WHO: Bastien, Nicola, Evka, & their illustrious colleagues WHAT: Working hard or hardly working WHEN: Later summer WHERE: Various! NOTES: Starters for people who asked me for them. If you did not ask me for one but wish you had, it's never too late.
Nicola's role in this endeavor so far has been largely ornamental, and it took him about two minutes to realize that: the only reason Athénaïs couldn't have charmed her way into accessing this half-buried ruin on her own is the shape of her ears, and charm might not have been necessary in the first place, the way it's tucked into the hills out of sight of the Lord and Lady Astier's residence and guards. They could never have known Riftwatch was here.
Although there's something to be said for letting people believe they've done you a favor, Nicola thinks. They get to be pleased with themselves about it, and they'll like Riftwatch a little bit more in the bargain, and perhaps they'll tell their friends about their good deed, and their friends will think better of them too. That's the optimistic thought. He does his best to entertain it, standing here holding a torch, looking at crumbling statues of ravens rather than watching what Athénaïs is doing with some arcane arrangement of interlocking rings and glowing runes. Not remotely his area of expertise.
So when there's a flash of bright light, then a rush of wind that snuffs out his torch and plunges the room into darkness, he also gets to spend a moment entertaining the optimistic thought that it was supposed to do that.
A moment, but not more than that, because in the dark there is a feminine, Nevarran voice saying,
“Ah, fuck,”
which never bodes well in any accent, but arguably least of all that one.
For a moment, it feels as if the very stone around them is holding its breath— and then a hand closes around his elbow, and that same voice says, “I think I spotted a shortcut on the way in,” which is also not very comforting.
Evka prefers killing darkspawn. Grosser, sure. Often a sign of worse danger to come. But it's easier, for one thing, when she knows they're coming and from which side. And for another, she doesn't have to wonder who their mothers are. She knows exactly who their mothers are, and she'll kill them, too, if she has the chance.
Though these poor bastards' mothers, whoever they are, should have taught them enough manners to keep them from accosting travelers on the road. At least a few did the smart thing and ran away. Another two, unconscious on the ground, will probably survive their injuries. The last, not so much. Evka wrenches her axe out of his chest and casts a glance at her traveling companion, who's nearly two feet taller than her and wielding a sword dropped by one of the highwaymen before they fled and who —
Well. He tried.
"Aren't you a mage?" she asks. She doesn't sound annoyed. Mostly confused, in a good-natured way. Whatever he is, it's ended well enough.
"Not that kind of mage," Connor snaps back, defensive at—well, the annoyance he thought he'd heard, anyway. This was supposed to be a research trip, sending a Warden along with him was a formality, and now look—two unconscious, one dead, who knows how many more in the wind! And he and the Warden can't carry on to the goal like this and just leave two bandits with their dead friend, it's... Well, it's just unkind, if not unethical.
He stands over the two unconscious bandits, sword still in hand—for all the good it did him to have it. Honestly, he was about as useful with the blade as he might have been with magic. Serves him right for thinking half-remembered lessons from twenty years ago would be of any use now, probably.
"We don't all throw fireballs," he mutters, lifting the sword, squinting, trying to remember—first position, what was first position again?
His tone tics her eyebrows up, but Evka doesn't rise to meet it. Somehow she makes wiping blood off an axe look mild mannered, though she's eyeing the dead man with a mixture of judgment and regret writ plainly on her face. Poor bastard. Emphasis on the bastard.
"I guess I've known a few who threw lightning bolts," she says, agreeable and not at the same time. Her glance up is quick and curious, clocking what he's doing. Attempting to do. All right. "Sorry," is a courtesy. "The Wardens usually only recruit the one kind."
No need to use Orzammar as an excuse for any ignorance. Most human Wardens had never met a mage, either, in her experience, before they joined.
One of the unconscious bandits groans. Evka slips her axe back into her belt and steps around her hammer, left balanced on its head where she'd dropped it when trading for more agile tactics, to make quick work of tying their hands together with their belt. Waking up is fine. Waking up with ideas about further violence, not so much.
He bristles again at first, but softens, slowly, at her apology. A moment of consideration, then— he nods, in acceptance and allowance.
