MOD PLOT ↠ STILL RISING, STILL DEVOURING

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Sea beasts!
WHEN: Justinian 9:49 (now)
WHERE: Ostwick, Kirkwall, and the Amaranthine Ocean
NOTES: OOC post here! CW for some cruelty/violence toward mythological monsters/animals and also one ferryman. Use other CWs in your subject lines as appropriate.

I. INTERVENTION AT OSTWICK

The earliest reports from Riftwatch's contacts among the coastal Free Marches arrive in a confusing tangle in hours before dawn. The Venatori have taken Hercinia—no, a dragon has only destroyed a little piece of it—no, wait, yes, a dragon, but a dragon from the sea—wait, no, maybe pirates? Scratch that. Sea dragon, Venatori involvement, and ships and something massive moving west into the Waking Sea.

That is all the information Riftwatch has when it begins loading hastily woken people and griffons onto ships at sunrise to set out to intercept whatever it is, doing whatever it is trying to do, before it does more of it wherever it is trying to go.

Fortunately/unfortunately, those questions quickly answer themselves.

Scouts on griffons flying ahead of Riftwatch's ships spot the disturbance in Ostwick's harbor before they reach the city. Churning water, crunching wood, shouts of terror, and most of all an enormous shell, encrusted with stripes of spiky red crystals, housing something with an over-abundance of mandibles that it's using to funnel whatever it can reach toward its even more overabundant spiky teeth and a long spike of a tail lashing dangerously behind it. The huge tentacles of a giant octopus, encrusted with red barnacles, flatten boats with a slap, and sweep the length of the quay to fling soldiers and fleeing citizens into the water. The sinuous length of a sea serpent darts in and out of sight, its writhing revealing patches of scales replaced by crystalline growth. Occasionally it rises out of the water to snatch someone off a deck with a snap of triangular jaws, or twines around the center of a small merchant vessel and squeezes, dragging it down beneath the water with a tremendous creak of wood strained to breaking and the screams of its crew, all quickly silenced.

These enormous beasts are the largest and most obvious problem, but not the only one. Outside the harbor are a half-dozen small Tevinter vessels, Venatori colors unfurled, keeping their distance from the scorpion-crab's spiky tail, and something else red and silver and massive lurking beneath the surface of the deeper water nearby. On the decks of several are pillared structures that look like lantern posts but are topped by large crystals of red lyrium. Between each set of these beacons are stood two figures: a mage with a lyrium-crusted staff and a strange helm of red lyrium, chains of the crystal strung like armor down chest and arms, and a Templar in an identical helm, armor studded with lyrium and cut to accommodate the crystals that grow out of arms and shoulders. If someone chances a close inspection, their eyes glow red and lips seem to move in unison.

Ostwick is putting up the best defense it could muster with little warning, but its first order of business was evacuating the naval ships in the harbor before any more could be destroyed and only after first scattering to safety are a few of those undermanned vessels circling back around behind the harbor-devouring monsters and engaging the Venatori ships. The city guard on ground evacuate civilians and those on the walls of the inner city send forth volleys of arrows that bounce uselessly off of scales and shells.

As soon as Riftwatch's ships arrive they will find themselves bombarded by small missiles too—a veritable school of flying fish, flinging themselves out of the water and over the deck of the Walrus and the Fancy. With razor-sharp wingfins and needle teeth, they are unpleasant to have at face-height in any circumstance, and like their larger comrades these too are encrusted with red lyrium, the crystals adding weight and cutting edge and the threat of madness and blight to any blow they manage to strike—so it would be very wise to avoid that.

The teeming waters become even more cramped and chaotic when the beast hiding beneath the water near the Tevinter ships, its nose terminating in a sword-like spike meters long, appears from the depths to skewer a small naval vessel attempting to make an escape. The spear punches clean through the ship's hull but becomes stuck, and the ship is tossed from side to side, slapped against the water, flinging debris and passengers and shockwaves as the beast thrashes wildly in an attempt to remove it, its plight blocking the harbor mouth.

Riftwatch's captains keep their ships back at a relatively safe distance just outside the harbor, launching all the griffon-riders they've been able to muster on short notice, and bringing to bear what ranged attacks they have: large deck-mounted crossbows require aiming and winding, and though their heavy bolts can punch through armor and even decking, the time it takes to prepare each shot makes catching the fast-moving sea monsters difficult. Flinging rocks and alchemical grenades in the stone-throwers is faster, but less accurate. Most of the work will fall to those on griffon-back or brave enough to take a launch through the chaos to the quayside or what remains of the piers, to attack the beasts from above or in even closer quarters.

For a time the battle is largely contained to the harbor, the sea monsters seemingly driven to do as much damage in the harbor as they can, dragging people into the water, the scorpion crab's barbed missiles punching holes in waterside buildings, and thrashing tentacles fling wreckage onto shore. Some of the trapped ships fight on, and welcome aid from Riftwatch reinforcements ferried by griffon to help them escape or evacuate their crews to shore.

When the swordnose and its wooden nose ring stop blocking the harbor a small pack of ships make a run for it, and at the same time Ostwick's navy attempts to re-engage, the battle spilling out into the sea before the harbor. The sea snake appears suddenly alongside the Walrus, water pouring from it as its angular head rises over the ship's middle and darts across, flinging its scaly bulk amidships. It lands with a thunderous crash and slides through the trough it has made in the rail, scales gliding and crystals scraping the hull as it coils around the vessel, preparing to crush and it drag it down into the deep unless Riftwatch hacks and magically blasts it free in time.

