faderift | [ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

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[ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

WHO: Alistair, Araceli Bonaventura, Beleth Ashara, ~~Anders~~ Detlef, Korrin Ataash, Taashath, The Iron Bull, Twisted Fate, an Zevran Arainai. Guest Starring: Samouel, Cyril, and Merrick, Super Special Guest Star: Leliana.
WHAT: The Crows come for the Ombra Nera.
WHEN: Begins Guardian 6
WHERE: Skyhold/Antivan Border/The Road
NOTES: CW/TW FOR: Flesh hommonculi, violent/gruesome content, torture, blood magic, non-consensual drug use, adult content, adult language, reader discretion is advised. Sign up post, original plotting post, hit me on PM or @

thesouthernbelle if you have questions.

It's a normal morning in Thedas until, abruptly, it isn't. The Crows come calling; they are swift, they are certain, they are silent and leave behind but one witness that won't be alive for much longer (or so they assume). Prize in hand they ride North for Antiva.

Subthreads for portions of the plot are yours to tag around in as you like!

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"Something terrible," Cyril answers. He glances around, at the humans in the courtyard, and then focuses on her. "Come with me, lethallan."

He doesn't want anyone else to overhear just now, because he isn't sure who he can trust. He quickly leads her to the place where Sam said he found Merrick. As they move, he explains.

"Merrick was attacked. He's alive, but he's unconscious." His voice is tight, because he cannot afford to be emotional when they have to figure out what happened to Zevran. "He's with Sam now. He was training with Zevran and we haven't found him yet. You're going to help me look, and see if we can figure out what happened."

"It was a wild ride, one con after the other."

He thinks about it, briefly. There's a thoughtful look before he's turning his attention back to Zevran, a more pressing and immediate concern. The cards are received, pocketed away for the time being.

The question makes him tilt his head. "No. I was not aware you were missing a valuable. Where do you think it may have been lost?"

"Right now, I think I'd take getting trampled. It might hurt less." Every part of Beleth groans (including her voice) as she nevertheless tries to stand up. But her body already declared the fight done, and the adrenaline keeping her going took a hike, probably somewhere with baths. She was perfectly content to watch from the floor, and roll if necessary, why did everything have to be so difficult.

She eyes the fight between the qunari carefully, even as she slowly rises, moving like an old man in a storm. She could understand why Taas' anger was directed to Iron Bull, and she found it hard to really...care. Taas wasn't going to consider her an enemy, surely, so she was safe. And she couldn't get involved, because that would probably really end up with her getting trampled.

"Alright, let's go. Swinging weapons is bad." Despite all complaints to the contrary, Beleth straightens up to what could be generously called standing, leaning against the mage. Well, here they were. A bunch of jackasses standing in a circle.

Kind of.

"Something I was given the day before." From Alistair. A stone he'd held onto for whatever reason and gifted him. Something from the Blight when times were simple and he knew where he stood. "It was likely lost in the struggle."

Nevermind. Sentiment. Weakness.

"It is unimportant. Tell me of another of your cons?"

She can already feel a sinking in her gut as she hurries after Cyril, head bent towards him so she could hear him speaking. As soon as the words hit, Beleth halts mid-step, staring at Cyril with horrified shock. That sinking feeling twists, like she's been sucker punched. Merrick was attacked. Who could attack Merrick--Who could attack Zevran?

She's not going to find out standing here with her mouth hanging open, so she quickly hurries to catch up to Cyril, finally stopping at the area. Her mind is already racing, and she has to lean against the large rock for a few moments, hand on her face as frantic thoughts bombard her.

"Have you tried getting Zevran on the sending crystal? He could have just left Merrick to train and moved on. If you reach him, get him here. If not--Don't panic." She says, in a panicking voice. "Just--" A few deep breaths. What would her mother do? Beleth tried to channel her, because the daughter certainly had no fucking clue.

"Okay. Look around." She can do that. Simple, easy steps. Categorize everything. Make a list. Inspect the scene. Another breath, and she starts to move around the rock, looking for any kind of clues.

The first is something small, a blackened stone with a white rune polished smooth by years of worried rubbing, knocked loose during whatever scuffle there may or may not have been. Behind the boulder a scrap of fabric torn and snagged upon the rough surface, worn wool with rough stitching similar to what Zevran uses to mend his shirts, double looped knots. Most damning, however, are the scuffed marks of boot leather- a set for Zevran's- and three others of similar shades and textures.