"I know about as much of dwarves who don't handle lyrium, I expect."
It mightn't be the norm, but he knows more about Wardens than dwarves, really. There was Alistair, and the Hero of Ferelden, but at the beginning of the war there were mages, too, who joined the rebels whenever their paths crossed. Members of the fold who did what they could, shared stories of freedom (of excess, of violence, of why mages are feared) and returned to the order with new recruits. Dwarves were only ever temporary bedfellows, first lyrium smugglers for the rebels, then legitimate dealers for the Académie. The closest he's come to a dwarf not having something to do with lyrium was Dagna in Kinloch Hold, and she barely counted—
The bandit groans, and Connor steps back. He's no help as the Warden ties their hands together, standing to the side with his useless sword in his useless hands, frowning.
"We can't leave them here, can we? It's—unkind, at least. Irresponsible. They need a trial."
"This would be a great place to attack, actually," Evka says to Barrow. She has to say it less up at him than she normally might: they and a few dozen other onlookers have been corralled into stands not unlike those for watching a jousting match, and she's standing on a bench to have any hope of seeing the field before them.
Surrounding them are an assortment of high-ranking city guardsmen, lords and knights from across Thedas, each with an interest in protecting somewhere or other from dracolisks, dragons, and sieges. They know what happened to Starkhaven. And to Nevarra. And to Kirkwall. And wherever else. So here they are: a concentrated collection of people heavily involved in the defense of their respective homes, watching demonstrations from an enterprising team of dwarven craftsman who will come to your city and help you build their antisiege and antidragon equipment for the low low price of —
"If you were Tevinter," she clarifies when the one standing in front of her twists around to give her a look. She's not attacking anyone, although the Warden blues probably don't make that as obvious as they would have twenty years ago.
Puffing blandly at a cigarette, his eyes narrowed shrewdly at the displays below, Barrow sitting hunched is probably around the same height as Evka standing on the bench. Is there anything worth seeing here? Dwarven crafts are said to be fine,
"Maker, don't give them ideas," he grunts at Evka, but casts her a quick smile to dissuade any actual guilt. "They'd have their work cut out for them, anyway."
If Evka were Tevinter — Venatori — whoever — she'd make it quick. Security's lower here than in a palace or a keep. The right artifact smuggled in beneath the stand, and bam, dozens of people instrumental to the defense of the enemy gone.
She doesn't say so, but the way she does a swift look over their gathered company might give away that she's thinking it. The tally's cut short, though, by the sound of one of the ballistas being loosed in the direction of the target: a large, if not true-to-size, leather and wood frame dragon held on a platform at the other end of the field. Without blood, guts, or bone to slow down the bolt, it flies clear through.
She's not sure it's any better than what they already have, but that's Barrow's purview. And it does get a little more interesting after the fact, when an archer on the ground shoots a flaming arrow at the dragon. The ballista bolt left some sort of substance behind on the leather; the resultant crackling and popping when it's set on fire does at least sound impressive.
"Everyone here's got some connection to warfare, eh? And there's," he gestures down to the siege weaponry, which, granted, would have to be recalibrated to aim at whatever assailants. He hates that he's thinking about this now.
"Form chokepoints," he mutters, lowering his voice-- don't need to spook anyone sitting nearby-- "give the dwarves on the ground some time to realign if there's anyone airborne. Anyone not carrying a weapon these days..." Is taking their life in their hands, he doesn't bother saying aloud.
These kinds of things are much easier and faster to set up when there's a real man out there, so Andry Prudhomme is a real man. He is a real collector of oddities and artifacts, with real money, who really lives in Orlais. He undoubtedly has real servants, and perhaps he's kinder to them than this unreal Andry Prudhomme is being to poor Wolstan during their illicit visit to Carastes. The unreal Andry Prudhomme is curt and quick to scold and, presently, raising a hand and snapping his fingers to summon Wolstan closer like a dog.
"Our host believes we would not have seen these in Orlais," he says in a highbrow accent that curls the words like the more ostentatious mustache Bastien did not, tragically, have time to grow for the part — but Andry Prudhomme's soul has one, clearly.
