faderift | player plot: the battle for starkhaven.

Entry tags:

player plot: the battle for starkhaven.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Across the table, Marcus makes for an attentive listener to this brief overview. It is easy math to do. Not a lifetime ago, but a significant set of years. Unflinching at bark of laughter, hint of hardship.

Still, he says, "I'm sorry."

It's not often that Byerly is caught flat-footed. Even less often that he's caught so flat-footed that other people can tell, that he ends up staring in astonishment. This does it, though - banishes his usual studied air of droll loucheness to reveal the sharp-eyed, hard-mouthed man underneath. For two full heartbeats, Byerly is focused, intent, humorless, staring at Rowntree, searching for some hint of irony in his manner.

And he doesn't see one. How fucking strange it is. Genuine-seeming sympathy from the man of mayhem, the fellow famous for unremitting carnage on the battlefield. (Maybe Rowntree is just a sloppy drunk? Some fellows do get kinder when soused. Maybe that's it?)

The air of studied indifference returns after those heartbeats - though even then, there's a glimmer of intensity behind it.

"Yes," says Byerly, then - "Well. A nobleman is still a nobleman, even without a penny to his name. I made my way through the world without any great difficulty." A smile. "After all, look where I am now. A fortunate man deserves no sympathies."

It's an uncomfortable enough two heartbeats for Marcus to detect the shift, even if he isn't capable of divining its nature. There's no shrinking or wilting in place or anything, but a subtly defensive coiling, his focus dropping back down to his drink once Byerly has reverted back to his previous manner, ish.

He drinks again as Byerly speaks, a flicker of a look back over the top of his cup that displays some disagreement and doubt in equal measure.

"Only the very wretched, then," is a little wry. "Easier tallying."

"Easier by far," By agrees, and so too is his response: Marcus' comment has allowed him something comfortable to latch onto. If the man looks skeptical, well - then he should have courage enough to voice that skepticism. Byerly need not respond to skeptical looks.

"Have you ever been South? To Ferelden?" He's positively cheerful again when he asks that.

It does feel like a misstep as Byerly happily clips the conversation on, Marcus' disagreement still stamped subtle in body language and expression as it happens. A breath out at that reply. Reminded, dimly, of the Commander's ability to neatly reject advances of, what. Empathy? Something genuine.

It would probably be unfair to politicise it.

"Aye," brusque. "When the rebellion was at its close, we gathered in Redcliffe. You might recall," a prompt, some edge of challenge returning as he adds, "we were there seeking alliance with the Tevinter Imperium."

"Oh," Byerly says, "I wasn't there." A light, facetious sort of comment, easy and cheerful, deliberately missing the point. Still, he doesn't (sadistically) leave it there, but instead adds a bit more.

"I do recall a certain amount of dismay amongst the court at the time. Redcliffe has a certain symbolic position. The thought that it might fall to our age-old enemy ruffled some feathers. Particularly after the Crown had done the kindness of offering sanctuary to that selfsame rebellion."

Edited 2023-02-07 00:52 (UTC)

"It was kind."

A neutral sounding agreement, a single hackle lowering where a few had begun to raise at what is a measured response, still. That he had raised the subject does not mean he takes any pride in his fellow rebellion for having been swayed by Tevinter agents, their propaganda, if only for a brief but very real moment.

Ferelden. The torn-up Hinterlands, blood and fire and the air torn to tatters with rifts. He finishes his whiskey, and this time the next breath out acknowledges its burn, and that he has had more of it than he intended. He should probably go to bed.

"I thought of another." Then, to clarify, "A joke."

And Byerly's anger (all these years later, it is still anger, for all that he speaks with light ironic smiles and a droll tone) dissipates a little at that agreement. It's not as good as an apology, but it's something. He supposes.

"Let's hear it," By says cheerily. Will it be another joke about Fereldan stupidity? If it is, By genuinely doesn't know if he's going to be impressed or if he's going to punch Rowntree in his jaw.

"It isn't good," Marcus says, but maybe between how not good he anticipates it to be and the amount of whiskey he's had to consume means that a somewhat uncharacteristic smile briefly sharpens the corners of his mouth while he steels himself, eyes on his glass. There is a nice signet ring on his finger, the loop a braided metal. If Byerly is observant, he might note the overlapping initials of J, M, and P engraved into it.

There's time, anyway, as Marcus thinks through his phrasing. Then, "Alright," once he has it. "What would you call two men observing their unreconcilable differences of opinion?"

Edited 2023-02-18 06:16 (UTC)

(Byerly is, of course, observant. He'd clocked that ring early on, and been surprised not by the initials in question - he had been recruited as a spy, at least partly, for his keen instinct for who was fucking whom, and that happy little ménage is certainly not particularly subtle - but by Rowntree's sentimentality. To see such a thing on Julius' hand, natural; to see it on Petrana's, reasonably logical; to see it on Marcus' is curious indeed.)

