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

[incaenstrix]

"I don't know." The expression she turns on him is a little shy, but a little curious. "I'm trying to figure it out. Benedict, he asked me, and - it's not something I ever thought about before."

Then she casts her eyes around the campsite, hoping for some burst of inspiration that will illuminate this for her clearly at last. She was half hoping that Matthias would say I don't know, what kind of question is that - but the fact that he had an answer at hand really does tell her that she's going to have to decide.

But in this camp, most everything is gray, or brown, or flickering orange from the fire. There aren't any true colors to be seen. No; this isn't a mystery she's going to solve tonight.

"How did you pick red?"

[inkindled]

Matthias turns his head so his cheek is pressed against his knee instead, so he's looking over at her. His eyes are narrowed but--unexpectedly, even to him--there's a little tug at the corners of his mouth, threatening a smile.

"You never thought?" More surprised than nasty. "I thought it was just, you know. Natural. Like I've liked red ever since I was small, since before I can remember. First color I choose if someone gives me a load of choices of something. Red, and if there's no red, then blue, and if there's no blue, then, I dunno--green, maybe. Or black. Like, if I had a stack of cups and one of 'em had red on the, you know, decorative-y thing, the border--" That's the word, good work, Matthias, "so one of 'em had red and one of 'em had blue and one of 'em had green--which would you choose, if I let you choose first?"

[incaenstrix]

"I mean - " She considers a moment, and then her brow crinkles - a little hint at a sort of precursor to a smile of her own. "Whichever's biggest?"

A little shrug, and then she goes on, without self-pity or shame, "We didn't ever get choices, you know. We all wore the same thing, ate the same thing, drank from the same cups. And now it's all army stuff, and that's basically all the same, too, isn't it? So - I don't know." She huffs out a breath. "Maybe you should start offering me cups."

[inkindled]

He smiles. Just a little one. It was funny, what she said, so it's not as if he could help it. He looks back at the fire, but only with his eyes, leaving his cheek pressed against his knee.

"I'm going to, when we're back at the Gallows. I will, just wait. Find all the cups and sit you down and see which one you choose and then we'll know. It's not all the same, y'know? It is, mostly. And mostly shit. But there's little things what separate them out from each other--little details. The color on the trim. Maybe it's only me, but I thought-- I've always thought that was important. Not deadly important or anything, I know it's only a color, right, but-- but that's what life is as well, isn't it? Not deadly important and sort of small and you aren't much, really, when you look at the whole thing--so there's got to be something small that makes it important. Or makes it different--makes a difference, like. It could all be brown but if you look it's brown with a blue bit, and that matters. Or," and his mouth twists self-consciously, "I think it does. I dunno."

[incaenstrix]

Tertia, of course, would sooner hurl herself fully into the flames like Andraste than make him feel bad about sharing his heart like that. Especially when he's hunching and screwing up his mouth with embarrassment. So as soon as he's done speaking, she's nodding and saying, "It does. It definitely does.

"It's all the small things. Like whether a berry is shriveled or juicy. That matters so much - it's the difference, sometimes, between having a good day and having a miserable one." Then, with a half-laugh - "Honestly, sometimes I think it's the only thing that makes you really happy. That little stuff. The big stuff can't. But if your puls that day is smooth or lumpy, that does."

[inkindled]

Matthias' mouth stays twisted. His shoulders do unhunch by a jot as if some pressure has been taken off of them. There's a tentative little warmth in him, like someone's fanned air over just-living coals. She agrees. How stupid could it be if someone else--someone he likes, and respects--agrees.

"Puls," he repeats, trying to match her. "What's that?"

[incaenstrix]

It's such an odd question that she almost laughs again. It's almost like asking what's water or what's the ground. But down here, of course, they don't eat it - or they call it by another name when they do.

"It's what we eat," she replies. She gives a gesture to one of the cookpots over the fire to indicate the cooking method of choice, then says, "It's grains and water and sometimes milk. For the alti, when they have it, there's also quail's eggs in it and honey and - I don't know, gold, I suppose. But for the rest of us, it's plain. And it's so much nicer when it's smooth."

[inkindled]

"Ohhh." Matthias nods, understanding. "Like porridge. Puls. Yeah, reckon you're right about that--days're much better when that's not got lumps in." Though--his nose wrinkles. "Only I never heard of putting gold in. Can't be very good to taste but I s'ppose that's what it's like, being posh. Showy but tastes bad. That's what alti means, isn't it--rich and posh?"

