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Entry tags:
into the distance, a rough road
WHO: Tav and you!
WHAT: Tav arrives in/near the Gallows
WHEN: Current
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Nothing at the time, but will update if needed
WHAT: Tav arrives in/near the Gallows
WHEN: Current
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Nothing at the time, but will update if needed
Another day gone and another restless night follows for Tav. He tosses and turns, but he finally falls asleep on the wooden table serving as his bed since he arrived in Baldur's Gate. When his eyes shut, though, he does not find peace. Instead, Tav finds himself walking through the grass just outside the Basilisk Gate. The gate's teeth dig into the earth, barring him entry for some reason. What has he done this time to earn the gods' wrath? Who has he angered where to suffer yet another setback?
"Cursed to touch everything," Tav mutters to himself as he wraps his hands around the lowest bars of the portcullis and attempts to lift the entire contraption.
However, just as he applies upward force, Tav sinks through the ground, disappears into the momentary dark and emerges through a blinding green and black. He crashes into a cart full of hay, right hand burning as if he's had a splinter of something shoved into it. All around him are voices, commotion, and he raises his aching head inch-by-inch to observe the sunset broken over parapets of stone. The light paints the gallows in a hallowed plum and graphite, but the true star of the scene is the burning slice of green and black hanging in the sky.
Wait, did he do that?
Tav glances down to his hand and it blossoms bright and painful, pulsing with each burst of the green sky flame. People clamor around it, shouting, and creatures seem to pour from it without restraint. Glancing back to his hand, Tav sighs. If it's not a tadpole, there's always something else to worry about. At least this looks fixable, for now. Tav hefts himself out of the cart, a bit unsure on his legs, but he surges toward crew.
Time to fight. Again.
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He'd been loitering nearby when the air split, which was only partly a coincidence. They have warning of when and where the rifts will occur, now, but it wasn't precise enough to pinpoint the specific location in the middle of Kirkwall's harbor they needed to be waiting for. That it is this specific courtyard, the one where Redvers had been leaning against a wall to catch rays of the sun like a very large lizard, is luck. Of a kind.
He has his armor on and his sword and shield in hand, and he strides forward without waiting to see it the elf(-shaped thing, ask him his rifter opinions) is going to obey. The pillar of light that bursts above him as he nears the rift won't hurt the rifter, either way. At worst it will stun him a little.
More importantly, it stuns the demons. A ghostly wraith disintegrates entirely, overcome; the nearest lanky terror demon staggers blindly. They have a few seconds before any of them come to their senses.
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"Ira et dolor!" He cries out as he presses his non-glowing hand to the earth below him.
A series of thorns crawl along the ground until they snare one of the hooded monsters, curling tight around it so it can only shriek and struggle for now. Still, that's not nearly as wide an effect of the spell as Tav expected and he frowns. What in the gods name?
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However, Tav’s lost his concentration and the thorns loose their hold, scattering them scross the Gallows.
“Fuck,” Tav mutters as a handful of them burrow just before his feet.
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"Aye," he says to Tav's fuck. That's accurate. He backs up to stand next to him, extracting his sword and leaving the demon to drop as he does, with his shield more ready than his sword. The lad might have magic thorns, but he certainly doesn't have armor.
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There's also the question of just how much his magic has been tempered and how much testing he can bear to perform in a fight like this.
"Veco vinae," Tav presses his hand to the earth again and an enormous vine breaks through the brick, ensnaring one of the demonic creatures and dragging it into the air.
What Tav doesn't realize is how much his magic is taxing him in a way it didn't before, how he breathes heavier to keep his concentration on the vine. Hopefully this can still help the man with the sword and shield.
i too am sorry, didn't know i was meant to go next
"Sorry," he calls from somewhat less on high, more to his fellow agents than to the stranger among them. He doesn't bother to explain; even with effort, his voice hardly carries through the noises from above and below.
To Benedict in particular, then: "Ready?"
(To him the stranger appears well suited to this extraordinary circumstance, at least physically—and metaphysically, at that. One hopes they'll navigate the psychological impacts just as well.)
you are............ forgiven
The second shard's entrance yields a little smile of relief, and Benedict looks over to him with a lazy wiggle of his fingers in greeting.
"Don't be," he calls in reassurance, and then flashes a thumbs-up, one of the many little idiosyncrasies the Rifters have made normal around here. He's ready, and extends his other hand again.
hdu
"Any day would be nice," the thorns are breaking off the creature he's holding, so he casts a quick "Ignis!" to set it ablaze.
Or try to. Now he simply has an angry, thorny demon that's on fire. Delightful. And he's getting more and more out of breath the more he casts.
Well, he's got one last trick up his sleeve.
"Solis!" A blinding burst of light slices through the crowd of demons and each that touches the beam howls and screams as a white fire engulfs it. Not that Tav can see it as he flops unceremoniously onto the stone.
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The damn anchor is the only reason he's here; at least it's good for something.
But his focus is only half on the rift. The other is on stepping sideways to stand over the new rifter, laid out on the ground like he's taken a blow to the head, to slam a staggering demon away from him with his shield.
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Up there on the wall, Viktor raises a handheld device, roughly the size of a well-built pigeon, alongside his own arm, and—oh, whoops—takes the end of the telescoping antenna in his teeth and gives it a yank out to the limit of his reach—there. He raises the thing alongside his arm, and says,
"Now!"
The rift shudders, shreds its own gossamer form, crushes in on itself. Jagged crystalline facets seem to vie for passage through a suddenly tiny fissure, throwing streams of acid light, shivering and crackling arcs of the raw Fade. It fills the court with a hum that rises through frequencies which feel wrong to perceive.
While braced and grimacing, Viktor isn't even looking at the rift, nor his peers, nor the stranger, nor whatever may remain of the rift spawn; he's watching the readings.
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Satisfied enough with the dead-or-dying state of the demons, Redvers lifts his shield to provide some cover to his face. Hand extended. Now—the focus and will required to use the anchor is similar enough to what he does as a Templar. Little thought required.
But the moment stretches on, especially this close to the thing. The scent of ozone. The hairs standing up on the back of his neck. With his head angled away from the light, he can see a sliver of the collapsed new rifter, and during these interminable seconds Redvers narrows his eyes at the unfamiliar script tattooed on his forehead.
With a burst of otherwordly sound and a feeling like a sudden inhalation, the Fade gasps back into itself and the rift closes.