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

tsenka abendroth | open.

[delphian]

At no point in what elements of the planning process that Riftwatch's grunts are privy to is there any question in Tsenka's mind of where she'll end up. Before she's a scout — before, in fact, she's anything — she is a mage, and Starkhaven was once (for good or ill) her home. The rebel mage forces, too, were a home and a hope; if it hurts her heart to turn her staff against the city's own walls, there is a satisfaction to be found in doing it shoulder to shoulder with her own people. She doesn't regret joining Riftwatch, but she finds a sense of rightness in this moment that she hasn't known in years now — that this place and this moment are where she belongs. Her people, and her city—

just her luck, they're only the same when it's time to tear them apart.

The roar and burn of a controlled meteor strike is her contribution to the walls, sweeping her staff in a great circle and bringing it down like a hammer— the kind of magic that she thrives in, the kind she rarely has the opportunity to bring to bear now in a line of work ill-suited to the raw energy and frankly showboating nature of rift magic.

When the wall comes down, she doesn't allow herself more than a moment to scan the faces — is there anyone she knows? would she recognise her parents, after all these years, if they lived? — before she shoulders her staff to start running for the griffon-riders, to make herself useful in the job she signed up to do.

(Maker, if they'd been doing that sort of shit when she was skirmishing with Templars—)

( tsenka will probably get caught up in some of the evacuation, as well as heading to make herself useful raining havoc down from the sky with a griffon-rider (or several, trading off?), or feel free to wildcard me. hmu on plurk if you want to brainstorm something more specific! )

Tertia | open

[incaenstrix]

i. in battle
There is a way, sometimes, that a mage casts magic that makes a Templar take note of them. A way they can move and act and fight that will make that Templar look and think, there's a risk. The Templars, of course, don't have eyes here, but if they did, they might turn their gaze on Tertia.

Because here, on this battlefield, sweet-tempered, timid Tertia is a vicious thing. Not in the force of her magic: it is clear that she's a mage of moderate power at best, summoning flames of average heat and lightning that crosses but a normal distance. No; rather, it's in the fury that twists her face when she casts, and it's in the cruelty of her fighting.

Because, indeed, it is cruel. She scorches enemy soldiers brutally, bubbling their skin and roasting their flesh. Those who are fleeing, too - she doesn't spare them, but picks them off even as their backs are turned. And she steps indifferently over their bodies, at one point even standing atop a collapsed soldier and his mount to get a better vantage on the battle ahead.

If one were feeling charitable, one might think that it's for Starkhaven that she brings this ferocity. There are, after all, innocents to be saved. But to those innocents, she seems perfectly indifferent - indeed, she seems barely cognizant of them. No; her desire isn't to save, but rather to give vent to something deeper.

So. A good thing indeed that there is no one here who would take note of Tertia's rage and mark her as a threat. Perhaps.

ii. after battle
In Vallomire, Tertia sits before the fire, shivering lightly in the chill. She is amongst a mixed group, mages and civilians, but quiet within it, watching the others with an expression of shy reserve. She lifts her cup with the others when they propose toasts, but drinks little; she eats only lightly, waving away offers of meat to favor bread and cheese instead. Even given her usual shyness, she seems uncommonly reserved.

That reserve disappears only when she's attracted by a commotion at another fire - and wanders over there to find the elves formerly of the Starkhaven alienage singing folk songs. She doesn't join them - she doesn't know the words, barely recognizes the tunes - but she stands, and listens, and cries, tears flowing openly and unashamedly as they sing.

[ ooc: feel free to hit up any part of this or just wildcard something else or whatever. there are no bad choices here ]

marcus rowntree.

[luaithre]

ii.

[delphian]

It is for a different reason than a Templar might that Tsenka Abendroth had made note of Tertia, in battle. The young elven mage from Tevinter that her brother has taken beneath his wing, she recalls her more from passing conversation with Marcus than particular acquaintance in the Gallows—

that, and her battle prowess, are compelling reasons enough to draw Tsenka to her side, during the singing. It's unfamiliar to her, too, in a way that aches unexpectedly; her eyes travel over the faces assembled, up-turned, and she finds herself studying them more closely. The shapes of their eyes, their heights, none of them taller than her and herself quite a bit taller than Tertia. (At 5'6", she takes great pride in being a tall elf, even as Marcus has never had to do more than drop his knees a bit to hoist her over his shoulder like a caterwauling sack of potatoes.)

