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

"You may beat me back to Kirkwall."

Idle speculation.

John would like that, regardless. This whole business is unwieldy, too much chance for it to turn suddenly to disaster. It would be a relief for all to go as planned, for three days time to find their people bound back for Kirkwall and those they evacuated reallocated accordingly.

The map in the Forces office and the shared space between the Division Heads offices would be realigned to take all that passed into account. They would address the fall out. The war would continue on.

"I'd like to give you something before I go," is work for the dawn, perhaps. They can consider that in due time. John moves onwards to: "You're still thinking of it? How we came to be here?"

A very generous choice of description for the orchestration of these events.

There will be a well-worn pouch somewhere on John's person, he knows. It contains a small glass bottle, a prudent knife, and the smell of something low, herbal, and metallic. The cast of Flint's attention over him in the chair isn't searching. He knows it's there. It's only a marking, not entirely unlike the dark spots of oil flecking the leather across Flint's knee and being worked into the stiff material by the attentions of a cloth.

"Are you not?"

The question is not unanticipated.

John still has a moment of weighing out his own feelings on the matter, evaluating which among them will be useful when set against the dourness of Flint's own. The heel of his palm rotates one way, then back, over his thigh. A slight movement, easily dismissed.

"I am not concerned as to our presence here."

What John can make of their work here, not to mention the rebels, Fiona, their covert rush to offer aid, and whatever heroics may come, is going to be a boon. He knows this. But beyond that—

"I wonder at how little we knew of it before."

Wonder. Not worry.

Still, an invitation. An open door, through which Flint might walk.

A heavy breath is expelled out through the nose. With a clanking of buckle ends, the leather pauldron is turned in the other direction across his knee to allow for better access to the straps so that he might begin oiling those too. Hours from now, the heavy scent of the oil will have faded entirely in favor of the ozone whizz of magic, of ash, of black arterial blood and the sting of sweat. But in this moment, it compliments the smoky tenor of the brazier in the way that a rich room does the burning of a cigar.

It crafts a strange illusion of comfort, a kind of bizarre mirrored shape of what is perfectly normal. The light from the brazier and nearer lamp on the table glints off the pauldron's hammered studs and the rings on Flint's fingers in equal measure as if there is no fundamental difference in their functions.

"What part of that surprises you?"

Later, sometime in the graying hours before dawn, John may touch a particular ring upon Flint's fingers. Focus attention to feel the hum of magic contained within precious stones, the way a man may check the a ward, a lock, the settling of plate armor over vulnerable skin.

In the moment, John's heels rocks right, then left. Finessing the pain rising from truncated limb.

"That I misjudged their willingness to leave us to be blindsided."

The length of a leather strap slides through the oil cloth and free with a soft pop, landing with a gentler thwack across Flint's other thigh.

"You've spoken with them." It is not, strictly, saying that he hasn't done the same. Only—

Maybe it's a different kind of talking.

"I don't suppose you have any theories as to why?"

(He certainly could hazard one or two.)

"I've considered that it was meant as a kindness. That they were attempting to afford you some deniability, should your esteemed counterparts take issue with their maneuvering."

This John has considered: no meetings, no notes passed. No reason to suspect Flint sent them.

They are not so far removed from the Pentaghast papers, and how that entire business had turned. Flint's slumped shoulders on the upper balcony, Emlyn's fearful voice cautioning John before he ascended after him.

Suppose they had been warding against that, against Yseult and Rutyer taking against the idea solely on the perception that Flint had orchestrated that?

And did that explain John's exclusion? He and Petrana sat only a few feet apart some days, it would not have been so difficult to simply—

A kindness. Would that require them to know far more about the whole affair with the papers than he himself had divulged? But who's to say what's been discussed otherwise. Byerly himself is prone to talking; Ishal had been less than the soul of discretion. Petrana is a member of diplomacy. Maybe something had been written down and meandered across some desk. Or maybe it is all just lucky speculation. A convenient guess. Those have sometimes been known to happen.

There is a second strap on this side of the pauldron. It too is drawn through the cloth and slaps down in alongside its sibling.

Forgive him his suspicions, but he has his doubts. (Derrica, he thinks, would have volunteered that information like a buffering shield if she'd been in possession if it while she'd stood in his office.)

"What else have you considered?"

Here Flint's attention raises from the pauldron even as his hands continue their work.

"Trade me your opinion for my considerations."

Is prompting.

There is something wedged in him, a splinter of skepticism that John understands to be necessary to dislodge. To know the shape of it, before they proceed one way or another.

