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

[elegiaque]

“Stark told me about that,” she recalls, “on the back of a wagon, after Tantervale. He'd trapped me in a conversation about Thedosians romancing rifters—”

she reflects for a moment on the bulk of that, the relatively lazy swipes she'd taken at him that he had (correctly) identified as barely footnotes in Gwenaëlle's ouevre. Says, “I didn't mean the thing I said about how no one should ever fuck him. And I sort of didn't mind 'Gwennifer'.”

(She's always hated Gwen, the insertion of an audible 'w' into her name when it's never otherwise pronounced, the way it makes it sound less like Guenievre. Gwennifer, on the other hand, sort of rhymed. Dollface had him on thin ice, but she'd threatened to knife him about four separate times in that conversation, probably he could have assumed one of them was for that.)

Refocusing, then: “I think he wanted me to know, for Lexie's sake. He didn't trust him, Loki. I prefer your Loki to the Thedosian one, to be perfectly frank, but — I wouldn't have said, to Stark. It clearly weighed on him still. And I keep it in mind.”

[portalling]

The corner of his mouth flickers at that mention of Thedosians romancing rifters. An extremely pertinent topic and of personal interest, all things considered.

“Wouldn’t have mentioned what, that you prefer this one?” Stephen considers that, weighing up his own nascent impressions of the demi-god. “Tony has— had— more personal reasons to hold a grudge. More direct conflict, more first-hand exposure. I was still a surgeon at the time. Awful nightmare of a day, but I saw it from the inside of an operating room, not fighting in the streets.”

Not like today. Stuck on the ground, running. Jumping without a net to catch you.

He keeps picking at the food. This isn’t really what he’d meant to discuss, but he hadn’t had anything specific in mind either; trains of thought keep ping-ponging off each other, following the threads where they land. “I feel like I should probably trust him less than I do. But he’s not technically even the Loki that I remember meeting — time travel is a mindfuck — so I figured, hell, it’s a new universe, that probably means a clean slate. Do-over. Mulligan. Start from scratch. I can look past the alien invasion thing if he can look past the sticking-him-in-a-toilet thing. I probably know better than most that I’d prefer not to be judged by the actions of my alternate selves.”

Except this Loki did also do the invasion thing, but,

ah, whatever, he’s too tired for technicalities.

[elegiaque]

Personal, yes; that's how it had felt. She'd respected how he'd handled it — hands off, mostly, honest about where he stood and why but allowing Loki to succeed or fail within Riftwatch through his own actions — and if she'd have sort of liked someone with less of a megalomaniacal history sniffing about her best friend...

Well. She does, still, prefer him to Alexandrie's husband.

“He probably deserved the toilet thing,” she says, just on principle. “If the Tevene one ever comes back, though, and happens to fall off a cliff or into a rift during a mission, you just agree that I couldn't have done anything and anyone who suggests otherwise is being unnecessarily cruel about an unavoidable tragedy.”

She'd never send an assassin after him, but she might stomp on his fingers hanging out a window five stories up if no one was there to see her do it. Alexandrie would look beautiful in mourning blacks and it'd close the chapter, so—

“You know, I think three of my nudes were floating about Kirkwall. I wonder if any of them didn't make it, in all of this chaos.”

A thoughtful hum. Then, “Dip your head in the water, I'm going to wash your hair.”

[portalling]

He might have had followup questions about the Tevene version of Loki and why are we manslaughtering him,

but for a disoriented moment he’s unsure if it’s just that the tidy cogs of his mind are running so much slower than usual, sluggish with exhaustion, that he can’t track point A to B to C, from killing a Loki to why are the nudes relevant right now.

“Nudes? Three? What—”

But, obedient, Stephen loosens up some of that rigid straight-backed posture and sinks back down under, dunking his head in the water, which conveniently also briefly dissociates him from this particular angle of the conversation. When he emerges again, water sloughs off him with his dark hair dripping, and he wipes off his face.

[elegiaque]

Beside the tub, there's a cabinet — there are simply cabinets everywhere on this thing, a pretty piece of forethought about the prospect of it being tossed about by the waves, and thank the Maker for that considering — and Gwenaëlle has fetched a soap from it that he knows the scent of already, recognisable as she adds, “Shove forward,” instead of responding to his reasonable if incoherent questioning.

The tub is wide enough at its edges that she can boost herself up and sit behind him, hitching her chemise to her thighs and sliding her feet into the water either side of his back. A better balance, once she starts to lather the soap into his hair, determined that whatever tomorrow holds they can manage sleeping in other than the stink of burning tonight. Her hands are sure and firm, massaging lather, and if she'd hissed when she settled her (bruised, tired) legs in the water,

no she didn't, mind your business.

“Tomorrow problems,” she says. “But I did sort of think, when that other you had that statue, that I missed a trick only doing portraiture.” Imagine a massive nude statue of Gwenaëlle, that sounds incredible. Maybe with her knives. Oh, definitely with her knives. Does she know any sculptors? No, and nevermind, because Maker knows they could hardly spare the resources now— she admits, instead, “I feel a bit punch-drunk, after today.”

Careening through careless tangents that make sense to her, exhausted, shying away from thinking too hard about tomorrow.

[portalling]

“Me too, admittedly,” Stephen says. He’d been doing the same just a moment ago, grasping for whatever loose threads and topics happened to spring to mind.

He shifts forward in the tub to allow her room, and she gets a good view of his spine and shoulderblades: some mottled bruises, some cuts, nothing awful. Many smaller scars that she’s already explored by now, all accrued since his turn towards sorcery; he’s only human, and those pre-Thedas battles had always left him nicked and bleeding and sore, desperately feeling every one of his years catching up to him. Oh, to be a supersoldier jazzed up on serum with an enhanced healing factor. How useful.