There's wounds being aggravated by Zevran's movements, by the grief wracking his body, and Anders casts as he holds him tight, easing what's pulling and simply being there as the Elf clings to him. A couple know that he'd spent a year in solitary confinement, but Zevran is now the only living person save Anders to know so much of that story. The fact that the Elf can let go enough to weep makes laying himself bare like that worth it.

He hums quietly, an Anders lullaby he's long forgotten the words to, the only thing he remembers of his mother's voice. It's always comforted him. Maybe it will help Zevran too. At the very least he knows that being here, holding and healing, will.

Life is pain. Life is suffering and struggling and running and trying so hard to live just one more day. It's something Justice will never understand. It's something he knows Zevran gets.

"I'm here," he whispers at the end of the tune. "And I can stay here for a while if you'd like. As long as you'd like, even." He's not on guard rotation because he's using all he has to heal Zevran and the others, and he's grateful for the break. "I've nowhere I'd rather be, mein Freund."

Cyril hadn't thought of calling Zevran because he's been on autopilot since Sam called him to tell him about Merrick. The sight that they find though, the signs of struggle against a higher number of opponents, it's not good.

Cyril has been a hunter through all of his adult life, he can figure out what those markings mean. They might not be exactly the same as figuring out a fight between a halla and some wolves, but the hints are clear to him.

He bends a picks up the blackened stone and slips it into his pouch. He doesn't know what it is exactly, but he assumes given the attention it has it must be important. He'll keep it for later.

"Someone took him," he tells Beleth. Saying it aloud makes his chest ache but he doesn't have time to dwell on the cold fear he feels. "We have to tell Skyhold, maybe the Commander or The Iron Bull, someone in charge. They probably attacked Zevran and Merrick while they were training and poisoned Merrick during the fight. Then dragged Zevran away." He points out where the marks are to show her. "They already have a head start."

Edited 2016-02-06 09:16 (UTC)

Little by little it subsides- even if it feels as though he's been crying forever, every tear he never shed in all his years. For Rinna, for Taliesin, for Wynne, for every friendly Crow he'd lost, for every life he took that left him with regret. Every hour he's lost worrying and planning, wound too tight to sleep waiting for something to give. Knowing that this was coming, what would likely be done and living it-

Surviving it-

He weeps. He curls in a tight arc around Anders as best he can, face still pressed to his throat, hands fisted in his robes. Nothing and no one would see him come loose until he was good and ready and he...is still not yet ready. This manner of weakness isn't something he knows how to recover from.

Little hitches overtake his breathing. He manages a faint, wordless whine as he drags himself closer still to Anders. As close as he can mange to asking him to stay.

"The Commander? Cullen? What would he do, besides stand around and look pretty? Maybe blame it on the mages." She snapped it out, words harsher than they'd be with anyone outside of the clan. It's not even that she minds Cullen that much. Panic is gripping her heart as Cyril reaches the conclusion that the evidence is forcing her to as well. She wants something simple, she wants this to turn out to be a prank, they're overthinking it, they're freaking out over nothing--

She leans against the rock again, both hands covering her face now. Deep breaths, deep breaths. She can feel the edge of a fit creeping up on her, and that never helps.

Slowly, slowly, she breathes. Freaking out isn't going to help.

"Lady Nightingale should be the first person alerted. She's Zevran's friend, and whoever came in here didn't do it with an army. The Iron Bull would be another good place to start. He's a trained spy, too." Compartmentalize. Make a list of people. She sorts through who she knows, trying not to look like she's on the edge of a meltdown. She can't look like that around anyone else--Cyril is safe, but they can't do this alone. Fits will have to wait until after people.

"Pel. Pel needs to be told. Gavin. Everyone from our clan. Alistair--I'll tell Alistair. He has to know."

She lifts her face from her hands, turning to Cyril. Then, before everything becomes a rush and tumble of people and questions and theories, she reaches to him, and pulls her clanmate into a tight hug. She's not sure if she's trying to reassure herself, or him, more.

Cyril allows himself that moment of comfort. He needs the hug the moment to deal with what is happening. He is grateful for her and for that moment. There's only a handful he would allow that for himself, but he knows she needs it just as much. After that moment, though, he pulls back. "We need to get going. We know what happened now. We can send messages to the important people to get Zevran found."

Then, after a moment, "Merrick is in our room. I think I'm going to go back to check on him. Can you handle informing people?" A part of him just wants to follow the tracks to find Zevran, but it's bound to be too dangerous. That and he can't leave Merrick alone.

