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

ota.

[tender]

30 WINTERMARCH

Walking through the Fade to the deck of an airship in a pair of borrowed boots, Derrica had been able to rise into the air. She had been able to see everything, direct the strike of lightening from on high.

There are no boots here.

Instead, she stands in a crowd of mages. So many mages, gathering together, drawing on the Fade together. Power vibrating in the air around them, linking each of them. The weave of this power steals her breath. Her whole body is humming.

And then all that power is brought around to bear. The first crack in the stone echoes for miles.

Afterwards, when the wall is shattered and the battle is underway, her focus narrows to the task at hand: turning back the streaming tide of Imperial soldiers.

In most any other context, Derrica is a gentle creature. How often has there been occasion to see her truly bring all this innate ability, all the force of a lightening storm, around to bear? Healing is so often what she is obliged to reach for first. (It is as her teachers always intended, isn't it?) But here there is no mercy to be had.

Within the flow of battle, she is easily marked by the lightening strikes ripped from the sky, bouncing in great leaping arcs from solider to soldier to solider with nothing but screams following in the wake of each hit. In the days before, someone had affixed a blade to the end of her stave, and she is making use of that now as she moves through the throng. Brisk downward slashes make quick work of those she's felled.

No lingering over her work. She is in constant motion, turning towards clusters and knots of soldiers that beg to be dispersed, or dracolisks scuttling across the field. Need assistance? It's easy enough to get her attention, or at least, a stray bolt of lightening tossed back as a distraction if she cannot materialize.

31 WINTERMARCH

Vallomire is hastily arranged for the reception of so many Marchers.

In those first hours after arrival, smeared with blood and grime and gore, the spray of acid scarring the simple leather armor she'd donned, Derrica is occupied foremost with the evacuees streaming endlessly into the meeting points. Wounds are patched. Children are settled. Blankets are doled out. There is much to do, and she is eager to play her part in it.

Only well after dark, when the initial frenzy and flurry of arrival has settled, does she find her way to a campfire. Still marked with all the grime of battle, she has drawn a borrowed cloak around her shoulders. Settled herself with a dented cup, a little apart from the muted conversations happening alongside her.

An attempt to catch her breath, as exhaustion begins to creep in.

WILDCARD

[ you know the drill. feel free to assume in the run up that derrica was splitting her time between running interference and griffon excursions and shoring up any medical supplies. do whatever moves you, holler if you have questions. ]

vallomire

[sprent]

Derrica has only twenty minutes or so in which to gather herself before Gela appears, seeking her among the many huddling with wan faces turned toward flames. Gela herself looks anxious and guilty, and she is not here to sit. She says, "Derrica?" a sad little question, "I'm so sorry but we need- someone's collapsed near the entrance, a late arrival, and they aren't wakin' up."

She doesn't bother to explain that she can't find anybody else. Despite their best efforts in dredging healers from the south to fortify Riftwatch's efforts, everybody is wrung almost dry. Gela suspects some might even be hiding to keep from being called on any longer and she doesn't blame any of them.

"I'll come to help," she adds, "Whatever you need me to do, I can do it."

[tender]

The urgency in Gela's voice immediately snaps Derrica from her meditative contemplation of the campfire. Having sipped half the contents of her cup, she tosses the rest of her lukewarm tea back so she might abandon the cup entirely.

"Don't apologize," she's already saying, giving Gela's shoulder a light squeeze. "Show me. I'll do what I can."

Because she's so tired, yes, but she can't turn down the request. Who else could help? In the time it took for Gela to find another person equipped to help, the injury could have worsened past saving.

[sprent]

"Thank you."

Derrica doesn't need the cup but Gela reaches over and takes it, because they'll wash it and give it back out to somebody else, or refill it for Derrica once she has seen to this, once it's all over for a second time.

There is one other person watching over the woman, on her side in the dirt. They've put a blanket down over her, and she's stiff-limbed, her chest fluttering up and down with soft, uneven breath. Gela must have told her helper that she'd gone to fetch a healer because they leap back from the woman once Gela is back in view, Derrica in tow, to make room. It might only be exhaustion, and shock.

[tender]

"Gela, put this beneath her head," as Derrica tugs off her own cloak and hands it over to her new-minted assistant.

Maybe it's a task for Gela as much as a necessity, though Derrica knows from experience that Gela is good with a crowd. But they might be better served with that comfort applied to this woman, while Derrica works.

