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

[bouchonne]

"I'm no Blackhaller, nor king." Byerly's face is a little more guarded now, his eyes narrowed very slightly, his head tilted to the side. "You speak as though I can decide your fate. I cannot. But I'll draw your mind once more to those scalps in the attic. A man of Ferelden is not one to ask the oppressed to stay complacent."

Not precisely an answer. It sounds, indeed, like a diplomat's answer. Yet despite the sound of it, he is being truthful: to decide that is, fundamentally, outside of his power.

[luaithre]

"You raised the point," is Marcus' point. "I'm asking what it means."

All of a sudden, Byerly defers. It is a diplomat's answer, reasonable and oblique, with something in there that sounds good enough without being good enough. The rhetorical flips are difficult to track, where at one point he knows what he is speaking to and then in the next, it's implied he is asking for judgment.

"Mine was that mages understand the dangers of magic as well as and even better than anyone else. Of the morality of our freedom. Aye, we fought a war, and it was a brutal war. We didn't claw our way out of our prisons just to draw blood."

Not just to draw blood.

[bouchonne]

"I do know that, Rowntree," Byerly replies. "You are people, the same as any other, with all the virtues and vices implied therein."

And he leaves it at that - holding out his hand, palm-up, in invitation. Now that that's been agreed upon, what does Marcus wish to proceed to?

[luaithre]

Byerly's hand raises. Invitation. Marcus looks at it, first, discerning his own instinct, where distrust ends and dislike begins. He has no neat, succinct thing to say, here, but considers the foundation that has been established.

That a great wrong was done to a people capable of moral judgment. That he has done terrible things. In a way, he can sense he's not the best person to be having this conversation, or the person at all, particularly with someone with this unique tug of influence over himself and his own, whatever capacity Rutyer has in his office.

He arrived in Riftwatch trailing stories of armored corpses found having died in an orderly row, of a still burning village, sulphur and smoke. He has always known that the likes of Derrica, of Julius, those unblemished by the rebellion for their absence, might do it all better.

But all the same.

"Do you know what happens, for an Abomination's creation?"

[bouchonne]

It’s an odd question. Even a lad who was not Chantry-educated as Byerly was would know the answer to that. Maker, even a dwarf who lived under a rock would know the answer to that.

“A demon possesses a mage.”

[luaithre]

It's probably some kind of latent teacher instinct that prevents Marcus from expressing some measure of impatience, instead pressing further,

"How does a demon come to possess a mage?"

Yes, there is common knowledge on these things that are considered facts of life. It's honest uncertainty how well the common man, beyond the Circles, is educated to its mechanics. Its mechanics, however, are vital, if one cares about their fixing.

[bouchonne]

Likely it's no great surprise that Byerly doesn't do particularly well with teachers. Chantry-educated, yes - but he'd spent more time chasing frogs, smoking behind the classroom, or seducing the other students (depending on how old he was while this was going on). (Once, the seduction had been of a Chantry brother, though that one had ended before it could come to fruition.)

So the didactic tone gets a ripple of annoyance from Byerly, a little gesture that communicates cut it out. Still, he does answer.

"By making promises."

[luaithre]

"Mm."

Correct enough. A drift of a nod from Marcus, focus dipping down to the surface, the cup he'd intended to leave behind, the idle scratches on the wood from long use. "A promise, like, there's nothing else for you in this world," he says, "and there's nothing more you can do. You are powerless to stop the thing you need stopped, or do the thing that needs doing. End yourself, let me take over. Give me everything you have left and I'll see it done. That's what that man felt, you know, when he succumbed in the Gallows.

"So." Back up to Byerly. "Freedom for mages won't end suffering, I know that. But perhaps, a generation removed from the Chantry's shadows, when children are born into magic and aren't taught to fear themselves, or be torn from their families, or forced to the very edges of civilisation, it's my belief that there will be less cause for such bargains. And that it's worth every risk, trying."

