faderift | TAKING SULEDIN KEEP

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TAKING SULEDIN KEEP

WHO: The Inquisition
WHAT: Capturing the Keep
WHEN: Guardian 23
WHERE: Emprise du Lion
NOTES: Violence, gore, etc. This log contains closed prompts for quest participants, but is open for anyone who wants their own battle- or post-battle logs. ICly it will take most everyone they have in the region to take the keep, so any character could be part of the assault and its aftermath. It's also forward-dated to the 23rd, so if your character isn't currently in Emprise, they could be by then!

By 23 Guardian, the Inquisition has pressed the Red Templars out of the hills and snow and into Suledin Keep. The assault on the keep starts before dawn and is long and deliberate; there are no trebuchets here. By the time the sky has turned a bright enough gray to pass for morning, the Inquisition has worked its way into the snowy, twisting maze of gardens in front of the fortress. Soldiers weave around the walls and the rubble and the spikes of lyrium. Archers climb up mounds of tumbled stone and into the ancient, twisting trees for better vantage points. By the time the fortress itself is breached, the sun is setting again behind the clouds, and snow is falling.

The Red Templar forces are many and though for them this is a retreat, a last stand in the region, they are well-organized. They fight with the single-minded fury of the corrupted, and indeed many of them show signs of advanced lyrium infection, eyes red, crystals jutting up out of skin, sometimes so numerous that they begin to form their own sort of armor. A few have been so completely consumed that it is difficult to tell they were ever human to begin with. The battle will be long and bloody. Courtyards and wall positions must be taken one by one and held, and more than once retaken again after a successful Templar resurgence. Any Inquisition member able to fight is likely to be pressed into service before the day is done.

As the forces press forward the snow behind them is left checkered red: lyrium, blood, Inquisition uniforms. There are bodies to identify. Wounded to tend to. Enemy soldiers beyond hope of recovery to be put out of their misery, perhaps, for those so inclined. A giant's carcass is laid out in the gardens for inspection; two more are already dead and rotting in cages and chains, with red crystals infesting their bodies. Bigger crystals have infected the castle itself, sticking up from the ground and out of walls almost as if they have been cultivated here. They must be smashed as the army advances, for any who linger near begin to feel its effects, particularly the wounded.

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The scouts who have been surveilling the Keep warned that there might be giants within, though it was unknown whether they were captive or part of the Red Templar forces. Just the chance that they could be hostile is too great a risk to take and so teams are sent to dispatch them. They stick to the outer ranges of the castle, and the team flanks the main thrust of the battle and avoids most of the fighting en route to the long courtyard running along the western side of the keep. There are a few Red Templar archers along the inner wall but they are quickly dispatched and just in time before the real danger reveals itself.

Footsteps shake snow from the branches of fallen trees and make broken chunks of castle wall rattle ominously as a giant pounds into view. At least twenty feet tall, with heavy limbs and fists that almost drag the ground it comes toward them, red lyrium crystals encrusting its back and elbows, spread across leathery grey skin like a virulent rash. It wastes no time, a mindless rage sending it swinging straight for the group with a guttural growl, attempting to swat them into the wall like flies. His reach is long and he doesn't seem bothered by the uneven footing-- the snow or the blocks of stone and fallen logs hidden beneath it, all crunching beneath massive feet.

Of course it's giants. Why wouldn't it be giants? They could have sent him up against literally anything else and Metaari would have been just fine but no. No, they decided to send him against giants. He glances first to his left then to his right at his teammates before he lets out a heavy sigh. Someone who likes to get punched in the face would have been useful. They'll have to go at this with a few more tactics than "hit it until it's dead".

He stumbles slightly as the first step rocks the ground beneath them and he lifts his head to look for the direction it's coming from. "This might be a bad time to let everyone know that the last time I ran into a giant I lost a few hours from my day, laying unconscious at the foot of a tree. So this should be fun!" He turns a few times before finally pointing toward a platform a little ways up, in place for the ambitious of the Keep trying to rebuild. "I'm heading up there for better shots."

Edited 2016-02-05 04:12 (UTC)

"Oh, I'm sure it doesn't help that this thing is coated in red lyrium, either. Comforting!" Although Twisted Fate sighs like he's mildly irritated, he's more concerned than he cares to admit. This is going to be a difficult fight to deal with, but it'll be done. As long as they're playing it safe.

