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

[portalling]

They’re the right names, but also high-profile enough in the divisions that they’d be easy to know. Anyone could have slipped into the Gallows in all this chaos, when the watchmen at the gates aren’t checking and vetting visitors. Strange weighs his perpetual paranoia against his exhaustion—

And in the end, the weariness wins out. “Alright,” he concedes, and searches for a convenient rocky outcropping to sit on, eventually finding a pile of rubble which’ll do for a makeshift seat. He sinks down, readjusting his cloak so he’s not sitting on it.

There are slashes all over his clothes, not from Venatori swords. Doctors habitually make the worst patients, but at least it means he can deliver this matter-of-fact recitation, one professional to another: “Large thorns. Multiple shallow lacerations, no poison, no veins or arteries nicked. Had a run-in with a magical vine.”

He really should have gotten it looked at sooner, though. The blood’s seeped into his clothes, making the sleeve stick to the wound.

[wythersake]

Isaac stoops to a knee beside. His brows skate up for the retelling, but gift horses run mouths -

"Not Venatori magic," He observes. Vines aren't Circle-bred, either; the province of apostates runs wider than most. "Your own?"

Call it even odds: Whether questioning will intensify suspicion, or ease into the patter of fact and retelling. Either might do for a diversion. Breathing room to work.

(Healers are the worst patients, it's true. At least this one didn't bolt.)

He peels back the edges of cloth to find skin stuck fast. Easiest to rip off the impromptu bandage - but a poor use of resources. A cut's far from the worst that they'll see tonight. No sense in stressing either body. Isaac draws a vial from his bag, soaks it over the sleeve. A moment to seep in, loose the fibers.

"Water," Off-hand. His fingers splay; look doc, no poison. "I don't believe I recognize you either, Monsieur."

[portalling]

“A colleague’s. He had to catch me with a thorn-covered whip. When needs must.” He winces as the cloth initially tugs at the wound, but the water is a good call, and starts soaking in to help free his sleeve and expose his arm so it can be patched up. He finds himself watching the other man, gauging that crisp professionalism; recognises that streak, and appreciates it.

Alright, he thinks again. At the end of the day, you have to put your trust in something.

“Doctor Stephen Strange,” he says. “Head Healer. I joined up a little over a year and a half ago.”

change stuff around for any lasting effects or marks u want etc

[wythersake]

"Mlle. Baudin named you," Isaac does him the courtesy of not glancing up. It would be unsporting - "She's well."

- Though that last assurance may speak for itself. Well as she can be. Mundane routine follows: Peel away the sleeve, rinse the debris.

"This will sting," Does, as soon as he lays palm instead of bandage. Isaac extends a fingertip to the end of the slash. It takes very little time at all. It feels as though it takes much longer, a compression of moments and spreading warmth. Something pulls at a distant, sixth place; a sensation which Strange must know by now.

The Veil, drawn aside.

Clot bricks scab. Blood flushes, veins hot beneath a threading scaffold of flesh. His finger draws back, and new skin stretches shiny-red in its path. A mended seam.

(It itches.)

"I imagine you and I will have later occasion to speak," A Rifter, a mage, and a surgeon; there are at least several points to establish. "When there is again an Infirmary to consider. I've been home of late."

Orlesian, and nearly clipped to Gwen’s own shape. Nearly. Any court native would mark it false. Isaac's hand lifts, and energy dissipates, the last vestiges whispering to scab and squeezed lung, hurry up, if you please,

luv it

[portalling]

“Ah. Good,” Strange says; and Isaac might be pointedly not watching, but there’s a ragged exhale of relief in the man’s voice which is already like an enormous painted signpost, for those who know to pay attention. Didn’t take much to start to confirm that suspicion.

But a moment later, the sorcerer’s attention is instantly captured by whatever the fuck is happening to his arm. His posture straightens further and he watches with keen attention, not wanting to miss a single detail of how it’s done and the associated sensation: the tug of the Veil, the livid warmth which briefly feels like sickly infection and inflammation, the mark of a body’s defenses kicking into overdrive, and then the sheer speed of it, practically watching the red blood cells coagulate together. When that worst gash is healed, he reaches out with his crooked fingers and traces the line of that brand-new scar.

As if it’s been weeks, not minutes.

His blue gaze flickers back up to Enchanter Isaac’s, now sparking with interest. A year and a half and now they’re ass-deep in magical healers, where the fuck were they all during Starkhaven—

Still. “I’ll be glad of the help,” he says, honestly. “What brought you back? Surely not this.”

There hadn’t been time. The attack had come on so suddenly.

[wythersake]

"Ah," Isaac pulls a length of silk free, working the blood from his palm. "Fleeing justice."

He catches Strange's eye, only to throw a glance over his shoulder. Low and furtive:

"Used the wrong fork at a gala. A capital offense, of course, but Riftwatch is famously lenient on mages." He offers the rag - newly-stained, it's still a sight cleaner than those robes - "How certain are you that wasn’t venomous?"

