![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
closed | nessum prison blues
WHO: Bastien, Byerly, Talin, Tav, Teren, and Vlast
WHAT: Prison break
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere (October) 9:50
WHERE: Southern Tevinter. Not actually Nessum–the post title is a joke—but somewhere in the wilderness not too far from there.
NOTES: OOC post. General violence cw.
WHAT: Prison break
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere (October) 9:50
WHERE: Southern Tevinter. Not actually Nessum–the post title is a joke—but somewhere in the wilderness not too far from there.
NOTES: OOC post. General violence cw.
The trap is not immediately apparent. They're met by a man dressed as their contact, Georgios, was meant to be dressed. Maybe the clothes are a little too big on him—but the People of the Silent Plains have bigger things to worry about than careful tailoring. Maybe his manner is a little wary and skittish, but he's a freedom fighter on the outskirts of a war zone meeting a group of strangers, some of them wholly alien, to escort to the People's hiding place.
And maybe the plan was meant to go better than this. Maybe the Vints waiting at the end of the road with their grenades and telekinetic prison spells planned to mount a more organized attack, neat and swift, once everyone had been lured into long-parched desert ravine ahead.
But something gives it away first. "Georgios" grows a little too anxious on the approach; the wind catching his jacket and lifting it enough to show a flash of a bloodstain on the back of his shirt that's too dark and too maroon not to be from earlier this same day. A glimpse, if nothing else, of one of the people lying in wait ahead of them, something in their posture that twigs as too tense, not quite right for a lookout protecting a hide-out and only seeing an expected group of visitors on the approach. Regardless of what tips various members of the group off, it's enough forewarning for them refuse to be led quietly into the corral that's been set up for them.
Half a chase, half a fight. The grenades and dirty magic tricks still come out. So do more drastic measures: arrows, fire, the blunt sides of heavy swords. Threats to cut the throats of whomever's been caught first if whomever's still fighting doesn't lay down their weapon. One way or another, in the end, everyone's wrangled into a wagon, hands bound and heads covered with sacks to obscure their view of where they're being taken. No gags, though. There's no one out here to hear them.
escaped!
The guard who retrieves Talin from Viator's hastily-thrown-together interrogation chamber is tall, human, redheaded and freckled and sunburned, and in need of a haircut. While he talks to Viator he stands up straight, but he's terse and mumbly, and once he's led Talin out of the room by the shoulder he slouches and says, "Asshole."
The door ahead is open. He's been watching the other prisoners, only popping out when called to fetch the elven man back to his cell. He's supposed to trade him for one of the humans; the Qunari clearly needs more than one person to wrangle him, at least if you're a Vint who assumes every Qunari is going to go on a rampage at the least provocation, and the other elf's suspected of magic. The keys to all three of the cell doors, among other things, are jangling in his free hand, knocking now and then against the hilt of his sheathed sword. Any concern that someone (other than the Qunari, of course, whose behavior can't be predicted) might try to fight is outweighed by how suicidal that would be. There's the rest of the fortress behind him.
Anyway, Marcian—that's the guard's name—is an affable young man who's asked after the nastier-looking wounds and dropped off some hard tack as an unauthorized treat. He's pretty sure the prisoners like him. They're practically buddies.
"Between you and me," he says to Talin as they approach the cells, "I won't complain if none of you talk. He'll be so fucking smug if you do."
no subject
"That means a lot," Talin says, serious. Marcian smiles at him with an expression that says yeah, I know, aren't I a great guy? as they stop in front of Talin's cell, where Bastien awaits the return of his cellmate. Talin stops just a step or two behind him, waiting, watching as the Vint reaches into his pocket for the keys. Marcian slides the key into the lock and turns it, and there's the snick of an opening door.
There is also the wet sound of a knife piercing a throat.
From behind, Talin can't see Marcian's face, but he can feel the panicked puff of his breath against his palm, hear the gurgling that means he's trying to scream. Talin pulls the knife out, flips it into the air to change his grip, and stabs up from beneath Marcian's armpit. The knife's not long enough to pierce the heart, but hopefully he got a lung, at least. At the very least, the Vint will bleed out faster.
He lets Marcian drop in an unceremonious heap, pausing only long enough to ensure the guard doesn't get up again before he pushes the door to the cell open and pulls the key out of the lock.
To Bastien, "Can you run?"
no subject
The answer to will it hurt to run would be different. The answer to will you make something worse, long term, if you run would also be different. But those weren't the question.
He's on his feet. He only limps because there's no reason not to right now. No need to fool or impress any of the other people in the room. Marcian's blood is pooling out around his crumpled form. Talin has the keys—the most important thing, right now—but it won't take both of them to open the other two cells. Bastien crouches beside the young man's not-yet-entirely-dead body and turns him onto his back.
Giving him a little more dignity is a side effect. It's mostly to reach his pockets. His belt buckle, with the sheath and sword attached to it. But there's still a fading light in his eyes, faint shades of panic and disbelief as his attempts as his attempts to gasp air turn into more hectic twitches, so Bastien looks him in the face in the meantime.
"Don't fight it," he says quietly. "It's all right. Think about home."
As captors go, the boy wasn't so bad.
a million gomens for slow
compassion.
Talin steps over Marcian's body, unfeeling, to limp to the next cells, letting everyone out.
"Can everyone run when necessary?"
He's looking specifically at Vlast, trying to gauge how injured he is and if, push came to shove, they could have him carry someone—multiple someones, maybe.
no subject
Still, he's not entirely sure if he can heal after he was unable to do so when he returned from the Fade. Perhaps his magic is still weak or non-existant. Who knows what silencing wards may be in effect into the hallway.
also a thousand pardons for slow - work's been absolutely nuts
"Get this thing off me," he snarls, "I can move just fine."
The chains may pose a problem, but once they're unlocked (by key or pick), and he's got the feeling back in his arms and legs, he's unsteady but mobile, and more than ready to get out.
no subject
"Toss us a pin," she rasps, "'less you've got the manacle keys."
no subject
"You can't run," is said less as a question than a statement of fact, considering the all of her.
no subject
They open with a click, and she reclines once more with a pained sigh, but the keys are granted to Vlast for his muzzle. Naptime.
no subject
It's tossed aside like the trash it is, and for a moment Vlast stands tall, in pure spite of the injuries and humiliation their captors thought to inflict on him.
"I can carry her," he says as Teren slumps. He kneels, checking if she's still breathing. "They were not as kind to her as the rest of us."
no subject
"Mm," she grunts, perhaps in something like protest, but clearly in no shape to actually do so.