faderift | war table: friends in low places (highway robbery).

The Hundred Pillars, a mountain range as large as the Planasene Forest and as barren as the Frostbacks, is a warren of winding roads, zigzagging across cliff faces, ribboned through narrow valleys and crevasses. Naturally forming pillars, as broad and tall as towers, rise in clusters like the bones of the earth, giving the area its name and seeming to serve no other purpose except to act as a reminder that this world is as inexplicable as it is ancient in its forming.

It's also miserable, the weather.

Great big shelves of near-black storm clouds rumbled in from behind as they came in from the east, having made a big looping journey around enemy territory on horseback. Save for sparse moments of less than an hour where the weather seemed to hold its breath for a while, the deluge has been near to nonstop, turning dirt into mud, roads into rivers.

The potential for being stranded out here feels precariously high, but it's with a certain amount of determination that they continue on. Worst comes to worst, they take shelter, they request extraction, they return home on griffon back, bedraggled and empty-handed.

(No, that's not the worst outcome.)

Jude and Vanya are sent out to track down the caravan, pursuing the expected roads, while the rest scout out the potential for an ambush point. There is a fairly promising valley that encloses the main road down to the mining operations, chokepoints and elevation, but when word comes of flooding that has set the caravan off on a wide ranging course, the plan must change.

Rain comes down loudly against the waxed canvas off the tent, and any sense of being out of the deluge is more about knowing peace for not being under the driving impact of the weather rather than being dry. Marcus, for his part, brings plenty of rain in with him, his bound hair black with it and furs and linen sodden and introducing the scent of wet dog into close quarters. He, and everyone, will have to be particular about drying their boots when they next make camp.

This is merely a pitstop, and a crowded one, with four adults in the tent. The map he spreads out in front of him (not an expensive thing, something copied in a minimal way from a more detailed reference, something that wouldn't incriminate anyone if it fell into the wrong hands) is speckled with water, but its kept its integrity.

"Adjei and Orlov reported they've diverted off the Dustrun," he's explaining, indicating the main artery of transport that veers through the Pillars. "Mudslides towards the south have cut it off. They'll move along here," pointing, "and then, if they're in no hurry, head through the foothills. If they are in a hurry, they'll chance this road that runs adjacent, staying in the Pillars. We won't have time to scout either possibility if we wait on confirmation."

He uses the hilt of a knife to pin down a map corner. His thumb, for another. Someone can help out with the other two.

"So. We make ready an ambush on the road and divert if there's news of them heading west for the foothills," Marcus says. "It'll be faster for us going downhill to catch up, if we need to, but we'll lose time in planning our advantage. Or, we split into pairs, scout both locations."

A risk. The weather cutting them off, the caravan acting unpredictably, an inability to scramble back together and failing at all of it. Still, he puts it to the group, at least for now.

Frowning down at the map, Gwenaëlle shakes her head — her hair a tight crown of immovable braids, and her expression much the same. “I don't think that we should split. Pairs aren't enough if we get caught out, we'll be more effective together even if we're slowed a bit.”

On the end of it, she nearly wants to say — it's nearly audible, on the tip of her tongue — don't you think? and it takes some restraint on her part to only say what she thinks, and let it stand.

Abby helps with the other two map corners.

She says, "Do we all have good shoes? With grip," because there is a lot of mud outside, and rain, which will be making even more mud. And if they all go slipping and sliding down the hill together, they're gonna lose the stealth aspect of this quickly.

Or take everybody down there by surprise, including themselves. ... That's kinda funny. She chuckles under her breath before she can stop herself.

Anyway. "Gwenaëlle's right. And Jude's gonna be faster than anything on wheels anyway. He can go fetch it if it goes too far off without us." Haha, is that offensive to say? Maybe, whatever.

No sign of humor from Ellis, studying the map intently.

"We should be erring towards high ground," is maybe an indicator of leaning in Gwen's direction, a reluctance to split them apart. "We can move downhill faster, attack the tail end of their group. If it comes to that."

A disadvantage either way. There is little option that ensures a clean sweep through to a success.

"Alright."

A concord, then. There's a point to be made about the terrain, the difficulty of getting down into the foothills if it comes to it, but of their options, it's the better and more likeliest one.

"We'll all four of us move further north, scout around here for an ambush point. This path leads to and from the foothills, so we'll stay within an hour of it at least, divert if we must. Hopefully it'll still be sound."

Next topic, and not just because Marcus is delaying getting back out into the rain and the mud.

"The caravan is two armored wagons, and there's sighting of at least one escort equipped like a mage might be. I say we preserve the mounts and the wagons and take them with us rather than try to clean them out. I can manipulate the terrain to block their ability to flee, and sure it up again when we're ready to depart. If they're made to believe their lives are more valuable than the wealth they're escorting, we can try to force a surrender."

A glance back upwards at the three faces over the map, as he adds, "A thing made more likely by taking out their mage first." So it goes.

Across the stretch of map between them, Ellis' eyes lift to Marcus.

A slight incline of his head. Its a type of claim to the assignment; Ellis can attempt this. (He understands the difficulty in this piece of strategy, can see it done without undue misery inflicted on their chosen target.)

(Gwenaëlle had cast Abby a sidelong look, a curve at the corner of her mouth, an I see what you did there, but under the circumstances left it at that.)

It isn't so much intending to speak over Ellis as it is not realising that he'd said anything; he's a subtle man and not one she's had so much exposure to that she might become particularly sensitive to the nuances of his gestures, readily capable of accurately interpreting them in a discussion of strategy.

“I suppose we need to surprise the mage, particularly, then,” she says, speculative. “Is there a most effective way to hobble them?”

The presumption being, of course, that obviously there is, but equally: presumably, their mage is going to know it best.

(Honestly, having it acknowledged is enough.)

A pertinent question this time, then. "Do we know how many they've got?"

Bodies. Other people they'll have to keep off the mage as he is attacking the other mage. She's looking at Marcus when she asks; maybe she assumes that people who know magic would have a better chance of finding something like that out.

"Six riders," first, to Abby, "including the mage, and then two drivers with a guard each. Ten men in total."

If the numbers are of a concern, it isn't heard in his tone or seen in his expression; the more likely thing being, it isn't much of a concern, and if it had been any easier, likely they'd not have been asked all the way out here. As for the mage—

"Most aren't equipped for close combat," Marcus says, to Gwenaëlle. "But if you can fire on them from a distance while keeping cover, then you," to Ellis, "can move in. The rest of us can cover you."

war table: friends in low places (highway robbery).

diversion. marcus, abby, gwen, ellis.

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