What Can One Grey Warden Do?

[pinprick]

WHO: Hercules, Jamie, Kain, Rachette, Alistair, Kaidan, Bethany, Dorian, Anders, and Nathaniel.
WHAT: The ambush and capture of Lord Livius Erimond
WHEN: Drakonis 4
WHERE: The Western Approach
NOTES: Info on this post. Feel free to start your own mingle threads for the journey there and back. Warning for violence.

It doesn't really rain here. The skies are blue and the sun is glaring, the sands shifting only when a merciful breeze blazes through, which isn't often. It's hardest on Team D, which has no shade or shelter. The other two teams are tucked away in the shadows, impossible to see as Erimond's party enters the gorge.

They had seen the demons from afar, Nathaniel peering through a spyglass. There are eight of them, each bound to a mage, and Nathaniel has chosen to continue with the plan, though he has urged everyone not to try to fight, only to push through with the plan as-is and get out. They are all very much outnumbered, but all they need to do is take one man.

So stay hydrated and move quickly, team. Anything can happen in the next few minutes.

[OOC: I will tag into each team thread as the action reaches each team. Feel free to mingle on team threads before then and react to the action in other threads. Also, please start your own threads for travel mingling, if you want that sort of thing. This will keep everything organized for everyone's AC purposes.]

Comments

TEAM D

[pinprick]

Hercules, Jamie, Kain, and Rachette: Distract the enemy long enough for the snatch to be made.

[pinprick]

The party of mages and demons pauses halfway down the gorge, Erimond at the head. He is too far away for his expression to be read, but he is clearly hesitant, while giving the body language of someone trying to appear impervious.

"Who goes there?" he demands loudly.

[sistertohermen]

The demons sure seemed like a particular hitch in the plan. Not that she was incredibly fond of retreating and coming up with a new plan only to let their target get away, but this was starting to look more and more suicidal. She glanced askance at Herc. Damn Grey Wardens, on both sides.

"Just a couple of toll collectors." She'd arrived at Skyhold with her mismatched armor from the Carta and felt it prudent to don it again, stripping herself of any Inquisition trappings. It helped make her look the bandit part (not that it was hard for her anyway). But these chuckleheads really needed to move closer and trigger some of the traps.

TEAM S

[pinprick]

Alistair and Nathaniel: Secure the target.

[byblow]

Outside of business and low-key heckling, Alistair has never had much to say to Nathaniel. At the moment, business has already been discussed, and heckling would be too inappropriate even for him, so he's been quiet, crouched in the shadows cast by rocky outcrops, sword stuck in the sand for balance. He doesn't move. But even without moving, the way he tenses up when they hear Erimond call out to the distraction team is detectable.

[pinprick]

Nathaniel lets Alistair keep an eye on proceedings. He is busying himself readying the drugged dart, careful not to touch the substance himself. Their differences they may have, but Nathaniel trusts Alistair to have his back in a fight.

Erimond appears now behind the main horde, arms folded, clearly ready to remain there until the threat is taken care of. Nathaniel loads the dart into a device that looks a bit like a tiny crossbow, slowly enough that the click cannot be heard over the sounds coming from the east.

Three more mages and five demons surge toward the staged distraction, and Nathaniel raises the device, loosing the dart toward Erimond. It sticks straight in the magister's exposed neck. Erimond does not seem to even notice it at first, the needle is so small. Nathaniel nods to Alistair, signaling him to go forth.

TEAM C

[pinprick]

Kaidan, Bethany, and Dorian: Covering fire for the retreat.

Re: TEAM C

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Bethany was far in the rear, with Kaidan and Dorian, and without thinking about it, she leaned back and started to go through her calming exercises as she whispered to the other two.

"Bad time to ask, but ... specialties?"

[liberalum]

This sort of seems like the kind of question that might have been best asked on the week long journey out into seemingly endless desert, and the arch look Dorian gives Bethany over his barer shoulder says as much, although a twinge upwards at the corner of his mouth dulls sharpness. His attention settles back on the slow collision of Erimond and his band of mages on their as yet unknown trap. A flash of chaos, and then the extraction, and then--

"Fear," he says, very quietly, poised and watchful as a hunting cat undercover, save for one slap of a hand to his arm to strike away a hopping insect. "Fear, and storm and fire elemental magics. And necromancy, but I don't plan on trifling with the natural order of things today."

camping (on the way there only pls), open!