His look at Wolstan is expectant: back him up, it says, we see them every day, in a transparent request for a lie.
Their host, Sceparnio Dulcitius, looks between them with a little crease between his eyebrows. He's gentle, for a Vint who's at least still casually loyal to Minrtathous. A Laetan academic who would rather be studying things than selling them, but in these difficult times his nonmagical family needs the money, and they don't need him to like Andry Prudhomme. They need him to feel some camaraderie with Wolstan.
The most difficult part about being Wolstan is hiding his delight at how mean Bastien is being. Every time his darling sneers at him or curls his finger or says something withering, Byerly just wants to lean back and kick his feet and giggle with delight. It's just delicious. He's delicious. Byerly wants to kiss him all over.
But it will absolutely spoil what they're trying to do if he starts wriggling like a little dog or making bedroom eyes at his love. So he needs to put quite a lot of effort into seeming harried and unhappy.
"Well," says Wolstan, in an accent that sounds Marcher but with a faint flavor of having lived a long while in Orlais, not that Sceparnio is likely to have the ear to appreciate the exquisite subtlety of the choice, "I'm not sure..." And then he glances at Monsieur Prudhomme, licks his lips, and says weakly, "If they're really so very remarkable. Because we've seen a great number of them. In Orlais?"
His nervous eyes dart over to Dulcitius, looking at him pleadingly, like he's desperate to get confirmation that the man had believed that weak lie.
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athénaïs!
Although there's something to be said for letting people believe they've done you a favor, Nicola thinks. They get to be pleased with themselves about it, and they'll like Riftwatch a little bit more in the bargain, and perhaps they'll tell their friends about their good deed, and their friends will think better of them too. That's the optimistic thought. He does his best to entertain it, standing here holding a torch, looking at crumbling statues of ravens rather than watching what Athénaïs is doing with some arcane arrangement of interlocking rings and glowing runes. Not remotely his area of expertise.
So when there's a flash of bright light, then a rush of wind that snuffs out his torch and plunges the room into darkness, he also gets to spend a moment entertaining the optimistic thought that it was supposed to do that.
so i thought i tagged this at least a week ago
“Ah, fuck,”
which never bodes well in any accent, but arguably least of all that one.
For a moment, it feels as if the very stone around them is holding its breath— and then a hand closes around his elbow, and that same voice says, “I think I spotted a shortcut on the way in,” which is also not very comforting.
connor!
Though these poor bastards' mothers, whoever they are, should have taught them enough manners to keep them from accosting travelers on the road. At least a few did the smart thing and ran away. Another two, unconscious on the ground, will probably survive their injuries. The last, not so much. Evka wrenches her axe out of his chest and casts a glance at her traveling companion, who's nearly two feet taller than her and wielding a sword dropped by one of the highwaymen before they fled and who —
Well. He tried.
"Aren't you a mage?" she asks. She doesn't sound annoyed. Mostly confused, in a good-natured way. Whatever he is, it's ended well enough.
no subject
He stands over the two unconscious bandits, sword still in hand—for all the good it did him to have it. Honestly, he was about as useful with the blade as he might have been with magic. Serves him right for thinking half-remembered lessons from twenty years ago would be of any use now, probably.
"We don't all throw fireballs," he mutters, lifting the sword, squinting, trying to remember—first position, what was first position again?
no subject
"I guess I've known a few who threw lightning bolts," she says, agreeable and not at the same time. Her glance up is quick and curious, clocking what he's doing. Attempting to do. All right. "Sorry," is a courtesy. "The Wardens usually only recruit the one kind."
No need to use Orzammar as an excuse for any ignorance. Most human Wardens had never met a mage, either, in her experience, before they joined.
One of the unconscious bandits groans. Evka slips her axe back into her belt and steps around her hammer, left balanced on its head where she'd dropped it when trading for more agile tactics, to make quick work of tying their hands together with their belt. Waking up is fine. Waking up with ideas about further violence, not so much.
no subject
"I know about as much of dwarves who don't handle lyrium, I expect."
