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.
yseult | open
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.