[bouchonne]

"But bargains will still be struck." His manner, when he speaks, is not one that suggests he's rejecting Marcus' argument. Far from it: he's nodding, accepting this narrative. This is just an addition - and an adjustment. "Even when there is less desperation, there will still be people who live lives filled with unhappiness. And there will be people who are ambitious and conniving, and who will think they can control the beast - for there are such people even now, are there not?" (A rhetorical question; such people are everywhere.)

"Who, in this future generation, will control them?"

[luaithre]

It's only a minor twitch at the word 'control'.

It isn't the word Marcus would have chosen, and so it takes him a moment to respond, less to check his temper and more to ensure he is saying the thing he wants to say.

"Mages aren't above the law of the land," finally. "Those that seek out destruction seek out their own. Perhaps if the Order was not so occupied in governing every single mage that is born, until their death," a brief breath of laughter at the absurdity of this thing, "they'd have time enough to protect the people against true villains."

But that is not the point of the Order, is it. Not as seen by Marcus, and those like him. The Chantry has no desire to do anything but keep mages in their stranglehold, and use Templars to do it. It is not the case he pitches to Byerly here, where he leans.

[bouchonne]

"So that's part of your vision?" Byerly asks. There's little to latch onto when By asks this question; his manner is modulated to be neutral and inoffensive. There's no challenge, no mockery, no skepticism, no eagerness. A keen observer might notice that this is how he gets when he really wants information. Though obnoxious most of the time, a goading little gadfly, Byerly is capable of subtlety.

"The Order ensuring the safety of the people?"

[luaithre]

"Not really."

There's no observable mockery in Byerly's tone, no edged blade, and in kind, Marcus' response is not particularly defensive, and the slight sneer at his mouth has more to do with the subject at hand than the question itself.

"My point is only that the means of protection exist in the form of manpower and capability. Too much of it." He reaches, takes up his cup, restless energy spent on walking it back to where he got it, to be deposited in the bucket relegated for used things that no one feels like managing immediately.

Perhaps a small show of irritation, this, but directed away.

[bouchonne]

“Then what is your plan?” he asks. “To protect against the true villains.”

Still altogether unobjectionable in his tone.

[luaithre]

"Is it up to me, then, to define how a crown wishes to defend its people from dangers?"

His plan, Byerly asks for. Does he likewise interview Fereldan foot soldiers on matters of statecraft, before proclaiming their participation in a war worthy? There's a clatter as Marcus drops the cup into the bucket, turning back to Byerly, arms folding around himself.

"Capable combatants, tasked to do so. Mage and non-mage alike, perhaps. I don't envision Abominations roaming the streets, when I envision mage freedom."

[bouchonne]

"I do." Byerly's shoulders lift and fall. When he looks to Marcus, his manner is less subtle; there's more in his voice, more personality, more energy.

"I keep magebane, you know, in my desk." He gives a very slight, grim smile. "Bastien asked me to. There'd been a little spat with young Matthias, where the lad made it clear how little he liked me, and Bastien and I spoke and realized that if the boy decided he wanted me out of the way, then I would die. And he's tempestuous. He could will it at any time. And if he did - " A flick of Byerly's fingers. "There would be nothing left of me.

"You all have been so downtrodden for so long that you forget, perhaps, what you are like to a person like me. Or a person like Queen Anora, or the Empress, or the Divine, or the Merchant-Princes of Antiva. If you wished it, you could unleash death upon us. A normal mage - never mind an Abomination."

A slight pause, and then another shrug. "If you wish to be heard by such people as these, and find your cause in good standing with them, then you need a better response to the question of restraint than it's not up to me."

[luaithre]

Marcus listens, his countenance ever-serious and focused, in spite of too much whiskey drunk too quickly.

He listens and there is the barest form of objection around then I would die that manifests as a twinge to his brow, a glance darted to Byerly's gesture. The sign of it, of the physical ease of the thing imagined by Byerly. And Bastien. (He had only made a small effort towards—perhaps not even making a friend of Bastien, but a gesture in its direction, and there's a moment spent swallowing the flash of foolish he feels for it.)

Is it being downtrodden for so long that makes them forget, or the unique environment of Riftwatch? That there are those in their number who feel the same as those outside of it.