As Riftwatch finds ways to put down the great beasts, Ostwick succeeds in sinking two of the Venatori ships and the others flee east back into the Amaranthine. The sword-nosed monster flees after them, once again stuck to a boat, this time via a harpoon lodged in its side dragging along the small craft on the other end of the line like a flag signaling its position. Riftwatch at least briefly gives chase, and after a few miles it becomes clear that this is not blind escape—the beast is traveling constantly in a straight line, as if drawn by a magnet. Scouting ahead along that trajectory, Riftwatch will discover that there is indeed somewhere in particular it is heading.

II. CHAOS IN KIRKWALL

Meanwhile, in Kirkwall–

It is Gallows ferry rush hour, the time of day when people who live in the city or who just want to get out of the fortress for dinner pack onto the ferry between their little island and the Kirkwall docks. The ferry only has so many seats, and the day's ferryman–Murph–is the energetic and impatient variety of salty old man who waits for no one, so some may have just missed it and be left standing on the Gallows' docks, watching twenty minutes of their lives row away.

But it turns out they're the lucky ones, because when the dinghy and its passengers are midway to shore, there's a swell of water, and for a moment the odd absence of waves, before a massive reptilian head breaks the surface and smoothly snatches Murph off his perch at the back of the ferry and into its maw.

The enormous shell attached to the head follows close behind it, dragging the ferry along on its crest as the creature–an enormous snapping turtle, more or less, with a long neck and spots of red lyrium on its already-jagged shell–proceeds on its way, slowly emerging from the water as the rocky shallows require it to trade swimming for lumbering. For minute it's too busy eating (sorry Murph) to notice or care about the boat and passengers it is dragging along with it toward the city, but once it does it stops where it is and begins turning its serpentine head back in their direction, snapping the sharp ridges of its mouth at anything it can reach.

So that's the situation. Some number of Riftwatchers are trapped on the shell of a giant red lyrium snapping turtle that is only momentarily distracted from its march toward the docks, left with the choices of climbing onto its shell (while carefully avoiding the lyrium) or leaping into the water behind it and hoping it doesn't turn back in their direction. Others, watching back at the Gallows, may have the presence of mind to run for the eyrie, whether they're very good with the griffons or not, or go for one of the emergency boats kept behind the fortress. Those ashore have other options: the Kirkwall guard is quick to organize a defense, and the turtle is coming their way sooner or later, with or without ferry's worth of Riftwatch members stuck on its back.

In the midst of the chaos, it will take a keen eye or two to notice a two figures on the deck of an unmarked ship in the harbor whose ceaseless murmurs and quick, closely-held gestures give away their involvement. It is, specifically, spellcasting that picks up in speed and intensity whenever the turtle seems to be reconsidering the wisdom of its march toward the shore. Someone will have to do something about them, too.

III. COMMOTION IN THE OCEAN

Following the heading of the escaping sword-nosed monster leads Riftwatch to a strange sight. A mile or two off the end of a small chain of uninhabited islands is anchored a flotilla of loosely-connected ships arranged in a semi-circle. They fly no flags but it won't be difficult to guess at their allegiance—red lyrium beacons float on buoys, and on the deck of one ship is a pair wearing red lyrium helms and wielding red lyrium staves, seemingly calling the fleeing sea monster home.

Riftwatch's assault will take them by surprise. The place is guarded and manned by mages and Templars, several of them lyrium-augmented and capable of inhuman strength and stamina, the crystals growing from their bodies serving as both armor and weapon. Most of its denizens are at least somewhat combat trained, and nearly all will put up some sort of fight. But the majority don't seem to be soldiers and it isn't a big facility. It won't take nearly as long to kill or subdue its workforce as it did the monsters that it now appears may be their creations, or at least under their control.

At first, the semi-circle configuration of the vessels appears random, arranged around nothing but an unremarkable patch of ocean. But every so often something causes the surface at that point to roil, and at one point during the battle a wave races out from that point to rock the ships on their anchor chains sharply enough to send the unwary toppling to the deck before settling again.

When the assault ends, investigation of the site will find a curious combination of equipment, some appropriate to a fishing village, some familiar from Venatori research operations, and some strange apparatus of metal and glass and tubing. Cleansing runes inscribed into the exteriors of most of the ships, save one that appears to've been a barracks, bunks reinforced to accommodate the weight of bones studded by crystal growths, storage chest including a stock of red lyrium potions. Other chests contain armor and equipment corrupted with the same.

Eventually, someone will spot a strange vertical length of pipe near the rail on the central ship, at the point nearest the center of the semi-circle. One end travels through the deck, the other up to head height for a man, an angle just before the open top end inviting passers to step up and try looking in. Doing so will find it is a primitive periscope, its other end reflecting a scene beneath the water: a hill of dark rock broken open and glowing with magma along its fissures, flows of lava bubbling up from the spout and spreading slowly outward, occasionally heaved upwards with greater force. At first it may seem a trick of the light, dim and shifting with the waves above, but soon they will realize it is not just the orange-red of molten rock heated to boiling, but a brighter, deeper shade they've seen everywhere today: the red of tainted lyrium.

The good news is that this discovery means Riftwatch has minimal worries about tainting an untainted environment by burning, sinking, and otherwise dismantling the floating base and its red lyrium adornments. It's still a slow, careful undertaking, to avoid destroying any useful information or exposing anyone to the red lyrium in the process. Examining notes and underwater evidence will confirm that the Venatori were luring sea monsters to the volcano by drawing them in with food or distress calls, then casting spells to paralyze them. Wounding the animals while keeping them in close proximity to the underwater magma resulted in the wounds healing over with red lyrium crystals.

