All Mortals Shall Know - Part II

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: A hit close to home
WHEN: Beginning of Cloudreach 9:50
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: OOC post! General CW for war-related violence, NPC death mentions, and significant peril to PCs. Use other CWs in your subject lines as needed.

Just after sunset, an hour or so after the news begins to arrive of mass Venatori action in Minrathous—a second coup, if it can be called that when the power already behind the throne finally steps out in front of it—comes another alarm, this not through the crystals at first but from Kirkwall itself. The watchtowers Riftwatch once helped repair burst with signal fires. Just one at first, to the northeast, and then after a time two more at once, and a fourth, bright against the falling dusk. On each the shutters begin to flash, two short interruptions and one long: the signal for a dragon attack.

Not even a high dragon like the one Corypheus's has tainted with red lyrium and enthralled could cover the distance from Minrathous to the Free Marches so quickly. But the watchtowers continue to blink the signal until, one by one, they're snuffed out.

I. THE CITY

Griffon riders and ranged fighters are called out as soon as the dragon signals come in, taking flight to wing across the harbor and spread out to locate this dragon, still not visible even from the roof of the Gallows. In the time that word is spread, lift ridden or stairs climbed, griffons mounted and launched, the watchtowers go dark, the sun falls deeper below the horizon, and Riftwatch arrives in the city proper just in time for a massive explosion at the Viscount's Keep to light up the twilight. Silhouetted against it, and now seared into the backs of everyone's eyes, is the shape of two small draconic creatures with riders on their backs wheeling away from the Keep.

Now that they know what they're looking for, Riftwatch's griffon riders will realize there is no single large dragon over the city. Instead there are a dozen or more of these creatures, smaller than griffons, bodies like large horses between leathery wings. The first time one wheels close, its rider flinging a spell or a grenade, they'll recognize the shape of the heads, the shrieking cries, the burst of fire or ice or acid poison from their mouths—they're dracolisks, now with wings.

Below, a hue and cry in the streets brings citizens with bows and buckets, joining the fight against attack and fire both. The city guard mobilized as soon as the first watchtower was lit, and arrows and crossbow bolts spray from atop the walls and roofs, but their range is too-easily evaded. The enemy on their dracolisks wheel above the city, some attacking Riftwatch's griffon riders, attempting to herd them into the path of a spell, others breaking off to drop explosive grenades on the city below, pillars of smoke rising beneath them.

Just as Riftwatch's griffon riders are beginning to come to grips with what they're dealing with and engage the enemy in the skies, another explosion lights the falling dark. Just as large as the one that has taken the top off Viscount's Keep, this comes from the stairs to Hightown. The noise alone is tremendous, the sound of the explosives almost drowned by cracking stone and the earth-shaking crash of buildings tumbling down from the edge of the cliffs above as Darktown splits open and sends a slice of Hightown cascading down into Lowtown. As it falls, a cadre of dracolisks breaks off from their current paths and heads for the Gallows.

While much of Riftwatch will need to follow them to defend the Gallows and the work contained in its towers, others may remain in or over the city to continue assisting with defense there. The remaining dracolisk riders will attempt to target the Twins—the large statues outside the entrance to the harbor, connected to the chains Kirkwall uses to control ship traffic through the Waking Sea—in an apparent attempt to down them and block that passage entirely. But between Riftwatch and the force of guards and civilian militia members mustered by Guard-Captain Aveline to shoot arrows from the walls and skybridges, they'll be driven off without success.

II. THE GALLOWS

At the Gallows, those who don't ride griffons have also been instructed to prepare to assist the city. As the explosions in the city are felt, large enough to rattle the furniture even from this distance, and news of the flying dracolisks arrives, all hands are ordered to get themselves to armor or infirmary and make ready to venture across the harbor. Those who can provide healing are an obvious need, but just as urgent will be assistance with evacuating damaged buildings and protecting those on the ground, especially if this proves to be followed by a ground attack. But the first ferry hasn't yet left the Gallows dock when the battle comes to them.

