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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Real. It's real. The robe in his hand, the pulse against his skin, the ache in his bones that he can't shake that has nothing to do with actual pain and everything to do with what he can still recall of the warped life he'd gone through over and over in the fade. It can't be true- he is not worth coming for.

"You've come before." An bought him, or broke him out and bled out on the backs of arrows while Zevran watched, gagged on venom that Zevran couldn't prevent- begged for a knife that Zevran turned on himself. The mages hadn't known who. Who didn't matter. "And it wasn't- It didn't-"

Only that they put forth shades for him to watch, shades for him to kill.

Shades he couldn't.

His voice catches in his throat around a helpless crackle of laughter high and faintly hysteric as the last few shards of that distant wall came crumbling down, leaving him a raw, overworked nerve. Nothing, and they've come. They've truly come. Eyes stinging with heat- and while it does not see it can weep- Zevran tried and failed to swallow back a sob. Shudders his way through it with a great rattling of his bones so intense he feels as though he is to shake apart. "Prove it."

He cannot take another lie. He can't.

Prove it, combined with tears. Anders abandons healing for a few moments, wrapping his other arm around the Elf as well to hold him close. Prove it. He doesn't know what Zevran saw, what they showed him, which means the only way to convince him would be to say something Zevran's subconscious couldn't.

And make it something that made the Elf crying against him feel like it's no shame to break down.

"My sixth escape attempt was, I thought, my last. They were hauling me back, talking about what they intended to do, how they'd enjoy rolling dice to see who got to wield the sword that took my head off. When they threw me in the dungeon cell it was nothing new, and I paced, fearing my end."

He takes a slow breath, forcing back the demons that haunt him from this. There are so many of them, but if he can use them to help his friend, he will.

"Only the Templars didn't come back that night. I could see a little light from outside through a little crack of a window, and was shocked when dawn didn't bring them either, or midday. Evening brought a plate of gruel, deliberately half-dumped, and no explanation. Days went on, one plate of gruel, four walls, and the whispers of demons promising me freedom. Every time I closed my eyes I saw a way to get out. I saw K-- I saw friends coming down and saving me. I saw the First Enchanter relenting. I became so powerful I blew a hole in the wall and fled. On and on. For a year."

Nausea is rising, burning the back of his throat, but he fights it down with practiced efficiency. Later he can be sick. Later he can submit to the emotions that are making his hands tremble and his already-hushed voice shake.

"When they finally opened the door for me to walk out, I thought it another demon trick. The first... the first sign that it wasn't was when I could barely get my legs to work and fell over and the Templars near me started laughing. After they dragged me up the steps, knees hitting as many as they could manage, I began to wonder. It was only when they dropped me on the floor and one knelt close and promised that next time I'd be silenced, gutted, and would take a great deal of time to die that I realized I was out."

He's almost done with the story. Almost. He feels like he's run miles at this point, cold sweat on his brow and stomach twisted in knots.

"I laid there and sobbed. I don't know how much time passed before the friends who recognized me after that found me there and helped me back to a room, but I sobbed the whole time. And no Crow, no Blood Mage, not even your own mind, could summon that up. You're out, Zevran. I've no stairs to bang your knees against now that we're clear of the fortress, but you're out."

Alistair says, "I," and pauses, because he wasn't expecting that. He hasn't been sticking as close to Zevran as some of the others, perhaps, not because he doesn't want to but because he's been busy making sure that they all make it safely home, and that none of the captives escape of are killed by vengeful elves or Qunari, and that if he's going to break down and cry (inevitably) he does it where no one can see and waste time trying to make him stop. In all of that he hasn't considered that Zevran might be angry with him. He's considering it now. He says, "I wanted to see you."

Maybe he should offer to leave.

"I can be quiet."

That's the best he can do.

"What is there to see?" A huddled lump of an elf that is down an eye and cannot keep his hands steady? As far as the rescue dreams go, this one is the worst. It hasn't hurt this much for this long without him dying before- and no shade has ever managed that particular lilt of Alistair's voice.

Quietly hurt and trying to hide it.

No, it'd been pleading. Or droll bargaining. This is new.

New is bad. New means they are getting creative and the rules have changed again. But it can't be the truth, Alistair can't be here, he cant be out. He isn't that lucky. Zevran curls into a tighter ball, blankets muffling the crackling of his voice. "Tell them to try something else. I am not killing you, they know this and I am tired of their imitations."

The vibration of his arm ring is completely ignored, blood rage too strong, too distracting for Taas to notice anything else than the battle.