It's so open-ended that Byerly could easily supply a punchline of his own. Ejectees from a Landsmeet brawl is the easiest one, or cellmates - but Byerly is not here (alas) to showcase his sparkling wit. He's here to take the measure of dear Rowntree.

"What?" he asks, hand open in invitation.

Marcus' hand opens around his cup as he supplies, "Riftwatch," with an element of self-satisfaction.

That is only minorly undermined, subtle edge of smile disappearing as he adds, "Because I said observing, and rifts, you know," just to make sure.

Byerly's expression doesn't change. He takes a long breath through his nostrils, and sits back in his chair, and tilts his gaze to the ceiling. He's quiet a long moment.

And then he says, solemnly, deliberately, "That was pretty good."

Self-satisfaction makes a return, Marcus turning empty cup around in hand.

"I suppose the test is if you'll repeat it to another," he says. There will be some moment between conversational patter—possibly the nervous energy before a battle soon, maybe, or the quiet hours in its mournful wake—when he will probably tell Julius the dragon one.

"Even more," By says, "if I repeat it to someone else without giving you credit."

Byerly grins, and lifts the flask in a little toast. And then, abruptly, like it's the continuation of this very same conversation, he says, "Next time, do tell me about this sort of thing in advance, won't you? It does make my life harder, having to scramble."

Marcus nods at that first part. Of course.

Then a beat of delay, refocusing, feeling the shift of conversation like a lurch on a ship. Loose enough from the marrow out not to respond defensively, looking across at Byerly with open uncertainty before catching up. "You mean, this?" he says, a tip of his head meant to signify—

Well, this. Their being here.

He hums in confirmation. "A good idea is a good idea. Did you think I'd stand in the way if I'd known about it?"

There are different answers to this question, the one being asked directly and the other. Marcus is considering them both in his even look across the table at Byerly. Perhaps in their order of priority.

First, "There wasn't advance to give," is quiet, serious, seemingly truthful. "We were turning the notion around between us, all of it just—" A breath out, resetting. "It didn't mean anything without Fiona's word. So we went to get that first. Shaped it, on our way back."

Byerly nods in mock-thoughtfulness. "A tricky problem indeed," he replies. "Certainly, a cadre dedicated to being convincing couldn't have helped you with that step."

A breath out through his nose, subtle and unsmiling amusement. But he lets that sink in, considers it.

"They're my people," eventually, a flickered glance up after settling his focus somewhere in the middle distance between them. "And I didn't want to convince her into something. To draw her and them all into machinations. Obligation, and leveraging, and."

He shakes his head, dismissive of that possibility. "Either they would or would not. It would have to be their decision for it to matter, but I had faith they'd make the correct one."

And there's a moment, there, where he appears to remember who he is talking to, and stops.

Byerly meets his gaze, smiles ironically. He can see those gears turning, hear Rowntree grow silent upon shifting his attention to Byerly. Well: fair enough. By would certainly pause before trusting Rowntree with anything sincere, as well.

He doesn't press further on this topic. Instead he asks, "And what else?" For it had been clear from the man's tone before that there was still more to say. Some other reason to not bring Diplomacy in.

It would be tactically sound to defer. There is room to. But a sense of conversational tactics is the foremost reason that it was Enchanter Julius delivering this news to Byerly Rutyer, not very long ago at all now, and not Marcus.

Gaze met in return, a certain degree of locking down. That he is inebriated doesn't dampen too badly a natural inclination towards stillness, assessment, the fidget gone from his hand.

"Perhaps you would have stood in its way," he says. "Good idea or no."

Byerly's sole response is an arched eyebrow above an amused little smile. Go on.

That amused little smile. Either Marcus is not sober enough to dampen the feeling of contempt that suddenly catches him, as if he had not been making silly jokes with this man and accepting his whiskey but a moment ago, or drunk enough to let it. Or neither state matters.

"You could make yourself trustworthy to us," he says, a little like his back teeth are still together. "If you wished it."

Byerly's response to that is a short, dry laugh. "No," he says, "I couldn't." He lifts his hand, and gestures; nothing is produced. "I'm missing something that would make it possible."

This is more expected, maybe, the hostility that is beginning to ember away in his regard of the other man, even though Byerly and Marcus rarely share a room for it to be familiar. A brief glance to that hand, its lack of flame or light, back to his face.

"This," and his hand lifts up from the cup, but his gesture is likely less elegant. Quick, a dry snapping of his fingers, near-noiseless, and a short ribbon of flame flickers out through his knuckles. Gone, leaving behind a trace of smoke, the slight scent of singed hair.

Marcus, distracting himself off his point as he watches for flinch, adds, "Is not what we ask of you. Compassion, kindness. Time of day. Respect. That is all."

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