His leg aches, the kind of pain that could spark and spread into something paralyzing if he is unlikely. John has been thinking of the wretched damp of Abby and Ellie's home, of sitting beside a guttering fire with Marcus Rowntree. Of saying the wrong thing.

Of misjudging Petrana de Cedoux, which feels a more serious error than disappointing Marcus Rowntree.

There is plenty to see in John's face, and the slant of his shoulder, and the shape of his hand where his fingers are pressing into his thigh. Everyone in Riftwatch has found themselves at the mercy of a what is rapidly becoming a very long week, and he is not unaware that there are certain individuals within the company who find that more difficult than others. For all that John Silver is so very fucking capable, it would be disingenuous to pretend him unaffected in this. The reality of that rankles.

(A long time ago, Marcus Rowntree had threatened to fight a Rifter Qunari simply for threatening the little hairs on Petrana de Cedoux's head. It follows, then, that Flint should feel very little obligation to not to bash Rowntree in the face with something heavy now.)

He lowers his attention to the cloth and the jar of oil. With a clanking of a metal ends, the pauldron is turned on its last side and Flint begins to oil the other set of corresponding straps. These have buckles on their ends which jangle in an uneven, distracting patter. Maybe if someone were to happen to be passing along the footpath between this tent and the next one, it might prove distracting enough to tune out the words accompanying the clank-click of metal.

"My opinion," he says. "Is that they recognized the likelihood of Riftwatch committing to this action regardless of whether they'd kept their movements secret. If there was any risk, it was to the shape of the thing or even in who might have made the proposal."

The alternative—that they simply acted on impulse and the secrecy was a product of having not considered the aftermath—seems entirely too far fetched given certain involved parties.

"So the confidence of anyone they understand as outside their number is a convenience rather than a necessity."

A pause. Weighing the words.

John breathes in. The roll of the heel of his palm continues, a steady application of pressure against seized muscle as lets this train of thought unspool. Considers how they forced the matter, arranged things so Riftwatch was scrambling to catch up rather than hemming and hawwing over the approach.

It isn't that John doesn't understand the approach. It is the choice to cut them out of the maneuver altogether that weighs on him.

"They controlled the meeting, yes? Where the group of you put this idea to Vale?"

"That meeting was led by Vael and Fiona. Riftwatch was merely the means by which to see them both delivered to the same room."

The say that they had any greater part in it would be disingenuous. And while it's true that their obligation to assist was minimal—

Only, was it really? If they had seen Fiona and the rebels delivered here to Stoneweale and then taken their leave, what uncharitable light would that have cast the company in? Nevermind that preserving Starkhaven from capture (or minimizing the benefit of what Tevinter finds there when they take it) is a perfectly reasonable pursuit—

It is the dig of finding themselves on a hook which stings. Who can say what further barbs may float their way in the future?

The look John cuts across to him says much the same.

Not such a small thing, bringing the whole of their company down upon this venture.

If there is some bitterness for the success of it, when John had never managed it himself, then it is swept so briskly aside that it may as well never have prickled to life at all.

"I'll have time on the road with Petrana," is what John settles on. "I can take the measure of her, to whatever extent is possible."

Without causing offense. Exacerbating whatever may have already been found wanting in their friendship.

"If it is as simple as affording you deniability, we might put our concerns aside."

If.

There is something flat and skeptical in the look Flint gives him. The strap with its buckle ends hisses through the draw of the cloth.

If.

Fine, he doesn't say. But it must lurk thick in the absence of any substitute before he eventually progresses forward to:

"How is your leg?"

Fine is telegraphed clearly enough.

An unsatisfying conclusion, leaving them without only their best guesses and suspicions. Perhaps, along with a Chantry mother, John might return to Kirkwall with some kind of explanation.

In the present moment, however—

This question put to him, John looks briefly down at the abrupt end of his leg and his own hand over the muscle. Reminds himself of the reality, even with the phantom twinge of feeling needling up his thigh.

"Well enough for riding."

There are no featherbeds to be had, after all.

"It's been a long day's work," is a minor concession, a small acknowledgement of his present state.

A last clank from the shivering buckle and the strap falls away between the span of Flint's knees. The oil cloth is balled up; it remains there in his hand rather than being passed away, and the pauldron too continues its incidental play at protecting Flint's thigh.

A long day's work is true. Well enough for riding, John says, and who is he to hang any qualifications off the shape of that?

"All right."

What alternative is there?

If he is in no position for riding, he is certainly in no position for whatever waits on the field tomorrow. He cannot entertain the thought of being deemed unfit for both tasks. John’s fingers come to a rest, settle for a moment over his thigh, before he lifts the hand altogether to reclaim his crutch and lever himself up with a low punch of breath for the exertion.