"Right, well. Don't count on me for fantastic barriers, but I'll do what I can."

Twisted Fate slips into a Fade Step, dashing away to give himself space from the giant before he's setting a Fire Mine, anticipating when the giant might meander its way toward him to cross it.

"Shit. When are things going to learn that red lyrium is terrible for you?" Isabela quipped. She darted up to higher ground, readying her crossbow. "All right, this is going to take fighting smart, not hard. Herd the stupid thing toward the mines."

Metaari takes his spot across from Isabela, putting the giant between the two of them. Now it was just a matter of who he thought might be the more interesting target between the three of them. He knocks an arrow and draws it back, eyes darting from the giant to his team to the mine--it was wandering too far away from him to stumble across it properly.

He tightens his jaw and shoots, the arrow lighting on fire thanks to the rune on his bow, and it embeds itself deep into the giant's shoulder. "Come on, ugly. Over this way!"

It's probably the arrow more than the insult, but the giant almost seems to respond to Metaari's jibe, lifting a heavy arm and roaring in the qunari's general direction. He is the handsomest giant in this Keep, thank you very much. But thankfully not the smartest, as, drawn by their attention, he lumbers forward directly into the path of Twisted Fate's fire mine. But he's moving a little more quickly than might have been originally anticipated from such an ungainly creature, and the blast of flame only manages to singe its backside. This of course prompts another roar, and a flail of its club that sends a wash of icy snow and dirt at its assailants, threatening to get in the eyes and mouths of the unwary.

The giant advances more quickly after its initial shock has faded, feet shaking the ground hard enough to unsteady even the most skilled aim and balance. It lashes out with its club, a huge haymaking swing at the trio.

Isabela does her best to maintain her balance up on her perch, though she does find herself in a rather awkward-looking position. She takes a moment to regain her bearings and the aim of her crossbow.

After all, what was the old adage? Ah, yes. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. And this one looks just dumb enough to miss a tripwire.

She attaches a rope to the bolt and fires, sends it flying across the way, hearing the satisfying kachunk! of it hitting its mark. She then whistles at the giant, trying to get him to blunder over it, trip, and hopefully fall on its ugly face.

"Choice. Spirit." corrects Imshael, standing before them dark haired with a neatly trimmed goatee, not imposing but well-dressed in shades of purple and charcoal. The central courtyard of the castle is a mess of broken stone and metal, massive sculptures, and red lyrium that nearly hums with energy, jutting up from the ground, a heaping pillar from what used to be the courtyard's central platform. Snow blows across flagstones and frozen dirt, whipped at cheeks by a cold wind. They have had to fight to get here, but the main battle is elsewhere, the lines of Inquisition soldiers and Red Templars clashing just barely in earshot. Though the battle seems distant, they have in fact come to the heart of the matter: scouts have reported that the man standing before them seems to be in charge.

"These are your friends?" he asks, directing the question to Michel de Chevin, though his attention roams across the others. A brow lifts, intrigued. "Very interesting. True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn't always have to end in blood. We don't fight, and I will grant you power. Shower you with riches. Or maybe virgins. You pick."

Michel wasn't going to deny that there was a small part of him that felt some measure of apprehension at being accompanied at all to this battle, least of all with two mages. Still, if it was what the Inquisition wanted in return for helping the Chevalier even get this far, then he had no choice but to acquiesce. Part of it had to do with the fact that this creature was his responsibility, but he wouldn't deny that his companions made him nervous--not that he would show it. A warrior, and Orlesian, and a Chevalier...his experiences had rarely been good, still they had come all this way with him so he put any lingering doubts aside for the moment.

"I fail to see how that matters," Michel glanced away from the demon toward Dorian and Sam, he didn't have to wonder if the creature was attempting to eek out an angle, an advantage of some sort. He knew Imshael had an ax to grind with him, so how could he use the other two to meet such an end? What turned those cogs in his twisted demon head? Wary of the implications he shifted obliquely in front of his companions like some sort of human shield, fist around the helve of his sword, "our purpose in coming here was not to cut deals."

