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

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. ]

vallomire. halfway trustworthy.

[elegiaque]

"They did it, Vael and Fiona, they just,"

Gwenaëlle is not thinking of herself, in being so struck by this - and she is struck by it, more than she'd have expected if someone had mentioned the not unexpected outcome to her in so many words. It takes her a moment, thinking that she doesn't know where Alistair is, that she doesn't know how long it might take for word to get to him (to get word to him), if he should be told. If he would want to be told, particularly.

The shape of the conversations that they've had about Fiona and Guenievre,

she thinks he will. She thinks it will matter.

"It was relatively heroic," she says, not quite smiling, a joke with a man who isn't here to appreciate how thoughtful she is about his mother, "they went down fighting together. Back to back, if the rumours are to be believed. Which they will be, anyway. Everyone's been toasting them. Both of them."

(The part she thinks might matter to him, especially.)

[luaithre]

Nearby, campfire gnaws on wood and douses the pair of them in orange light, only barely enough to see by. The shadows on their other side are likely to shroud some of the finer details of an understated and silent response, particularly in someone who is given towards expressing little, habitual control that must have a reason for its existence.

But it's been a long two, three days. It's been a long week, a long war. Gwenaëlle is free to witness the flicker of deeper feeling, there, unexpected outcome no easier to hear for having anticipated it, and if it's a flinch, it's not one that breaks his focus from her until she is done.

Then Marcus looks away, redirecting some of that energy towards the campfire. Moves away from her to go stand near it, taking his hands out from his pockets to warm them. He hasn't quite gotten rid of the chill he'd absorbed since he'd fallen.

It might be a cue for her to take her leave. But he says, "Good," on a delay, when he didn't have to. Good they toasted them both. Good there is a story.

[elegiaque]

There's a moment, awkward and floundering, where he steps to the fire and Gwenaëlle doesn't know what to do with herself with someone she doesn't know how to comfort — isn't close enough to that trying wouldn't feel presumptuous — doesn't know what to do with the size of the thing that she's said, too big and strange for her hands or her heart. She stands there, trying to decide whether to linger or to leave, and he says good and her shoulders sag, a little.

“I have to write a letter,” she says, after a moment, tucking her hands inside the sides of her coat and standing a slightly larger distance from the fireside than he's at. Close enough to make conversation, far enough not to be insisting on particular closeness. “Um, to someone she was important to. Did you know her much?”

Or just— what she symbolised, which Gwenaëlle is not insensible to as much as she's aware it can't be the same to perceive from the outside as in.

[luaithre]

He almost says 'no', but stops himself. It wouldn't be untrue—he had no intimate counsel with Grand Enchanter Fiona, did not share with her his misgivings or fears or hopes save for the way he simply made himself heard amongst all their number when he needed to. Likewise, he wasn't privy to hers, save for what any of the rebels already knew.

But it's not a helpful answer, so Marcus thinks. It's occupying to do so, at least, a reaching for grounding in the same way he naturally drifts in this direction, towards crackling fire, cinder, smoke.

"Imagine a room full of battle-weary captains," he says, after a moment. "And their prince, standing at the end of a table over which they've done the worst sort of arithmetic. And on the other end, an elven mage, holding a staff larger than she, telling them she'd fight alongside him in his last battle. Everyone knowing what that meant. No one thinking it any less than what it was."

That will be something he remembers, as vivid to have witnessed as the stories of fighting in the mud.

vallomire / first day.

[tender]

There is such a demand for healers in this moment.

Crowds streaming into Vallomire, presenting injury upon injury. More injuries than there are healers, and Derrica is bone tired. The after-taste of lyrium potions lingers, numbing but necessary. It produces a jittery kind of energy, insubstantial but serviceable.

She has one last potion tucked safely into the pouch slung across her chest, weight hung at her hip. There is more to do, but she has yet to see Marcus, and the murmurs of information she has received are—

They scare her, the possibility that the reason he is absent is because he is wounded too grievously to walk, or worse. But a few questions later, and she is pulling aside the flap of his tent, voice very soft as she calls out, "Marcus?"