[byblow]

This is better than the last time Alistair trekked anywhere on Warden business, sort of. Partially.

The better parts: Alistair is not the most senior Warden here, or the oldest. It isn't his job to keep anyone else in line. It isn't his plan or his decision. Unlike the kerfuffle with Clarel, if anyone here dies, it probably won't be because Alistair doesn't know when to shut up. He has some competition for The Nice Warden (Bethany) and The Funny Warden (Anders, in his better moments, when everything else he's capable of being isn't eclipsed by The Warden Who Blew Up A Chantry) but that's fine with him, honestly, as long as he isn't The Warden Who Will Be Responsible If Everyone Dies. That's Nathaniel. Or Hercules. Or both of them. Good luck, sers.

The worse parts: it's a much longer trip. There's increasingly more sand involved the further west they go. And there's less hope. He'd spent the journey to Skyhold believing that if they got there quickly enough and spoke to the right people, things might work out. He spends this one thinking about how many bodies have already been burned. The best they can do still won't mean anything works out.

The part on which opinions may vary: he stops shaving.

He's chatty on the road, taking up the rear and spurring along any stragglers or complainers with commentary that falls just on the kind side of teasing, but when they stop to rest, he's subdued. Nice and Funny, sure. He's not giving up on those titles without a fight. But he's more likely to sit down next to someone who's unoccupied and talk to them in quiet tones, even if what's coming out of his mouth is still a joke, than to vie for the whole group's attention and laughter; he's recognizably not himself to anyone who's known him longer than a year. But given the circumstances, really, he's a lot more cheerful than he could be. Given the circumstances he could be crying himself to sleep.

[twelvelabours]

Now, listen. He isn't the one that's responsible if everyone dies (except that he is, he would be, but let's ignore logic and all that good stuff in the name of some indignant prose). He's The Old Warden, The Warden Who Gets The Bad Back Jokes, and also The Warden Who Could Shake Your Teeth Out Of Your Head For Being So Bloody Rude. Both of those are a bit wordy, though, so maybe he'll just have to settle for The Old Warden, and accept the jokes about old dogs and new tricks.

(Max, now, he's not a Warden per se, but he may as well be. He's the Charming Warden, because Herc's pretty sure that there are enough cracks to be made about just about anyone else being The Drooling Warden.)

As it is, camp's about set up for the night, and wherever the Pretty-Nice-And-Kinda-Funny Warden is, he'll suddenly find a large mabari hurling himself at his feet, or maybe his lap, a bone in his mouth that could feasibly come from some kinda livestock from the size, or a dracolisk, but smells more like it belongs to a darkspawn. And he's drooling. A lot. Into Alistair's boot, as a matter of fact, in between trying to lick the Sorta-Okay Warden right on the face.

Herc follows a moment later, shoulders a little stiff, but stubbornly carrying on, though he ignores Max making a scene. "You forget a razor, or something?"

Quiet, teasing, and just slightly concerned he's going to end up living life with another Stroud-stache.

[byblow]

"Auugggghhk," Alistair answers, because he's under Herc's enormous, drooling, uncharming dog, pushing at Max's chest with one hand and shielding his face with the other. He likes dogs. He really, really likes dogs. But he likes them the way people ought to like dogs: a little distantly, with a line drawn somewhere ahead of being licked in the face while the dog's mouth is also still occupied by a putrid bone.

Help.

[justice_is_blond]

There's a cricket hopping near The Quiet Warden. Normally this would be nothing of note, except a kitten is stalking it, getting ever and ever closer while being carefully watched by The Funny-Right-Now Warden. The cricket makes a jump, as does The Hero of Purrelden, and Anders is too slow to keep the kitten from missing and landing on Alistair's lap.

Anders stops mid-twitch-to-grab because he's not going to grab at there, and gives Alistair something of a sheepish look.

"Sorry. She thinks she's dangerous. If she's not welcome just pick her up and she'll head back this way." He's not too close to anyone, physically, right now. The Wardens may have accepted that he's with them, but he doesn't know how much resentment or frustration there is, and despite how a large part of it is deserved, he doesn't like knowing or feeling that from others. It's exhausting. At least he does have friends here, as well as his cat. "My last one was a little better at fighting. He helped out in the Deep Roads."