Besides the unsettling feel of red lyrium all around, there is a clear sense of tension in the air. More so when the "spirit" and Michel both take a moment to pause in their talk to glance back at both him and Dorian. The looks have Sam frowning, his feet shifting a bit anxiously, and his hand tightening around his staff a bit more firmly. He suddenly feels like some sort of pawn being studied.

As much as Imshael wanted to be regarded as a spirit - of Choice? - it is still clearly a demon - deals, pretty words, false promises. Same tune as the rest, just a different place. "We shouldn't let it keep talking... it might be stalling for something..." he mutters slightly so that his words are only heard by his companions.

"Virgins are a little overrated," Dorian offers, louder than Sam. He holds his staff two-handedly, tongues of electricity occasionally crackling over metal and wood and crystal in a show of barely bridled aggression, a contrast to his otherwise fairly calm stance. There is dirt and blood on his boots, the hem of his robes, and the exposure to red lyrium has put shadows in his eyes he'd probably scowl at in a mirror if he caught glimpse.

His hair is good. That's nearly all that matters.

With a crackle of electricity, he turns his staff in a sharp twirl. The air shifts around the three of them, warmer, restless against skin and clothing and hair. "Distrustful fellow, isn't he?" is a muttered aside for Sam alone, before the next movement of his staff fills the air around them with a pulse of green light, a certain feeling of spiritual security in the form of a barrier settling deep into their bones.

In case Michel wants to lead the charge on any choices they might be making. Dorian has a feeling that he is not so opposed to blood as the demon insinuates.

And Michel didn't want the demon to keep talking, the less of his relationship with the creature was known of the happier the Chevalier was in all honesty. The fact that there seemed to be a consensus in this matter made it all the easier as he wasn't sure how this would go if any one of them chanced to accept one of his choices...and choices always had consequences, at least they did with this creature.

The Chevalier brushed his initial uneasiness aside as he felt the humming of Dorian's magic manipulate the atmosphere. They were mages and they were with the Inquisition, he had a neutral opinion, more or less, though he'd also had experiences as well that were a little less savory. Now, however, he'd trust them at his back.

"If it is unanimous then..." with the sharp metallic hiss of a sword being unsheathed from a scabbard, Michel was not at all subtle in making his own choice known. Kill it. He dove at the demon, well aware of the threat this particular creature posed to them, the graceful arc of his sword aimed at the beast's throat. He knew it wasn't going to be that easy, but he could draw its attention and give the mages an opening.

"It would seem," is his muttered response back to Dorian, eyeing both Michel and Imshael as the demon waited to hear about whether or not they would be taking its offer. Once Sam felt the spell swirl around them and settle into them, he slowly shifts into his own stance, waiting to cast depending on who acted next.

At hearing Michel's words and seeing the Chevalier draw his weapon, Sam is quick to cast his own spell, spinning his staff once before slamming it into the ground in front of him and raising his free hand to the space between the three of them. The spell spreads from himself and quickly sweeps over the others, imbuing them with a bit more energy and strength. "Just keep your guard up. We're not sure what tricks this demon has up its sleeves."

"Well they don't have to be virgins," Imshael replies to Dorian, some amusement in his voice, deep and somehow oily. He dips into Dorian's head and plucks out what he's looking for. "Experienced fellows are just as easy. Or perhaps you'd like me to ensure your hair never goes grey? I can do that, if you choose."

But then Imshael sighs, all disappointment as blades are drawn and barriers cast. His tongue is clicked against the back of his teeth. "So predictable, Michel. Always the same choice, as if you think you have no choice at all. I could restore your position, you know. Restore your honor, let you return to court and be Celene's champion again."

As he speaks, his minions stream across the courtyard toward the party, giant spiders skittering and Red Templar horrors spitting crystals of lyrium at their barriers.

Michel froze for a moment, but it was only a moment, as Imshael's words rattled him to his core. The creature had a gift for peeking into the hearts of others, tugging at their most desperate desires, though with Michel he seemed to know just the thread to pull that would incite the most reaction. Knowing this he crushed it and crushed it quickly as one spider pressed for his attention over the uneven turf.

His reaction was quick, with quick swipes of his sword he took out the front-most legs before thrusting the sword through its anterior, directly into the creature's many eyes. He ignore the spray of ichor against his armor, wheeling about to check on his companions, knowing they would have their hands full with just the Red Templar horrors. Spiders were child's play compared to that.