...then he's grabbed by the golem and he roars in anger, trying to tear himself loose with all his might. It's only that movement that saves him from being hit in the head with that torn-off arm. He's still hit, however, hard enough to fly off the golem and skid across the floor, almost so close to Korrin to nearly knock her over.

He groans, shaking his head and trying to get up again. "Ashkost kata!"

Taas holds back with Bull, keeping his steps as light as a qunari warrior can to not set off any extra traps. The axe wasn't the best thing to deflect with, but damn if he wasn't going to to try.

He needed to bleed to get into his berserker state, but poisoned weapons were a bad idea.

"I know, but--"

And then Taas nearly knocks her over. Korrin doesn't think about what could have happened just then and there, immediately moving to provide Taas with some cover while he needs it. Casting Barrier, she then contributes to Detlef's healing with one of her healing mist grenades. With any luck, it'll be enough to keep them on their feet.

Poisoned weapons are indeed not ideal and Korrin doesn't intend to get any closer than she must. So instead of charging ahead, which is what she bets their opponents want, the Vashoth mage contributes with her chain lightning. Hopefully that will catch any they can't see, as well.

Another pause. Alistair isn't stupid, but he's not a genius or a psychic, either, and wrapping his head around torture is particularly difficult, because he doesn't think that way. He doesn't quite get it.

But he gets it enough to say, "I know you won't."

He puts a cautious hand on Zevran's arm, over his blankets, just to rest there. It makes him feel better.

"Not unless I ask you to," he adds—an attempt at levity, despite the subject matter. The kinds of things they learn to joke about. Zevran will die first so Alistair can make a fuss at his funeral; Zevran will kill him if he asks, if he doesn't want to go to the Deep Roads. "But we're years from that, and I'm—"

Not important.

"They're not here anymore. We've got you."

Just enough to get his edge back, as it turns out. With the golem's attention on Tass and its back turned, Bull's ready to levy some hurt against the creature again.

The attack comes from the rear, this time, launching himself at the back of the monster's head with a heavy swing at the base of its spine. Hard to tell how deep it'll cut, whether or not it'll reach bone, but he still gives that swing all he's got.

There's not a chance he's leaving this thing to wander the countryside until someone unfortunate just stumbles across it. Which is easier said than done with the undead Crows falling around them.

There's a derisive snort when Beleth aims, a low, mocking laugh when she lets fly. Why is she aiming for anyway? Apparently the stone just between them and that's all it takes for the explosion to send them both flying in a mass of ash and blood. The chain lightening is almost overkill, crackling down to silence the one that had survived after a fashion-

And looping around the corner to stun the first of the crows attempting to slip around to their flank. She staggers, convulsing from the crackle of electricity, grenade in her hand locked in a tight grip she can't release. There's a scramble of panicked Antivan behind her as the other two dart back deeper in the hallway to avoid the inevitable explosion.

"Nice."

It's an off-handed remark meant for both of them, as Bull's grin sharpens and he cocks an ear for the babbling in Antivan. One arm lifts to halt the others from moving forward until the grenade detonates, the walls vibrating with the impact.

Alright. Now they move forward. Hopefully there were still some waiting ahead for them. The more they had to tangle with, after all, the fewer obstructions for those actually breaking Zevran free.

Between the force of it's blow, Bull's earlier cut, and Taas' grip when the Vashoth goes flying? He takes the limb he'd been clinging to with him in a wet rending of flesh and sinew- black blood seeping from the wound in thick, gelatinous drips. Apart from itself it continues to grasp at him, bone tipped fingers striving to claw or tear.

The shambling corpses shift their attention to Beleth, staggering and stumbling in the bloodied mod, over their felled brethren, or cut down by her blades. They struggle to rise, to claw their way to her through the muck, coming in at all sides-

Those unfortunate enough to be under Taas shudder and burst in a rotting mist of pus and bile; not corrosive but certainly dank and foul; the Golem's magic decomposing them rapidly even as they attempted to fight. Scattered, wriggling limbs attempt to claw their way either to Taas' throat, ankles, or over to Beleth in a slippery pile of sloughed off skin and exposed bone.

Bull's last blow has the golem locking up, head thrown back in a grating, discordant bellow, blood and sinew twitching and knotting around the mass of his blade. It attempts to wrench itself free but the cut severed it's spine and clove a fair way through it's middle, almost meeting the edge of the gash from the beginning of the fight. More bile coated, oily entrails ooze from the cut but it cannot move or turn to attack Disarmed and disabled it reaches up to grasp the largest of it's skulls-

And pulls.

