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

ellis / ota.

[heorte]

29/30TH WINTERMARCH / THE WEE HOURS BEFORE

It is bitingly cold.

In the gray and quiet of these last hours, in the mud and frost outside the fort, Ellis has rolled back the sleeves of his gambeson.

Cupped in one palm is a small round bowl. It has taken him some time to prepare the contents, to beg and borrow sugar, boil water, mix powder carefully preserved after a long ride south nearly a year ago, until a thick paste of the right color and consistency formed. Ruadh is sitting, attentive and patient, as Ellis tests the bowl's contents once more.

"Aye," is a low aside for the mabari, before Ellis dips two fingers into the bowl's contents, then begins the application of the paste to Ruadh's scarred coat.

This may be for nothing. Ellis is still undecided as to whether he will send Ruadh with Tony and Wysteria, and step into battle on his own. But should events come to head before he has a proper choice to decide, better to have prepared Ruadh properly for what's to come.

There is a low stone bench alongside them, where Ellis has left shield and mace. It's not exactly an invitation, but for any others who haven't found sleep this evening, the open space is likely welcome enough.

31 / SOUTHWARDS

It was an ugly battle.

And it was and continues to be a miserable slog south. (The Free Marches is not so hospitable in the winter months; this year is no exception.) Butterball is crawking complaint, perhaps for the mud in his talons, perhaps for the lack of food being offered for his exertions. Each time Ellis releases him back to the sky, he is less and less certain he'll be able to whistle the griffin back down to him.

Returned to ground, exhaustion set into his features and the set of his shoulders, blood spattered across his armor in great ugly arcs, Ellis' initial first intention is almost immediately supplanted by a nearby family, and their matriarch's unsteady fingers trying to strike enough spark from flint to coax a fire from their little bundle of kindling.

After that, it is simply some time spent being a willing set of hands. Fetch this, carry that, bind this wound, hold this splint, lift this squalling toddler—

And so on.

Eventually, he finds himself settling beside a fire. His shoulders bow forward by degrees as he works off a pair of heavy gloves, holds out bent fingers over the flames to warm the chill from them. Helm removed, frightful spiked mace set aside, the riot of his curls and drawn quality of his expression mutes some of the overall intimidation that he might have otherwise exuded.

Sooner or later, he will probably have to stand up to get food. (Or get back on a griffon.) But for now, he is occupied solely with working the aching chill out of his hands.

WILDCARD

[ holler for something bespoke, drop in anything that Moves you. carte blanche to assume ellis was participating in any and all forces-related prep activities during the run up, was doing some exceptional violence in the thick of things, and is generally around providing an assist during the aftermath. ]

wild at card. prep activities.

[luaithre]

The griffons don't enjoy flight through bad weather any more than the humans on their back. Little White Monster has been working hard, and Marcus can feel the labour behind the flap of her broad white wings as they swoop over the dense forest beneath them. He hunkers down in her saddle, layers of leather and fur keeping him warm if not very dry, hair tied tightly against the wind that buffets him.

A road cuts through the forest, running in tandem with the Minanter to the north. Latest reports had given it an all clear, but it stood to reason that that might have changed at any point in the past week or more.

Ellis has more vantage, able to see where Marcus has flown somewhat ahead, a little beneath. In the stormy grey, Monster's bright white feathers make an easy mark. So it makes sense that they aim for her. Remote chance that he will see the arrow that shoots straight up out of the trees, but he does see the sudden jerk when it strikes against the griffon's armor firm enough for her to feel.

She gives an angry shriek, veering suddenly aside in a defensive swerve before Marcus even knows to tell her to do it; the next arrow goes between the feathers of her wing, spiralling away.

[heorte]

This is all more of a workout than Butterball is accustomed to, despite Ellis' efforts over the better part of two years.

But patterned as he is, more gray than dun, he makes for a poor target. The arrow that whizzes past Marcus and Monster only skims them on accident, likely, because Ellis has made a habit of keeping them aligned as they travel. Ellis whistles to him, high and sharp, as Butterball veers to the right.