Dorian smiles back at the demon, but it isn't specifically a nice smile, even if his teeth are very white and symmetrical when he does it. No one likes to know their souls are legible, so there's no reply, save for that, ready and waiting. Imshael's pitch to their chevalier has him speculatively considering the back of Michel's head, but the swarm of hostility surging into the courtyard is a quick attention draw.

He spins, and launches a forest of crackling electrical magic that darts between the giant spiders scuttling over ice-crusted rock, which seems to do little at all hulking Templar horrors gliding closer, red lyrium growths jutting through convulsing, seizing flesh.

The air seems to shimmer with their corrosive version of spirit magic, but spiders are tangible things, and Dorian brings his staff around over his head to slice away reaching legs with another spray of ichor. A ripple of electrical energy dances across the stone, electrifying all hostiles that stray too near.

Sam wrinkles his nose as he finishes off his own spider, the blade at the end of his staff sliding sickeningly down between its eyes. Maker, he hated spiders, especially when they were giant, screeching spiders. Course Red Templars were no walk in the garden either, and seeing how the red lyrium split their skin and grew... always haunting.

Pulling his staff free of the arachnid, Sam turns with the momentum of the pull, sending a small blast of fire one of the templars, catching it squarely in the shoulder. Judging by how it yells it had to have hurt and probably angry for being interrupted in its attack.

Seeing another volley of shards heading towards Michel, Sam spends little time swinging his staff and slamming it into the ground, the area around the Chevalier lighting up as a newer barrier forms around him.

"Ah, see! I know how you long for it, Michel. Your honor, so precious, so hard-won. So difficult to recover once tarnished. It's unfair, don't you think? That you should bear the burden for that knife-ear's scheming?" The demon has retreated to the center of the courtyard, hanging back just up the steps as he observes. And continues talking, naturally. "That she should get to be so bold and be rewarded with power and favor and escape unscathed? While you spend your whole life in quiet, loyal service, keeping your head down and trotting along dutifully at her heels and she kicks you aside like nothing. Like a little gutter-rat."

Imshael laughs, rich and unctuous. His attention remains focused primarily on the chevalier, perhaps because he senses some internal crack he can more easily wiggle his fingers in, or perhaps just because it's fun. Even as he does it, his mental tentacles creep into Dorian's mind and Sam's, seeking out ammunition to ready himself to turn on them next. "That must have struck close to home, eh? And for what? For doing what any honorable chevalier would have done! Surely this is an injustice that must be righted?"

The demon may be picking at the Orlesian at the moment but his minions have no such blinders on. Spiders lash out with quick, stabby legs, and explode when pierced or struck by lightening, bursting gooey ichor over their attackers or crumpling up with a noxious odor of burning putrefaction. One, swollen larger than the rest, releases a sudden, disturbing flood of smaller spiders that race toward Sam in a thick carpet across the flagstones, ready to rush right up his robes.

The red templars are slower than their unencumbered fellows but they are better armored: spells and blades seem at first to sheer right off the thick crusting of crystals, and they swing their blocky, jagged limbs like weapons. One emerges from the opposite direction of the current host, coming at Dorian from behind with no subtlety but surprising speed, its lyrium-shard weapon swung for his back.

In spite of Imshael's voice being conversational in nature, if not intentionally grating, it was a deep, full, reverberating noise inside of his head as well. It evoked memories and emotions that he was loathe to express and yet he could feel his even temperament crumbling bit by bit as the heat built up in his chest. He knew this creature, however, know it's intention, and knew how important it was to stay focused especially since the demon was upping the stakes.

It didn't matter how many limbs he lopped off or creatures he ran through they seemed to keep coming. He couldn't even offer Sam a proper nod of appreciation his attention was so fixed on their surroundings--and there was a reason for it. He glanced at Imshael, probing, cunning beast that he was and he knew that the only way to take care of this problem was to destroy it at the root. Attack the demon directly, a task he was ready to brace himself for, leaving Dorian and Sam to fend for themselves as the destruction of Imshael not only took priority, but it was the only way to end this.