There is barely time for a crystal alert of incoming dracolisks before they arrive. They wing circles around the towers, flying close enough to touch the sides, hovering for seconds here and there in pairs as if trying to look in the windows. Almost as soon as they've come they draw back–

And then the Mage tower explodes. A burst of light and force engulfs the uppermost floors, flinging stones the size of a man outwards. It is immediately apparent to anyone remaining within (though there should be few, given how lightly occupied it is to begin with) and those watching from without that the blast has destablized the entire tower, which teeters for only a moment or two, just barely long enough to allow for a race to safety, before toppling over with a thunderous crash. It tips outwards before it drops, crushing a chunk of the outer wall and flinging the remains of its top floor into the sea. The impact sends out a shockwave, followed by a cloud of dust and debris that sweeps across the Gallows courtyards.

The other devices—because now that they know to look, there are devices fixed to the sides of the other two towers, up near the top—do not explode immediately. The dracolisk-riding Venatori continue to circle above, throwing spells and arrows and the occasional small grenade down at the denizens of the Gallows, while two of them also appear to be focused on the devices, trying to get near enough again to hit them with some sort of spell. It quickly becomes clear that there is a chance to save these towers, if the attackers can be fended off long enough to remove or disarm the magical devices before they're triggered.

Of course, it's not going to be easy. The devices are each attached to the outside of the tower between the top two floors, meaning they must be accessed by climbing out a window or off the roof and rappelling down to them. Once there, they'll prove to be attached with some impossibly sticky substance, such that trying to pry them off would damage the workings and risk explosion. The only option is to deactivate them where they are—whether by lowering someone knowledgeable down a rope, or by conveying instructions to someone good with heights by crystal or from the nearest window. The insides prove to be a complex combination of machinery and magic, clockwork mechanisms, enchanted or carved with delicate runes, panels inscribed with glyphs, glass tubes full of Maker knows what volatile compound, brass spinners like thaumoscope sensors, and so on. If attempting to defuse a bomb while dangling from a rope weren't difficult enough, the Venatori on dracolisks remain active overhead, doing their best to wreak havoc below while trying to hit the devices with the activation spells, which (thankfully) require concentration, time, and very precise aim.

They succeed in activating the device on the Templar tower first. Unlike the Mage tower, it doesn't immediately explode, but instead begins sending tendrils of ice racing out along the stone, finding its way into every crack and fissure, every weak patch of mortar, forcing the tower apart stone by stone. But the interference of those working to stop it has done something—weakened the device, or distracted the mage on dracolisk-back sufficiently to throw off the spell she casts to detonate it—and the ice only spreads so far.

But it does spread. Those defending the Templar tower will have to abandon it as the uppermost floors begin to crumble, aided by force and telekinetic spells that can target the frozen weak spots without needing so much precision. Climbing down, catching a griffon ride, or jumping across the gap to the main tower (if someone's good enough at jumping) are all rational choices, under the circumstances, but those who choose none of the above and take the stairs may be able to make it to the lower floors before the upper three collapse.

In the meantime the Venatori shift all their focus to the Central tower, home to Riftwatch's painstakingly-assembled library of rare volumes, records of all of its work, and storerooms full of irreplaceable artifacts. There, a third type of device. When an activation spell gets through, it at first seems to do nothing, but then the stones of the tower begin to shake. At first just a tremor, but the shaking intensifies and spreads, like an earthquake spell amplified throughout the building. Those trying to defuse the device must race to deactivate it before the building rattles to dust beneath them, taking most of Riftwatch's resources with it.

The Venatori do their best to disrupt this work, trying to pick off those on the outside or top of the tower, lobbing spells and explosives at those on the ground, and doing battle with the griffon riders in the air, but eventually, the device is disarmed, its shaking stopped before it can bring the tower down, and the enemy forces retreat.