It mightn't be the norm, but he knows more about Wardens than dwarves, really. There was Alistair, and the Hero of Ferelden, but at the beginning of the war there were mages, too, who joined the rebels whenever their paths crossed. Members of the fold who did what they could, shared stories of freedom (of excess, of violence, of why mages are feared) and returned to the order with new recruits. Dwarves were only ever temporary bedfellows, first lyrium smugglers for the rebels, then legitimate dealers for the Académie. The closest he's come to a dwarf not having something to do with lyrium was Dagna in Kinloch Hold, and she barely counted—
The bandit groans, and Connor steps back. He's no help as the Warden ties their hands together, standing to the side with his useless sword in his useless hands, frowning.
"We can't leave them here, can we? It's—unkind, at least. Irresponsible. They need a trial."
barrow!
Surrounding them are an assortment of high-ranking city guardsmen, lords and knights from across Thedas, each with an interest in protecting somewhere or other from dracolisks, dragons, and sieges. They know what happened to Starkhaven. And to Nevarra. And to Kirkwall. And wherever else. So here they are: a concentrated collection of people heavily involved in the defense of their respective homes, watching demonstrations from an enterprising team of dwarven craftsman who will come to your city and help you build their antisiege and antidragon equipment for the low low price of —
"If you were Tevinter," she clarifies when the one standing in front of her twists around to give her a look. She's not attacking anyone, although the Warden blues probably don't make that as obvious as they would have twenty years ago.
enter one (1) industrious colleague
"Maker, don't give them ideas," he grunts at Evka, but casts her a quick smile to dissuade any actual guilt. "They'd have their work cut out for them, anyway."
no subject
If Evka were Tevinter — Venatori — whoever — she'd make it quick. Security's lower here than in a palace or a keep. The right artifact smuggled in beneath the stand, and bam, dozens of people instrumental to the defense of the enemy gone.
She doesn't say so, but the way she does a swift look over their gathered company might give away that she's thinking it. The tally's cut short, though, by the sound of one of the ballistas being loosed in the direction of the target: a large, if not true-to-size, leather and wood frame dragon held on a platform at the other end of the field. Without blood, guts, or bone to slow down the bolt, it flies clear through.
She's not sure it's any better than what they already have, but that's Barrow's purview. And it does get a little more interesting after the fact, when an archer on the ground shoots a flaming arrow at the dragon. The ballista bolt left some sort of substance behind on the leather; the resultant crackling and popping when it's set on fire does at least sound impressive.
no subject
"Form chokepoints," he mutters, lowering his voice-- don't need to spook anyone sitting nearby-- "give the dwarves on the ground some time to realign if there's anyone airborne. Anyone not carrying a weapon these days..." Is taking their life in their hands, he doesn't bother saying aloud.
byerly 💕
"Our host believes we would not have seen these in Orlais," he says in a highbrow accent that curls the words like the more ostentatious mustache Bastien did not, tragically, have time to grow for the part — but Andry Prudhomme's soul has one, clearly.
His look at Wolstan is expectant: back him up, it says, we see them every day, in a transparent request for a lie.
Their host, Sceparnio Dulcitius, looks between them with a little crease between his eyebrows. He's gentle, for a Vint who's at least still casually loyal to Minrtathous. A Laetan academic who would rather be studying things than selling them, but in these difficult times his nonmagical family needs the money, and they don't need him to like Andry Prudhomme. They need him to feel some camaraderie with Wolstan.
kissyface kissyface
But it will absolutely spoil what they're trying to do if he starts wriggling like a little dog or making bedroom eyes at his love. So he needs to put quite a lot of effort into seeming harried and unhappy.
"Well," says Wolstan, in an accent that sounds Marcher but with a faint flavor of having lived a long while in Orlais, not that Sceparnio is likely to have the ear to appreciate the exquisite subtlety of the choice, "I'm not sure..." And then he glances at Monsieur Prudhomme, licks his lips, and says weakly, "If they're really so very remarkable. Because we've seen a great number of them. In Orlais?"
His nervous eyes dart over to Dulcitius, looking at him pleadingly, like he's desperate to get confirmation that the man had believed that weak lie.