[incaenstrix]

Even though she's seen it - magisters eating chocolates and pheasants and all sorts of things covered with gold - she still doesn't understand it herself. She has no way to explain that to Matthias.

But as for his question - "Mm-hm." She nods. "And from good families. Bred to have the strongest magic and the most noble blood." (It is perhaps a testament to just how much this story runs through the fabric of Tevene society that she doesn't even say that with skepticism or irony; she just repeats it as one would the truth.) "Below them, Laetans, then Soporati, then Liberati. And then us slaves. Alti are at the top - so, yeah, they all have gold to spare, every single one of them. Enough to eat, I guess."

[inkindled]

"Well, obviously there's some extra strong magic in other people's blood. 'Cos," and he does a jerk of his head in her direction. 'Cos her. This is important to establish, important enough that some measure of old bravado comes back into Matthias' tone. "But--Maker's arse, that's stupid. Can't even taste good, really. Imagine scraping bits of metal on your potatoes and calling it good, just 'cos you want to show off how much of it you've got."

He wiggles his toes in his boots. It's a funny feeling, how normal it is. Like he'd lost feeling in his feet and has only got it back just now.

"Benedict. He must be one of those, yeah? 'Cos he's a-- of Tevinter. He's sort of a tit."

[incaenstrix]

She nods. "He is. You can tell by the way he talks. Alti have a certain way - " She briefly considers imitating it, for Matthias' benefit, but she doesn't think she can. And her mood isn't quite light enough to try to do so, besides, because -

"His mother is - She's a beast. One of the worst ones. That he's kind doesn't seem possible, not with what she's like." Tertia presses her fingertips into the soil and tries to focus on the positive, rather than the negative. "He is kind, though. He treats me like a person."

[inkindled]

"He's all right," Matthias allows, somewhat grudgingly. He puts his chin back behind his knees again, so that when he talks, he's practically eating his own trousers. "Didn't much like him at all at first, mostly 'cos he keeps shit company, but he's all right. I like that he treats you all right."

Like a person. It's a sad little phrase. Matthias darts a glance back over at Tertia, looking at her. She is a person. It feels stupid, feeling sorry for himself, feeling sad and miserable, when she could feel doubly sad and miserable every hour of the day but isn't. His shoulders drop a bit more out of their hunch.

"Did you know his mother from before? Or d'you just know 'cos he's told you?"

[incaenstrix]

"I knew her from before." But Matthias can't know - she can't tell him - about where she knows Calpurnia Artemaeus from the best. Can't tell him about when Tertia had seen what her fellow Venatori were doing to slaves. Would Matthias still like her? If he disliked Benedict for keeping bad company, how much less would he think of her to know she kept some of the worst?

But it's no secret, what Tertia did before the Venatori. And she'd known her back then, too. "She did blood magic. And she took a lot of pride in it. Some magisters, they had some shame about it, or acknowledged what they were taking, but not her."

[inkindled]

"Oh." He twists his hands so he can just see his wrists, pale, a little organey in the firelight. This isn't a nice turn the conversation has taken, but it is, at least, distant from the news of Grand Enchanter Fiona's death. Lingering here seems all right, at least for the moment, even if the hairs on the back of his neck are prickling a little. Blood magic.

"Why?" He twists his wrists back, wraps his arms around his legs so they're pressed against his shin bones. "Not that knowing'd make it any better. She'd be nasty no matter the reason. A beast," echoing her, agreeing with her. If Tertia says so, it must be true.

[incaenstrix]

"Because she's evil." That's stated simply and quietly. There'd been a time when Tertia had asked questions like Matthias' - why, why would someone be like this - and had never found an answer that had satisfied her aside from this one. She was - is - evil. How she got that way is something for the gods to know. All Tertia knows is the fact of what she is now.

"Most of them are." In the flickering firelight, there's something new in Tertia's face. Something hard - tension in her mouth and in the muscles around her eyes. "And the ones that aren't yet are on their way to it."

[inkindled]

He nods. Evil is something real. There's no question of that. The world isn't always black and white--there's gray in there, of course there is, and there's some that deserve greater and deeper thought as to why they are what they are, why they've done what they've done--but that doesn't eliminate evil entirely.

"Think there's anything to be done for those only on their way? Like--is it too late for them to be changed?"