III. THE AFTERMATH

The sun rises on a changed, chaotic Kirkwall. While the attackers didn't manage to inflict all of the damage they'd planned, Viscount's Keep is still rubble—with reports indicating Viscount Bran Kenric is among the dead, caught by debris while trying to organize an orderly evacuation—and Hightown, Lowtown, and Darktown alike suffered losses from the decimation of the staircase. The gap in the stairs is quickly bridged to facilitate movement, but the solutions begin makeshift, starting with a rope and wood bridge only wide and reliable enough for a few people at a time, and will take days and weeks to progress into sturdier scaffolding and wooden stairs to cover the missing piece. In the meantime, travel between the high and low parts of the city is slower, often involving long queues for either the narrow bridge or a ride on the industrial lifts straight up the cliffside from the docks.

Despite the damage, the mood in the city is more defiant than anything, anger primarily directed at Tevinter. There are some who blame Riftwatch, claiming that it's only their presence in the city that drew the attack, that they would all be safer if these foreign troublemakers took their problems elsewhere. But this idea doesn't get a whole lot of traction, especially not after the warning system they helped repair and Riftwatch's efforts to fight the enemy above the city at the expense of leaving the Gallows vulnerable. Their assistance with clean-up efforts in the city doesn't hurt, either.

In the Gallows, meanwhile, things might feel more destroyed than not, with the dust and debris from the collapsed Mage tower and the upper sections of the Templar tower scattered across the rest of the island. On the side of the Mage tower, the damage is extensive, with a whole section of the outer wall collapsed and a significant amount of the debris—including the residents' belongings—spilled across the rocks and down into the harbor. On the Templar side, stone walls from the upper floors have fallen more or less straight out and down around its perimeter, blocking walkways, with a large chunk of wall nearly flattening the smithy and all of its doors. Debris litters the training yard and has knocked a few holes into the thinner roofs of outbuildings and covered alcoves.

The Central tower is least affected, save the eyrie, which had previous holes and damage from the mage rebellion in Kirkwall and fell further apart, in turn causing the ceilings of the Scouting and Research division offices to partially collapse and bringing the structural integrity of the entire floor into doubt. The brand new lift, on the other hand, has come through largely unscathed. So too has the new tavern, as yet unnamed, and its first shipment of ale. So there is some good news.

The first two days after the attack, while the extent of the damage and possibility of further collapses are still being assessed, Riftwatch members are barred from sleeping in or near any of the standing towers, instead directed either to Riftwatch's warehouse near the docks or to tents set up around the debris of the Mage Tower, which can't really fall any further than it already has. As days pass, other options will open up: setting up cots in the outbuildings, dragging mattresses from the groups quarters into library alcoves, staying with various Riftwatch members and allies who have space to offer in the city, or continuing to camp out in the courtyards and among the debris as the weather warms enough to make it more or less pleasant. But between the time for reconstruction and the need to fund it, it will be at least a month before anyone can move into the remaining residential tower.

Assisting with relief in the city and sorting through the scattered debris in the Gallows or helping the hired labor brought in to help clear and rebuild will be an ongoing effort. In the meantime, everyone still has as much—or more—of their usual work to do as ever: adjusting plans and forming new ones to account for Corypheus' open takeover of Minrathous and the problems and opportunities that provides, or dealing with the news of other attacks that begins to arrive through contacts and field agents.

Comments

[wythersake]

Isaac has, in his time, charge exorbitant fees for this work. Not that he saw the money. If a penny's the cost of thought, then Marcus may mark this little tirade as ruinously cheap -

"You'll sit," He agrees, and lifts a crystal. Perhaps it's unkind, to hold that pause before him, when Julius might not have responded at all. Later, Isaac will have cause to consider grief and its anticipation. In the moment: He just holds eye contact.

And then Nell's crashing in, all feathers and blood, and he's cursing and moving and -

Julius will be here, eventually. If Marcus sits.

iii

[cozen]

"Hey," Bastien says on approach, his soft boots—not meant for this—crunching quietly on gravelly rubble. "Is everyone accounted for?"