In another life, she might have been among them. Might remember the words to these songs not from the dreams she had walked in the alienage but from her family hearth within it — not half-dreamed melodies stitched together from a dozen sources, not the snatches of music she remembers hearing from outside as she swung her feet and watched her father unpack the contents of their meagre lives, new experiences and sounds, harshly brought to an end. She knows that she could be shoulder to shoulder with her own blood, now, and not know it. (Another elven woman, tall for the people and some years younger, sings in a voice that Tsenka cannot know is like their mother's; they will leave this place still strangers.)

She touches Tertia's shoulder, lightly, and then lifts her voice to the song — a thick Starkhaven accent that blends seamlessly, harmonizing.

Jude Adjei | Open

[foolsmakeitcolder]

i. The Retreat (cw: violence, injuries)

Jude's killed before.

It's a horror, always. His wolf doesn't relish it but doesn't cringe from it either. Wolves do not fight as humans do, army to army, pack to pack. Not unless something is going terribly wrong.

This, he supposes, is things going terribly wrong.

He's never been grateful to be locked inside his own head before, alone and feeling only stirrings in the vast ocean of souls around him. Now as screams and fire erupt over Starkhaven, fear and pain, Jude thanks whatever's out there that he doesn't hear them inside his head, too.

It's easy, though, when the dracolisk army comes for the civilians he is escorting.

This is not a battle. This is a wolf protecting the weak, the helpless, the pups. He splits the air with a high, haunting howl as they come, a warning and a promise.

Jude is ruthless.

The war-mounts are not terrified of him, but few riders can withstand the full-frontal charge of a wolf as big as small mount without flinching, and Jude takes even the smallest bit of hesitation to the hilt. He ducks under spears and past guards. He hamstrings mounts with slashes of his teeth. He drags soldiers from their mounts to the ground. He crushes gorgets and shatters bone and leaves them screaming, bleeding. Poison bursts across his fur, burning him, half-blinding him in one eye -- and he keeps moving, unable to feel the pain. Fights for his allies on either side of him, ready teeth and claws.

Jude fights until the enemy pulls back, retreating. He snarls after them, blood-streaked and with half his fur burnt away, a broken arrow in the meat of his shoulder, another in his side. There is bloody froth between his jaws, in his slaver.

He staggers once, then falls to his belly in the muck, panting and short of breath. His wounds do not immediately close.


ii. Vallomire

The whispers pass from fire to fire as the sun begins to set, hushed reverence and grief. They are alive. They are alive because of the brave people who gave their lives to give them this chance.

Still tender from his wounds, Jude circles the encampment at the outside, raising his face to the distant smoke. He's in his uniform, the light cloth sitting over his bandages. One his eyes is healing, but carries a silvery-white sheen over the brown, and he turns his head often to make up for the temporary lack.

He brings a tin cup of tea to someone whose face he recognizes, whether they are familiar in passing or just acquaintances, and uses the opportunity to look them over.

"You made it."

open.

[luaithre]

WALL;

Magic can be a lot of performance, a lot of light and noise. Here, moving to stand in the shallows of water that is calm around his boots, Marcus only sets the base of his staff down against the soft ground under the surface, both hands wrapped around it, and concentrates.

Beneath them all, particularly those closest to the wall and gate, the ground gives a jolt. The water ripples in stranger patterns, an odd tidal pull that rushes one way and then reverses as the ground beneath it trembles. Another jolt, sharper, follows the sound of grinding and cracking stone as a fissure instantly forms up through slabs of brick, separating stone from mortar.

From another in the crowd, magic is cast and aims for that weakness he's created, in the form of comet or lightning or raw magic. It strikes stone, which tips, caught by a flash of telekinetic ability from another, and Marcus flinches out from his focus, breathing heavier than he was a moment ago. The urge to continue, to begin summoning whatever spells he knows to contribute to clawing down these walls, in gouts of lava or something else, feels like a precipice that he instead steps back from.

Reverses out from the river, and watches, instead, the wall come down, having done his part.

RETREAT;

[ ooc ; feel free to just do little action beats here! i'm reserving the last bit of battle for a closed thread, so others should take place during (or before!). ]

No such quarter is made when the cavalry comes.