In the meantime those with any skill in cartography do their best to chart the location of the facility so they'll be able to find the volcano again without any sign of it above the water. And Riftwatch also takes time to check out each of the nearby islands—unpopulated and unaffected by the lyrium so far, on investigation, with some abandoned campsites that indicate the Venatori were using them to replenish food and fresh water for the operation but no lingering dangers. Once that's confirmed, Riftwatch is able to set up a camp on the beach of one of the islands and give anyone who needs it a break from sleeping on the ships for the remaining days of their demolition project.

Comments

OSTWICK | R.I.P. Scorpion-Crab

[faderifting]

The giant scorpion-crab's shell has proven all but impenetrable, even bolts from the heavy ballistae on the city walls absorbed in stride. The only way to kill it is from below, but even Riftwatch isn't mad enough to try to send swimmers underneath. Instead, two or three griffon riders will try to distract and lure it upright, while others speed in to strike at its soft underbelly and they all try to avoid being eaten in the process. Good luck!

OOC | This top-level is for a single thread taking down this biggest and most dangerous sea monster. Anyone can participate in this coordinated attack by tagging in.

[notathreat]

When the orders came, Ellie fell squarely into the center of all of the types of people swept up in the action. Scouting, ranged fighter, griffon rider. So she and Artichoke are among the first to launch into the air at Ostwick's harbor, heading for one of the gigantic beasts.

Ellie clutches Eluvia with both hands, sweaty inside her gloves, gripping with her knees as Artie takes them high above the action. Then, she sweeps in closer, the better to gauge the range of the creature's strike.

"Scorpions. So fucking creepy," Ellie mutters to herself, leaning down against Artie's neck, swooping in close to test the thing.

Closer, closer- and-

"Fuck!"

Ellie and Artichoke roll with a screech as the thing swipes at them, pulling up and out of range. Ellie answers with an arrow, and though her aim's true, it barely scratches the damn thing. It ends up shattering against the beast's armored back, flickering with red lyrium before the remains of the arrow are washed away into the water.

"Whole thing's covered in armor," she calls to one of her fellow riders.

[heorte]

Having hung back, watching Ellie and Artichoke strafe downwards and Ellie's arrow splinter against shell, Ellis shifts his own weight in the saddle.

"I'm going to try something!"

—does not necessarily indicate what Ellie should be looking out for, what Ellis intends to do, or even if he expects anything of her.

The perils of being deemed capable on the field by Ellis: the expectation that she'll know what she's looking for and act upon it without Ellis needing to spell out step by step what he intends.

So good luck to Ellie and Artichoke and her aim, as Ellis spurs Butterball into a dive.

Armor aside, there are weak points. One at least, is the nose positioned right above that snapping maw. Dangling half out of the saddle, Ellis swings hard enough to clock the turtle square in the face before spurring Butterball back into a climb.

Here's hoping that snapping mouth follows, along with the rest of the creature, as Ellis attempts to kite it upwards and backwards onto it's hind legs.

Turtle Power (trapped on the shell, ota)

[untiltheyarent]

Routine shuttles to and from the mainland are among the most dangerous things Fifi has to do in her day-to-day job, and on a pleasant and breezy day such as this it's easy to take for granted how much can actually go wrong on a boat.

As though everyone hasn't already noticed the appearance of the beast's ugly head, she announces Murph's untimely passing with an earsplitting shriek and drops her basket of supplies, several jars containing powder mixtures shattering on the ferry floor in her haste to put some distance between herself and the chaos. Fifi's not very large, but slams into someone in her panic, demonstrating to anyone who Knows Better why it's probably best she doesn't try to make it out in the field.

[heirring]

It all happens— well, not quickly, exactly. In some sense, it occurs in a terrible sort of slow motion. One moment, the ferry is clunking across something heavy and the next, they are down a ferryman and jars of powder mixtures are shattering and someone (or maybe multiple someones) are screaming.

Wysteria de Foncé, who was deep in a very one sided conversation with a Riftwatch laundress, is blissfully slow on the uptake. She is turning in her seat only as Muroh the ferryman's legs disappear down the gullet of the great snapping turtle, and then there is the screaming—

It's quite a lot to process all at once. Particularly as the great horrible head of the creature rises farther and the ferry shakes, groaning as it catches on some ledge of the beast's body and is dredged from the dark waters of the harbor, beginning to slant wildly and sending its passengers either bouncing over the rail toward the water or scrambling against the pull of gravity.

Wysteria is among the latter.

[untiltheyarent]

She is joined in her efforts by the source of the scream, who had enough wit in her blind panic to brace herself against the rail before the ferry began to tip. White-faced and trembling, Fifi becomes lucid enough in this moment to recognize that she's not alone; turning to see who's beside her, she abruptly wishes she were.
A lurch from their captor jolts her back out of her senses, and one thin hand snakes to grip the woman's wrist, either holding Wysteria fast to the railing or holding herself fast to Wysteria. Perhaps both.

chaos in kirkwall, ota

[pathlit]

The atmosphere is already thick with anticipation, like the heavy quiet before a thunderstorm, the Gallows on-edge after the sudden rousing and directing of those appropriate for field work to the docks. Jayce is one of the many that find difficulty in sleeping thereafter, and thus starts his day remarkably early, trying to ignore the unease nipping at his heels. He still isn't terribly familiar with even a small portion of Riftwatch (though this isn't any different from his social pattern in Piltover, either), but he suspects Ellie is one of the members to answer the call.