"Dive!" is a shout over the wind.

The arrows didn't come from nowhere; they'll need to manage the responsible party. (Imperial soldiers, because who else would be shooting at them?) Even if they weren't sent out explicitly for this task, it would be beyond foolish to ignore the liability.

What happens when they reach the ground is a foregone conclusion. Marcus and Ellis have traveled together before, are familiar enough to know their preferred approach to any given threat.

[luaithre]

The response to Ellis' shout is a less articulated yell from Marcus—not startled or impulsive, but instructive, Monster responding immediately in the way the wide sails of her wings suddenly fold in, dropping from the sky in a direct curve downwards that lifts Marcus in his saddle just a little while he holds on well with reins and stirrups. Anger evident in these gestures, shared by both man and mount.

Marcus winds the rein around an arm to free up the other and loosen his staff from its holster. There, a spell, rune-wrought iron blade slicing the rushing air as he casts out a glimmer of white-blue protective magic. The dazzling spread of runic light only just catches both sets of griffon and rider as they plummet down.

Just in time for the second volley of arrows. Monster is familiar enough with her rider's spellcasting that she doesn't flinch when arrows strike her and skitter off protective magic, only giving an indignant, graveled shriek.

They should land before a third volley is readied.

[heorte]

Speeding downwards, the Venatori and Imperial soldiers who had engaged them come into clearer and clearer focus.

Archers, bracketing a pair of mages. A tall figure holding a sword. It is a formidable little company, but one clearly capable of damage. Likely meant to gather information, perhaps meant to cause trouble.

Regardless, the way they must be dealt with it clear. It would be clear even if those archers were not hastily nocking arrows, if the mage with them weren't drawing energy in swirling clouds around the tip of their stave. Ellis isn't interested in waiting to see if they scatter, if they surrender.

Once Butterball is low enough, Ellis simply hefts his mace in hand and rolls beneath the griffon's wing top drop.

The spray of blood from the mage's skull spatters across the archers beside him.

It does not keep a third volley of arrows from launching.

[luaithre]

And arrows fly.

And go wild, as in the moment just before, the ground had given a violent shake, enough that one of the archers buckles to a knee while the others manage to just catch themselves, but strike at nothing.

Monster's wings flare, catching herself, responding to the haul at her reins in a big loop around. Marcus stays in his saddle for the time being, all stone-faced focus as he points his staff downwards, dark iron blade now blazing with heat, sizzling orange clinging to the edges and pulsing out of its runes as smoke trails out, dispersed into the rush of air and rain.

A trail of glowing glyphs spill across the earth, a stream of it under the archers' feet, getting almost all in a neat row. One thinks to move out of the way, another follows suit, if not quite soon enough to escape the sudden rise of a wall of flame that travels across the path divined onto dirt. Marcus turns his staff, extending the last of that wall towards the swordsman, who moves before he can burn.

Cut off, however, from the mage and two archers.

[heorte]

How fortunate to have fought so closely alongside Marcus Rowntree prior to this moment.

Ellis marks the glyphs, and takes an immediate step backwards. When the flames flare, he is well placed to bring his mace crunching down into a kneecap. The bone shatters. The archers goes down shrieking as his unlikely comrades thrash away from the flame.

He's left there. Ellis pivots again, speeding towards the swordsman. The steel blade bounces off Ellis' breastplate as he tackles him into the mud.

[luaithre]

The fire flames, still, burning off of pure magic and scorching glyphs. Steam and smoke, flurrying together as the rain strikes magical heat, and the whole space is lit up unnaturally hot in the winter grey.

On the other side of the wall that it makes, one of the archers staggers out from the flames, where fire licks up leather and wool and skin. Whether he is still battle capable or not is rendered irrelevant as Monster's paws and talons snatch him up, a few feathers singeing from run off fire, a powerful thrust of her wings launching her back up into the air.

An easier thing to accomplish when Marcus leaps out from the saddle in the moment just prior. Boots strike the ground, but the momentum of it has him stumble to his knees. Hand kept tight around his staff all the while as he grasps at the ground with his other to lever himself up.