He is among those to meet them, a greeting that involves the wide slash of his staff where, up ahead, the ground seems to part with the same ferocity of that movement, and between the mud and rocky terrain, hellfire glows out from the deep fissure that stretches across the ground.

One front-most charging dracolisk stumbles, slides into it; another is hauled around, skidding to a halt; another doubles down, leaps to clear it. All three are subject to the assault that comes a split second after, an explosion of liquid fire, a bright eruption of lava that has the one who leapt rolling in a heap on the other side, the one who halted shrieking and reversing, the one who vanished into the trench not doing very much at all. Others nearby, catching errant lashings, dracolisks hissing and staggering.

It breaks that section of the charge, riders giving it a wide berth. But still, they come.

His casting is not elegant. Bladed staff is dragged through the air with great physical effort, as if its iron edge is doing the work in slicing open the Veil to pull through it magic by force. But there is force, in the form of summoned rock that slams into shield and staggers the rider, or walls of smoke and flame. When the riders close in anyway, there is simple scrapping, bringing his staff down against a Tevene soldier's raised sword, or a strike from the blunt end of his staff against a raised shield that flashes with copper-tone magic that sends his opponent sprawling backwards. The wet impact of iron blade driven into flesh, its edges red-hot and sizzling.

A look up after, only faintly bewildered, but looking for where he is next needed.

VALLOMIRE;

[ ooc ; bonus rowntree muggle sibling npcing if you want it! ]

Marcus is not found in the crowd very easily for much of that first day of recovery. It is, in fact, well into the evening that he does appear, out of his armor, wearing instead a deep blue woolen coat over rumpled clothing to guard against the chill. In modern parlance, he looks like he has been hit by a truck sometime recently, pale and ill and only just awoken, but clearly tired of lying down enough that he can tolerate this blow to his vanity. It's been whole hours, after all.

He missed that first round of toasts, but he has the sense that news has done its rounds. He will make his patient way around until he finds someone he considers to be at least half-way trustworthy, and ask, "What happened?"

Otherwise, later, he moves through this collection of Starkhaven's people and rebel mages alike, apparently searching in some quiet, slow-going way, for people he knows beyond that of Riftwatch. There is some silent observation, of men and women in robes and wielding staffs, speaking to those more common. Murmurs of gratitude, tentative curiousity. He does not seek out these conversations, only absorbing them as he continues his search.

Later still, he can be found near a fire, carefully going about the ritual of opening a slim copper case, setting a cigarette between his teeth and lighting it with summoned flame between his fingers.

WILDCARD;

[ ooc ; feel free to extrapolate anything you want! he will also be lurking around stoneweale fort during negotiations, and on griffon/skirmishing/guarding duty during the lead up. ]

battle. closed to julius.

[luaithre]

There are scars in the rocky plains up ahead that belong to Marcus. The explosions of lava from craggy crevices of earth have dimmed, cooling in the rain.

They're past that now. The clash is moments away.

The rebel mages and that had volunteered to assist them move together. Next to Julius, Marcus is making swift strides forwards. He is armored in leather, plate, fur. Mud spatters the long edge of leather coat and boots that are still drying, and held at his side is his mage staff, its usually dormant runes now glowing with deep fire-orange, the edges of the iron blade at its end likewise super-heated red.

He had managed not to emote anything like disapproval when Julius had stated his intentions about where he would be, today, but the conflict was plain. Of course Marcus would prefer anyone he loves, regardless of capability, somewhere safe. But he won't say that it isn't assuring to have someone he loves within reach.

It's been a day.

He takes a breath, reconfirming his grip on his staff. The line of cavalry coming for them is somewhat fragmented, but swift. Two riders are galloping near on dracolisk back that will likely come in range of them, and Marcus hefts his staff, metal sizzling in the oppressively damp air, smoke trailing with cinders breaking off the edge,

and casts a Barrier, just. Real quick. That encompasses himself and Julius.

the walls, and then later.

[luaithre]

"Tsenka."

There isn't very much time. The wall has crumbled. The citizens of Starkhaven are flooding out of it, more people than he's ever seen gathered together. The rebels and the scattering of Riftwatch among them are moving to help shepherd them in a coherent direction. Boots churn through water, over rubble, track through mud. The clamour of many voices, confusion and fear and barked orders. In the distance, war.