"You can come to the room after too, if you want to see him."

She wants to protest, because she doesn't want to be the one who has to talk to people, who has to try to explain what happened, how it could have happened, when she doesn't even know. She doesn't want to be the one that people try to wring answers out of.

But Cyril needs to go back to Merrick. She knows that any separation from Merrick when he's injured must be killing Cyril, so she just runs a hand through her hair, and pulls out her sending crystal.

"Alright, I'll take care of everything, Cyril. Don't worry. Just--keep an eye on Merrick for me, please. I'll come over as soon as I get some time. Let me know if there are any changes in his condition, please." She presses her lips into a thin line, and starts towards the gate, already beginning to mutter the list of names that would be needed. The sooner they got after these people, the better.

"I'm good," the warrior promises, smiling to Beleth to show he's fine and giving Korrin a nod. "Focus on the-"

Well, shit. This is why he took the rear, though, and he tries to shove Beleth to the side and out of range, before lifting his axe to block the worst of it. Taas barely has time to brace himself, and he groans as the fist knocks him back several steps and makes his upper body scream in protest.

That hurt.

He growls, snarls, roars, swing after swing blocked or mitigated by Korrin's barrier. Not being able to draw more blood is frustrating, why isn't the enemy dead?

The enemy. Ben-Hassrath, his enemy. Not their enemy.

Not the people he tried to protect. Who...

Shit.

Taas stays his axe, chest heaving in forced breaths. What was he doing, again? He eyes the remnants of the golem corpse, and tries to remember, to focus.

It's not working too well, but at least he's not actively trying to chop Bull to pieces.

"Hastas!" Now that he's pausing, Korrin gives that code another try, desperately hoping that he'll be alerted to the vibration of his armband. If that doesn't snap him out of it by now, she's out of ideas.

Beleth moved into Skyhold's gate, lingering to the side. Tasked by Cyril to contact members of the Inquisition who could help with trying to figure out just what in the damned void happened, she formed a short list of necessary people.

Iron Bull, Leliana, and Alistair would all be contacted via sending crystal. There were probably more people she should get, but time and her thoughts were in short supply.

"Hello, um--This is is Scout Beleth Ashara. Please meet me by the main gate as quickly as possible." Pause. Should she spell out what happened? That was one doozy of a message to give a rock. "There's been, ah...There's been a very serious... breach, I think?" Dear Creators, she had to do better than that. Deep breath, think of what you need to say. Cyril trusted her

"We have reason to suspect there has been a serious breach in security by an unknown and hostile group, with one confirmed injury." Whew. "Please, um-- I'll explain. At the gate. Thank you." Good enough. She shut the sending crystal off before she had a chance to make things worse, leaning heavily against the stone wall.

If all else failed, she could always start screaming about blood mages and get the Templars to help when they materialized.

"Kitchen assistant," she snorts, taking a drink of the orzata herself because it's good, she knows it's good because she was there in the making of it, not being any sort of a slouch in the kitchen. "I tease though, Korrin would have managed admirably but some things are better with friends and help, no?"

If that's on the nose then what does she care, her nerves are frayed like an old rope, she's sore and stiff, they could have lost Zevran before they reached him or others in the team in the efforts.

Handing the drink back, she sets about removing her earrings and necklace, the complicated set of lockpicks resting in her lap as she drags a hand through her hair. She sits before he can see her wince, pulling her hand free before she shakes it out over her shoulders so he can work with it more easily.

"Perhaps next time we three might invade the kitchens together, the head cook will have to leave at last, at least for the day."

It was a gift, then. Something lost, and probably more dear than Zevran wants to say. Frankly, he's in a similar situation; Twisted Fate is still kicking himself for having lost his arrowhead during his little run from the bears in Emprise du Lion. He dislikes the idea of having lost it entirely, but it's looking that way.

But it doesn't necessarily have to be that way for Zevran. He'll make a note of it to look.

"Of course. Let's sit for now." Verbally, he presses no further. He knows what to look for. Instead, Twisted Fate gently guides Zevran to sit with him.

"There was a traveling merchant who went by the name Henmar. A very proud dwarf, overpricing his goods and a self-proclaimed negotiator. He had several indebted to him. There were two steps for this con: first, my partner and I agreed that we would, of course, run off with his money. That was the important part. The second? We had to devalue the crafts he was importing. Usually dwarven crafts are reliable, but not when they're made with cheap material by starving underclassed.