But then he glance up from another slain spider to find that a spray of smaller ones were scuttling toward Sam while another Templar was shambling up behind Dorian and he knew he could not let that be. Spitting a curse in the Demon's direction he vaulted over a shriveled spider corps in Dorian's direction. Even Chevalier had their codes and attacking from behind was a disgrace and so he launched himself between the mage and his attacker before the Templar could bring its blade down on his back. This, of course, meant nudging Dorian out of the way, but there was nothing for it.

They needed to help Sam as well, "I...have to get at him..."

Getting nudged out of the way is-- what Dorian is beginning to expect, really, after however many months fighting in ramshackle bands of mage and warrior and archer. He twists like a surprised, butt-touched cat, all bristling indignation until he sees the jagged red lyrium striking the Chevalier's blade.

Oh. Well, that's alright.

Not to be outclassed, however, he drags his staff through the air, meeting resistance as if physically tearing the Veil itself, and sends a very precise, very strong lightning strike past Michel, raw electricity slamming hard enough into the Red Templar's chest to stagger him back. Errant streaks of shimmering green dispelling magics ripple up off pulsing flesh and lyrium shards, for good measure, and Dorian turns a look at Michel.

"Slay your demon," he says, sharp and to the point. Which doesn't sound very much like thank you, or anything, but maybe his gratitude is expressed through not bickering on the battlefield. "We'll hold off this nonsense."

And to Sam; "Spirit magic. You're a spirit mage, so act like one, preferably at the Templars! I'll burn the rest."

True to his word, a wall of flame blisters across the ice, sending up steam and smoke, cutting through the nearest wave of spiders.

Edited (how about more edits) 2016-02-21 12:48 (UTC)

Add that to the list of reasons why he hated spiders; exploding into a swarm of smaller spiders that were hellbent on coming at you. Granted regular spiders probably could not do that, but it did not make him like them any more to these current ones.

The wall of flame that burns the lot of them coming for him is appreciated, but there is hardly time for that, especially with Dorian snapping at him - at least it sounded like he was snapping - about using his spirit magic. Sam gives a slight huff at that, not like he was concentrating on keeping the aura up or tossing out barriers when he noticed them going down, but doesn't talk back about it in the middle of a fight.

Instead he brings his staff down, brows raised, as he casts another barrier around both Michel and Dorian seeing as they were right next to each other. The new barriers helping both Dorian and Michel with replenishing their mana/stamina as they fight. With that taken care of, and with not having to worry about a wave of spiders, he turns, swinging his staff horizontally at a pair of red templars.

For a moment it doesn't seem like he did anything, but before they can come any closer they appear to stagger. A couple more steps and the templars completely stop moving, instead bending down slightly into themselves, reaching for their heads and letting out shrieks.

Edited 2016-02-21 22:29 (UTC)

There's an end in sight now: more Red Templars lying in the snow than standing, a slow dampening of the clangs of metal and rips of electricity and shouts that have been background noise for hours, and a feeling in the air that's half relief, half despair. Which way it tips probably depends on whose side you're on. Here, ahead, are Red Templars who fall clearly on the despair side, two men and one woman who keep their weapons up as they back away across the terrace as a unit.

They're not all the way gone yet. Their eyes are red but still human underneath, a mix of aggression and fear and fury when one of them strikes out with his will to slam shut the nearest Inquisition mage's access to the Fade. Another raises her sword to swing.

Pel is hit full-on by the Templar's spell, if spell it can be called, and it is everything Adelaide described. She doubles over, unable to breathe or speak or even focus her eyes for a moment. Then, she is angry. Bloodthirsty-angry. How dare they. Who do they think she is? Some child with a toy she doesn't deserve because she misbehaved?

The moment is over. She sucks in a breath and raises her staff as the Templar reaches her, bringing the blunt end up hard between his legs. See how he likes it.

Edited 2016-02-04 17:59 (UTC)

Cyril is there with Pel and sees the anti-magic hit her. His bow is out, and the arrow flings towards the templar who is raising their sword. He isn't about to let that moment of doubling over in reaction to the templar's action take his cousin down.

Besides, he completely knows that once she's back up she'll be twice as ferocious. Then the staff is used as a blunt instrument and Cyril almost laughs if not for being distracted by the head of battle.

