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WHO: John Silver + Petrana de Cedoux
WHAT: Country Roads Take Me Home.mp3
WHEN: Last week of Wintermarch into early Guardian
WHERE: Free Marches, Fereldan, etc.
NOTES: Best friends road trip at long last.

There is an open gash at John's temple, a split begun over his left eye curving into his hairline. It has since painted half his face in blood, the flow of it only staved off after one Imperial soldier had slapped a stinging handful of salve into the wound.

Incidentally, how John had come to: with someone else's hands on his face and the sharp, antiseptic prickle of some vaguely medicinal paste smeared over the wound.

As far as collected injuries, this is the most annoying of the lot. The best to settle his focus on, while John watches their captors crow over their acquisition and pass wine skins back and forth around the fire. His hands twist idly in their binding, testing the limitations as he tempers his own fury at the stupidity of the situation.

They are very much at ease. John can't blame them. A cripple parted from his crutch is hardly worth concern. Petrana is not a battle mage. Leaving the pair of them shackled and bound to posts at the edge of their camp is hardly unreasonable.

"How many are there?" John is asking quietly. "I count eight."

They have done him a favor. He is bleeding. He has pain to spare, to trade for what they might use to get themselves out of this. But it goes without saying: they'll need to pick their moment carefully.

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Petrana's voice is pitched no louder when she says, “I've not seen more.” It isn't an absolute guarantee that there aren't; it is as good as they're going to get, likely. Her crystal hangs at her collarbones, just beneath the locket that she's never without, and that she has it still is likely down to its ornamental design— they had taken her staff from her, not unreasonably looking at her and thinking her helpless without it, but not much questioned her jewels.

Unfortunately, it is useless so long as she cannot reach it. It will be useless, until the point at which they will have had to shift for themselves, regardless.

Metal scrapes slowly and steadily against metal as she works her hands behind herself. The locks are not sophisticated,

“It is the rare day,” as one shackle gives, “that I might be grateful to my husband. Lean against me, as if you're exhausted—”

so she can reach his, too.

Not exhausted, but the pulsebeat-throb of pain is it's own difficulty. John must put it aside, because there is no other option. This is not like the haphazard kidnapping he's been swept up in before. They are very close to the greater Imperial army. Very little chance for something to go wrong, and once joined with the army itself, there will be no chance at all.

John does lean against her, shifting as far as could possibly look natural at this angle.

Eight. For a long, quiet moment, John listens to the scrape of her pin and considers his approach. What he might make of eight soldiers.

"Forgive me the question," he murmurs. "But would you be able to kill any one of them, if need be?"

Under the circumstances, it is more than fair.

The question is not, truly, one of willingness. She'd prefer not to, but pressed without an alternative? She has given orders that led to deaths; she's not so squeamish or hypocritical. The question is ability,

“Not swiftly nor efficiently enough to achieve anything by doing it except presenting myself as an exposed target,” she says, finally, because it's the truth. Any attempt to get a weapon would in and of itself likely expose her; she isn't going to get close enough, unnoticed and unharmed, to stab someone in the throat or the eye. It's unlikely she'd manage a wound fatal or even sufficiently debilitating anywhere else. “But I can burn what I can see— nothing so destructive as a battlemage's skill, only what you might achieve with a struck match. With a burst of light and sound,” also well within her capacity, “I might distract them, and gain us space.”

She's seen where they put their effects; not a complicated thing to divert attention in a different direction.

What a moment to recollect the dream they'd had all those months ago: Petrana standing in the snow, shivering.

At his wrists, her fingers are deftly working. John is looking from tent to tent. Petrana had been alert, able to see more while John had been out.

"Did you see where they put my crutch?" is a necessary question, but it burns John to ask it.

How much can Petrana burn at once? How many can John kill at once? These are necessary too, but slotted in beneath the most immediate issue: John's mobility.

“With my staff,” she says, pressing her hand briefly to the back of his shoulder to tilt his attention in the right direction, toward the right tent. “Where they are keeping what items of import they already had,”

which she's inclined to think they ought to take with them, if the opportunity should present itself. (Or be forced.)