She is so, so gentle as she rolls back the blanket. No speckling of blood, no signs of broken limbs. She applies two fingers, gently, to the pulse at the woman's wrist, feeling the uneven flutter of heartbeat. Hums softly as she takes the measure of the affliction, considers what kind of remedy is needed.

31 Wintermarch

[overharrowed]

Someone has finally kicked Julius out of the tent where Marcus is resting.

He knows he should have helped more, but in all honesty, the preceding 36 hours have been something of a smear of battle and aftermath, and the last 24 or so have involved mainly holding Marcus's hand and willing him to recover. (Shockingly, it hasn't showed much immediate effect.) At some point, he's cleaned at least his hands and face, and he dozed on and off overnight. Even so, he looks more or less as he did when he staggered off the field, Marcus mostly draped over his shoulder as the wounded man propelled himself less and less. The difference is that now he's wandering around with a cup of stew someone pressed on him, as if unsure what he's meant to do with it.

There's a small sense of relief as he spots Derrica. At the very least, his legs carry him in her direction. When he's close enough he doesn't have to raise his voice, but hopefully not so close he's startling, he asks, "Do you mind if I join you for a few minutes?"

[tender]

"Please," is such easy, instant welcome, underscored by a pinch of anxiety in her brow. "How are you?"

Though the real question is: How is Marcus?

Derrica knows how they had arrived. Understands that Marcus had been ministered to on the battlefield. But that he was still affected is troubling, and she is certain that however much it weighs on her now, it is far more difficult for Julius to weather on his own.

And Madame de Cedoux is not on the field with them. It must be a blessing to have her safe, but her absence must be felt keenly now when he might rely on her support.

My brief math lady gif to determine when this happens relative to everything else

[overharrowed]

He settles himself beside her, careful of the stew mainly by habit. "In one piece," of how he is. It's long enough past the battle proper for his joints to ache, for the bruises he hadn't felt at the time to start turning a variety of remarkable colors. But he's come out of battles much worse physically. And, to her unspoken addition: "Marcus is glad enough of my company, but I think I may have slid over the line into hovering. How did you manage?"

He's aware of just how many directions she must have been pulled, over the past 48 hours so.

time is a weird soup

[tender]

"I'm alright."

Tired goes unspoken. Obviously she is tired. They are all tired. Julius must be exhausted, after all that's happened.

"Marcus said it went poorly on the field."

Which is a little prompting, invitation in it. If Julius wants to speak of what happened, there is space for it. Otherwise, there is much else that they could their attention to.

vallomire cw for a tiny bit of self-surgery

[laruetheday]

Clarisse is also at the fire, sitting a little apart from the rest, and attempting to stitch up the cut on the back of her calf. Gwen took care of her arm, but she knows if she doesn't take care of this, it's going to be a constant annoyance anytime she has to walk. And this whole evac has involved so, so much walking.

The angle's shitty, though. She can't even see what she's doing, much less do a decent job of it.

"Son of a bitch," she mutters, trying to poke the needle through, then winces and adjusts her grip before trying again.

[tender]

"Wait," comes from a few paces off.

Derrica looks tired, but there is no hesitation as she claims the seat alongside Clarisse by the fire.

"Will you let me help you with that?"

It's a lucky thing that Clarisse is apparently not squeamish when it comes to stitches. Derrica has spent so much of her magic on more serious injuries. She is holding what's left in reserve for any last minute disasters that may arrive suddenly in the night. It leaves her with practical skills, things she is all the more grateful for since passing through all the dream worlds in the Fade.

[laruetheday]

Clarisse doesn't notice Derrica until she's sitting right next to her, asking her if she can help. It startles her, the sudden appearance of someone she hadn't noticed approaching, but Clarisse barely reacts other than to draw the needle away from her skin and sit up a little straighter.

She must be more tired than she even realizes.

"Um—yeah, do you mind? I can't get a good angle." Though she's normally not one to accept help so readily, Clarisse is happy enough to hand over the needle and thread if Derrica really wants to sew her up. Today was a lot, and she can't muster the energy she'd need to bluster and act proud.

[tender]

Her hand comes to rest lightly between Clarisse's shoulder blades, before she comes round her side and sits herself down alongside her.

"I don't mind."

They're both tired. Only one of them is bleeding.

"What happened?" is a soft prompt, as Derrica takes up the needle. Thumbs along the edge of the wound, feeling for the tell-tale heat of poison or infection.

https://i.gyazo.com/e1711c8fad207deb5896f6c06c7115db.png

[armd]

Abby is no stranger to fights full of screaming, but even the battle for Starkhaven is a sensory nightmare. The flash and thrum of magic makes the air thick enough to have a pulse, makes it unreasonably hard to tell what is coming at her and what isn't. She feels woefully unequipped in the middle of it all, with shield and mace, while the rebel mages rain spells down upon the other side and dracolisks hiss and surge, a poisonous tidal wave towering over the resistance.