Scraps of flesh and flecks of bone fall away from it's shoulders and throat, leaving a skull with small, clawlike, spindly arms and a serpent's tail of muscle coiled around what is left of it's spine. There's a moment where something black and vile connecting the two stretches and snaps- and when it snaps? The remaining crows burst like rotted fruit, coating those nearest with blood and bile. Toothy maw open wide and shrieking the remaining arm hurls it's head with uncanny aim right at Anders before the larger body collapses backward, oozing more of that black, greasy fluid.

"Show off," Alistair says under his breath. Blighted shapeshifters. He watches Fate disappear before he turns back to look at the others, shaking his head, on the verge of fed up. "A few minutes," he repeats. "That's what, two? We can follow behind him." Right? Please? They're caves; there's no need to wait here while a mouse works his way all the way through them and reports back.

Of all the things he might have expected- a tale of escape, of isolation- that is not on the list. He'd known of Anders and his attempts. Much like a good chunk of his own past the mage never spoke of it aside from the odd jest or offhand comment. Much like him, Anders uses humor as a mask and a shield. A way to distance himself from the horrors. It is something Zevran can manage normally but having them all ripped to the surface all at once? New ones pile on over and over till he was fit to beg for the dagger to end it?

He could not. A joke would have brought him little comfort. A kiss? A fleeting sense of reality.

Something like this- that hurt to tell. That hurt to hear, that ached in the pit of his stomach and the hollow shell of his bones; it must be true. Life hurts. Living hurts. Comforts are few and far between, kindness rarer still. For Anders who guards his hurts and scars as dearly as Zevran to bare this to him; to cut his own chest open and show the wounds-

Zevran's hands slip from his robe to lock tight around his ribs, face still pressed tight to his throat. With the blood in his ears, the gnarled, rotten anger that such a thing could be done even when he knows full well the world is cold and cruel to all the maker's children, to mages all the more so, when he knows better than to be surprised or to care, he feels the ending more than he hears it. Shudders past another gut rending sob- as though someone threaded fish line and hooks through his stomach and pulled the knotted mass up through his mouth, ripping it from him. He cracks.

He weeps. Silently. Teeth clamped tight on his bottom lip to keep those horrible signs of weakness that are these sobs locked inside. But he weeps.

And trusts Anders is telling the truth. A lie would not hurt half so much.

His arm is hard as stone under Zevran's hand, too tense to sleep, too tired to argue, too confused as to what is and is not real to try to make the shade leave again. Perhaps this is a longer dream and the end will hurt more for it. But there had been moments in them where he could rest. Where he could soak in echos of those he cared for to shore him up for the next round.

Little by little a hand snakes out from the blankets and stretches up to clasp Alistair's wrist.

It trembles.

All of him trembles, lately. All of him feels horribly cold even as his skin sings with a feverish heat. But he holds fast. "Why. You knew what they would do. What you would find."

He'd told Alistair, once. Over an argument that had been less about him being an assassin and more about Alistair trying to grant him his freedom through the goodness of his heart or something like that. Zevran cannot recall the details. But he can recall the way the warden's face paled as he went through ever cut, every trick, every drop of blood they'd wring from him long before the end.

Alistair might've had to vomit halfway through. He can't remember. But he remembers telling him.

And there are corpses everywhere, coming after her faster than she can cut them down. Like a nightmare come to life, they're surrounding her, grabbing her--

And Beleth realizes that she's about to die, and her screaming stops abruptly, because that's not how Dalish are supposed to die. The knowledge isn't met with panic. She's going to die, leagues away from any of her clan, and only two thoughts occur to her: Merrick is going to blame himself (she hopes Cyril helps), and that none of these guys know how to bury a Dalish properly. Will Fate know? Does she have enough time to holler out instructions?

Before she has time to attempt to use her dying breaths to ask them to please not burn her like some goddamn shemlen, the corpses all rather unexpectedly explode.

Instead of rather dramatically dying, Beleth is indignantly sent tumbling, covered in bile and blood and worse, and she promptly starts gagging, struggling for breath that isn't full of rotten air, and thinking that dying would have been preferable--But then there's a thing heading at Anders, and Beleth doesn't even stop to think didn't you just finish almost dying, before she lunges at the mage, trying to tackle him to the ground.

It's a while before Korrin seeks Zevran out. He has plenty of people checking in on him and she doesn't want to overwhelm, after all. Besides, she has no idea what might help him, at this point. Her expertise is in battle, not the aftermath. Not like this.

Still, whenever there's a chance as they stop and Zevran isn't surrounded, she'll approach. There's no intent to surprise him, not that she can; Vashoth aren't built for stealth. Giving him a decent amount of personal space, Korrin sits down where he can see her, and takes out a bottle from her travel bag. Her expression is neutral or as much as she can make it, knowing she wouldn't want pity or dramatics were their roles reversed. "More orzata, if you want it. Detlef's probably stuffed you with all the healing you can handle, so have something different."