He wonders how she and the others are doing, really, against an alleged sea dragon.

He wonders what a sea dragon actually looks like.

He's asking someone to explain who or what the Venatori are when the call to arms sounds. More specifically, when another pops their head around the corner to shout that the ferry has just been eaten ("What?" "Yeah! Well, some. Maybe. Big turtle-looking thing attacked. Might be survivors!"), double-takes and, recognizing Jayce as someone who has been learning griffon-handling, hollers at him to grab a weapon and hop onto one.

Griffon, that is.

Absolutely terrifying, really, but the possibility of survivors leaves no room for question.

---

A [ different threads ok! brief rescue mission(s) that precede prompt B. ]
Deft maneuvering of a griffon is far beyond his current skill set, so he's brought a coil of thick rope to help in retrieving those aboard (or once aboard) the ferry. He is not expecting to see the ferry itself lodged upon the enormous shell of a turtle-thing that apparently woke up this morning and chose violence, so he leaves the retrieval of those poor souls on said ferry to riders far more skilled than him in favor of collecting the people treading water.

Upon finding one such person, he loops around and tosses down one end of the rope, the other end tied to the saddle. "Grab on!"

B [ one thread! rescue mission gone wrong, oops. ]
After dropping off a(nother) soaked Riftwatch member onto land, Jayce circles back to the monstrous turtle's location, just in time for the enchantment on said turtle to weaken enough for it to reconsider its march toward the docks. He's not expecting the turtle to pivot (and especially not as quickly as it does); the sudden action, close enough to feel the resultant gust of air, deeply offends his griffon, who shrieks and rolls to avoid it.

Folks, Jayce was not ready for this. Not in the slightest. One moment, he's upright and sweaty, and the next the world's completely upside down and he's scrambling to stay on and that's another roll and sudden defiance of gravity to avoid the jaws of said turtle and, well.

There he goes, unceremoniously tossed off the back of the griffon. His landing on the back of the turtle knocks the breath out of him, not to mention potentially knocks over whoever might have the misfortune of being in his trajectory.

You know, in addition to the misfortunate of literally everything else today. Hopefully they don't get clocked by the warhammer strapped to his back, though!

B

[heirring]

By some absurd stroke of luck (or, perhaps, a somewhat outsized number of hours for a respectable young lady to have spent scrambling around various Thedosian foothills), Wysteria had managed to disembark from the ruined ferry lodged above the great turtle's shell. She'd clambered over the rail and made a great leap of it, and had somehow successfully tumbled home to the turtle's shell without either coming into contact with the red lyrium snarling up through the animal's hard plating or sliding off into the harbor's roiling black water.

That second one, she had not so much decided as simply felt very deep in her bones in the way a nervous animal avoids what it is certain will kill her, must be avoided at all costs.

It must be explained that in the great number of times she has crossed the harbor in perfect comfort and even relative discomfort—the weather off the Waking Sea often being quite surly—, Wysteria has never felt herself to be in any particular danger. The ferries are broad and dawdling and the men operating them are often that very reliably breed of surly which time and weather and danger would seem to have little affect on.

But stranded on the back of a red lyrium mad sea turtle, having thus far somehow contrived to miss for herself a more decisive rescue and being witness to the definitive mortality of one such old sea salt of a ferryman, she had found herself very abruptly recalling quite a few horrible stories of young girls drowning in the Rhuvauhn River in their heavy skirts. And, having reflected on this, she had been weighing the possibilities of either dying from the Blight touched lyrium, or dying in the harbor, or suffering the even more terrible third thing.

The lurch of the turtle suddenly straying off course had decided it. Hence why, when Jayce comes falling out of the sky, clipping her on the way down and sending them both sprawling, Wysteria de Foncé her divested of her sleeves and is indeed halfway to unlacing her bodice with the intent of stripping down to her shift in order to make a go of Hopefully Floating.

(The terrible third thing: conceding her dignity.)

"—Aughk!" she squawks on impact, mercifully unconcussed.

[pathlit]

Unplanned landing punctuated by a literal "oof", Jayce merely lies motionless for an eternal second or three, wedged between the jagged ridges of its carapace as his mind processes What Just Happened. Then, pushing himself up onto his knees, ignoring the sharp ache in his shoulders, he glances about for the poor soul he's Pretty Sure he'd collided with on the way down.

A short gasp of recognition, significance twice-over. The (would-be) furtive whirlwind in the library during witching hour. The recipient of sharp agony in their left arm and the attention of two large eyes, unblinking.

"Poppell," he says aloud, wonderous. (This is the name in the memory. She is its owner, undoubtedly.) Then, as concern sinks over surprise, he asks, "Are you all right?"

A

[sprent]

The plan would have been to disembark from the turtle into the harbour, but Gela is instantly robbed of all choice when a great rumbling and shifting knocks her first into the railing on the ferry, and then over the side of it. She's lucky she doesn't hit anything on the way down, only the water, which feels like a huge, flat, cold hand hitting the side of her body.

Hurts! And it's hard to swim, in all her clothes. She treads water as best she can, gasping ungainly, and thankfully somebody chooses that moment to rescue her from the situation by means of dangling rope.

She grabs it. Fastening both hands tightly around she yells up, "Got it!"