So Marcus raises his voice to shout her name as she runs for the griffons, insistent on getting her attention despite the fact they really need to be elsewhere. He moves out of the water onto solid ground, the labour of it letting up once there, still headed in her direction.

Gela Baynrac (open)

[sprent]

1. In the South
Gela gathers not much happens in Anverness; the little establishment is surprised to find itself accosted by a more strung-out version of Riftwatch, late afternoon. Gela wears her uniform, and a plastered-on smile. The negotiations are... closer to pleading, but they work. When Gela trails back to recount her find it is with no less tension, but a scrap of good news:

"They'll bring food."

Relief. There are stores of it and some to spare, and Gela has their word, "To Vallomire, quickly as they can. I'll stay back an' help them find the way. Any more word?"

She cannot stop her eyes drifting north.

2. Vallomire
She has never been to the aftermath of a war before, and the collective mood wears on her. Gela didn't fight or come to the aid of anybody and finds herself weary anyway, and glassy-eyed for all these people, displaced. All the others, dead. Everybody looks tired, and sore, and sad.

She dutifully takes up a post at the entrance to the township, counting off the people as they come in. She marks the numbers down in a little book. There is only so much space in the township for them all, so somebody had better, and Gela, born to merchants, knows how to count costs. It is easy, distracting work, but even so, she has to pause in what she's doing to wipe her eyes every so often, sniffing against the back of her hand.

And later still she keeps in perpetual motion, criss-crossing between the people that she knows. She'll bring them what they ask for, too, it's no bother. Rumours are already flying in the way that they do when people don't have much else to do than sit around and talk to each other. Eventually, she comes to sit beside a fire, and finds she can't hold back her questions any more.

"What happened? I wasn't there, I was south, did- the Prince really..." Die? Just like that?

stoneweale fort. closed to byerly.

[luaithre]

It's late. The kinds of conversations that are occurring have no regard for what hour it is.

Rain patters against windows, the occasional flash of lightning striking bone white against the more golden gleam of lanterns and lit hearths. Someone had thought to bring some amenities to Starkhaven, and so, there is a semi-warm pitcher of bitter coffee sitting in one of the common spaces nearby the main war room.

Marcus tips it to inspect, and with a faint wander of his fingers, faintly glowing runic symbols plaster around the metal, warm-toned fire glyphs of subtle enough potency that it will merely warm the liquid within, as opposed to boil it, or melt the metal its in. He has not taken time to change or wash or really rest since flying in accompanied with a couple of other Riftwatch members and the Grand Enchanter, and so he is a little rain-battered, and smells very strongly of griffon and, well, himself.

He doesn't look up at the sound of someone approaching, concentrating instead on his task, and inspecting a cup to see if it's clean enough to drink from.

[incaenstrix]

Tertia turns, tensing slightly - because a figure that tall registers to her as human and in a moment like this she does not want to look upon a human. But the tension releases when she sees Tsenka's ears; she just nods slightly, and uses her sleeves to rub at her wet cheeks, and listens.

When the song is finished, she takes a moment. Lets out a shaky, wet breath and runs her fingers through the tangled, split ends of her hair.

"You know that song?" she asks. Asks Tsenka alone; there's no attempt to include the others in this conversation, no movement to join the others of her people. "What's it about?" - Because Tertia knows nothing of the language of her people, not even a single word. So the mix of Trade and their language in that song was far beyond her comprehension.

[bouchonne]

Byerly was that someone who had thought to bring that coffee. He is - it must be noted - a thoughtless and rude man, but even a thoughtless and rude man can know the sorts of things a fellow can do to lighten the load of labor. Particularly when he is - as, indeed, Byerly is - a career diplomat.

And he didn't bring coffee alone. "Sugar?" he offers from the doorway, and then provides what may be a more potent offer: "Whiskey?"

Byerly, like Marcus, looks windswept and disheveled. Unlike Marcus, he had cultivated that look even before they'd set out; there is nothing honest about it. Perhaps the reason for that dishonesty is manipulation - ensuring that the Starkhaven soldiers they're treating with saw a fellow soldier rather than a fop when they looked at him. Or perhaps the reason for it is that, atop the griffon, he'd been visibly terrified, hiding his face from the wind and the view, which had denied him that manfully tousled look that Marcus had gained more naturally.

loxley.