Matthias is angry. Tempestuous. Perhaps scarier for it, and Marcus can track the logic. But it's hard not to instinctively feel a sense of despair that a boy like that would have the very worst assumed of him. By the time Byerly gets to his point, Marcus is pondering the minutes wasted, and how quickly he might reclaim them with sleep.

"There are others," he says, after a moment. "With better answers than I. And more likely to stand before an Empress to speak them."

[bouchonne]

Byerly hums in acknowledgment.

And then he says, "But you are standing before me, and I am a spy in her majesty Queen Anora's service. So she will hear of the things you say."

And the thing is - he says it so simply, so honestly, that it seems like it must be a joke. And also, he says it so simply and so honestly that it seems like it could not possibly be, like he's making a simple statement of fact regarding something that everything knows. It's bizarre, and it seems utterly ingenuous.

[luaithre]

This thing Byerly says drops like a stone in a pool, sinks. A ripple of something, almost skepticism without disbelief, and then—

Well, the other man can recognise it, being capable of it. Marcus is not so mercurial with the ways he portrays himself, lacking the range and ability and inclination, but he has one talent in this area, and it is a sort of shuttering. Closing off thought, feeling, an internal retreat that likewise dials down intensity, severity.

Much too late, of course, but now he resembles someone who has never felt anger in his life, if not for scars.

"Then I'll be glad you've taken our side so unequivocally," is only snide in syntax, not tone.

[bouchonne]

There's a glittering keenness in Byerly's eyes. An expression of interest, perhaps, from a man who's keen to know how his lie is being received? Who's interested in seeing how Marcus would take the truth? Or perhaps a calculated expression from a spy who wants to goad this man into something unwary.

"Our side," Byerly echoes. "Meaning the side of mages, or Riftwatch's side?"

[luaithre]

"Mages," Marcus says.

He can see that glitter, well enough, and all of those possibilities within it. It is the safer thing not to guess at which one. He lifts his shoulders in subtle shrug.

"Unless I've mistaken the purpose of this conversation."

[bouchonne]

"Forgive me," Byerly replies, "I think I might be confused. My perception is that I have equivocated considerably. Because - truly, I do want to emphasize this - neither I, nor the masters I serve, are comfortable with what you offer. This someone else can figure out the scorched earth and shuddering skies. As I alluded to before, the occupation of Redcliffe soured my liege's attitude somewhat towards giving support and refuge to your cause."

He stands up, now, and goes to pour himself a glass of water. "I'm not saying this to taunt you or discomfit you. It is - believe it or not - a piece of genuine advice. The great men and women of the world will fear you, as they fear the Crows, as they fear the Tal-Vashoth. Until you can tell them how you won't be the instrument of their undoing, you'll struggle to make headway." A wry smile before he takes a sip of water. "Take it from a collared dog, eh?"

[luaithre]

The outward placidity is maintained throughout this spiel, Marcus keeping him in sights, but renewed tension knots through his spine in a way he can't physically excuse with just willpower. He turns on a heel as Byerly goes to get his water, a polite kind of attentiveness as if he'd been summoned to the man's office.

Gaze holds, no smile in return. There, some internal conflict, before he says, "You spoke of being an ally if not for my prejudice," finally, still a little stiff all of a sudden. "Did I misunderstand?"

[bouchonne]

"I did," he answers. An elbow comes up on the cart beside him, his posture slouchingly comfortable. The cup dangles from his fingertips. "And I would be a piss-poor ally if I blew smoke up your ass. If you will excuse my Southern indelicacy."

Another little shrug. "And I've oaths." A slight spread of his fingers. "An obligation to the farmers and the freemen that stretches back far, far further than any sympathy to you and yours."

[luaithre]

"Aye."

Oaths. Naturally.

A beat of a second, before Marcus nods to him. "Thank you for the drink," he says. "I should go rest, while there's opportunity. As should you."

[bouchonne]

That earns Marcus a laugh. Byerly doesn't put away his cup just yet. Instead, he says, "You don't have a single question? Are you actively spying on Riftwatch, perhaps? Or, why did you tell me? You're simply content with that news that I'm a spy for Fereldan, no more need be said?"