"Dirthara-ma, templars!" he does manage to call out. Because honestly, messing with Pel is just a good way to end up dead much faster.

Salvatore isn't far behind, catching a glimpse of Pel and Cyril, the Templars, the spell, the sword, the staff going where no staff should, the arrow.

There's a third Templar. Sal throws a stream of fire at him, to drive him back, to hurt him, to keep him from grouping up with the other two.

Salvatore's fire brings up the third Templar's shield and presses him back two steps before he stops to hold his ground, further from the others: one lowering her sword in surprise as Cyril's arrow has lodged in the leather shoulder piece of her armor, momentarily dazed by pain and fear, the other bowing slightly from the blow Pel lands between his legs but then straightening up with more fury than before. His eyes are shielded by his helmet, but the red glow is visible and briefly brighter with rage--unmeasured aggression, none of the focus and willpower Templars are famous for--when he forgoes his sword entirely to strike out at her face with the back of his metal gauntlet.

The one Salvatore drove back lowers his shield as soon as there's a pause in the fire, then rushes forward with a burst of superhuman strength--this wouldn't be possible at all, but for the lyrium--to crash his sheild and the full force of his body into a tall, narrow statue just beside him, one of an elven archer. It's stood for ages, but it tips over now, like a felled tree, toward the others.

Pel barely manages to react quickly enough to avoid her cheekbone being shattered, turning to the side in the direction of the blow. The strike still lands, just not as hard as it would have. She staggers diagonally, trying to put him within the range of her staff, but herself out of range of his sword. She thrusts back with the bladed end of her staff at the first thing she can see that isn't covered by armor. The side of the knee will more than suffice.

Cyril hands move quickly to pull arrows from his quiver and drive them towards the templars. He keeps focused on the one striking Pel for now, though he knows Sal might need support soon.

When the statue starts to fall, though, he has to roll out of range quickly, avoiding being crushed by it's massive bulk.

The satisfaction of seeing the red Templar driven back is minimal. The Templar doesn’t go far enough, and doesn’t even appear affected when the flames wear out. He braces to meet the charging Templar before realizing the knight is ramming something else.

His reflexes aren’t quite so fast, but he puts everything he has into throwing his whole self out of the way of a toppling stone elf.

The statute crashes to the ground and splits into chunks, pieces shearing off and shattering. Small shards of stone spray out like shrapnel, and a cloud of fine stone-dust is sent up to choke and blind.

The templars move through it, coughing but undeterred. The one with the arrow still lodged in her shoulder takes aim at Cyril as he rolls, lunging toward him during that vulnerable moment and aiming a vicious kick with a heavy boot. Pel's assailant dodges the blow to his knee and moves to close that distance, charging her with shield up and sword driven at belly-height. The third, pleased with himself for the damage he has caused, lets out a bellowing, wordless cry and beats the hilt of his blade against his shield as he makes his way around the pile of stone toward Salvatore.

Pel sidesteps, just like she practiced in Dorian's training, rolling behind the Templar just when his momentum makes it impossible for him to abort his charge. Without hesitation, she flings herself bodily at him from behind, hoping to use his own weight and momentum to carry him to the ground.

She should cut his throat.

He's beyond help, even ignoring the red glow of his eyes or the stark red contrast of the veins in his exposed neck. Torsos aren't meant to bend that way. The stone he's lying across, where he fell from a height, is drenched red. She can hear his lungs rattle and bubble when he breathes. Whatever he's done, however many he's helped to kill, she shouldn't want him to suffer. Clarke has a knife in one hand, staff in the other, and an hour ago she didn't hesitate to kill one of his comrades. So she should cut his throat.

But she doesn't move, not until she hears snow crunching under feet nearby, and then it's a step back instead of forward, a sharp turn to look. If there's relief on her face, it's because the question of the Templar's throat can be momentarily set aside. Lines reappear between her eyebrows a second later.

"I'm sorry," she says, in a clipped tone that isn't sorry at all, and gestures to the red-stained field with her knife hand—"about your alliance."

"Truce," Lexa corrects. There is a difference, in practice as well as principle, and the outcome of the battle does not displease her. She didn't come looking for Clarke specifically, just a healer, but they are spread thin across the field in the aftermath and Lexa doesn't know enough people to locate one that isn't elbows deep in trying to save someone's life already.