Quick, quick, pull her out! Of course it could be much colder, but it's hardly comfortable.

[pathlit]

Fit as he is, the weight of a person clung jealously to by the sea drags his shoulder down when he grabs hold of the rope with one gloved hand and tugs. Not something to be done singlehandedly. "Hang on!" he yells, if a bit apologetically, and bids the griffon to turn sharply in order to place a little more distance between them and the terribly too-large turtle.

Gritting his teeth and hoping this doesn't backfire, he then loops the reins around the saddle horn and begins to pull Gela up with both hands on the rope, one steady pull after the other. His thighs already ache from the tension in holding onto the beast as it cuts through the air as best he can.

When she's close enough to offer his hand, he does exactly that -- and not exactly, reaching out for her wrist instead, just as the griffon suddenly angles itself in such a manner to threaten sending them both plummeting into the water (again, in Gela's case). With a surprised shout, Jayce simultaneously grabs onto her wrist with one hand and releases the rope to blindly scramble for the reins.

Smooth.

flint | ostwick + venatori flotilla | ota

[katabasis]

i. ostwick - the sea serpent (one thread please; cw: man v sea serpent violence, i'm sure)

It stinks.

Of the acrid chemicals loaded into the clay pots and then into the miniature trebuchets bolted to the Walrus' deck, which burst across the armored plating and and glittering scales of titanic sea creatures in a howl of hot fire and a roil of choking white smoke. Of the red lyrium studded corpses of fish lodged against the railing's toe board and crammed in scuppers, too complicated to throw back by hand in the chaos and now growing rapidly putrid in the summer sun. Of sweat and salt and, even here where their ranged work sees them only barking at the edge of the assault, that ubiquitous stench of blood and bile which follows all work like this.

'She's turning!' comes the call from the foremast, and is immediately punctuated by the unnatural wrenching round of the ship stuck by the great sawtoothed spike of one of the lyrium creatures—breaking what constitutes as the harbor blockade. In minutes, the ships in that harbor will come pouring out after it like the contents of an unstoppered bottle.

"Ready about," comes bawling up from the lower ballista deck and like dogs answering a whistle, two dozen Walrus men are already scrambling toward their stations. "De Groot, good full and by if you please," is Flint's further bark as, sweating, he comes vaulting up the open air companion way stair toward the main deck. "Close distance. I want us between those ships and their way into the channel—"

Flint is nearly to the top step, hauled up by a hand on each rope handrail, when the water alongside the Walrus' lee cuts open and up into a silver, red-studded column. The shadow stretches, momentarily inexplicable in its sudden appearance. Then, with a great fabulous shriek of popping stays and the crunch of a crumpling railing, the sea snake comes crashing amidships; throws the Walrus over with a squeal of timbers; sends men and women sprawling, and flings sailors already scrambling aloft in the ratlines into the sea; knocks Flint off the companionway stair and sends him tumbling back down to the ballista deck.

ii. commotion in the ocean - assault (cw: violence and gore, light lyrium-shaped body horror)

Crack! The crossbow bolt blooms in a spray of red sliver-sized shrapnel as it punches through the red lyrium gorget laced through and about the Templar's throat. The figure (it's difficult to tell who or what they are amidst the unintelligible shapes of the crystal flowering out of flesh and over armor), staggers. Raises a gauntlet encrusted hand to their neck. And then, as if they're not currently in possession of what should ordinarily be a fatal pendent, they come charging over the deck toward the man who fired the shot with their ugly lyrium studded sword ready for hacking.

Flint shoves his foot into the crossbow's stirrup, cracks back it's arms, jams a bolt onto its track and

ducks. The red lyrium sword chews into the tar-covered backstay lines over his head. From inside the looming shadow of the Templar, he fires a second crossbow shot into them at the closest possible range. Or—

Crack! The crossbow bolt blooms from the center of the Venatori mage's chest. The highly concentrated burst of force magic she'd been intending to sweep the besieged deck with veers chaotically upward as she falls, punching into the ship's main mast. It lets out a horrific pop as a crack shears up through the oak, the ship's rigging groaning and the whole vessel shivering in sympathy.

Flint, two dozen paces toward the ship's bow, hurries to reload in the staggered moment that follows. Or—

Crack! The sweet metallic ring of sword on sword. He's run out of bolts, or he'd simply lost the crossbow at some point during traversing from one ship to another; but here is Flint with his brutish Anderfels falchion sword on the quarter deck of one of the last Venatori ships, making to fend off the assault of a heavy handed Templar. He's tired, and sweating, and he finds that his sword arm is frustratingly slow even with the benefits afforded by the blade's distinct lack of delicately. The next clang! of contact is significantly less dignified, and he's driven back two hurried paces to keep the Templar's blade from sliding up the broad face of the short falchion to find a home between his ribs.

iii. commotion in the ocean - aftermath

In the aftermath of the flotilla's capture, with blood still oozing in deck seams and the day given way to what would be the velvet purple kind of cloudless night if not for the ominous glow of the flotilla's red lyrium fixtures, Flint doesn't personally rove from one ship to the other to be certain of its status. That's what the rest of Riftwatch is for, and undoubtedly he's ordered a good number of its membership around to do that very thing with the expectation that they secure all and report back should they find anything particularly baffling or mortifying.