It is a short distance to the low bed. John doesn’t ask, trusts Flint to realign himself to whatever degree necessary in accordance to his preference for closeness in this moment.

It's a fair bet.

With a sway of the shoulder and a jingle from the pauldron's variety of hardware, Flint shifts over by the span required to make space there on the edge of the bed beside him. The shallow bowl with the smear of oil meant for the leather is shifted down as well, ultimately passed on to the upended traveling case (not his; it must be an item scrounged for the convenience of its shape) acting as the side table.

It leaves the leather across his knee. The cleaning cloth in his hand. An oily sheen on the knuckles and fingers. The illusion of supple skin where the reality of callouses and the parchment texture brought on by dry winter weather.

The crutch is set aside at a slant. John's hand falls back to his thigh, just over the bend of his knee. Soothing and stymying the discomfort prickling there. Spending a moment to indulge the awareness of the brush of elbows, shoulders, the quiet satisfaction at re-established proximity before saying:

"You'll be above ground this time."

Small blessings.

Abby had been nonspecific about what exactly she had led that party down to fight, but John hadn't necessarily need any particular details to understand the danger. Just as he doesn't need to know the exact number of Imperial soldiers or the exact odds stacked up against them to feel the return of that same unease.

And this time, John will be gone from the field entirely. Not simply waiting above ground, but gone. It doesn't sit well.

It takes him a moment to reorient around the point of this statement—the remind himself that the pauldron across his knee and this tent and the collected bodies here in inhabiting the fortress's courtyard at present as in service not of the point that comes after they have finished the day's work, but the day itself. For some days, his thoughts have been on a trajectory that carries himself through those hours with very little thought as to the possibility of their personal consequence. John will be going south; there will be more paperwork and accounting waiting in the battle's aftermath, and all the thing between are things he can only concern himself with as they occur. It's strange to consider them in any detail whatsoever.

Yes, he supposes he will be above ground this time.

"Though would that we could contrive to fall back into the Crossroads directly after. There might be marginally less walking to do were that so."

"Depending on the whims of the place."

Marginally less walking, unless the stairs are crumbled or the walkways switched round. But yes, there is likely to be less walking.

In the moment, he thinks all the way back to Ghislain. Standing the cold. Flint looking at him across the fire with some unspoken intent in his face. Finding him hours later on a sulky horse standing in the mud of the road.

It would not be so this time. John will be miles and miles away.

"There are worse ideas," he concedes. A slanting look sideways, some flat amusement in it. Worse ideas, wonder what those might be.

"When it's over, you'll send word?"

A turn of the hand. A cant of the temple. Yes, he'll send word.

Afterward, that same hand moves to lay on the pauldron as if he intends to remove it from his bent knee. Instead, thumb and fingertips linger. They fuss at the various studs in the leather, dirty fingernails picking at the oil newly built in against the metal edges, leaving behind smudges of fingerprints.

"If there's anything you care to have from out of a Starkhaven estate, make up a list."

Seeing as there are plans to raid a half dozen in order to rob Tevinter of the pleasure.

“I assume it would be unrealistic to suggest you enlist some of your people to strap a feather mattress to the back of a griffon.”

But the prospect of making off with fine Marcher treasure appeals. John is still that man with open palms, grasping after security in all its forms.

Maybe in this moment, security is the offer itself.

John reaches over with his free hand to catch Flint’s up. Run a thumb over oil-warmed knuckles.

It's a small thing to turn the hand from the pauldron's fastenings to expose the rough palm and rougher fingertips to the scuff of John's thumb. Yes, spiriting a mattress out of Starkhaven on top of a slew of citizen refugees is indeed probably a tall order; it's possible, even, that pretending at achieving anything more than the bare minimum (or even that) is too. But it doesn't feel particularly so. Vael and Fiona may find themselves against unforgivable odds tomorrow; but Riftwatch's job in this is—

Attainable. Not unrealistic.

(It might be less irritating if it were; he could justify the offense more readily then.)

"Tell me," he says after a long moment. A shifting in the set of his own thumb, rough work worn edge prickling against the line of John's small finger. "That this still looks like progress to you."

There is only one response.

But still, John takes a moment to turn their present situation over in his mind. Find the edges of it. Frame it against the future, spin possibility from what feels inevitable. (Can Vael and Fiona route the Ventori and the hoard of Imperial soldiers along with them? Is it possible for anyone to see that kind of luck that would require?)

His fingers lace lightly through Flint's.

"It does."

Of course.

"Whatever tomorrow looks like, we will be able to make something more of it than anyone has of months of siege and stalemate."

no door :/

checkmate

i will have my revenge

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