[byblow]

Alistair squints at the kitten without touching it. He's not a cat person—not in that horrified, cats-are-evil way some dog people are into, but more in the sense that the only cats he's known were barn cats feral enough that having one on him was more likely to end in claws than purring. He keeps his hand on the log that he's using as a bench and stares at it while Detlef—

Anders, while Anders talks.

"I hope he was bigger," Alistair says. "Like—a tiger, maybe?"

[liberalum]

Dorian doesn't know everyone here, which is fairly standard after having joined the Inquisition. He had gotten to know those he now considers knowing; Iron Bull and Vivienne, Varric and Sera, Leliana and Cassandra, all with their varying levels of trust, for a given value of the word. But romping about the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast, the Frostbacks, was never quite as arduous as this pilgrimage out to the Western Approach, and he hasn't actually memorised all the names of their company yet.

Still. He has his sending crystal, and people like Benevenuta and Felix and Adelaide to bother. He drinks his share of water, neither too much nor too little, and wakes up when everyone else is waking up, and looks after himself enough so that he won't become a burden.

Of course, Dorian complains. Playing at pampered prince is not really playing. He just ensures it doesn't mean anything. And he doesn't complain as much as he would if it were the inner circle.

At some point, he ceases shaving too, as if attempting to keep up his usual grooming was just too depressing, and cultivating a harsh shadow of dark down his jaw and along his neck, the curl of his mustache only just articulate amongst the sleek bristle, hides some sins. Under a sun that hangs in the sky much longer than usual, he's become browner, the peek of his shoulders soaking up warmth like he might try to retain it by the time they eventually double back for the icy wasteland of the Frostbacks.

Given the state of his company, he's forgiven Alistair of everything. Or you'd think this, the way Dorian settles down next to him one evening with a huff and a sigh and the uplift of fine desert dust.

"Zevran owes me a favour if I return you alive," he says, apropos of little. "I'm not terribly desperate for favours, but it's something to bear in mind."

[byblow]

Alistair considers this information without at first looking away from the horizon he's been manfully gazing toward. His head tilts and his eyebrows pinch together. He exhales.

"Why don't I get anything for returning you alive?"

He's sitting on the ground—Dorian can have a stump or something if Dorian particularly wants one—and leans back to brace on his arms before looking over. He doesn't consider himself in need of much forgiveness. Sorry for saving your friend's life. (Shadily, at the last minute, in a way that also in many ways ended it.) Sorry for telling you the truth. (In an emotional blackmail-y way.) So there's no real surprise at having possibly been granted it.

"I must not be talking to the right people. But it's probably not too late. I need a list of everyone who cares about you."

Open on the way there!

[justice_is_blond]

It's rare for Anders to keep his head down, but that's what he's doing when they set out. Knowing that thousands upon thousands of people hate him is one thing. Seeing it in faces and voices is another thing altogether. Justice doesn't help the situation with his constant observation about how if it had only been mages dying, yet again, no one would care. Meredith might have gone down in record as a hero.

All of this leads to him riding mostly quietly, sometimes playing with his kitten, sometimes interjecting a comment or two into conversation carefully. Despite the anger that had almost been tangible in Skyhold when the announcement was made, there's no longer a blade hanging over his neck and he doesn't truly know how to live without that constant dread any more.

[pinprick]

At night, when there is firelight and conversation, Nathaniel sits beside Anders. He's been happy to share a tent with him, to protect him from any wrath, but hopefully it won't always be necessary.

"So," he says, resting elbows on knees, "you've made the law work in your favor. How does it feel to have rights?"

The Rendezvous Point

[pinprick]

Team S and Team D will arrive first, with Team C right behind them. Erimond is captured and unconscious; various minor and major wounds abound.

[pinprick]

Nathaniel slides off his horse, staggers under a small tree, and sits down hard, face grey and drawn in pain. Anders has stopped the worst of the bleeding, but the wound is still fairly open and causing agony. There might be hairline fractures in the largest bone of his arm, he's not sure. Everything is pain. He curls against the tree and does not care that his plan was successful; the whole world has reduced to the size of his body. He's done.

pre-capture Herc Hangouts

[twelvelabours]

OPEN.

It's his turn on cooking duty. It could be worse, of course, when you're on the road so much you learn to be a half-decent cook just to keep everyone from getting sick in the Deep Roads, but a gourmet chef he is not.

There's a dead gurn not too far off, and hopefully someone helped him dig a pit in the ground, clear out debris and pile in some rocks so they could get some of the meat cooking underground for them to keep for the upcoming days. It's a bloody great thing, of course, they can't cook the whole thing (and they wouldn't want to, it's not like it's delicious meat) but there's no good reason not to take advantage of the kill.