[charmoffensive]

i.

[portalling]

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

It’s that phrase which comes to mind unbidden as he catches an occasional glimpse of that small, dark-haired elven girl carving her way through the Tevinter soldiers. It’s that animal fury, it’s that cruelty as she burns her way through them: the crisping smell of burning horseflesh and human meat on the wind. War is never pretty, but this is particularly ugly.

Strange is a fellow mage on this battlefield, ostensibly on her side, but as he watches her, there’s a cold chill of fear rippling down his spine — because he has seen an out-of-control furious witch like this before, fire burning at her fingertips, and for a second there’s that acrid taste in the back of his throat. A reminder. Remembering. The crash of Starkhaven’s brick wall collapsing is the same sound of the temple at Kamar Taj falling —

But they are, still, on the same side. And so, since he’s watching carefully, he catches that moment: a bloodied soldier clawing his way up a muddy hill into Tertia’s blind spot, while she’s so absorbed in her retribution and the man in front of her. A sword which might slip through the gap.

Strange steps into the gap, his arm outflung, and the clang of metal slides off in a spark of magic. There’s a glowing shape on his arm like an ethereal tower shield, which he uses to shove the soldier back, and he says to the girl, raggedly, “Behind you.”

over starkhaven. closed to yseult.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley takes no issue with heights. An almost reckless lack of issue, really, a fan of high up places, narrow ledges, and flying, when he's ever given the chance.

He's not great with animals, though, and where he sits in the saddle behind Yseult, he's going to pull a muscle in his thigh for clinging on so tightly in his saddle, deeply conscious of animal form being powered under independent will—both Yseult's and the griffon's, and he being simply astride it. It is, at least, not his first time playing passenger, and as they lift off over the city, there's more to think about than whether the griffon may simply choose to throw them or something.

Strapped across his back is a light-weight crossbow, readily brought to bear as needed. Pertinently, he also has a satchel of small handheld devices that he is given to understand will explode into Fade energy on impact. A flask of alchemical fire which will burn and burn. His own magic, in a pinch. His sword, just in case.

He thinks of certain companions back home, who'd have been well keen for some purposeful property damage. (As if he is not a little anticipatory for quasi-legal breaking and entering, lockpicks stashed on his person for anything in need of a finer touch than explosions.)

Nothing spoken immediately, save for a quiet 'fuck me' as he watches the streets swarm with people. Glad to not be caught in that.

banks of the minanter. closed to abby.

[charmoffensive]

They range ahead of the group of rebel mages they'd been tasked to guard, like a pair of sheepdogs there to nip at the heels of cattle who can set you on fire with a thought. As important as it is to stay with them, though, it's fundamentally true that this sort of group can defend themselves.

Reportage over crystal says: sign of a campfire further east.

And so they go to check it out, moving at a steady gallop to range well ahead of the mages. To their north, the Minanter river flows by peaceably, completely oblivious to the territorial war that has ripped these lands apart. They slow to rest their horses, keeping an eye on the sky to see if they can spot this foretold camp smoke for themselves.

Loxley manages his horse alright. A necessary mode of transportation both here and where he is from, but rests uncomfortably in the saddle, tensing ever so when his horse twitches in a way he doesn't anticipate. Lashed at his side is his rapier, and across his back, a light crossbow and a small quiver of bolts.

They're playing a game, by the way. It is less fun for the absence of drinking, but—

"Never have I ever," he says, drawing out the thinking time, and holding up a hand with two fingers down, three splayed, having done at least two things so far, "won an arm wrestling contest."

Seems like cheating, but the stakes are low.

[incaenstrix]

"Oh," she says, and then, "Thank you, Messere," and her voice is high and sweet and her manner deferential and polite. It contrasts so oddly with the clear battle-rage - or perhaps outright bloodthirst - that has been powering her, and continues to power her, as she swings her staff and draws fire once more from the Fade. It consumes the swordsman; he screams; she watches avidly as he dies.

But little time to take it in. Now it's Strange's back that's unprotected, Tevinter mages advancing, and she doesn't have a clear line of sight to them. But the tall Rifter mage does, she thinks, and so she pulls her staff in a line to summon a barrier to protect them from the magical blasts coming their way. And she looks back, an invitation for him to attack -

And then she wonders if he can attack. Or can his unfamiliar magic only protect? She hopes she's gambled correctly on the man's abilities, because the mages are too close now for her to drop her shield and get off an attack in time; she'll need him to strike at them, or they'll be taking damage.