"My partner, Malsaam, started first with purchasing armor and a shield. Not that he really used the types, no one would know by looking at him. You see a vashoth, most people assume he's going to hit things with a hammer or something equally enormous. With a bit of ice magic, we made it more brittle as a little insurance for our performance. In the middle of the market in Denerim where Henmar had his shop temporarily set up, we paid someone to attack Malsaam. One strike, and everything cracked. Malsaam pretended to confront Henmar, who did try to defend himself but several others began to feel they were conned by the merchant.

"Henmar lost a great deal of business. I convinced him to play some Wicked Grace with me. I made it seem like I was a naive Dalish elf, so he felt confident he could reclaim some of his losses."

Twisted Fate smiles sharply. "You can imagine how wrong he was. We put him out of business, and ran away with his money."

"Good thing I didn't, then," Alistair says, breaking from his rhythmic scalp-rubbing to straighten out a long strand of blonde hair. "Now we don't have to argue about whether or now I'm allowed to."

He is, for the record, allowed to. He doesn't care if Zevran loses both eyes and his whole mind. But he doesn't want to upset him, so his tone is as light as he can make it, and he tugs equally lightly on the tip of Zevran's ear.

"Budge over."

Or don't budge at all, but be warned: Alistair is shifting and wriggling and repositioning to lie down next to him, offering the crook of his arm for Zevran's face-hiding needs instead of his lap.

Leliana does not take long to arrive. Indeed, she takes an almost alarmingly short time, and when she arrives she moves towards the scout with long strides, quiver full of arrows at her back and a bow in hand, and Maker only knows how many knives could be found on her person.

"What is it?" Quiet and stern in the same moment, urgency not yet dominating her tone. This is a harsher Leliana than the one Beleth saw in the gardens. This is the Nightingale, she who moves swiftly and silently, and whose machinations could make nations shudder. "What has happened here?"

More scouts would be on the way, more beginning the search, many poised awaiting her orders via crystal. How had she missed this? How had they been so infiltrated?

"You aren't." He mutters, and it's not as light as it could be. Everything he endured, everything he turned against himself to see that even a shade of Alistair might yet live-

He has not earned the right to jest about such things. Zevran reaches up to swat at the tug but budges over all the same, slinking out of his blankets enough to plaster himself against his side. Here he is safe, he is warm, he is solid. Here he hides his face for who could possibly wish to see it now? No one. Not even Alistair.

Alistair nods at Detlef; it's a very grateful nod, beyond an acknowledging one, and it takes every bit of his limited capacity for pragmatism not to follow him. But he isn't going to leave the Iron Bull and Araceli to be reasonable here alone, and Fate is right.

He steps forward, finally, to crouch down closer to eye level with one of the young Crows on the floor.

"Is there anything here that might help us? Information, or--can you help me look? We'll need to make sure they don't come after him again. Or after all of you."

"You have the right of it there." This is...this will be difficult in more ways than he knows, has been difficult beyond his ability to wrap his mind around and yet here they are; two of his favorite women in all of Antiva, perhaps of those he's met in Skyhold, helping him through. There are words that he feels he ought to say but he does not know what they are.

Simply that he is grateful. Perhaps this, combing his fingers through Araceli's curls, leaning back against the stability and warmth of Korrin, may be enough. "I could teach you how to make alfajors- it always ends in a sticky mess but the mixing is great fun."

Focus on that. On the tiny braids he winds around her curls, on the mental image of Korrin with flour dusted over her cheek, honey drizzled over the table, almonds everywhere. "Or if we ever find a good hank of mutton and spices I could show you how we braise it in Antiva."

Alistair isn't far behind her, but he's looking far less dangerous about it. Skyhold isn't his fortress. This isn't his Inquisition. There's a faint, worried crease between his eyebrows, because the only reason he can think Beleth might have called him personally is that Clarel's Wardens came and tried something stupid.

"Hello, Leliana," he says, and since there's an audience and possibly an emergency, he even says it with all of the respect someone in her position deserves--for example, sans a friendly shoulder-to-shoulder knock to try to make her stop looking so serious. Then he gives Beleth a quizzical look, waiting.

Vita, the one that begged, glances back to the rest of the group before swallowing. "I- they kept letters in one of the back rooms. Some of it is coded but- I can show you."

Matters that went over their heads. The one that spoke earlier to hush Vita, the mage follows Detlef with her eyes but says nothing. The remainder do their best to huddle and look either helpful or innocent.

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[ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

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i vote yes

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Yes, yes they can <3

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