“Though I've not seen what they might be.”

The insinuation needn't be discussed. Of course John wants what's in that tent. Of course he wants what that have, for spite if not for utility.

"Can you set fire to more than one thing at the same time?"

He hasn't turned his head to the tent. It is only marked in his periphery; yes, his face is all over blood but his eyesight is unimpaired. Measuring out the distance, considering how he might move himself from here to there.

If nothing else, they need his crutch and Petrana's stave. But with any luck, they can come away with more than just the bare essentials.

“Not as such,” is measured, considering. Strategizing, as the last lock gives and they are sitting here, quietly, their hands obscured but no longer chained. “Not simultaneously, but any fire I create is going to take time to catch and kindle— it'll burn for a time before it's burning enough to draw notice. The effect would be the same.”

It's only important to manage expectations of what that effect looks like— if she were to set fire to one of their captors, they'd likely be able to put themselves out again before it had served any purpose. But a slow-building fire in one of their tents with their own packs,

that will have time to build into something that causes much more of a problem.

Edited 2023-02-13 07:32 (UTC)

"So the tents."

Something small, slow-going, might be for the best. Divide them. Allow John time to move, because he would need it.

He has gotten used to relying on Flint, picking up whatever exists in the space between what is necessary and what John's powers can accomplish. Here, he is on his own. Petrana isn't built to meet a fight in that way.

"If we create enough chaos, you should be able to get to the horses while I gather our things."

And here, he creates some distance too. Some theoretical space where she won't have to see what it is he can do.

In this moment, that doesn't occur to her; busy with the thought of what she can accomplish, how much time it might buy. How best to time it — the fire, yes, but perhaps a great sound to sow confusion as well, and that is a finer thing to time, to coordinate with the flames. Maybe they'll get lucky, and these Venatori will have stored something extraordinarily flammable within.

It doesn't seem so outrageous to presume, actually, considering some of what their own agents travel with.

“We only need one,” she says, thinking ahead, thinking of escape. “I am a more than able horsewoman,” to understate the case drastically, “and it's less to coordinate.”

Faster, smoother. Easier to deal with when the horses are strangers, too, their temperaments and experience unknown.

She ducks her head to work her spell, her gaze on the far end tent, her fingers tracing a familiar pattern as she whispers the incantation — the reason for the way she presses close becoming clear as she releases the charge of her power and her eyes flare with unnatural light.

It is useful to be thought as reliant on a staff as most mages. Better to be careful of that sliver of advantage, such as it is.

Between them, they are intimately aware of the blessings linked with being so thoroughly underestimated.

Hidden from view, John's fingers find hers briefly. The whisper of her magic is unmistakable; unique and immediately identifiable, despite having so rarely witnessing magic from Petrana.

"Do another," is a low breath of a suggestion. "For insurance."

Divide them one further, two fires stoked to burning before John need set himself into motion.

“Another,” she agrees in a murmur, taking a moment as the first spell begins to take effect — at this distance, all but imperceptibly as the beginnings of flames lick at canvas and wood, but she knows her magic intimately, knows the feel of it. That fire will grow.

A breath, another. Then the same words, again, trained this time on another of the tents; far enough apart to separate the response, but with space enough that she ought to be able to move swiftly to their belongings without being directly in their path.

Her eyes flare; they will smell smoke, soon.

The curls of smoke go unnoticed at first. A few minor, glancing comments, someone instructed to attend the fire in the center of their camp. They are all very satisfied with themselves. Two captives, on the heels of taking Starkhaven. The smug pleasure of it rankles, but it is to be expected.

And it serves them. By the time they realize that flames have licked up the heavy canvas of their tents, it's far past the point where they might be doused with a simple lashing of a cloak or wash of dirt.

Shouts turn to a flurry of action, at which point John's hand tightens over Petrana's wrist.