If he is asleep, she won't wake him. But she doesn't intend to leave without reassuring herself of his well-being.

[luaithre]

It might be encouraging that the scent of near-fresh cigarette smoke is sharp in the air, notable on the breath in after calling out. Implies having wanted something other than the barest of essentials, of consciousness at the very least. There's no smoke still currently fogging the air, most of it funneled out, just the dim struggle of overcast sunlight trying to get through the seams, hazily pushing in after her.

On the ground at the foot of the cot is his armor in a stack. His staff. A folded over coat.

The figure on the cot is wearing bandages dressing his right shoulder and then whatever else is left beneath the rough but warm blanket thrown over him. He turns, looks, and then comes the shift of wool and shape and shadow as Marcus moves to sit up, some, favouring his right side. Pale skin, loose hair. There's been little concern for presentation once they'd landed in Vallomire, and he could be loaded into a cot and told to stay there.

But he makes a sound like a greeting. Next to him is an unlit lantern, and a small gesture in the dimness nests a flame behind the glass, throwing out gold-toned illumination. Rubs at his face once this is done.

[tender]

"I heard you were hurt," she tells him.

Not from Julius, or from Richard. But from the concerned chatter of those who knew Marcus from before he came to Riftwatch, who had seen him fall or seen him arrive. It hadn't been the kind of urgent, hushed discussion that heralded a mortal wound, but Derrica had felt a stab of anxiety regardless.

Maybe there are others more in need of her time, but—

They aren't Marcus.

She perches on the edge of the cot, careful of her weight. (A little unnecessarily; there is little chance of her outweighing him.) Makes a small motion with her hand against further exertion on his part.

"How are you?

battle. closed to julius.

[luaithre]

There are scars in the rocky plains up ahead that belong to Marcus. The explosions of lava from craggy crevices of earth have dimmed, cooling in the rain.

They're past that now. The clash is moments away.

The rebel mages and that had volunteered to assist them move together. Next to Julius, Marcus is making swift strides forwards. He is armored in leather, plate, fur. Mud spatters the long edge of leather coat and boots that are still drying, and held at his side is his mage staff, its usually dormant runes now glowing with deep fire-orange, the edges of the iron blade at its end likewise super-heated red.

He had managed not to emote anything like disapproval when Julius had stated his intentions about where he would be, today, but the conflict was plain. Of course Marcus would prefer anyone he loves, regardless of capability, somewhere safe. But he won't say that it isn't assuring to have someone he loves within reach.

It's been a day.

He takes a breath, reconfirming his grip on his staff. The line of cavalry coming for them is somewhat fragmented, but swift. Two riders are galloping near on dracolisk back that will likely come in range of them, and Marcus hefts his staff, metal sizzling in the oppressively damp air, smoke trailing with cinders breaking off the edge,

and casts a Barrier, just. Real quick. That encompasses himself and Julius.

[overharrowed]

Marcus knows Julius well enough to interpret the brief flash of a wry smile as him thinking and actively choosing not to say I could have done that. Since Marcus did it instead, however, he summons a spellbloom, suspecting they may both want to be slightly quicker on the draw than usual momentarily.

It would be a great deal, seeing so many civilians fleeing for their lives, even if it hadn't been Marcus's home once. But Julius has always been a practical man, and any feelings he has about the situation have been tucked away to be dealt with later. Right now is for keeping his colleagues and friends (and Marcus) in one piece as they try to defang Tevinter's victory.

As the cavalry charge bears down, he murmurs, "Do you have a target picked?" They've ended up somewhat isolated in the fray, but of the people Julius could be coordinating with, there are fewer he's confident he can make his style compliment. On the other hand, he might have wished for more than one ally to hand, or at least more time to plan. He hefts his own staff, preparing to bring down a spell like a hammer just as soon as he selects a place to drop it.

[luaithre]

Cast, the glyph from the Barrier slowly fades beneath their feet, but the light of defensive magic stays shining off armor and skin and weaponry, good for at least a few strikes. Marcus takes a sharper breath at that little surge of bolstering magic.