[luaithre]

It isn't a thing that would have occurred to Marcus, to present himself in some specific way, but there are always semi-conscious decisions. He has never worn a robe since anyone in Riftwatch has known him, which is equally a matter of practicality as it is principle, and perception. Here, the staff he carries does not neatly slot him among the men under Vael's command.

But there is familiarity, anyway, even without kinship. He has kept to himself.

He looks aside as Byerly speaks up. The hesitation could be a matter of weighing up the options as much perhaps instead finding some courteous avenue to extract himself from an impending interaction. (He doesn't need a courteous avenue, for that.)

"Aye," instead. "Whiskey."

[bouchonne]

Is there anything more devious than the teetotaler who carries a flask? Byerly comes over and tilts his liquor into the man's clean(ish) cup - a very generous pour indeed. And then he feigns taking a slug from that flask himself, and lowers himself into the chair beside Rowntree.

"You're from here, aren't you?" It's a casual, cheerful sort of question, like the silent content of that question isn't actually your home is near destruction, isn't it?

[delphian]

Tsenka's own grasp of it is a complex thing; the Circle has molded her into a creature who, deep into her thirties, is still learning to grapple with the fact that outside of its walls being an elf can and will have as much an impact on her experiences in Thedas as does being a mage. More, in some places; more directly, when it's now often the first thing known about her, before the staff. If she'd relied upon only what was offered to her in the Circle, then she'd know only as much as Tertia and the words would have been lost to muddy memory, a melody that she could hum along with at best, half-remembered from the short time she'd been in Starkhaven before her magic had ended that life before it could truly begin.

But Tsenka has never had to only rely on what people tell her willingly.

"Grieving," she says, after a moment, "and continuing." In dreams, words are...ideas. Feelings. Sensations. She couldn't translate the words, but that isn't how most people remember a song like this, inside themselves. "It's about carrying your griefs with you in your heart, forward onto the next battle."

Someone who hasn't been invited into this conversation makes a face at her choice of phrasing - battle - but Tsenka, who would have phrased it that way even if had been taught to her in the ordinary fashion, ignores that. She's chosen all battles. Fuck off.

"You can't have one foot in the past. You pick it all up in your hands and go on."

[luaithre]

The affirmative sounding 'hm' could well be all Byerly gets, as Marcus sips. On the coffee pot, the glyphs slowly fade.

But he leans back into his chair, privately accounting for muscles that are beginning to complain from his activities that day—the curse of having made it, after all, to forty—and adds, "The Circle was outside city walls, while it stood."

And so are farmlands and fishing villages, manned by Starkhaveners. The distinction is probably only relevant if you once lived in the city to start with. His focus is down on the cup in his hands, but otherwise keyed into where Byerly has scraped a chair out to join him.

[bouchonne]

Answer enough. Byerly's lips curl in a little smile.

"And there was no life before the Circle?" His voice sounds innocent enough, like he doesn't know. He, of course, knows. Everyone knows.

[luaithre]

Now he looks up, but there's no sharp edged warning or flare of misgiving so much as open assessment. Not wariness, not exactly. Marcus has not shared a great many rooms with Byerly Rutyer, let alone a table with a drink.

"I was nine," he says. Borderline wry. "So. Some life."

[incaenstrix]

She thinks about that for a moment. She wonders if it's actually possible - leaving the past behind. So much of what her people need is in their past: in the past is their lost homeland, their lost grace and immortality, their lost freedom. How can one go on, when the present is a misery and the past shining?

But they're not talking about Elvhenan. They're just talking about the homes they've left behind. The city lost in this war. No need to get sentimental over the great things lost, when the pain of the small things lost is even more acute.

"Do you believe that?" Tertia asks softly.

[bouchonne]

"Nine," Byerly repeats reflectively. One might then expect some comment about how good it was, that their training began so early - or, perhaps, a comment about what a pity it is, that these children are taken so young from their families.

Byerly says neither. Instead, he comments, "Going through puberty cooped up in a stone tower. With a bunch of other little pubescent monsters. I can't even imagine what an explosive mass of horniness and body odor that must have been."