Instead, Flint has posted up on the Walrus' stern deck with a slate, a bit of chalk, and a metal astrolabe in the hand. Whereas elsewhere working lights have been posted so as to safely traverse the gangways stretched between Riftwatch's ships and the Venatori vessels currently consumed with the touchy work of being stripped, the stern lamp here has been hooded and the this small portion of the ship's deck in near total darkness. Instead, Flint's brought with him a candle on a plate. It's currently set on the corner of the writing slate, illuminating a half dozen scratched out chalk marks and the degree marks on the metal dial's outside most ring.

Lifting the disk to one eye and closing the other, Flint sets to finding his star and adjusting the alidade arm accordingly.

iv. wildcard
(holler if you want something specific; better yet, just fling it at me.)

ii. commotion in the ocean - assault #1

[hassaran]

As Flint pulls the trigger Yseult steps into view, her curved blade slashing into the Templar's underarm, left exposed by the lift of its sword for another heavy downward blow at the Commander. Unfortunately, while it is a gap in the armor it is not free of protective crystalline growths, as evidenced by the horrible metallic screech that pierces above the general din as her blade slides almost harmlessly past.

It's the sort of sound that vibrates unpleasantly in the jaw and the Scoutmaster clenches hers against it, hurriedly dancing backwards across the slippery decking as the Templar--seemingly as oblivious to the second bolt as the first--takes the bait and wheels toward her, giving Flint a moment to reload and reposition.

(Not much more than a moment, though--the first time her blade clashes with the Red Templar's her arm just about goes dead from the force of it, and she has to scramble sideways to dodge the next strike.)

[katabasis]

Lucky, then, that Flint is by and large quicker than one might guess. Amidst the din of metal clashing on metal and the guttural atmospheric snarl of some magic being worked uncomfortably close (all the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up at the sound), he takes that step back generously allotted to him.

What he doesn't do is kick his boot back into the crossbow's stirrup, draw its arms, scramble after a bolt, reload, and fire into the fray of Templar on Scoutmaster. That he only has so many shots is an entirely subconscious consideration. If there any calculation occurs in the moment whatsoever, it's one of seconds. Fifteen to reload the crossbow. A fraction of that for the Templar's ugly sword to come hammering down again after Yseult.

"Down!" He shouts, and trusts it will at least prompt her to turn her face.

An instant later, the acrid snarl and stench of alchemical fire erupts across the back of the Templar's shoulders, the contents of the hand grenade mercurially chasing after and igniting against any taste of water, on sweat tinged layers glimpsed in the gaps of plate armor.

The crossbow bolts might be easily dismissed, but catching fire apparently warrants some consideration from the person inside the armor.

ii, option 3

[favoriteanalyst]

There are about fifty things that Mobius absolutely hates happening right this very instant, and if he had ever had a choice, he'd be on the other side of the ocean from a gaggle of Red Templars.

But there had never been a choice. Not when it's Ostwick under fire, not when it's Venatori using the damned red stuff to do it, not when whatever's left of Maker knows how many brothers and sisters of his are being puppeted into tearing the fleet asunder.

And not when they're able to fight them back, and better yet, follow the bastards to where they're operating.

It's exhausting to sustain, even were he in basic leathers. As he has donned the remaining metal trappings of his Templarhood, his weight is a bit more considerable. But after decades of training with the whole of the armor, what's left feels more like a hefty second skin. Still: the fight has been sustained, and his wells feel like they're tapping dry every time he seeks to cut the magic out from under someone, to disrupt the Fade-blessed connection if briefly. Thankfully, his sword and his shield still do just as well as his other skills.

He looks across the deck, dislodging his blade from the chest of an unlucky mage, and finds Flint similarly losing steam to one of the things crawled out of a nightmare. Takes a breath, two, and tightens the shield on his arm. And charges.

The next swing of the Templar's arm is sent wildly off course when Mobius crashes himself shield-first into the brute's side, sending them both tumbling to the deck.

SEA SNAKE

[armd]

The pitch and roll of the ship to a sudden halt takes Abby's feet clean out from underneath of her. Hitting the deck she bangs an elbow hard and stays there, knocked down, thinking, re-ordering thoughts. Shouting splits the air. The ship gives a great shudder, a giant tremble that sounds like a forest creaking. She gets to her feet and something roils underneath of them all over again. There are other people fighting to get up all around her; blood coming out of bruised noses; Flint on his back and on the ballista deck, same as her.

The ship is being squeezed by the wet coils of something huge.

Abby extends her hand to him, offering to pull him back up. There is a cut on her cheek and she's ducking her head underneath of a leather strap slung across her body, getting her crossbow down from her shoulder. It was the first thing she took when she heard what they'd be fighting.

"Why'd they have to add lyrium to it," she's saying, panting. Wiping her face, "Like it wasn't bad enough just being a huge fucking snake?"

yseult | open

[hassaran]

I. Ostwick - Choose Your Own Adventure

Distracted hurrying civilians out of a foundering trading ship and onto a rescue dinghy, the rise of a tentacle out of the water goes unnoticed, even as it looms up and rears back to strike down with vicious force. A split-second before it slaps, a hand snags in the back of a belt or sleeve or an arm around the shoulder and jerks the would-be victim off their feet, whisked out of the most immediate danger dangling from the side of a griffon saddle.

"Grab on!" Yseult yells. Her death grip is good but not strong enough to hold out alone for long. And sure enough there are loops and straps along the side of the harness rig that an arm could hook through, maybe even use to climb up and on, not that it'll be easy while Pockets is dodging through the chaos of the harbor.