"If need be, don't wait for me to go," he instructs, low and fervent and underscored with a flash of a smile before John simply—

blurs away.

Haphazard, a gamble that he hits the mark and doesn't topple in the process. But having hurled himself upright and into the Fade, there is little to be done but brazen through now.

Well, that is nonsense, obviously, but telling him so would only be an argument that they don't have time for — and he's gone, so swiftly, that whether she'd been inclined to speak it or not is moot. Setting aside that instruction with all the rest that she's ever politely put into the 'under advisement' box to ignore, Petrana shakes off the unlocked shackles and bolts for the horses. She can move swiftly when she wants to, and these are certainly motivating circumstances, her hands weaving a new casting as she moves,

something that sounds like an explosion, further off, past the burning fires,

will be nothing, actually, but it might split up their number enough to make a difference for John.

Edited 2023-02-28 05:12 (UTC)

In all the added chaos, these sounds that John can only assume are Petrana's work (whether the contents of the tent exploding due to the fire, or whether produced by her hands alone) stoke confusion higher.

And it creates enough distraction that when John bats aside the flap of the tent containing their things, there is only one soldier to contend with. One soldier, looking shocked to see John Silver on his feet, and slow enough to react that John can bring a wave of force slashing down upon him. The sound of cracking bone and a gurgling cry are entirely swallowed by the shouts and sounds outside the canvas.

The crutch is collected. Petrana's stave is gathered up. A sheaf of papers is gathered at random, shoved into his coat pocket before John takes out his lighter and sets fire himself to the canvas walls of the tent.

Time to go.

One horse is plenty for the pair of them; Petrana takes the time to slash the ropes tying the rest, slapping various equine backsides and slinging a horse-blanket over the unused tack that she promptly alights, too. Unnecessary, perhaps, depending on how many soldiers John finds it necessary or possible to kill,

but it is a few extra moments, only, for more security. She vaults herself into the saddle, wheeling around efficiently to rejoin him that they can flee all the more swiftly. Hoping he's found something worth the hassle of this abduction — can't afford to dwell on it, but wouldn't it be something — she calls,

“John!”

trusting in her own ability to ride evasively, especially now that she's certain any pursuit will needs must be on foot.

The impulse is very present: the urge to be certain every soldier in this camp is dead, so there can be no speculation as to the nature of the cripple they'd had lashed to a pole as a captive.

It would be a lie to say he doesn't struggle with it, doesn't weigh the impulse and measure it against the likelihood of success.

Perhaps if he had been here with anyone else alongside Petrana, he would have attempted it.

But Petrana had been clear as to her ability in combat. To linger would be to risk her life, an unacceptable gamble.

So he goes. Is already on his way to her when her voice comes echoing to him through the cacophony of soldiers. Moving fast enough, he can get himself up into the saddle behind her, catch hold of her round the waist.

A blessing, that the only soldier to have considered the horses grabs for the reins, and John needs no magic to deal with him. Or technically, no magic cast; Petrana's stave cracks down hard over the back of his skull, and he crumples into the dirt.

"Take us out of here," is unnecessary encouragement at this point, surely.

Certainly, she doesn't need telling twice.

For a significant distance, the thunder of hooves is all that Petrana can hear — an arrow whistles past them, and she veers hard into the tree-line, exploiting its cover and trusting John to know that now is the time to hold on tightly. The fleeting thought that this is easier with a grown man who needs no instructing than it had been with one hand keeping a toddler pressed close to her is one she allows to come and immediately go, spurring the horse on, mindful of how hard she can push and for how long.

Not indefinitely, when they'll likely need the damn thing. Riding it to death will serve no one, and as such, when the air feels stiller and the sounds of burning and cursing have long-faded, and their tracks hard to follow,

she slows.

Slows, not stops.

John doesn't ask her to. It feels safer to keep moving, though it occurs to him that they should seek a landmark sooner or later. His grip loosens slightly as he straightens, winces as he makes some minor attempt to correct his seat. It had mattered, in the moment, more that he was on the horse.

