelters. Want to bring your bedroll over?"

stoneweale. closed to joselyn.

[propulsion]

Hey guess what.

It's still raining in fake-Scotland.

Seems liable to keep doing that, which sucks for everyone who has to go outside a lot, and this time, that's not Tony. But 'not a lot' doesn't mean never. He enters the stone room they'd laid claim to, crackling hearth and high windows, big heavy wooden tables and some crates of supplies stashed off to the side. He is handling one crate, hefted up against his chest with gloved hands gripping the edges. Rain water has patted his hair down some, but a few wild curls have sprung back up.

Beauty regime tends to slip when there's a military emergency, go figure. But he's awake, lively, lifting his chin to Joselyn as he enters the room and sets the crate down on the table, returning from meeting the late supply run that they hadn't entrusted to griffon flight. The contents of the crate make it clear why: straw packing in around big heavy glass bottles, these ones full of some kind of alchemical base, cloudy and thick.

"Good news or bad news?" he asks, straightening up, flexing his fingers.

[obdurata]

More immediately interested in investigating how successful this supply run has been — obviously it can't be entrusted to griffons, but bipeds can fuck things up, too, though she loyally assumes not her biped, at least not where handling fragile alchemical supplies is concerned — Joselyn is bustling over to help him unpack it before she's really registered that he asked her a question, rather than made a series of agreeable noises at her to signal his arrival. Her brain catches up without needing a second prompt, though,

“We're getting more requests for infirmary stock than explosives,” and, considering, tilting her head: “I don't know which that is.”

It seems like good news. Probably. They're still being asked to help supply field medicine, not shovels.

aftermath; closed to marcus

[overharrowed]

When Julius had returned to the tent and found Marcus absent, he firmly told himself it was nothing to worry about. There are too many people around for no one to notice if Marcus takes a turn of some kind, and he was probably anxious to get some air, some news, or both. Julius had initially intended to wait up for a while so they could talk; to that end, he had started to make notes about things to take care of when they returned to Kirkwall.

However, the adrenaline that has powered him through past few days was doomed to run out eventually. He had enough presence of mind to set the papers aside and take off his boots, but he's more on his bedding than in it when Marcus returns. The fatigue he's been staving off has felled him at last, though given the rough conditions, it's not a terribly deep sleep.

[luaithre]

The tent canvas rustles, and Marcus ducks in, bringing with him the scent of a campfire and the cling of his very last cigarette (which will make the journey home even better for everyone, probably), both of them characteristic enough of himself that there's likely no mistaking him for anyone else. Mud, too, rainwater.

But he pauses, seeing the other man laying on the bedding, and attempts to be quiet as a matter of instinct. Buttoning closed the entryway. The sound of a coat shrugged off, folded over, the quiet rasp of breathing.

Then, a warm weight of Marcus settling on the edge of the bedding, the jangle of buckles as he takes off his boots.

Ellie

[notathreat]

[late af and closed threads go here / hmu on plurk if you want a custom starter ~unprotagonist]

For Abby

[notathreat]

South to Vallomire.

Ellie hasn't slept in days. A few hours here, a few hours there, before she was awakened by nightmares or by explosions or the next call. Ellie is a scout. She is an archer. She is a griffon rider. She is a combatant. And more than anything, Ellie is incapable of stopping.

Ellie's finally taken from the sky during the retreat of the civilians, a lucky arrow that rips through a softer part of Artichoke's wing. They limp back to the camps as best they can on one good wing, the other threatening to give out, and Ellie turns her friend over to the care of the others. He's resting and safe and well on the mend, but Ellie can't take him back out again for the last push to keep the civilians safe.

So she goes out on her own, making her way opposite of the streaming crowd of shell-shocked, terrified, sobbing people. She wonders if it was like this, the night of the outbreak. The panic. She can't imagine...

Finally, Ellie hits the other side, and just as she does, the Tevinter line calls the retreat.

Ellie's left in the midst of the stragglers, the dead, the dying. Her ears ring, a buzzing at the edges of her consciousness, her skin hurting.

She hears a small child crying, and she suddenly snaps back to earth. Searches it out. The soft, breathlessly terrified sobs cling to her senses, grasping at her like nothing else can.

When the little boy looks up, reaches up with outstretched arms, Ellie catches him up in her own, holding him close to her. He's much bigger than JJ is, blond where her son is dark, with longer limbs. Three, maybe four.

But Ellie hugs him to her anyway. Hugs him with little arms winding around her neck, a small head on her shoulder. She wraps both arms around him and hugs tight as she begins to walk.

It goes on and on and on, and Ellie hums to him. Rusty, soft. One of the hundreds of songs she sang back in a farmhouse, years ago.

They're in sight of the camps when Ellie's body finally gives out on her. She stumbles twice, falls once, catching herself with one hand -- fuck, she's probably hurt, but she's not sure where, and now's not the time to look.

The child whimpers next to her ear, and Ellie takes a deep breath, forces herself back up to one knee. There's sweat running into her eyes.

"It's okay, buddy," she whispers. "Not much further."