[portalling]

Strange rolls his eyes, but it’s more mild bemusement than real irritation. Some juicy goss would’ve been a nice distraction right about now.

He’s filing away some details, though. The Orlesian accent, the tan line of a mask. “Every time we leave Orlais without causing a diplomatic scandal or international incident, I genuinely count that a victory in the books.”

He accepts the rag and uses it to wipe away the dampened blood, as well as cleaning the other shallower cuts which don’t merit magical attention. “And, very,” he says. “I trust the other mage, and he didn’t mention venom. ”

[wythersake]

"A pity," Is it. "Then you won’t have a nap out of this."

His expression sobers. Isaac rocks back on his knees to consider Strange. There’s no shortage of work ahead, but the man could use a breather, and anyone that’s kept this long will stand a few minutes more. So:

Silver, but young enough. Shaky hands (fucked). A familiar patter to the voice, near enough Stark. The robes are somewhat novel - typically Rifters don’t get so -

Into it. But if he was truly late to magic, perhaps there’s something of the enthusiast; a child’s raw desire to be seen. Isaac’s own wrecked clothes are eminently civilian. The staff is a dead giveaway: Even so, it’s near enough a walking stick to pass the blind eye. Some people only need an excuse not to look.

"I’m told that you’re a surgeon," Two guesses who, the first two don’t count. "And that you’ve been training the others."

[portalling]

The corner of his mouth flickers. “Yep. No healing magic myself, unfortunately,” Strange is straightforward about those personal limitations, “but I’ve been trying to institute good practices in the infirmary. Proper wound treatment and binding, hygiene, avoiding infection, plus what I know of internal organs and their treatment. The assistants have been getting trained in first aid and triage.”

He’s rattling businesslike through that list of priorities; it’s never far from his mind. He presses the rag to one of the smaller cuts which had opened up, now waiting for it to stop bleeding again.

“And how about your specialties? Are you good with a knife?”

[wythersake]

If you find the right back, he imagines. Instead, nods along. It's a sound enough plan, to broaden the base of response; stretched thin as they are.

"Creation magic," The academic taxonomy of spellwork is hotly-debated. Not the time: "No spirits, and no knives."

(Alright, there are sometimes knives, debridement happens everywhere.)

"Which I must insist remain so," His eyes draw to the cut. "You'll be aware of the tenuous position mages occupy, so consider it an attempt at emphasis and not condescension when I explain that for all we presently benefit from a -"

A glance about the shattered yard; privilege everdogs desperation.

"- Libertine environment, it would do ill for me to take up an anatomist’s practice." Keeping an eye on Sidony's work had been bad enough. At least then, he’d had Mortalitasi cover. "While you’ve my broad support, I only chop herbs, and I’d ask you exercise discretion when involving another mage in your procedures. They are free to make their own choices,"

His mouth thins.

"But those choices do not come free."

[portalling]

To likely no surprise, he’d liked Sidony,

but Strange gives the smallest sigh at that warning, the mild sound of a man stymied once again. With his hands as they are (fucked), he’s always trying to find more people willing to take that plunge. Even if just for smaller procedures: an emergency tracheotomy, a sutured vein.

“Suppose the creation magic will have to do. What a non-mage could do with needle and thread, you’ll be able to accomplish with your spellwork regardless.” He’s chewing over it. He’s reminded, a little, of Wysteria’s horror over surgeons. Annoying.

“Well. Either way. I’m open to suggestions or to hear how you work best. Once…” The doctor looks out over the ruined wreckage, his own mouth thinning. “Once we’re past this part.”

[wythersake]

"I work best with my head attached,"

Dry. Strange can sigh all he likes - if Isaac goes down as a maleficar, it will be for a damn sight more than a Rifter’s stray interest. Even so: He stands, offers a hand down to the doctor's elbow. They’ve all had a shock or two today.

"I do hope we live to see it," Quieter months, softer years; but an ugly decade ahead and behind. "The part past this one."

Practicalities. Priorities. Lists, tasks, a running tally. Race it far enough, and you can dream to keep up. War owns longer legs.

🎀

[portalling]

Strange accepts Isaac’s hand, letting himself be tugged wearily back to his feet. Even after he’s standing once more, he still unconsciously reaches to touch that new scar on his own arm, the different shape to the skin. Fascinating. How he wishes he could learn it —

“Well, things aren’t actively on fire anymore, so,” he says, mordant. “Surely the day can only go uphill from here.”

Of course it’s not just the day bearing down on them; but there’s that echo of Stark’s habitual sarcasm in his tone, albeit gone harmless and toothless with exhaustion. The universal gallows’ humour one acquires after months and years walking the ward, between doctors and healers alike.

Practicalities, priorities, tasks. They’ll get there. All you can do is roll up your sleeves and get to it.