She is only vaguely aware of others around her. She drives her mace into the leg of an animal and its rider loses balance, falling from a scaled back. The mount is screaming, snapping at her, and she can barely hold it off while she tries to get her weapon back, and keep the rider at bay (they only fell onto their back, after all, they're getting up-)

"A little help!"

A bellow directed in no particular direction, just- outward. Please, quick-

i'm appeased

[tender]

How easy would it be to miss that cry?

Battle is loud. It is chaos. And it is easy to get swept up in that.

But there is a clarity in the way Derrica comes to a fight like this. A specificity of purpose, which acts as an anchor. And so Abby's shout cuts through all other noise around them.

In one motion, as Derrica turns towards her, she sends a shove of energy outwards. It blasts mount and rider backwards, slamming rider into mud and staggering the beast.

Affording Abby some room to move within, however she chooses to use it.

[armd]

How the magic washes over the top of her but pushes mount and rider off their feet Abby will never understand, but she's not about to stop and question it. With the dracolisk scrabbling to right itself she's finally able to tug her mace free from its bloodied leg. Bringing it up, over her head, she pulls it down through the air and into the temple of the creature. Aim a little off. She hits bone, and the impact trills up her arms, but it's screaming underneath of her, unable to draw breath for any poison.

Once more, then. She shows little feeling, barely flinches as hot blood spatters onto her neck and armor.

She isn't paying the rider any mind yet but he's certainly getting a nice preview of what's to come. Besides, she trusts Derrica, hovering at her back, to keep her safe.

[tender]

The rider is getting a lovely preview of the fate awaiting him.

And it seems to be a very effective motivator for him, and a pair of his fellows a few paces off. (How easy to turn towards someone perceived as weakened.) As fearsome as Abby is, she is one person. Derrica is a mage, and she is small. Perhaps they have only seen her shove a man backwards.

Perhaps they like their odds.

Whatever the reason, it draws them towards Abby at a run. The rider sees his fallen mount and bellows, lifting his sword and—

And is wreathed in lightening.

Derrica rips it from the sky, brings it cracking down to circle the rider. It snares one of his newfound comrades in the process, but one, just one, manages to escape and continue his charge towards Abby.

vallomire

[portalling]

Her first impression of Doctor Stephen Strange had not been the best.

Arrogant, even a little condescending about the provincial villagers in Cledwyn, increasingly frustrated as he tried to explain the basics of germ theory to their group — a walking talking diplomatic disaster, in short —

But in Starkhaven, the man turns and presents a different side. There are glimpses of him during the battle, carving his way through Tevene soldiers, lit up in flames just as Derrica herself was wreathed in lightning. And then, most telling: afterwards, he’s hauling the wounded off the field. Helping load them into the wagons for transport. Triaging that inflow of refugees and wounded to Vallomire, and before he lets himself rest, he drifts to the makeshift medical tent and joins Derrica’s side with the most businesslike nod.

He’s still quick and curt, but there’s another edge to that brusqueness this time when he says: Let me help.

He doesn’t have the steadiness to stitch up wounds, but he can apply pressure. He counts off heart rates for her, and hands her supplies as she directs. He ties tourniquets. And at the end of the night, as their last impromptu patient finally falls asleep, then he dips a relatively clean washcloth in water and then holds it out to Derrica, for those blood-stained hands.

In that cleansing fire of the battlefield and battlefield triage, it seems he’s more even-tempered.

“Think that’s the last of them?” he asks, taking his own cloth, wringing it out and rinsing his hands.

[tender]

"No," is bleak humor.

But it is her answer, truthful as she can offer. They have been working so hard since the arrived, but more people will continue to flow into the camp. Until everyone has been resettled in safe locations, their work will continue.

"Thank you," she tells him. "I was very grateful for you today."

Especially once they transitioned from the chaos of battle to the frenetic pace of the medical tent. It made such a difference, having another set of hands.

No, not just another set of hands. Having someone who simply understood what was needed. Derrica had moments where she hadn't had to ask, he had simply done what she would have requested. It made all the difference, to her and to the people they were ministering to.