[incaenstrix]

"I don't know." She's heard enough stories by now of the other mages and their lives to be able to find a point of comparison. So she looks at Matthias and asks, "Do you? If there were some Templar, someone who saw bad things being done and didn't stop them, but who wasn't actually doing awful things himself - Do you think he could be changed?"

[inkindled]

"No." Flat, easy answer, and Matthias gives it without flinching or hesitating. "Not a Templar. He did bad things by letting the bad things go on. If every Templar dropped dead tomorrow, it wouldn't be soon enough."

He would only be a little tempted to temper that answer if he were talking to someone else. Tertia is his friend, and another mage besides--one from a very different background, but no less another mage. He can tell her exactly what he thinks.

"I don't think you can fix it. The, I dunno. Structure. Not for Templars. Templars, the Chantry--it's all too old and it's gone too far and it's got too many people what benefit from leaving it the way it is. It's got to be burnt to the ground. So I reckon not for Tevinter either--at least, that's what I think, though I don't know near as much about it as I do about Templars."

[incaenstrix]

She's a little surprised by the certainty of his answer. But a little grateful, too. It's all so complicated and so confusing for her - feeling at times like she ought to extend some grace, not wanting to. But Matthias sounds like he's on solid ground.

So she nods. Her voice is quiet. "There are lots of people who benefit from leaving slavery the way it is, too. People who'd surprise you, maybe. Not just people from Tevinter, but - "

She hesitates just a moment. Then she undoes the button at her cuff that keeps her sleeve tightly in place. She rolls the fabric back slightly, revealing just the bottom few scars - the parallel lines running down her arms where her owners had cut, time and again, to draw her blood.

"This here," and she points to the third cut up on her left arm, "was when they were making something for an Orlesian lady. They were talking about it. An enchanted mirror. And this - " Another scar - "was when they were making a poison for an Antivan merchant."

She pulls the fabric down again and starts to redo her button. Her movements are just a little stiff, a tiny sign of the rage that's boiling in her and turning her stomach.

"Plenty of Southerners talk about how shameful it is, the slavery of Tevinter. But, in truth, they love that it happens. They get trinkets and poisons from it." And trust in Matthias and that fury conspire to make her tongue looser than it should be: "It's not just the slavers of Tevinter who deserve to drop dead."

[inkindled]

He looks at her arm, when she shows him--and very quickly looks at her face, then back at the white lines of the scars. The fire and the battle and his broken staff and the ache in his muscles all feel very far away. Not entirely gone, only a bit in the distance.

She only names two. There are more. That's what he's thinking as he watches her button her shirtcuff. Now he knows the scars are there, under the surface.

"How would you know who to go for?" Templars wear uniforms--or they ought to, going around like everyone else is unfair. Slavers, you might pick them out. But a merchant, a titled Orlesian lady--they flock like bloody pigeons.

[incaenstrix]

"Sometimes there are people who tell us. Friends and allies." She looks up at Matthias. "It's part of the reason we're here - Riftwatch knows a lot about what's going on in the South. But there's going to be people we never find out about, either." Her gaze drops again, an edge of grief in her face. "Who'll get away with it."

She hesitates a moment, looking up once again at Matthias, searching his expression. Carefully, ready to retract this if he expresses any horror or disgust, she says, "Sometimes we're able to capture people, too. On the battlefield, or out of their homes. And sometimes we're able to find things out from them." Clear enough what she means: that delicacy hints that the methods of extracting this information are unpleasant indeed.

[inkindled]

Confusion is what crosses his face first before he realizes what she means. He can be half thick, really. But it's not unexpected. In the war he's fought in, Matthias was never a part of anything like that. Someone else did it, and he benefited, changing maneuvers and positions to avoid traps and brutality learned through cruelty.

Still, he knows it. Torture. It isn't pleasant, but it doesn't repulse him, and his confusion clears into understanding. He nods, with only a little hitch to his eyebrows.

"Things like--other people who're involved?"

[incaenstrix]

She nods. "And then we do what we can to find them. Or if they're out of our reach - we remember."

She looks down at her hands, and then up at him once more. If he's judging her - if he hates her - she can't see it in his face. And she doesn't think he would. After all, the mages did the hard things in their rebellion. The slaves do the hard things, too. They do the cruel things too.

[inkindled]

He nods again, slowly. After a moment, he leaves the halves of his staff behind so he can scoot closer to her. Now they're shoulder to shoulder and she hasn't got to look so far to see him.

"Good." He offers his hand to her, matter-of-fact. "If you remember, then they can't get away with it. Not really, not in the end."