Dracolisks strike the ground differently to horses. The slamming of hooves have a more thunderous cadence, whereas these creatures claw into the mud and launch themselves forwards. The clanging of plate is reminiscent, however. The rush of it. From experience, Marcus knows that slinging magic forwards now will just reroute them, or get dispelled. They need to draw them into a fight. He could use one of those.

He says, "The one on the left," which is also the one closing in quickest.

And breaks from Julius' side, racing forwards, smoking trailing in a steady constant stream off the edge of his staff's blade. The rider does not emote very much through his helm, nor does he slow, but his spear raises up high, dracolisk giving an angry shriek as it corrects its course just slightly to meet him head on.

Marcus draws his staff back as if to swing, begins to despite the twenty feet between them, before he vanishes into a cloud of black, cinder-filled smoke, and moves with unnatural speed to rush up out of the mud and into the rider's space.

[overharrowed]

Even knowing Marcus's fighting style, he very much did not mean which one are you going to start running toward; Julius' style has always involved trying to stay back as much as possible, even if he'll understand the logic later, when he has time to think about it.

It's not now. The way he turns toward Marcus when the other man runs costs him half a second, but only that before he releases the spell he'd prepared to the right, the force rippling out in an almost-visible wave from his staff. It's not aimed at the rider directly; he knows as well as Marcus does that it's as likely as not to get dispelled. Instead, the ground erupts as if a giant had just slammed its fist into it, forcing the dracolisk to reroute. It means they're not both on Marcus at the same time, and gives Julius a moment to start on a glyph. He swings his staff with practiced ease, but he knows he's starting to tire beneath the adrenaline. The faster they can deal with this, the better.

stoneweale fort. closed to byerly.

[luaithre]

It's late. The kinds of conversations that are occurring have no regard for what hour it is.

Rain patters against windows, the occasional flash of lightning striking bone white against the more golden gleam of lanterns and lit hearths. Someone had thought to bring some amenities to Starkhaven, and so, there is a semi-warm pitcher of bitter coffee sitting in one of the common spaces nearby the main war room.

Marcus tips it to inspect, and with a faint wander of his fingers, faintly glowing runic symbols plaster around the metal, warm-toned fire glyphs of subtle enough potency that it will merely warm the liquid within, as opposed to boil it, or melt the metal its in. He has not taken time to change or wash or really rest since flying in accompanied with a couple of other Riftwatch members and the Grand Enchanter, and so he is a little rain-battered, and smells very strongly of griffon and, well, himself.

He doesn't look up at the sound of someone approaching, concentrating instead on his task, and inspecting a cup to see if it's clean enough to drink from.

[bouchonne]

Byerly was that someone who had thought to bring that coffee. He is - it must be noted - a thoughtless and rude man, but even a thoughtless and rude man can know the sorts of things a fellow can do to lighten the load of labor. Particularly when he is - as, indeed, Byerly is - a career diplomat.

And he didn't bring coffee alone. "Sugar?" he offers from the doorway, and then provides what may be a more potent offer: "Whiskey?"

Byerly, like Marcus, looks windswept and disheveled. Unlike Marcus, he had cultivated that look even before they'd set out; there is nothing honest about it. Perhaps the reason for that dishonesty is manipulation - ensuring that the Starkhaven soldiers they're treating with saw a fellow soldier rather than a fop when they looked at him. Or perhaps the reason for it is that, atop the griffon, he'd been visibly terrified, hiding his face from the wind and the view, which had denied him that manfully tousled look that Marcus had gained more naturally.

[luaithre]

It isn't a thing that would have occurred to Marcus, to present himself in some specific way, but there are always semi-conscious decisions. He has never worn a robe since anyone in Riftwatch has known him, which is equally a matter of practicality as it is principle, and perception. Here, the staff he carries does not neatly slot him among the men under Vael's command.

But there is familiarity, anyway, even without kinship. He has kept to himself.

He looks aside as Byerly speaks up. The hesitation could be a matter of weighing up the options as much perhaps instead finding some courteous avenue to extract himself from an impending interaction. (He doesn't need a courteous avenue, for that.)

"Aye," instead. "Whiskey."