The mage, there, in robes and grasping a book, pivots around towards him, backing up a few steps. Startles when the archer grabbed by the griffon is dropped somewhere behind him, a thump and no other noise after.

But casts, anyway, a sudden flash of lightning leaping from that book towards Marcus.

Just on his feet, he raises his staff in time for that lash of electricity to strike him. Crackles across armor, flesh, but leaves no damage behind as that energy is dispersed uselessly in a radial burst of light. A harsh exhale, and Marcus moves in long strides to close the distance, bringing his staff into both hands.

Between he and Ellis both, and their respective quarry, that wall of fire dwindles, disappears.

[heorte]

Mages fighting is dangerous.

No one had to instruct Ellis on this; what the Wardens had taught him was how to fight alongside a mage, how to move with the flash and flare of their magic. Some of that rhythm Ellis had found in Marcus, was still learning all that was unique to him and the way he wielded his magic. It was workable but it was not yet perfect.

And now, a wholly different mage, unknown to them both—

Well, Ellis has been struck by lightening once in his lifetime, and is not eager to repeat the experience.

Which is why, when the swordsman scrambles from the mud, begins a short dash backwards, Ellis permits it.

He is not abandoning Marcus, but he is removing himself as collateral. Keeping an eye to his work while attending his town.

His mace clangs off the swordsman's shoulder, staggering him off-balance so the resulting pivot and raise of shield is a clumsy, disoriented thing. It was only a winging blow, not hard enough to dent or crumple. It's alright. Ellis is a patient man.

[luaithre]

Marcus imagines that in Tevinter, mages are trained in combat against each other. Perhaps there are duels, and formal rules of engagement, and known conventions.

He's not sure if such forms include breaking into a run, drawing back his staff over his shoulder, and swinging it like a warhammer with a bare-fanged snarl. The Venatori mage he is engaging certainly seems surprised, but a flinch backwards comes with an automatic arcane flash of runic light, blade bouncing off abjurative magic before the mage vanishes from sight with a gust of cold wind.

(Clang of mace off armor. Marcus doesn't look to see how Ellis is faring. Either he is or is not.)

Busy, turning, already casting, fire runes glittering across the ground and bursting in a column of fire. The mage escapes utter immolation with a stumble, ignoring the way his robe singes to throw a bolt of lightning in Marcus' way, some of which slips past his own defenses and gets a grunt of pain.

The bolt of raw magic slings wild off his bladed staff, strikes the Venatori mage in the chest with a crackle of his own electricity, knocking him off his feet.

Marcus takes a breath, frost splashed up his breastplate, and looks up. The robed figure is crumpled (still breathing, only stunned) between himself and where Ellis is managing the swordsman, so there is time afforded to evaluate that progress before he moves once again to close the distance between himself and the robed figure.

[heorte]

Is Ellis managing?

More or less.

The sword has reach. The swordsman is not small. They are engaged in a feinting, frustrating dance before Ellis simply puts his head down and plows headfirst into his opponent. It is like driving into a very solid wall, but the surprise it is enough that the swing of sword goes wide.

Ellis gets both hands around the man's shield and wrenches it from his grip. In one smooth motion, he pivots, sights the robed mage, and whips the thing low towards his legs. If it only provides distraction, Marcus will make the most of it.

A second, crunching clang of sword off Ellis' pauldron. (Thankfully not higher, where it might have snapped his neck.) It draws his attention immediately back, leaving Marcus to manage as he will.

[luaithre]

The robed mage's climb to his feet is shortlived as the heavy shield wings towards him. Staggers with a sharp yell of pain, and the gathering runic shine of a spell scatter uselessly.

An opening, then. Much like a melee fighter, fighting with magic is a series of negotiations. When to spend one's energy on a big swing that won't invite their own destruction is one such question, and Marcus judges that time to be now as he cancels out of one casting and into another. Turns on a heel, a full-bodied spin that drags his blade through the air, streaking it with greenish tears of glowing light.

Through which emerge stone, jagged pieces of flaming rock that hurtle through the air and slam into the unarmored mage, crushing bone and liquifying insides as it strikes, meeting no defense.