Mindful of Gwenaëlle’s own injuries, he drapes an arm over her thigh, leaving his other hand free for that tray of food. Stephen hasn’t often been one for such casual unthinking touch, but she’s been doing an excellent job at rewiring him. Case in point: her hands kneading through his hair is a treat, and he finds his eyes drifting closed, a small noise of satisfaction in the back of his throat.

“Good to know,” he mumbles. “I’ll commission a marble statue for your birthday.”

He can’t afford it, it’s all bullshit; but at least they can be on the same punchdrunk bullshit together.

[elegiaque]

His mumble makes her laugh, quiet, and she tips his head back so she can press a kiss to his wet forehead: “Satinalia,” she says, “it's sooner and I don't celebrate my birthday.”

Tony Stark would have been the only one who knew it had been his the day he'd told her; she had not shared hers, still hasn't. That isn't the thought that draws her up short— no, it's the realisation that she doesn't think either of them know the other's precise age. Well, and what does it matter so much. Old enough. She straightens,

“Also, I stole one of the dracolisks.”

[portalling]

“When is yours? I told you mine—” One of the few places where he’d disclosed and she hadn’t, which he’s realising now is an uncharacteristic disjoint,

but then that next bombshell lands. Stephen’s eyes snap open again. He twists in the tub to look back over his shoulder, try to gauge her facial expression, figure out if she’s pulling his leg.

“Uh. Define ‘stole’?”

[elegiaque]

As if he hadn't even said that first thing—

“I jumped her rider, knocked him down—” what this must have entailed, arguably not the most insane thing she did today, “—and we fell together, but she slowed things enough. She's secured for now, but I want to try and move her to the boat, soon, if she'll let me. Somewhere she can't decide to take offense to someone's horse and grill it, you know.”

Even without having said, it is clear: she is almost audibly workshopping names.

“It was a hard tumble, though, I must have Farnon see her.”

[portalling]

It was a hard tumble, I must have Farnon see her, said as offhand and casually as if she’s just remarking on Percy having twisted her hoof and lost a shoe. And somewhere in the absurdity of this entire situation, Stephen just—

The entire past month-plus has been a perpetual migraine, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s pinched his brow in annoyed consternation, but this time he finally just laughs, shoulders shaking. Gwenaëlle adopted a fire-breathing dracolisk. Sure. This might as well happen. All that anxiety and fear and adrenaline of the day has mingled together, finally venting itself as sheer dumb hilarity now that they’re here and it’s quiet and it’s safe.

“I jumped off the templar tower as it was collapsing,” he says, blurting out his own stupid admission, “without a griffon or a rope. I’d gone back for the cloak.”

[elegiaque]

Almost certainly, there's a moment where some spike of fear lurches behind her ribcage and she does want — at least a little — to tell him exactly how unacceptable it is to her that he should be careless with something so important to her, which is him. Her care has ever been more comfortably delivered either physically or in the form of relentless scolding,

but, despite herself that does sound like an incredible thing to have survived to come back to her, such that she's sort of equal parts disappointed that she missed seeing it, and also:

“If Clarisse or Carsus murder me after the fact, it's because I jumped from his griffon to hers without giving either of them sufficient warning,” so actually, they might be even. “He did say if I'm alive, he'll kill me, and I don't even know what language she was bollocking me in when she caught me—”

[portalling]

There is that little lurch, hearing it. It’s like they continually strive to deliver each other perpetual shocks, a jolt to see if your heart’s still behaving as it should. It does, and it is.

A more normal, sensible, regulated person would probably react more strongly about those unwise risks, but Stephen’s from a world of people doing ridiculous death-defying stunts in mid-air. Heights had stopped being a problem for him, and despite the fact that they’re now a risk again, that still requires unraveling years of being aggressively flippant about gravity. Old habits. They’re both built this way, unwisely.

“Probably Greek,” Stephen says, and he reaches behind him to catch Gwenaëlle’s hand; tilts his head to the side and presses a kiss to her wrist, away from the sudsy soap over her palm and knuckles. “Have I mentioned that I love you?”

[elegiaque]

What even is Greek. Nevermind that for now—

“It might have come up,” she allows, bumping her knee against him lightly, fondly. Contrary how much easier it feels it would be, seeing him leap instead of only hearing about it later, but maybe that's a conversation they can have on a dracolisk sometime. They do work so well together, historically. She'd spent much of the day trying to put the thought of where he might be and what he might be doing out of her head,

now they're here. Safe. Warm. Mostly whole, or close enough to good enough. She's got a small container in her other hand, ready to rinse his hair, and she strokes her thumb against his cheekbone where he's leaned to kiss her wrist.

“I love you, too.”

It weighs on her, sometimes, what Iorveth had said. That he could not be all that he was, and love. That he would hesitate, for that love—

It propels her, she thinks. It's the point.

slaps a bow on it

[portalling]

It’s the point. And as much as a part of Stephen Strange sometimes still finds himself terrified and skittish at the thought of being so attached, of making himself vulnerable again—

It is, still, indescribably nice to have someone to come home to at the end of an awful day.

He eases into it. Gwenaëlle perched behind him and her fingers massaging his scalp, the warm water rinsing through his hair, washing away the dust and ash and smoke and traces of the battle. Afterward, there’ll be a clean bed to fall into, warm and comfortable (and nothing like a tent on cold stony ground), where he’ll wind an arm around Gwenaëlle and fall asleep with his face against her shoulder, before he’s inevitably up at dawn to return to Lowtown. To join the relief efforts, pick through the wreckage, search for more dead bodies, and chip in where he can.

The work doesn’t end. The war doesn’t end, for love. But it at least goes a way towards making it bearable.