He means the cats. Or not the cats; he's just arrived in the Gallows for the first time, making his way through the city and across the harbor only once it became clear there was nothing left that he could do in Lowtown. He isn't limping because he can choose not to, despite the pain, but bloody scrapes on his hands and face have mingled with the dirt and ash to scab over black.

[luaithre]

Good will and gratitude vanish, fine rain on fire, and Marcus' already rigid expression closes even more. A brief glint of teeth, an objection forming, but it dies when Julius' voice comes through the little glowing crystal—harried, brisk, alive.

The low swoop of feeling is too much to grapple with to push aside misgivings and say something to Isaac rising up, turning—his thanks, or some curtly delivered sentiment, that it's good to see him, in spite of everything.

There will be time, after. Everyone has put in so much to guarantee that after.

He sits, stays, all that, splinted arm kept close, and waits.

[overharrowed]

It's probably closer to twenty minutes, despite Julius's best efforts. The complex is a mess of wreckage and debris, and even with the need to get to Marcus's side as soon as he can manage, a straight shot to the garden simply isn't possible. He makes virtue of necessity to briefly call Petrana on his way. If he's also started a mental list of supplies and materials they're going to need, well, he can at least recognize the impulse to distract himself.

When he appears in the ruined prayer garden, he's as much worse for wear as anyone in the Gallows. Dust makes his hair a few shades lighter. His hands sport some cuts that aren't bad enough to slow down and heal, and there's a burn on one sleeve that didn't make it through to the skin below. His manner is marked by the weary exhaustion of the attempt to save as much of their base of operations as they could that more or less everyone shares at present. But, for all of that, he isn't visibly injured, not seriously. He moves quickly enough when he spots Marcus waiting.

[luaithre]

"Alright," curt, confirming. This is about as much plan as Marcus ever has time for.

Convincing Monster to power upwards in the dead air of a cool night is a matter of the occasional hard kick, a tight grapple of the reins. She does as bid despite the clear strain of it, but she's a faster and more confident thing than the strange creatures coming in—who are, as it happens, angling in for a glide to make their path to the Gallows swifter.

One of those flanking their leader is the first to see Marcus' approach. His mount's white plumage isn't subtle. An arrow is knocked, aimed upwards, fired; an arrow is deflected, and Nell should be able to see, as she comes into range, that flash of white-blue magic indicative of reactionary defense, bursting up. A second flash as a volley depreciates the Barrier spell, and then,

a swift stream of fire-tinged magic, raw and green, fired back down. The swerving of a dracolisk as the archer on its back buckles, some.

[luaithre]

Marcus hasn't moved from where he was placed—a patch of grass in the gardens, sitting with his knees bent and boot heels dug into the soft earth. Still in his armor, his lighter assemblage of dragon hide, dark copper and black. With the cloth he'd been given, he's haphazardly cleaned his face some while waiting—dust and, as always, magically-summoned soot dry in his sweat in streaks.

The arm that Isaac had seen to, he has tucked against him. Hard to make out until Julius nears, but nonetheless, the bracer has been removed and the sleeve sliced open to hang in loose strips. The limb has been splinted and wrapped securely in silk.

Five minutes, twenty minutes, time has bled like an open wound. No need to preoccupy himself when he is barely cognizant of his surroundings—at least, until the familiar pattern of Julius' approach calls to him, and he looks over. Knees lowering, his good hand drifting up, expression sharpening.

Nothing said, immediately, just a silent bid for him to be nearer.

aftermath, for viktor

[pathlit]

After the Templar tower's partial destruction, Jayce takes a blow to the-- he doesn't know, honestly, because he awakens in a makeshift infirmary dry mouthed, temples pulsing, and his shoulder and abdomen tingling in an odd way. Healing magic, he realizes, when a short glance down reveals a patch of dried blood on his torso that he doesn't remember seeing beforehand.