[bouchonne]

Is there anything more devious than the teetotaler who carries a flask? Byerly comes over and tilts his liquor into the man's clean(ish) cup - a very generous pour indeed. And then he feigns taking a slug from that flask himself, and lowers himself into the chair beside Rowntree.

"You're from here, aren't you?" It's a casual, cheerful sort of question, like the silent content of that question isn't actually your home is near destruction, isn't it?

stoneweale fort. closed to petrana.

[luaithre]

It's been a long morning, one of these mornings as the machinery of the thing that is about to happen is turning all together. Marcus, and some others, had broken from the group of rebel mages they'd been escorting sometime in the pre-dawn, the winter blessing them with long hours of darkness to operate under while cursing them with wild sleet and storm to do it in. It has been some hours of hard riding as the sun rose, coming to light grey once he led his horse through the muddy, tent-filled courtyard.

Messages delivered, timing confirmed, maps marked, and then he goes and finds the room that had been cleared for them, uncertain if Petrana and Silver had already started heading southwards. Everything is happening fast and all at the same time.

And there hasn't been very much time for reflection. Not even on their own.

Petrana will hear the warning tap of his knuckles at the door before he touches the handle, levers it open. He is (as they all frequently are) wet with rain water, caught in fur trim and running off treated leathers, a little road-weary. It's been a few days, now, and it will be several more.

"You're still here," sounds glad, given that.

[ipseite]

Neatly dressed in the slight variation on the Riftwatch uniform that she's prepared to wear — the riding skirt that Marcus had, himself, gifted her for Satinalia is just the thing to match with it — Petrana is not far away from setting out, by the look of her cloak and staff holster laid out, her staff beside it. Most of her effects are packed already, and her boots on, and her hair braided into a neat crown tight to her head that she can affix a hood to with pins to hold it in place to brave the rain. She is delayed, only a little, by note-taking that surely could wait until she's safely behind the Gallows walls and within her own office or their shared quarters,

but it is fresh, now, and all so important.

“I'll join John shortly,” she says, setting her quill-pen down and offering him her hand. “I daresay the time for talking is drawing to a close.”

[luaithre]

He has not come in cold, at least, hands warm in his gloves, layers of armor and cloak doing their part to suppress the chill. Marcus moves closer to take her hand, warm enough, clean enough, drawing it into his possession as he takes a seat at the table she's writing at.

He is, likewise, wearing her gift from Satinalia, a stubborn inclusion of finery on his finger in amongst all the rest.

"For now," he says. "And then there'll be plenty of explaining to do."

He is certain the Inquisition, to begin with, will have questions for them.

[ipseite]

“Indeed, as all who are not here become master tacticians,” is a little dry, lacing her fingers through his, brushing her thumb fondly across the ring she'd given him; one of its mates on her own hand, as she so rarely has cause to remove it.

She recalls, years ago, the brothel's kitchen being the warmest place, so she had spent a good deal of time there, watching the woman who oversaw it roll dough with her own rings set on the windowsill as she rolled and they spoke. She remembers being surprised at the breadth of things a woman whose only letters were her own initials had an opinion on; nowadays she finds herself less surprised at that than how little the more educated seem to look up from their own concerns.

It is unkind to assume the talk will all be critical, and she knows that it won't, not in kitchens across the Marches. But her thoughts, too, list to the Inquisition, and those that flutter around the Divine, and the Orlesian empress buying herself time to deny their most holy her wishes.

after. closed to flint.

[luaithre]

On the surface, it's hard to tell if a good or a bad thing has happened, here. Everyone seems either frightened or grieving or too weary to be either, definably, but here everyone is regardless, turning the land in and around Vallomire to mud underfoot as the day lapses into night. Trying to fit the population of a major city within the protection of a farming village is borderline comical, and something will have to be done about it by daybreak.

Lots of things are still yet to be done, but as for his part in it, Marcus had succumbed to the physical demand for rest for many of the hours that have passed since the retreating battle. In the tallying of injured and recuperating Riftwatch, he'd been close to forming a different and grimmer statistic, but then again, that's what magical healing is for.

It is evening. Campfires dot the landscape. Mages mingle with everyone else.