The mage falls. His book lands in the mud and immediately combusts of its own volition.

Marcus steps forward, approaching Ellis and his opponent, who seems to be too set on the battle to notice his allies are fallen. He hasn't the time to summon the focus for a Barrier, and so casts something more minor.

Smoke wreaths the swordsman. Not enough to blind them or hide him from view. If it was ordinary smoke, it should catch Ellis too, but it doesn't behave as smoke should. It doesn't drift, disperse, expand. It is concentrated, and coils around the swordsman like snakes, embers flaring and flickering, and rushes over his face, invades the gasp of his mouth to scorch his lungs, prickling at his eyes.

Even if it's only a second or two, he loses it his lungs closing defensively against the invasion of smoke, blurs his vision.

[heorte]

Minor.

Ellis might have used a different descriptor if he cared at all to think of the spell in terms other than the immediate advantage it affords him.

A second or two is all Ellis needs. He winds up, mace slung over one shoulder and then whipped round. His smoke-covered target stands no chance at all.

The mace connects with a sickening crunch of sound. A gurgling scream chokes off, body crumpling to the ground. Ellis crouches, listening, before shaking his head. Straightening back to his feet to nod back to Marcus.

"Alright."

before

[laruetheday]

Though they haven't talked much other than to exchange the occasional word here or there typical of coworkers, Clarisse recognizes Ellis as one of the few others who'd grouped up to help take down the Rat King. There's a certain level of respect granted to him automatically just for that, but also, a little bit of familiarity that means Clarisse feels more comfortable sitting near him than she would someone else she doesn't know well.

Besides, he's in Forces too, so.

She climbs onto the stone bench and sits cross-legged, curling over herself to keep warm as best she can against the cold dark. Clarisse is wearing a hooded cloak, and her spear is strapped to her back, shooting off red sparks here and there.

She watches Ellis and the dog for a minute, not wanting to break the silence, but finally she can't help herself anymore. "What're you doing?"

[heorte]

A brief, sidelong look at the spear, it's trailing red sparks, before Ellis had returned to his work. He would have sat quietly with her, had Clarisse not spoken first.

Ruadh snorts, breath frosting in the cold. Ellis' fingers continue drawing lines of pale paint down his shoulder before he acknowledges the question. A gentle, brief press of fingertips at the end of the line, dotting Ruadh's fur, and then he looks up at her.

"Preparing him," Ellis tells her. "Kaddis helps him to find me in the thick of things, or it will help him to keep track of anyone I choose."

Wysteria and Tony would certainly complain about being marked with the paint from Ellis' bowl, should Ellis decide in the morning that Ruadh must travel back with them. Ellis is, as ever, prepared to dig his heels in on the matter if it arises.

"He'll scent it on me, or anyone I paint it on. It'll make finding them or returning to me easier for him."

[laruetheday]

"That's a good idea."

Clarisse hadn't considered it, but it's smart. She doesn't ever really work with animals when she fights, except sometimes horses. Maybe, since she's here, she'll have to start thinking differently about how she goes into battle.

If Ruadh seems like he'll let her, she reaches out to let him sniff her hand. Dogs usually seem to like her, and she's always attributed it to them being one of Ares's sacred animals. Those rules don't always apply here, though, and if it looks like he's not going to be one of them, she'll stop.

"You ever worried he'll get hurt if you guys are separated?" Is he a pet? Or just a working animal?

[heorte]

It seems to be a uniquely Rifter phenomenon, holding out a hand to a mabari. Ellis spares a single look at that extended hand, eyebrows raised, but continues drawing two fingers coated in white paint down Ruadh's back.

For his part, Ruadh takes a long look at the extended hand. Stretches to sniff briefly at her fingers, huffs something near to a dismissal as he straightens back again, resettles his weight. As Ellis lifts his fingers from his fur, leaving a finished line of paint striped along his spine, Ruadh sways his weight momentarily against Ellis' bent knee.

"No," Ellis answers. "Mabari are more than capable of navigating a battlefield on their own."