It takes a few minutes to flag down someone down; even shorter to receive their harried, brief summary of the current events, and Jayce is perplexed to hear that it hasn't even been a full twenty-four hours since the attack.

Panicked, he nearly throws himself out of the cot, searching for a familiar face as his fingers scramble for his crystal. Into it, he hisses hoarsely, "Viktor. V. Are you there?"

[overharrowed]

He catches Marcus' hand as he lowers himself to his knees. A proper embrace is demonstrably a bad idea, despite the strong impulse, so Julius leans to touch their foreheads, clasping the arm he can. He just breathes a moment, thankful that they've gotten out of it no worse and shaken that it was this bad. He has to think many of them have expected an attack in an abstract way, but it's been a breathtaking shock in the concrete reality.

Finally, after a few heartbeats just being as close as he responsibly can, he leans back enough to look at Marcus properly. (He doesn't release his hand.) "Have you had anything for the pain yet?" He's not sure whether anything is even available, in fairness. He hasn't had time to check on the state of the infirmary, so he doesn't know if Isaac didn't take Marcus there because it's not necessary or because it's not in a state to accept patients.

Still. They've made it through. Everything else can be sorted.

[pathlit]

The high of adrenaline makes the relief of Loxley's magical parry all the sweeter. "Nice," Jayce says aloud, even as his heart continues to pound uncomfortably fast in his chest.

The lightning show, though -- he jerks on the reins, biting down the grunt of pain in doing so with his injured shoulder. Uggie veers sharp and sudden with a squawk of complaint, but the maneuver successfully puts them out of toasting's way -- and into the path of the dangling rider.

For a split second, Jayce considers trying to swipe at the rider with his mace, but there are others -- others that could capitalize on a moment's distraction to hit the explosive device and render these efforts moot -- so he urges Uggie onward toward the rooftop and silently hopes that Loxley is swift and close enough to take the potshot instead.

[luaithre]

It had been a rush of guilt in the moment Isaac had ignored his wishes. Marcus is not dying, he had been on his feet (mostly) when he'd been found, there is so much to do and attend to, and the dust of fallen buildings is settled in Julius' hair and clothing and cuts—but, here, what guilt had already started working its way out of his system is properly dismissed.

This is good, actually, leaning into this fractional embrace, breathing together. He works his fingers between Julius', only leans back upright when the other man does.

Finds eye contact, and shakes his head no, but, "I have something to take before sleep," but before he can add to that, he asks, "Is Petrana well?"

blanket go-ahead as always for our threads 2 change stuff around however

[dissolving]

Vanya's blade strikes true. Blood gouts bizarre for the sudden thrust of air, half-severed, a blown-out sail wild for the wind above. It sends the beast crashing sideways into knight and griffon, all four spiraling down fast. The Venatori flings his staff into the falling dark, lunges instead for Pampelmousse's reins to haul himself bodily across - a mid-air takeover -

The Veil pulls tight against them both, as the mage lifts his fist and punches a spell for Vanya. Cedric's on the far side now, barely holding to a slashed harness; Agathe trailing blood from her great leonine flank. He shouts, white radiance blooming against night,

But not before the spell's caught him. It isn't long, but here and now, a few moments' rank terror reign.

[overharrowed]

He exhales, heavily, but nods. "I called her on my way over. She's still in Hightown, not hurt. I don't know when they'll run a ferry again, but I'd think they'll have as soon as it's clear the attack is fully over." The supplies, but more pressingly, the personnel. "I'll keep an ear out."

A wan smile, as he adds, "Speaking of sleep, I haven't heard a final ruling on where we're going to end up for now. But I think you get priority for an actual cot rather than a pallet on the ground, so you have my congratulations." A very quiet joke. "No one's going into any of the towers at length until we can check the structural integrity, so not today, at least." Probably not for quite some time, but they'll deal with that soon enough.