Having dragged himself out from the shelter he'd been loaded into, Marcus hasn't been quick to return to it. Good or bad, he'd prefer his memories of this evening not be solely confined to the inside of a tent, and so there is the sense of a person absorbing much of what is happening around him than participating in it. He is seated nearby the fire, copper case in hand and rolled back and forth, contemplating the single cigarette inside of it without yet burning it.

Out of armor (rent at the buckles into bloody pieces under a healer's knife), dressed in rain-damp woolen coat and crumpled, unwashed things beneath, he could be mistaken for one of Starkhaven, which is only half-true.

[katabasis]

There is something like a field command office in the process of being simultaneously both strung together and overwhelmed in one of the empty warehouses—erected with the hasty kind of efficiency demanded by war time diplomats and men and women pretending at being clerks so that people like Riftwatch's division heads can fall off the battlefield and into the reassuring luxury of semantics and paperwork virtually without interruption.

And eventually, he will make his way back there. But having compiled the watch rota and roused exhausted riders for the only griffon still deemed fit to fly in order to send eyes back along the Minanter to be certain of their security against any scrapped together counter attack, the frenetic adrenaline of the whole arrangement finally seeps free of him. Threatened by the prospect of falling asleep in the chair scrounged out of some kitchen or petty harbormaster's office, Flint has extricated himself from the temptation in favor of—

Materializing out of the dark. Dressed all in black, he's traded the heavy leather pauldron (scuffed now from balancing the beastly enchanted rifle against his shoulder) with a more recognizably sweeping dark coat—dry and shockingly clean by dint of having spent the entirety of the more violent moments of these past few days folded into a pack. He cuts a strangely untouched figure there in the firelight, a world of grace afforded by the luxury of a clean layer. Nevermind the muddy boots and their scarred leather covers, or the lengthening shadow of his beard, or the dirt and grease under his fingernails as Flint steps in over the soggy log of a make-do bench to acquaint himself with the edge of the fire's warmth.

If they've traded more than a dozen words since that day in the Forces office, they have not been either warm or particularly given the impression that Flint was surrendering them by choice. But here:

"Rowntree," sounds very like 'you look like the void spat you out.'

His hand twitches toward the case, expectation so clear that there's little need to voice it. Pass that here.

[luaithre]

It had been disorienting, to emerge from sodden-heavy recovery and whatever minor grippe-like ailment had decided to besiege him while he was down, to find the world clicking on with its usual efficiency. Guard watches and scouting errands and labours enacted, patterns that he had been a part of just the other day and is now loosened from, a pedantic counting of hours scuttled into only dimly knowing what time it is or how much of it has passed.

Marcus doesn't startle when Flint appears from nearly nothing, but tenses. Not very perceptibly, a stilling of his hand and an angled look up that doesn't draw him completely from his forward slouch. Flint says his name, and that coil of defense loosens when he detects the tone of it.

Still, he replies. "Commander." You look nearly presentable.

Looks at the hand, opts to give it what it wants after a thoughtful pause. A market-bought item, the case, likely not very sellable anymore with the crude flame-shape scratched into its surface. The cigarette inside is long, wrapped in dry brown leaf.

Hands empty, Marcus spends fidget-energy on turning the braided signet ring on his finger, the nicest thing he is currently wearing.

[katabasis]

The scratched in flame icon warrants a skeptical look (from the man who owns a shirt with skeletons embroidered at its collar; not that he's wearing it now). Or maybe the mere shape of the metal tin and the effects of the last few days is what elicits a brief consideration of childishness—that fucking case Leander had refused to return to Artemaeus. The brief, petty urge to pocket this one and see whether Marcus Rowntree remains the sort of man who can be baited even in the hour.

But he says nothing of the case, instead popping its little catch to retrieve the long cigarette. Flint bends. A hot shard of an ember is scraped deftly up from its bed onto the tin's edge. From it the cigarette is lit as deftly as may be possible without drawing fire directly from the Fade; a flick of the wrist sends the smoldering coal back to its birthplace.

Straightening, he takes only a few starting pulls before the slim cigarette is set back inside the open book of the case and the whole smoldering arrangement is passed back down to Marcus.