OR

Griffonback is a useful vantage for many things, but rescuing people out of the water isn't one of them. A half-dozen or so survivors of a wrecked longboat are caught in the churning center of the harbor, surrounded by passing monsters and sinking debris. Yseult and Pockets have swooped low to try to pull them out one or two at a time, but instead look in danger of being drowned themselves. The griffon's wings beat the waves and it screeches on the edge of panic as too many hands grasp at her harness. Yseult has almost been hauled out of the saddle, the arm she'd stretched out to someone now dragged into the water by others all frantic for escape.

OR

There is no chance of evacuating everyone off the ship in time. The best hope of saving them, and potentially of saving themselves as well, is to hack through the sea snake's bulk until it releases the vessel—either willingly, or because its spine's been severed. It's at least not the largest of the beasts, only about a barrel's width around, and Yseult's scimitar has a wicked edge, but the beast's scales are sturdy and crystal growths are everywhere, blunting the blade's effect, slowing the work. Brute strength is not her gift. Determination is, and she plants her feet and swings again and again, hewing off shards of scale and lyrium, chunks of flesh, but it'll take at least two to finish this job in time.

OR

Those with more skill in healing than its opposite are kept plenty busy aboard the Fancy and the Walrus. Yseult's in their queue more than once, sporting a deep gash up one leg, or a couple nasty splinters of wooden shrapnel in her shoulder and back, or cracked ribs. Once it's Pockets that needs treatment, Yseult stroking the griffon's head and murmuring in her ear as she bleeds from a bite to the flank.

II. Commotion in the Ocean - Choose Your Own Non-Adventure

After the base's occupants have been dealt with, Yseult occupied herself with the comprehensive search that follows. She might be found, at some point, seated in one of the Venatori offices, having taken up the chair behind the desk, her heels kicked up onto its corner, eyeing the room around her with a vague but concentrated gaze.

Or, maybe, at the rail one evening just alongside the periscope, one foot propped up a rung and forearms resting on the top board, contemplating the softly burbling waters that form the center of this site.

Or, while the search of the Venatori's captured records continues, she resides with the others at the island camp Riftwatch has set up nearby, safely out of range of all that red lyrium. She might be spotted at a campfire of an evening, catching the tail end of whatever constitutes dinner here, or, later on, seated in the sand outside her tent in the dark, hands planted behind her, seemingly doing nothing at all.

I. snake hax

[thereneverwas]

Lucky for her then that someone whose gift is brute strength should happen along, and though his sea legs aren't anywhere near as steady as some, Barrow does have something of a vested interest in removing the beast from the ship on which he's currently standing.
Seeing Yseult's efforts, he drops the line he was fruitlessly trying to untangle and hurries to aid her, drawing the sword from his belt to begin hacking away with the full force of his arm. Blood spatters over both of them in their sloppy butchery, and he has to pause periodically to wipe it from his eyes, but otherwise remains single-mindedly committed to the task.

i & medbay medley

[portalling]

This entire battlefield is a chaos — and of all the bizarre things Stephen Strange has seen in his life, he’s somehow never actually experienced battle on the ocean, and so there’s the perpetual lingering fear that he might just wind up knocked overboard, drowned right here and now, and that’s how this ignoble chapter ends. Yet he’s contributed to the battle where he can, hacking away at a sea monster with a fiery spectral sword, blasting gouts of magical energy to try to crack open its shell.

But when that magical energy was gone too soon, when exhaustion came for him and he found his wells of magic run abominably dry and he had to return shipside, there was one thing left: he’s still a doctor.

And he had, once upon a time, wanted to be a veterinarian.

So when the head of Scouting hauls her wounded griffon belowdecks, Strange hops to the task with the same brisk efficiency he leverages towards a human patient. (Better than, actually: animals don’t require small talk.) But as he uses a wet cloth to carefully clean out the griffon’s injury, he darts a scrutinising look at Yseult. The salt water’s washed out most of it, but she’s still practically drenched in blood, ugly smears and gouts on hair and skin and clothing, courtesy of a sea serpent.

“Is any of that yours?” he asks.

non-adventure

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius looks smaller and less Templar-lite without his armor. Which he's finally shucked off to tend to later when he's not exhausted. He's not so keen to go sleep when there are records to pilfer and help sort through, to exercise his brain rather than his arms today, but if he's honest, he might not be terribly good right now for even that much.

It's never quiet, not around a fire, not with food, but more subdued in the post-battle haze, adrenaline getting flushed from the system. Bowls from the galley have something thrown together, and he can't even tell from looking quite what, but it seems like there's protein and some kind of vegetable, so good enough for him.

Any time a body joins the fray, he offers up a bowl. It's never mattered to him who it might be. They're all on the same team. "Still warm from the pot," he says. "Replenish the stores." As it were.

Benedict [open]

[altusimperius]

I. Chaos in Kirkwall (one thread please)

His new outfit is ready, and today might as well be Benedict's birthday for how thrilled he is, carrying it folded all nicely and wrapped up in paper and twine for safe passage. He's so cheerful, in fact, that he doesn't even mind being stuck behind what appears to be a throng of traffic in line for the ferry back to the Gallows, beyond whom he can tell some ridiculous thing is happening, but for once considers himself blessed that he he can't see past the gawking crowd.

But then they start screaming and running around like a flock of scattering geese, and although he really, really doesn't want to care about anything bad today, one of the valiant griffons in the sky catches his eye-- right as it drops its occupant-- and leads his attention directly to the sight of the gargantuan turtle and its cargo.
Benedict's brave split-second decision is to step out of its immediate path, clutching his precious parcel, unable to help but wonder if maybe somebody more important shouldn't be doing something to stop this.