[luaithre]

That is as it should be, but it helps to know that it's fact. He is mid-calculating the likelihood that they could get clearance to fetch Monster from where they're keeping the griffons and go over there to collect their better third (low, but not impossible)—

A breath out at this joke, a petty twinge of anguish. He would prefer, so much, to be on his feet and amongst those delivering directives, offering input on decisions and making arrangements, rather than amongst those being arranged. Still, he nods along, chooses not to admit that Isaac found him in a daze, attempting to navigate his way back into the half-wrecked Templar Tower.

"It's only an arm," instead. "Isaac mended it well." His thumb strokes over the back of Julius' hand, and he adds, "None too impressed with my efforts at healing it first."

[dissolving]

Cedric's squared up on Agathe, pole fenced in futile effort to seem bigger than his five-odd feet. Jayce squawks. The stick drops in a second's strange guilt -

And Agathe lunges for the pile of armor he’s left temporarily unguarded. She tosses a pauldron back and forth, crowing victory. Fine. Cedric stoops for the coils, waves them at Jayce.

"Talis?" Too weary to work out the invisible hierarchy of Marcher titles, at least for the man from the training yard. They’re all dinged and scuffed themselves. "You need this?"

Looks a sight from a rune, but fuck does he know.

[luaithre]

The telltale sounds of snapping jaws and lizard hissing draws focus—urgent enough that Marcus moves at a clip in that direction. What the fuck now.

But he stops just as she speaks up, eyeing the now familiar shape of the dracolisk, spiky-edged, spotted, yellow eyes, and now winged. "Gwenaëlle," a warning instead of an offering of a lamb shank, a step aside like his instinct is to flank around, despite the indications that it's been harnessed. "It spits."

Fire, if its markings are of any indication.

His arm still splinted in recovery is folded against his side, coat sleeve covering the structures he's been convinced to continue wearing for the time being, though silk binds across the knuckle and loops around the thumb. The staff he carries in his better hand is not his usual—a lighter weight thing to channel spells, rather than bludgeon and slice.

He moves to set this aside, keeping his focus on the creature.

[wythersake]

"Me? How many Circles is this now?"

That she's brought to rubble - it might land better, if he weren’t short of breath, sprinting from Marcus at the other end of the yard.

Straight-ish only goes so far. Isaac ducks under her good shoulder to steady, shivers, involuntary against the chill. He spares the griffon a wary glance; the things have always had more bloody minds than brains,

No comment on his newest patient. There’s a tent, temporarily unmanned. He drops the flap behind them, frustration mingling with naked relief. The old hope of a foxhole: That someone else knows what they're doing.

"Tell me how long that’s been in there," The ice. "And whether you’ve been seen today already."

[wythersake]

An eye from hers to the shattered towers.

Spells don’t come free, and there are spaces that even they can’t touch. Parsing true damage from the strain of a body run too hard, too long; from the shock of the day - there's a point where taxonomy is fool’s errand.

She ought to sit. Drink something, eat. But what are the odds there's food or water to spare? Passing out amid rubble won’t do her greater favors, and steadying her legs now will drop her like a stone later. Knowing his luck, off the edge of a damn -

"Boat?"

His hands flex, ready to reexamine that coherence.

[pathlit]

The scowl he shoots Uggie is short-lived, replaced by a look of surprised recognition as he turns to answer Cedric’s call.

“—yeah, actually,” is accompanied by the sound of sloshing water as Jayce approaches. Uggie doesn’t bother following, though his eyes remain trained on the copper piece in Jayce’s hand. “Well, not need, but—“

A quick glance at both items would suggest the coils fit into the container — pieces of distillation equipment.

[elegiaque]

“La Souveraineté,” she says, “my houseboat. Presently in the middle of the fucking harbour, but I'll need to sort that sooner than later— one of our recent rescues is aboard, and she needs to be monitored by the infirmary, still—”

Coherent, then, and still giving herself tasks,

though from the sound of things, it isn't as if that one can readily wait.