Clarke's greeting—if it can be called that—isn't exactly welcoming but it's words instead of spells, so she takes her chances and closes the distance to stand on the other side of the fallen Templar. Even without any aptitude for healing it's plain to see that the man has no chance at survival, and his wet burbling cough fills the silence between them. Lexa looks at the knife in Clarke's hand, and then back at Clarke, and after a beat she sinks to a knee. The blade in her boot is drawn out and across the man's throat before he has time to cough again, let alone for Clarke to stop her. She presses his eyes closed.

"There are two wounded in the woods," she says, wiping her blade on the edge of her cloak before sheathing it again and straightening up. "Inquisition soldiers. They'll be dead before anyone else finds them."

Edited (too many commas) 2016-02-21 05:17 (UTC)

Truce earns something short of an eye-roll: a gesture with her chin, a tilt sideways and a stubborn outward jut, and narrowed eyes above it. The difference between a truce and an alliance doesn't do a thing for her or a few dozen dead villagers. But it isn't something she's going to argue about while a man dies between them—

quickly.

She's not an actress. There's no hiding the relieved slump of her shoulders or the sharpening of her gaze into something less overwhelmed. She blinks a few times, rapidly, for the first time since she first laid eyes on the Templar, and she needs a beat after Lexa speaks to retroactively pay attention and understand what she's saying. Offering.

It's enough to dampen the resentment on Clarke face until it isn't much more than wariness. She slides the knife back into her belt. "Show me."

Lexa notices but she is an actress, and she keeps all of the many things that little slump makes her feel off of her face until she has turned her back. None of them are good, even as Clarke's expression eases into something less hostile.

"This way," is all that needs to be said, and she leads Clarke away from the main thrust of the battle and into the woods. The terrain on this side of the keep is rocky but not difficult, room to weave between the great humps of boulder that heave up between the trees. But it doesn't really go anywhere, and what path there is is clearly little-used except for what must be Lexa's own tracks. They strike out toward a far corner of the keep, the dregs of the battle and the sounds of the Inquisition's victory growing more and more distant, dampened by the woods and the snow.

She doesn't say anything, leaving it to Clarke to initiate conversation if she'd like.

She wouldn't like.

Not at first.

She lets the snow crunch—and creak, when the wind shifts coated tree branches above them—and she keeps her eyes ahead, Lexa only in her peripheral vision from her position behind and to the side of her. Ten paces of silence, and she thinks, do you know what you made me do?

At fifteen, she says, "What does this mean for you?"

The fact that it's a plural you—you, your people—doesn't carry in the common tongue, but maybe it carries in the distance of her tone.

Lexa is content with silence, and resigned to it even if she weren't. It seems like progress. So does Clarke's question, however miniscule and grudging that progress might be. She considers for another three paces before she answers.

"With the last of them fled, my people will be able to safely return to the area. Beyond that I can't say." It's not clear whether 'can't' really means can't, or won't. Lexa had confided a little of her broader goals for her people back when she and Clarke were allies making plans together, but things since then have changed and she does hesitate here, letting a pause stretch, unnaturally quiet.

"There are too many holds plagued by demons to focus on expansion now," she finally says. "And this Inquisition on my doorstep." There's a sort of question implicit in that observation, in case Clarke would like to share her insight, now that she is apparently a member.

"They aren't here to stay."

That's not a promise she's qualified to make. And they will keep the Keep for the time being. Maintain a presence. She assumes Lexa knows that as well as she does, because whatever insults she could and has and will fling in Lexa's direction, stupid isn't one of them. But they aren't here to seize power permanently. Restore order, address threats, move on. If they were coming to conquer, she wouldn't be with them.

"They're—we're dealing with the Templars and the lyrium, that's all." She keeps her gaze ahead, searching for the wounded. "If you want to make any new bargains, now is probably a good time."

"I meant in the Frostbacks. The fortress they have taken as their headquarters." Their movement into Emprise has complicated Lexa's plans, but they were getting complicated without the Inquisition's presence here. She may have grievances, but they're not about the occupation of Suledin Keep. She didn't make a deal with Red Templars because she liked them.