[portalling]

Strange nods, his only acknowledgment of the gratitude before he shrugs it off like water rippling off his back. “I never really thought my career would look like this,” he says instead, deflecting while he washes up. Conscientious, still, about scrubbing up and scrubbing down, even if his hands quiver and he’ll never hold a scalpel again. “We have— back home, there’s a thing in our hospitals called an emergency department. The emergency room, trauma surgery. I never took that specialty. I like my days planned and orderly.”

Whereas this: this is not orderly. Field triage is a chaos, always thinking you’re done and then another sobbing patient is hauled in, their leg or arm a ruin. Too many of them were civilians. Too many of them were mages. It’s a heavy day, and he’s feeling just as wrung-out as the washcloth.

“Have you often done this sort of thing before?”

[tender]

An interesting concept to turn over in her mind, so completely alien to her experience as a healer. More often than not, it was emergency upon emergency. Even in Kirkwall, the days had a way of yielding some kind of chaos.

"Yes," she answers, setting aside the consideration of such a segmented approach. Thinking of his hands, the moments when they betrayed him. "It is not always as urgent as this, but most times when I am in the field, I tend to something like this. Riftwatch has been part of sieges and battles before. When Starkhaven was attacked last year, it was just as ugly."

And then there was Ghislain, and all the other battles that Riftwatch had skirted the fringe of.

Holding that sodden cloth, she considers the blood on her hands, where it has spattered up her forearms.

"I don't want to presume. But if you intend to keep volunteering yourself like this, it would be a help in moments like this."

wildcard. vallomire.

[notathreat]

Ellie has been in the advance scout, has been running interference. Has been running sabotage. Has taken part in aerial assault, and has assisted in the retreat.

She's a person of many skillsets, all of them useful in war, and the clash has been brutal on them all.

Ellie's been lucky enough to escape serious injuries but the main thing she's fighting now is fatigue and shock. She's slept for an hour here, an hour there for the last several days running, catnaps all. She's eaten just enough to keep herself going. Sought just enough healing to keep fighting. She's scraped and bruised and burned, a weal of it across her cheek, half her cloak burnt away, glancing slashes in the thighs of her armor.

She came with the refugees on foot. Artichoke suffered a few direct hits from the mages on the ground, and while he's safely with the others and well on the mend, Ellie had kept going.

When she finds her way to the fire it's with many others, and she wants nothing so much as to sit. There's blood all down her front, a spray pattern, none of it hers.

She sinks heavily into the seat next to Derrica before she even realizes it's her, shutting her eyes for longer than a blink.

Maybe most concerning is the broken-off shaft of an arrow that's lodged itself into her upper arm; something that Ellie herself hasn't noticed.

[tender]

"Ellie," is a very soft, warm murmur. Run through with relief and concern in equal parts, as Derrica turns into the warm weight of her.

Like so many others, Ellie is a wreck. Hurt. Exhausted.

Derrica's hands are so, so gentle when she turns more fully to draw Ellie in against her. The impulse is to hug her tight, but there is no way to immediately glean whether she is hurt beyond what Derrica can immediately see.

The cup Derrica had been holding has toppled, spills into the dirt. She presses her face into Ellie's hair, breathes in smoke and night air and blood.

"Hi," is inadequate, but it comes as a breath, holding place for the moment when Derrica inevitably breaks their embrace to do something about the injury she had very clearly clocked.

[notathreat]

Ellie gasps when Derrica says her name, a sudden intake of breath that brings her back the world, and naked relief spills across her face as Derrica leans in.

Ellie reaches for her too, gathers her up in her arms, her touch first firm and squeezing with relief before she remembers that Derrica might be hurt. As Derrica buries her face in Ellie's hair, Ellie reaches up hold the back of her head and takes a deep, settling breath.

Her body relaxes by degrees, responding to the hold that has always meant safe.

"Hi," she responds, just as soft, and then it's mild puzzlement before Derrica reaches for Ellie's arm.

"Oh. Shit." she mumbles, obviously clocking it for the first time.

[tender]

"I've got you," Derrica reassures, even as she considers the arrow itself. The wound its created, and the state Ellie must have been in if she hadn't noticed it. She looks into Ellie's face, taking in the burns, the spatter of blood. Relief squeezes so tightly in her chest that for a moment she can't draw a breath.

But still, arrow wounds are ugly things. Painful. Worse if left alone. They shouldn't delay longer than Ellie may already have.

Her off hand comes up, cups Ellie's cheek. There is so little space between them, but Derrica will have to create some if she is to do this work. And she has to do this work. Ellie cannot afford permanent damage to her arm, not when she favors her own bow.

"I'm going to take this out of you, okay?"