“Boatmen can charge me whatever they like for the tow today, I expect they know it.”

[elegiaque]

The lamb shank would be most useful about now—

“And if she warms to me, she'll do it in the other direction,” she says, determined, jerking back out of range of gnashing teeth and clicking her tongue at the dracolisk, still coaxing, keeping her hands up and visible, taking every pain to appear non-threatening as she tries to persuade it to let her nearer. “If she doesn't, nothing to do but put her down, but—”

The look she casts him is appealing. Doesn't he see what a terrible waste that would be? Her gaze falls, immediately after, to his arm,

“Don't get close with your clipped wing, either. She's not friendly yet.”

Sometimes, Gwenaëlle is an optimist.

[elegiaque]

I've been better,

“Good,” she agrees, shouldering her bow so that she can bring her gauntlet up in front of her as they move — obligated by necessity to trust his surefootedness when they can scarcely risk the pausing — and taking the opportunity to adjust the lenses across her palm. A wall of force sounds much more effective than trying to aim at a moving target out a window in a building that might come down around their ears at any moment, for all that she'd made some crack shots before.

Luck, time, nothing's on their side. Stop trying to hit the broad side of the barn; hit them with the broad side of the barn.

“We tell the Seneschal they broke the windows first, if need be—”

[elegiaque]

Attached to griffon saddles are safety harnesses for the sake of riders like Gwenaëlle — on the back, trying not to fall off — and it's that that she reaches for, not Jayce, but even that she grasps rather than attempting to actually use, wrapping it around her fist and bracing one foot underneath herself on Uggie's back. Coiled, tense as a spring, her back to Jayce's; ready.

“They're going to fucking try,” is half lost in the wind, and she cranes to get a better look. Circling dracolisks — one of them, a blue and white thing that puts her in mind of the Emprise, has a rider on its back that's clearly a mage simply because of how little they seem to be carrying. No visible weapon, but a strap of explosives. A good target: she might be able to steal the explosives, and fewer sharp implements to try not to accidentally get stabbed by in a scuffle, so:

“Get above,” she urges him, her elbow pressing in— not elbowing him, but trying to orient his attention, his direction. “Get me near to the riders, above them—”

[luaithre]

She. Sure, why not.

Marcus meets her look with a glance, and that his natural sternness relents a little can only indicate that yes, he thinks it would be a waste. He keeps his distance without any plan on closing it, but follows some instinct and shifts to take a knee in the dirt. Studying the creature, watching it lose some interest in him.

"Have you tamed a mount before?"

He knows she has animals. He has paperwork in his office that details every living thing that exists within or adjacent to the Gallows. All the same.

[charmoffensive]

"I've been training my whole life," is wry, over the shoulder. Whether he means breaking windows or blaming others for it—

Or both. Seems likely. Up the stairs, the sound of their footfalls a clamour that echoes back at them, Loxley skipping a couple where it suits him, long limbed, the runes stitched into his boots flickering now and then with magical potential. It's oddly quiet, where the immediate battle is too far removed to penetrate the stone walls, save for, now and then, the thunder of an explosion.

As they dash into the likeliest chamber to post up, a strike against the building they're in is as loud as thunder, and shakes the dust off the high shelves.

[elegiaque]

“No,” she admits, “I'm hoping Farnon will be of some use, if I can only convince her I'm no threat, at least. But she's not wild— I've won over a trained animal, before.”

More than once, even, though not a dracolisk. This one is wearing a bridle, a saddle; had come here to the Gallows bearing a rider. Surely, she reasons, this is rather more likely to be within her capability — she's no slouch in the saddle, and has only improved in the time since those skills became battle-tested, too.

A mount like this—

the things she could do. That they could do together.

“She might've taken harm, in the landing. I want her to let me a little nearer and see how fast I'm going to have to talk so he doesn't turn apoplectic about it. I thought I'd lead with well we shot a lot of the other ones.”