She's out of healing potions anyway, thanks to that last, brutal fight.

"Well, it's a bit difficult to set fire to a ship when it's already raining, so a little on fire is about as good as it got, magic or not." Fate chuckles.

"As it goes, Sada -- that was her name -- was determined to strike back. I'm not incredibly involved in personal vendettas, so I decided it was probably smart to end our partnership then and there before I got dragged off to try something else. Maybe steal the captain's breeches? Either way, it was time to leave. Tried leaving Rivain a few times, but I always sort of found myself back there.

"The next time I visited, I was playing Wicked Grace, as I do. Prideful, rich people love to show off, and I was too happy to remind them the limits of their purses. I didn't expect a vashoth to join us, and no one else did. He ended up outplaying everyone else, but pretended to be stupid, as people might expect him to be. First time I ever lost a card game to someone, and I was certain I knew his tells. I didn't. Hit my pride a bit, but it was a good lesson."

Fate pauses, and rests his hand on Zevran's wrist. "You're doing well. Let me see you shuffle the cards now," he instructs. "Anyway, the vashoth. Clever man. I liked how he played, and figured that could be useful. Didn't seem like he wanted to confront pirate crews anytime soon, thankfully, so we agreed to a partnership for a time. The most stubborn man I ever met, but an amazing shot. Couldn't pick locks for shit, though."

"Attacked?!" Cyril is hurrying now. "Is he-" He stops, he can't even consider all of the possibilities. "Breathing?"

Sighing, she moves to stand by Twisted Fate, hands still tight around the hilts of her blades, too tired now for her temper to take over. She's nodding before he's done, eyeing the surrendered Crows thoughtfully before she speaks.

"All of us have made the journey to and from Skyhold and yet they still managed to get in. Merrick was taken out too in the attack but they took one of us from somewhere that should be near impregnable. When someone flies the white flag, then that should be respected else you're little better than them. Or are we assassins now too without a shred of honour between us?" The anger does manage to creep back for that but she doesn't want to be part of killing them. In a battle then yes, or in an ambush when fighting to get in but this...this doesn't sit right with her, twisting her stomach in knots.

He's almost on his feet again when the zombie crow parts start to swarm him, and he's not sure where his axe had gone - maybe it was still in the flesh beast, even. Taas has to make due with his hands, punching and pushing rapidly-rotting corpses off himself and slamming them into the stone floor with a heaving snarl.

They're drawing blood, he can feel it, and it's only making him more pissed off, grasping those trying to get to Beleth more for the sake of fighting them rather than actually protecting her. Skulls, weakened by rot, smash under his fingers - but he's running out of steam, and he's probably a bit concussed from that skid across the ground.

There's teeth in his shoulder and he he can't reach... and then the whole fucking place explodes in the vilest shower of black goo and innards he's ever seen.

Just... fuck. Even while deep in the blood rage, Taas is stunned.

"We did not know." The girl's voice cracks over the word. It is suspect that they were so far from the fight, that their bags were packed, that they were hiding in the stables- "We were going to-"

"Vita." one of the other women, dark of hair and eye and skin, fingers tipped in ink hissed, shooting her a glare. "They do not care."

"Run." A man that had been quiet even in the face of an arrow finishes for her. "We were going to run. The Ombra Nera managed it...and we thought- It does not matter. Whatever you wish to know? We will tell you."

He glances at the other five, meeting their eyes in turn. "Whatever you ask, we will answer."

Well. That was new.

They were either being underestimated, or the Crows were throwing their cannonfodder forward first to see what was going on. He's leaning towards the latter, here. It would make sense.

...then the explosion hits and he's stunned, grasping his head and not sure if he made a sound or not. Explosions, his only damn trauma. Not good. Beleth's he expected, not... this.

It takes him some breathing, some hard, bruising smacks to his chest with the axe haft to steady himself again. Now he really wants to kill something.

Taas offers to let Zevran lean close, moving to lean his arm at the elf's back - not holding or steadying, just draping it there so he could warm more of the man's body and let him leech whatever he wanted. Warmth, strength, company.

There were no words after an experience like this. None he knew. He just remembers needing to find a rock to cling to after the explosion that took his hearing, and so that is what he can offer.

A rock, for Zevran to lean to, to scream, to hit, to do whatever he needs without judgement or fear. Taas is big and warm, a great mountain, and he offers footing on the climb up from that deep, dark place.

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[ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

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The Ride Back (open to Araceli as well?)

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