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

[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.

[elegiaque]

Already, she thinks, they are a story.

A good story — a useful story, a meaningful one. One that she thinks they wouldn't begrudge anyone, that the Grand Enchanter herself must have understood the power of, that she supposes Vael probably did, too, although she assumes it on the strength of nothing but that he ruled a city and died in its service instead of at its hands. She's never spared a thought for Sebastian Vael in particular before all this that she can recall; had, before this hastily put together alliance, only thought of the fall of Starkhaven in terms of crossing off another city that she can't settle in one day.

But he will be remembered well, and he probably knew it, and she wonders if it brought him any comfort. It feels like such a remote, terrible thing to be more than yourself and less than a person, and she thinks of Alistair saying I just didn't want to die, uneasy under the weight of the story he'd been a part of. Maybe the best way to be a hero is to be dead. Maybe it's the only way, really.

Heroes are so hard to love, is the thing. It's so impossibly, impressively fucking brave and she doesn't want to write a story about someone Alistair might think wouldn't have been proud to be his mother, after all — she wishes she had said something better and kinder and less thoughtless when he'd asked, would you tell people? wouldn't she be proud to claim you? — but maybe she's projecting, again. There's no one here she can ask.

She has taken too long to say anything. She stirs out of that, exhales, glances sidelong at Marcus's shoulder instead of trying to catch his eye. “I'd be proud of her,” she decides, “if it were my place to be.”

Fiona's gone, now, wherever mothers take their secrets at the end. Maybe it's plenty, actually, to be proud that she was extraordinary and he was hers.

“It's an incredible thing what they did,” after a pause. Another. She knows people, she thinks; her agent in Orlais, Alexander in Markham. Aura, on the road and in the hold. The Leblancs, though it's been so long since she chanced writing to Gregoire that she wonders if he'd open a letter from her now, if time and her silence might have burned that bridge more than all the reasons she'd feared reaching out.

She could have a hand in sending that story further, cultivating it. It is precisely the sort of thing she hasn't wanted to do for years, now, and persistently resisted being backed into again even by Flint, whose judgment she's swayed by in nearly every other thing besides architectural design. It is on the tip of her tongue to offer, and finally she says, “I'm sorry the win for you came at such a high cost,” and means it.

The rest still ticks over, behind her eyes.

[luaithre]

It feels too soon to eulogise more than he already has, and so it's good that Gwenaëlle doesn't yet ask for more. At least they can say that Fiona knew what she was doing, and had deemed it worthy. And everyone was very impressed.

There's no way Marcus can know the things she doesn't say, but might have deferred her to someone else besides—Julius, perhaps, or Silver, had he been here. He doesn't think that the elven gods or the spirits pretending at being them in that temple had only been having fun at his expense, forcing him to choose between letters and the most violent of his magics. He can tell stories, but writing them is different.

Later, he'll think about stories, whether this one is any good, his part in it. Right now, there isn't very much thinking happening.

He nods, at the last thing she says, a gesture of acknowledgement, a glance backwards to include her better. (It would be easier to be wolves, still. Language is an impediment.) Gratitude, there, for telling him, for being sensible as to the thing she was reporting. Not everyone would be.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle lingers after that, but not long; she hesitates where she's half behind him, still, and then decides it will be alright to touch his shoulder and does it, laying her palm there briefly and more at ease with communicating that way than trying for words that feel trite and insufficient when she's going to have to spend time making them not that way for Alistair, too.

She touches his shoulder only lightly, and then she leaves him to his thoughts.