They skirt a boulder and she is able to gesture up ahead, drawing Clarke's attention to the dark smudge against the snow of two figures, slumped against the trees. When she picks up her pace it's in anticipation of Clarke taking off toward them.

"Two arrows in the one on the left, and the right has a gut wound." Clarke will find when she is close enough to examine that someone (presumably Lexa, though she does not speak up to say so) has tied a tourniquet around the arm with an arrow sticking out and shoved cloth into the deep slice across the woman's stomach. It has bled through by now. Both soldiers are unconscious.

Lexa crouches but sort of hovers, hands willing but waiting for Clarke to direct her in how to help if she chooses. If she is honest, Lexa cares less about the lives of these two soldiers than she does about Clarke getting to be the one to save them, but because she is not stupid she doesn't mention that either.

"Why, did you want it?"

Flippant, deliberately obtuse. She isn't done being angry. Discounting and oversimplifying Lexa's goals is as good a way to show it as any. She catches the beginning of Lexa's gesture in her peripheral vision and turns her head to follow her hand out and then ahead—and takes off, yes, at a jog reasonably calibrated to get her there faster without making her staff or her cloak trip her on the way.

She stops before them. does triage in two glances, and crouches beside the one with wound. She has her knife back out to cut cloth away before she looks up at Lexa and her waiting hands, and she stops to unfasten the buckle of her belt and hand it over in its entirety, with its pouches and hanging odds and ends. The spellbook usually kept tucked over it at the small of her back falls into the snow behind her. "Elfroot," she says, brusque reference to the vials in one of the pouches, and digs her knife into leather to widen the slice in the woman's armor beyond the edges of the wound.

It is an effective means of demonstrating her anger, judging by the annoyance in Lexa's flat look and the huff of her breath. It's more seen than heard, a burst of steam out her nose into the cold air. Mockery's still not the product of a strong mind, Clarke.

It takes a minute of fumbling with the belt dropped into her hands to find the right pouch, pulling each open with care not to break the fasteners until she finds little glass vials, and picking through them until she finds the elfroot. She tugs the stopper free and holds it out to Clarke, watching as the woman's wound is revealed. It's ugly and bleeding steadily, but not so fast as to put her already beyond hope.

While Clarke works Lexa leans her free hand over to retrieve the spellbook, brushing the snow off and glancing at the cover and spine before tucking it into her own coat to stay dry.

"Is that where you've been? Skyhold?"

Her eyes dart at the movement and follow her book into Lexa's coat while her hands hover over the woman. They don't shake. Maybe they will afterwards. Right now she's steady and certain, glancing up at Lexa's face as if to say I saw that. As if Lexa was surreptitious. As if she would steal a spellbook. Clarke knows she wouldn't, if only because she has no use for it, but she also knows the mistrust will rankle.

"Yes," she says, looking back at the woman's split flesh and the faint light from her own hands. One held flat, the other clutching the vials. She can't do much, so she's doing what's important. Knitting the tears in organs, mostly. The magic takes only so much direction from her, taking instructions to mend and working from the inside out, invisible beneath the blood. "They're doing a lot of good."

Just as Clarke had hoped, Lexa's irritation builds, between the deliberate misunderstanding of her policy and now the way Clarke watches her put the book away. It's petty, and beneath them, and she nearly says so but bites it back because obviously that is exactly the reaction Clarke's seeking. She lowers her head and picks through the contents of the pouch, holding up vials to peer inside and identify the herbs within for future reference.

There aren't that many, and when she has finished and tucked them away again (not a single one slipped up her sleeve, Clarke, aren't you relieved?) she turns to watch the healing magic in progress. Not that there is much to see. She reaches over to blot carefully at the worst of the blood, but still can't see anything, and sneaks a look up at Clarke instead, watching her face as she works, and as she answers.

"So they say. You have found it to be true? They've given you no trouble? As a mage."

Edited (nitpicking) 2016-03-19 03:01 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

TAKING SULEDIN KEEP

CLOSED ↠ Twisted Fate, Metaari, Isabela

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CLOSED ↠ Michel, Dorian, Sam

Re: CLOSED ↠ Michel, Dorian, Sam

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CLOSED ↠ Salvatore, Pel, Cyril

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closed, post-battle.

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