There is the danger that Ellis would die. He has been thinking of the toll that would take on Ruadh, who has already lost one partner before choosing to throw his lot in with Ellis.

"Are you prepared for the morning?"

[laruetheday]

Clarisse settles back into place, satisfied by the single uninterested sniff her hand got. She's not about to try and play fetch or anything, don't worry.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she says, and tips her head back to look up at the sky. She's not nervous, precisely, but she is feeling a certain amount of restless energy. This is the first time she'll have been in a big operation like this for Riftwatch, but far from the first time she'll have been in a skirmish.

"You?" Not that she expects any kind of answer other than "yes." Ellis seems like the type who's prepared for anything, anytime.

[heorte]

"Aye," comes just as expected. Ruadh rumbles an almost-growl, something like agreement. Ellis cups his jowls, draws gentle, paint-dipped fingers down his snout.

"This isn't your first time," he guesses.

They are far from the Deep Roads, so the comparison is not quite right. Ellis is thinking of those first times delving beneath the surface into the dark, to fight something deadly that would sense them and race to greet them. He had felt next to nothing then, but the Wardens alongside him had been jittery, clammy and quiet.

Clarisse is not any of those things, to his eye.

[laruetheday]

"No," she agrees. "I've trained to do this since I was a kid."

Of course, the situation here is different, but she doesn't doubt her abilities any. And though she'd like to avoid it for now if she can, dying in battle is the way she wants to go out eventually, so... you know. Things will work out either way, as far as she's concerned.

No, she's not nervous.

[heorte]

"How old?" is a quiet prompting. Easily deflected, if she cares to.

Rifters come from so many different worlds, with so many expectations put upon them. It shouldn't be any surprise that Clarisse is prepared for war in a way other Rifters are not. They are not monolith.

Still, it is a sobering thing to consider.

Ellis' fingers dip again into his bowl. Pause to consider his handiwork, as Ruadh stretches into a low bow, yawning.

[laruetheday]

"I was eleven."

It's not a bad thing, in her eyes—nothing she needs to cover up or pretend didn't happen. It's just facts.

One day she lived with her mother and went to school and did normal kid things, even if she knew by then that she wasn't exactly a normal kid, and the next day she was gone from that life, and part of a new one where she trained with swords and spears and fought monsters and prayed to gods that she'd barely ever heard of before.

"I lived at a camp where all the kids learned how to fight," she adds, because just saying 'I was eleven' doesn't really explain... anything.

[heorte]

Eleven.

Young, Ellis might say. Young to be learning the use of a sword. Strange too, thinking that she was not alone in this unusual education.

But then, maybe if someone had taught Ellis more than the most rudimentary of swordsmanship, his life might be very different now.

"And you are an expert now," he surmises. Ruadh huffs, finally sitting himself down. Ellis straightens, observing the effect of the paint somewhere critically.

He's never done this before. And there is no one here to teach him, so he must make do with memory.

[laruetheday]

That assessment gives Clarisse pause. Is she an expert? She's very good, and if she were back in her own world she would call herself one without question. Here... maybe.

"There's always more to learn," she says finally. Perfection's impossible and blah blah blah.

That answer's a little too diplomatic for her, so she adds, "But I'm really good. I favor the spear, obviously." She gestures to where Maimer's visible over her shoulder.

[heorte]

"Perhaps when we have done our duty here, you might demonstrate its use to me."

Spears are not Ellis' forte. Weapons requiring finesse have never been, even those in which he has cultivated passing skill.

But there is something to be learned in defending himself against the use of one.

"We've very few people who make use of spears. The mages will sometimes use their staves as a quarterstaff, but that is rare."

Ruadh yawns loudly, gives a great shake under Ellis' hovering palm. The last twinned draw of his fingers down Ruadh's neck, over his shoulders, has some finality to it. Whatever he murmurs is so low it is undistinguishable, but must release Ruadh from the obligation of standing quietly. He circles around them, ranging some steps away as Ellis sits back on his heels to begin marking his breastplate with the remainder of the paint.