faderift | All Mortals Shall Know

Entry tags:

All Mortals Shall Know - Part II

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

By the time he ambles back -

The bag on his back isn’t one he left with. The one under his arm, either, supporting a sprawl of scroll cases; or the other arm, juggling a fractured marble bust and a half-spilled sack of apples. That cloak certainly isn’t his, its rich fur fastened with an ostentatious, flame-shaped, and entirely foreign broach.

The blank expression Lazar wears is at least familiar.

"Well," Looking about the place. "Shit."

(In the distance, the ferryman sports a fetching new feathered hat.)

Edited 2024-04-12 19:45 (UTC)

It’s already been an exhausting period of time, the cleanup and rebuilding needing to start in earnest. Astrid’s been toiling away in the bleak spring sun, hauling rocks alongside their hired labour; hoping they don’t come across something truly horrific beneath the rubble, like some mass of blood and bone which used to be a person. She occasionally pauses to wipe sweat off her brow, squinting into the middle distance.

Which is when she notices Lazar. She stares at him, and his inexplicable armfuls of loot. She’s taken detours to steal shit with him before, but this timing—

The man might or might not deserve what happens next: she drops what she’s carrying, marches over to him with a stormy look on her face, winds up, and punches him in the upper arm. It’s a harmless location, but with some proper weight to the blow, all that pent-up concern displacing itself into anger.

“You goat’s ballsack, what took you so long? The others were back ages ago!” Then, a flurry of Avvar cursing and: “Is that a fucking statue??”

Edited 2024-04-12 20:05 (UTC)

In the near distance, Barrow is committed to the same task, looking over from the pushcart of stone rubble he's conveying just in time to see Lazar get his.

Carefully, he lowers the handles of the cart and saunters over, quietly assessing the situation.

Whuff - hard - as his arm numbs to the elbow. Sack and scrolls tumble along the stony ground. His other hand curls tighter about the bust, absurd in its protection,

"'S Hessarian," A popular depiction, carved centuries past his death and likely bearing little resemblance beyond the pseudo-mythological - "'S art."

He takes a small step back, and trips over the bag. Thunk. Still cradling the head,

"Promised you a souvenir."

This one is for Barrow. But. Details.

“I don’t need a fucking I Heart Minrathous wallscroll, Lazar, just your arse back safe and alive is more important—”

Maybe she shouldn’t spend these first minutes berating her friend, but it’s been a time coming: her temper a kettle sitting and simmering anxiously on a burner this whole time, finally getting a chance to safely boil over. Absorbed in this tongue-lashing, Astrid doesn’t even notice Barrow coming up behind them.

Lazar is occupied being shouted at by Astrid, and Barrow is happy to allow this to continue unimpeded as he glances over their errant comrade, searching for any sign of injury or distress. Arms folded, jaw clenched, his eyes seek out the paintings and then slowly drift back toward Lazar's face.

Propped on an elbow, he finally pushes the statue aside, a soft thunk beside sack and cloth and scrolls and spilled fruit; a dozen Northern treasures. He's taken a slash across the jaw, at some point - shallow as a shave, and far too long to mark it anything but the close kind.

Leather and fabric, that thick, stupid fur, reveal little else. But it's plain, as he stoops back to his feet, that a knee drags. Two fingers on his hand don't move with the rest.

"That’s why ’s a cloak, not a scroll -" His forehead crinkles, confused, as though Astrid is still speaking mountain tongue - "And 'm fine."

He's fine. She's fine. Barrow's over there, scowling fit to match old Hess, and he's fine. They oughta be throwing a damn party.

Astrid’s sizing up the state of him, measuring what she can tell of Lazar’s injuries: none currently life-threatening, it’s true, but. And then he says it’s a cloak, and that effectively manages to puncture Astrid’s seething irritation, her mouth forming an O of surprise as she finally notices the gift. It really is a very nice cloak. Not even threadbare or patchy.

Well-played, she’s a fondness for fur. “Oh,” she says, feeling herself relenting, “well—”

The wash of relief comes hand in hand with a surge of something else-- you don't know how worried we were, you son of a bitch-- and Barrow, normally a very laid-back and slow-moving fellow, says his piece with a quick sucker-punch to Lazar's midsection.

"Welcome back," he grunts.

His arms spread wide and placative, when Barrow steps forward.

"Hey mate," An open target. "Y’look like -"

Wham. Abruptly he doubles again, clutching his stomach as he'd the statue, the sick taste of apple-bile in his throat. Lazar takes a wobbly step back, goes down on that knee.

Wheezing:

"- Like shite."

That second unexpected swinging punch — even harder than hers, since Barrow’s more brawn — makes her jolt, her surprise manifesting itself as a startled laugh. Oh hi Barrow.

But that done, while Lazar’s still hacking and trying to get his breath back, she crouches down and starts scooping up the spilled apples, sweeping them back into the sack, helping pick up the man’s scattered ill-timed pillage. Perhaps he’s now suffered enough to get the point across.

“In fairness, we all look like shite,” she says, picking up a fallen scroll and jamming it under one elbow.

Barrow responds to the remark by picking up the bust to inspect it, like this was the entire reason he came over here.

"Room's wrecked," he informs him, "hope you brought all your wank material with you."

His groan might be an answer.

At some length, Lazar finds his feet again. A hand sprawls for Barrow's shoulder. Hold him up, will you.

"Archon's head," The bust. Let's ignore, for the moment, that Hessarian converted - "Couldn't bring you th'real one. Venatori got it."

He works the cloak clasp loose, three-fingered, for Astrid to inspect. Silver spots, a little slick to the touch. Seal.

"You lot sure know how t'make a man miss you."

Astrid accepts the cloak, now able to look at it closer: it’s even softer and warmer than the wolf fur she’s accustomed to, and that waterproofing means it’ll be good on rainy nights. No underfur, so it’s lighter than she expects. She clutches it for a moment, considering; then, standing up on tiptoe to reach, presses a quick fleeting kiss to Lazar’s whiskery cheek. A silent thank you and maybe sort of an apology.

“And I’ve something for you—”

It’s been burning a hole in her pocket, but with the cloak balanced over one shoulder she digs around and fishes it out. She holds out his ring with the swan on the band, just as promised. The money’s gone, buried somewhere under the rubble.

“We missed you too. Barrow’s cats ‘specially, I think.”

Gracious as ever, Barrow allows himself to be used as a support. His face has softened some, but he still has an edgy look about him, caught up in his head with something that may or may not have anything to do with this.

"Aye, you'll have them to answer to," he adds absently, "should I give you two a moment?" Is it That kind of reunion? Seems wise to check.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

All Mortals Shall Know - Part II

lazar; 4 astrid & barrow

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