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

friendship is magic.

[elegiaque]

During the battle, Gwenaëlle had knocked a dracolisk out of the sky— booted the mage on her back, bore her down at a speed that probably could have killed them both but didn't (though a good deal of what Isaac had healed had been from that impact, rolling across rubble, her head ringing), and upon consideration had taken the time to secure the (unconscious) animal. Vaguely, she'd had it in mind they ought to see if these dracolisks are bred or altered, but,

when she returns, afterwards, it's hard not to be sort of moved by the thing. And they had been astonishing in the sky, maneuverable, clearly trained. If such a thing could be put to Riftwatch's use instead, well.

Wouldn't that be something. Probably she should talk to literally anyone before doing this, but the day gets blurry around the edges and she's never had what you'd call incredible impulse control around her own safety (thus, of course, the multiple dives through the air—) so she doesn't. She spends some time securing an interim sort of stable, lashing her harness to prevent it from easily fleeing, and dedicates a couple of hours to coaxing it to accept food. She will, she knows, need to discuss with Farnon how to ensure that she hasn't taken any serious, ongoing harm from the battle (maybe, since she'd hit from behind and so fast, the creature won't remember how she got her here) — that can wait.

The second day, it's going a little better. The beast is snapping less at her hands when she offers her meat, though she hasn't settled enough that she can get close enough to give a half-decent preliminary examination herself—

especially as she's not not snapping at her. From a distance, it will look a lot as if some surviving dracolisk is trying to eat Gwenaëlle when she hears footsteps and calls, “I'm running out of meat, if you want to be useful,”

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[luaithre]

"Hm."

He can't comment as to Farnon's temperament, but he's seen Inquisition riders wrangle the normal sort of dracolisk before, never mind the Venatori. With a grunt, he transitions out of his kneeling into a sit, more spectator and advisor than active wrangler. (If he has to scramble to his feet to throw in his assistance, he'll be very cross, and make her explain it to Isaac.)

"I don't know very much about their behaviours," Marcus says, with a nod to the beast. "But most animals we use this way are herding creatures. Social. Food is a decent way to get them on side, but," a shrug, "that's better for dogs and cats. Time is the thing, for a reluctant horse."

A little doubtful, his pause. Dracolisks don't behave like horses at all. He considers his griffon. He says, "That, or jumping into the saddle and forcing the issue might be the way."

[elegiaque]

Dracolisks really do not behave much like horses. On the other hand, the idea of a nervous horse capable of breathing fire—

probably for the best they don't have too much in common. Gwenaëlle considers this, visibly doing the math on how quickly she thinks she could get her hands on those reins to keep the dracolisk's fire aimed away from her, and certainly how sure she is that she could then keep it also aimed away from Marcus. (And maybe Isaac should just do a better job of healing people, but that's neither here nor there even if it would probably free Marcus from the conversation at incredible speed.)

“If I die, don't tell everyone it was stupid,” she says.

[luaithre]

"They can form their own conclusions."

And he won't be telling him his part in it.

Also: his sit on the ground is casual, unworried. Worst comes to worst, he can deflect fire just fine. Gwenaëlle is preternaturally spry. The most concerning part of this would be the dracolisk forcing their hand against it, aside from some freak accident.

"Go slowly. See if you can get a hand on its tether and release it, first."

[elegiaque]

It's good advice, so she determines to follow it: approaching from the same sideways angle she's been at, the restless dracolisk clearly conscious of her but not — yet, for now? — turning her head. Ears that are listening, but at least in this moment not perceiving a threat.

Good. Good. Gwenaëlle eases nearer, mindful of her footing, of how quickly she could move back if she has to, reaching,

pausing, when that head moves, but not so much to stop. She snags the reins and the dracolisk swivels sharply, sharp enough she nearly jerks ill-advisedly back with them gripped in a hand— doesn't. Holds them up, then lets them fall, hands where the beast can see them, keeping her posture as relaxed as she can forcibly make it.

[luaithre]

Unbeknownst to both woman and lizard, Marcus quietly draws some energy through the Veil, collecting it low in his chest. In case of emergencies, he won't want to be caught flat footed. In spite of that preparation, he stays relaxed where he sits—a deliberate thing—and watchful. Doesn't try to catch the dracolisk's eye.

"Once you're on," he continues, keeping his tone the same sort of register and pitch as before, "keep the reins tight, bringing its nose down. It'll feel cruel when it struggles," he assumes, anyway, that Gwenaëlle harbours the same kind of empathy for beasts of burden that he might, "but it'll give it less choices. Her," he adds, obliging.

At least, that is how it is with horses. He imagines that, as a tool for riding, there must be overlap.

[elegiaque]

A safe assumption with Gwenaëlle, even if it isn't necessarily a given for everyone who has as many animals as she does— the nobility of Orlais being what they are, and all. But she is nodding, listening, and the things he says align neatly into something that makes sense and that she can use. That can be turned into action, under her hands, and hopefully;

not require the magic banked in him for breaking in case of emergencies.

“Oh-kay,” sort of under her breath when she takes the reins again, gripping, and rushes the saddle—

the dracolisk rears back, but Gwenaëlle is preternaturally spry, and she's already landing when the creature thinks to protest, hauling on the reins with that tight grip to bring it down again, forcing the issue. That it feels cruel is sort of a footnote to the fact that it is immediately fucking difficult, and all of her energy needs must serve actually doing the thing instead of feeling any sort of way about it if she wants to.

A burst of fire doesn't get far enough to actually do any harm.