WHO: Siorus + You; Bastien & Byerly & Benedict & Vega WHAT: Warden intro, dinner party. WHEN: Spring 9:50 WHERE: Various NOTES: Catch-all for some open and closed stuff.
A deep inhale, exhaled as a sigh with, "Yeah," on the tail of it. "We'd need to go fast."
He gives Isaac a sidelong once-over. The calculation contains a hint of old man, very debatably warranted from anyone fewer than twenty years younger. Maybe it's thin man. Short for breath man.
How much would anyone miss a new face? How many griffon eggs can he plausibly invent? Four? Four is good, significant, but few enough that they won't overrun -
The chief question's this: How many darkspawn are on this mountain? And it's maybe one more, if he ditches Siorus.
"I’m not getting mauled without witnesses, they’ll only call it a heart attack," He saw that look. "Alright."
No armor, thick arms; if Siorus isn't planning swordplay, perhaps he'll pitch them off the mountain. Not the worst plan - the path breaks to cliff-edge, steep enough to skitter.
"Keep them off me," Isaac finally straightens, the staff angling out sharp. "And I’ll keep them confused."
This is a terrible idea. They all are; you pick the least, and hope for the best.
For a second Siorus' expression pinches, brow furrowing less with confusion—though his life has left him unfamiliar with the full scope and style of Andrastian mages' abilities—than with a desire to press for further information for the sake of it. He resists, and he smiles. "Deal."
The cliffside path ahead switches back to wrap around the mountain in the other direction. The darkspawn are both ahead and above, which would be fine if they were too stupid to use bows and projectiles, but Thedas has never been so lucky. They could hide, or back up and wait for them to come around the bend, or he could ask Isaac to climb, or.
Siorus stands there, thinks it through, says, "I'll be right back," and folds himself into a large bird, brown and charitably ugly-cute. Its eyes aren't made for the daylight, but neither are darkspawns', so they're even.
He leaves Isaac behind to flit up the cliffside, pausing here and there on scrubby branches to reevaluate his positioning, and disappears over the upper edge.
Then: heavy thudding footsteps, first only rattling rocks loose to skitter down onto the path below, then heralding four blighted bodies that go sliding over the edge. It's orderly: they're escaping, not being thrown, sliding down on their armored hips or backs with weapons in hand.
Isaac startles for the bird. You hear of these things. It’s just another to witness it, the strange, blurred moment where man becomes — owlet?
(He has questions, too. They'll both have to wait.)
So that takes a moment. One in which it occurs to Isaac that they haven’t exchanged either half of the plan in whole. The first crude body to barrel down comes a shock. The rest, a recoil: For all his time in the Approach, Ghislain, a half dozen skirmishes; it’s only intensified. Lips close, lungs shut, a struggling reflex against the unnatural.
But they haven’t seen him just yet. Isaac's knuckles whiten over his staff. Not a channel, here and now, but a talisman. It’s always a sign, He’d said. That something’s gone to shit.
Fingers flex. Fade ripples, thickens; drags the brood's momentum into strange, seasick spiral. Two hurlocks stall, a third staggers into open air, metal crashing down the cliffside. The last, though — taller, burlier, an arrow fletching its skull — shrugs the spell aside.
And turns to lay eyes on Isaac. It rolls an axe in hand.
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no subject
He gives Isaac a sidelong once-over. The calculation contains a hint of old man, very debatably warranted from anyone fewer than twenty years younger. Maybe it's thin man. Short for breath man.
"Or you could go around."
no subject
How much would anyone miss a new face? How many griffon eggs can he plausibly invent? Four? Four is good, significant, but few enough that they won't overrun -
The chief question's this: How many darkspawn are on this mountain? And it's maybe one more, if he ditches Siorus.
"I’m not getting mauled without witnesses, they’ll only call it a heart attack," He saw that look. "Alright."
No armor, thick arms; if Siorus isn't planning swordplay, perhaps he'll pitch them off the mountain. Not the worst plan - the path breaks to cliff-edge, steep enough to skitter.
"Keep them off me," Isaac finally straightens, the staff angling out sharp. "And I’ll keep them confused."
This is a terrible idea. They all are; you pick the least, and hope for the best.
no subject
The cliffside path ahead switches back to wrap around the mountain in the other direction. The darkspawn are both ahead and above, which would be fine if they were too stupid to use bows and projectiles, but Thedas has never been so lucky. They could hide, or back up and wait for them to come around the bend, or he could ask Isaac to climb, or.
Siorus stands there, thinks it through, says, "I'll be right back," and folds himself into a large bird, brown and charitably ugly-cute. Its eyes aren't made for the daylight, but neither are darkspawns', so they're even.
He leaves Isaac behind to flit up the cliffside, pausing here and there on scrubby branches to reevaluate his positioning, and disappears over the upper edge.
Then: heavy thudding footsteps, first only rattling rocks loose to skitter down onto the path below, then heralding four blighted bodies that go sliding over the edge. It's orderly: they're escaping, not being thrown, sliding down on their armored hips or backs with weapons in hand.
no subject
(He has questions, too. They'll both have to wait.)
So that takes a moment. One in which it occurs to Isaac that they haven’t exchanged either half of the plan in whole. The first crude body to barrel down comes a shock. The rest, a recoil: For all his time in the Approach, Ghislain, a half dozen skirmishes; it’s only intensified. Lips close, lungs shut, a struggling reflex against the unnatural.
But they haven’t seen him just yet. Isaac's knuckles whiten over his staff. Not a channel, here and now, but a talisman. It’s always a sign, He’d said. That something’s gone to shit.
Fingers flex. Fade ripples, thickens; drags the brood's momentum into strange, seasick spiral. Two hurlocks stall, a third staggers into open air, metal crashing down the cliffside. The last, though — taller, burlier, an arrow fletching its skull — shrugs the spell aside.
And turns to lay eyes on Isaac. It rolls an axe in hand.
Ah. Ah, shit.