II. Wildcard

[sure]

CHAOS

[armd]

One of the people dropped from the back of a griffon is Abby, having been flown back to help and mercifully on solid ground again. She staggers in her haste to move, working through the dregs of stomach-clenching vertigo, trying to push her way through the crowd of people surging in the opposite direction.

Benedict's shiny, shiny hair is a welcome sight over the top of everybody.

"Benedict," she hollers at him, hastening to catch up. He's standing in place, his arms drawn around something. She grabs his arm the moment she reaches him, pulling him forward, "Come on!"

They gotta go help!

stephen strange | ostwick & the amaranthine | open

[portalling]

i. intervention at ostwick.

Doctor Strange wasn’t technically required to join the mission, but that sense of nagging duty tells him that when there’s some kind of horrifying monster attacking a town and it’s all hands on deck, then he has to answer. Which is how he finds himself here at the arrival, standing on a heaving deck as their ship hurries eastward to Ostwick, his palms braced against the railing and staring at what awaits them.

“Oh, what the fuck even is that thing,” he says, as the … crab? lobster? scorpion?? thrashes ahead of them.

And someday he’ll be comfortable enough to ride a griffon into battle, but for now, Stephen Strange stays low to the ground, although this means he’s at risk. He’s been helping load people from Ostwick onto boats, sending magical gusts of wind to help hurry them down the mouth of the harbour, feeling his energy draining more and more. When the sea beasts get too close, he stands on the crumbling pier alongside other fighters, firing blasts of eldritch energy to cut and nip at the monsters. Until, at one point, a gigantic thrashing tentacle comes whipping over the street, and Strange watches it approach with a kind of bleak horror — Oh, not again — and, before he can duck out of the way, it slams him into a nearby brick wall. He’s dazed and dizzied, slumped against the building, the sounds of battle a dull roar in his ears.

Someone’s silhouette blocks the sun, and they reach out a helping hand to haul him back up to his feet; Strange grabs it, and stumbles into them as they drag him up.

“Christ. Thanks,” he mumbles.

ii. commotion in the ocean.

Riftwatch descends on the secret Venatori base like forensics at a crime scene, and it’s of particular interest to Research. Strange has had to bandage one of his arms after the battle, but it’s shallow enough that he’s not worried. Instead, he’s consumed by the investigation: copying down runes, cataloguing the armour and equipment, peering into the periscope.

“The evillest magma vent,” he mutters. Then he’s holding a pair of tongs, poking and prodding at a lump of red lyrium from the corrupted barracks. There’s an ill-advised moment where it seems like he might reach out with the tongs, pick it up, and keep it, but at an alarmed look from the colleague beside him, Strange stills. “I wasn’t going to,” he says, then, “I’m like ninety percent certain I wasn’t going to.”

Afterwards, at camp, he’s still poring over the notes until the last light bleeds out of the sky and he can’t read anymore, and someone convinces him to put down the work for some food and water. He looks disheveled, rumpled, not the clean-cut figure usually seen around the Gallows. “Long day,” he says to you.

iii. wildcard.

( mid-battle, quieter aftermath, ship journey back to kirkwall, some memshare followup, or something else entirely? feel free to toss me anything and i’ll roll with it, or hmu @ quadrille or quadrille on discord if you want to confab something specific! i’ll switch to match prose or brackets. )

for ellis.

[portalling]

Trust Strange to encounter some bad luck right when it seems like the battle’s almost over.

He’s been faring perhaps surprisingly well for himself so far, without a griffon and being so close to the action. He’s dressed in a utilitarian Riftwatch uniform; no mage robes today, since they’d just bog him down. The crab and the sea snake have finally sunk beneath the bloodied waves, and then the swordfish —

Well. When the swordnose-fish-thing starts making its way out of the harbour and out to open sea, dragging the boat behind it, there’s a gigantic cresting wave in its wake. That boat and its wake, swinging on the rope like a pendulum, crashes into the launch Strange happened to be on— and it sends the man flying overboard with a yelp, arms windmilling.

He instinctively tries to catch himself with magic, like a reflex, like he’s always done,

— and it doesn’t work, of course. He’s running on empty, exhausted, no sling ring, and so instead: he plunges overboard and underwater, thrashing through murky seas and debris and churning water and blood.

In all the chaos, the sight of a swimmer flailing in rough oceans is still somewhat distinctive. The attention of a griffon rider with keen senses could have been drawn to the sight and sound of that disintegrating boat, could have seen the mage disappearing over the side, where they might swoop down and haul him back out.

ii because who needs more threads it's us apparently

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius is exhausted, but he keeps going, because there's a lot to uncover and recover from this base. That Strange is here is a balm.

Right up until it looks like he's about to just straight up yoink a piece of red lyrium, and alarmed is perhaps the kindest description of Mobius' face. "You were thinking about it." And maybe Strange can be forgiven! He's a Rifter, and an overly curious one at that! He sees something dangerous, he wants to poke it to understand it. Maker, do he and Wysteria get along like peas in a pod? Or a house on fire?

"The only possible worse thing you could dick around with would be anything Blighted." (And given there are some bonkers theories about the origin of red lyrium--) "You get that, right? You saw what it can do to creatures, people?" He kind of sort of absolutely hates being around it, even if he has to be at the moment. That other people don't have the same ingrained perfectly rational fear is itself pretty terrifying.