But now, momentarily secure, John can consider their position and sigh over the inconvenience of it.

"Well, we'll make quite the first impression when we present ourselves to a Chantry Mother," is weary, if amused.

That humor allowed a moment to breathe before John asks, "How much longer can we ride before we have to stop?"

For the horse's sake, if not theirs.

“At this pace, perhaps an hour,” she decides, absently stroking her hand down the side of the horse's neck, the reins held secure in the other, now. They're not on a road, now, but for the time being that feels safer.

Safer, a laugh— “And a day ago I was so much more fretful for Julius and Marcus's safety.”

She is, still.

A low chuckle in return, easy agreement. Yes, he had certainly been of the same opinion. Their errand had felt absurdly safe, riding away from a siege. And now—

"Do you still have your crystal?"

There had been no disguising John's for what it was. He'd crushed it himself, a short burst of concentrated power when it had been made clear to him that there was no way out of their situation. And maybe it isn't necessarily the worst thing, if hers is gone as well.

They are, after all, out of danger for the moment.

And John is more concerned for what is happening outside of Starkhaven than what is happening here and now.

“I do. Disguising a jewel as a jewel where one expects a jewel to be—” for instance, upon a beautiful woman, “is a task of no great challenge.”

Even more severely dressed, for these purposes, she has the look of someone that jewelers wish to adorn, that their works might be shown off to best effect before particular buyers. The number of ways in which she can exploit the harmlessness of her appearance — even her beauty is a soft kind, no sloe-eyed and exciting femme fatale — are many, and this is among the simpler. The most immediately beneficial, potentially, although: “I'm loathe to disturb the work we've left behind,” she admits. “It was a thing so swiftly done, I don't wish to be the reason for any stumble.”

"I understand."

It is a delicate balance to strike. And John is not unaware of the potential for Marcus Rowntree to simply saddle a horse and come seek them himself. (Whether or not Flint would be in tow, John finds himself less certain. He has been missing before, and never inquired as to Flint's actions then.) It would create a disruption, and was hopefully unnecessary.

"I asked him to send word, when they'd managed the retreat and the most pressing parts of the work had been done."

And John is without his crystal. Some delay in response may escape scrutiny, but at a point, it would become cause for concern. They are far off course, potentially. Their return would be delayed.

Eventually, they'd need to send word.

"We'll need to pick our moment," he considers. "If we even see the need to share the whole of it before our return."

“Julius, perhaps,” she says, after a moment, measuring out her thinking. He is by no means immune to the same impulses as Marcus, but by turns more willing to be reasoned with and to apply reason, instead of simply listen very reasonably to it and do as he intended regardless. (Unfair; that is only Marcus mostly.) “He will be in a better position to judge that moment than we might at our distance.”

A quiet laugh over this; had John not suggested Julius' presence should Flint engage Marcus on any topics related to mages for this same reason?

"Wait until we find a place to rest for the night," John suggests, tacit acceptance of her decision in that offering. "I stole a handful of papers from that tent before I burned it, so we might have something of use to convey to them."

As if that will distract from their near-miss.

What he would like is somewhere sheltered, preferably somewhere they might find by way of a shallow river so their scent and tracks might be well and truly lost. But he will take what he can get; the first place that looks relatively secure will have to do.

She is not wholly without some knowledge of such things — spent too much time running and hiding not to have paid attention, not to have learned anything. The largest problem is her lack of practical experience, beyond that; she knows to look for a river, what sort of things make a more secure shelter, but nothing of building one or disguising their tracks. Little of building a decent fire, except that it is a good deal easier if the skills she lacks can be made up with magic, and that at least is one spell that she has always been able to rely upon.

Warmth. Well, their lives had held little enough of it, in those days. Starkhaven reminds her grimly of a time that is long behind her, now, but it still dogs her steps as much if not more than the brief, sharp terror of falling into Venatori hands.

(Again, her mind says, though she knows it to have been only a dream. She pushes that away.)

“We'll have the time, I suppose,” has a note of wry humour.

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