Whatever isn't already cooking in the pit is being hacked up to get chucked into a stew, Herc frowning a little as he cuts through the flesh and chops it up a little smaller, trying to hack away the gristle as best he can. It's not like they can always be fussy, but it's a huge animal.

From time to time he flicks a bit of fat and gristle to Max, who wuffs quietly, slobbering up the pieces of meat in between gnawing on a giant bone from the thing.



DORIAN.
He's been making the rounds, handing out a bowls of a stew. The stew itself is nothing special, meat carved off a gurn carcass, but at least its not dried meat again.

"Here," he says, holding out the battered wooden bowl and a slightly warped spoon.

Not the kinda fine bone china and silver he reckons Dorian and most other noble types'd be used to, but it's not like the Inquisition is dining off the fancy stuff, either, and he's not about to give a guy a hard time when he was prepared to come out this way with them. Not everyone'd be ready to come charging out to the Western Approach, let alone to help out Wardens, and definitely not Wardens in the Western Approach who just lugged about Anders, of all people.

Herc's smile is almost a bit apologetic, actually. Friendliness couldn't make up for a potentially broken tooth once Dorian was done with this. "Don't get your hopes up. There's a reason gurn's are known for leather."

Other than that it doesn't look too bad, herbs and some potato and carrots. Nothing special, mind, but not the worst fare they could've slung together on the road.

[liberalum]

And Maker, who doesn't love stew that's had the time it takes for the pot to get warm to render down? Dorian takes the bowl solemnly, along with its equally misshapen spoon, prepared for the sort of mutual dismissal that comes with these impersonal adventures, but instead, he looks up.

His smile is crooked, and for all that he is only marginally better groomed than the average adventurer, his teeth are very white.

"Perish the thought," he says, clipped and easy, tipping the bowl to inspect its contents obligingly. "But do I detect some form of seasoning, or the attempt thereof? Besides, cows are too known for their leather; we'll make a chef of you yet, Warden Hansen." He digs his spoon into the contents of brown, coated in brown, what he's come to associate as a Fereldan standard. "Never fear, my hope begins and ends with hoping there isn't any powdered deathroot."

[justice_is_blond]

"There's slobber everywhere." He doesn't even realize he's spoken at first, looking up from checking how warm the fire is in the pit and seeing if he needs to dial it back or up. But the mabari is just drooling on everything, the bone, the meat, the surrounding area, and Anders will never understand how that's appealing.

It's a moment after the comment's made that he looks over at Herc. "...I mean how absolutely... delightful. Appetizing." There's nothing in his voice or face that is convincing; he's not even trying, but it's on the side of joking rather than actually complaining. "On the other hand, if you'd ever like to borrow my cat for an hour and see how superior cat ownership is, the offer's there. But it's not a trade. Your endless font of drool is not going to harass me for an hour. Jonas' did. That was enough for me."

aftermath. closed to anders.

[liberalum]

[ They don't return successful.

They do return alone, at least, horses at a brisk trot that doesn't connote direct retreat, but they number that of how many they went out with rather than with an additional Hercules Hansen among their ranks. Sundown in the Western Approach sets the sky on fire.

Dorian is in a Mood, which will prove to be a lovely trip back east. Upon dismounting, he cuts himself from the rest of the pack immediately. House cats behave similarly, when injured, and in the dwindling light, damp specks of blood run off from fingertips glitter in the dust as he ducks down to attend to himself. Leather slithers loose of buckles without actually shedding clothing, opening up his armor to feel around beneath, close to his shoulder.

His grunt is more growl. Personally offended. ]

[justice_is_blond]

[He's fairly used to people like this, those who slip away when they're injured rather than seek help as well as those who insist it's fine until they pass out. Just as used to it as he is with cats, in fact. It means he's kept an eye on everyone as they travel, and Dorian's slipping off is noted. And followed, a few moments later, just soon enough to hear the growl.]

Is this when I ask if you're going to bite off my fingers if I look at that? Because someone should, and from what I've heard, that's not precisely your skill set.

[That doesn't mean Anders is right in Dorian's personal space, though. Detlef would have been. Detlef didn't have to worry about being known as an abomination or a mass-murderer. Anders hangs back a little despite how he'd prefer to be already looking at the wounds. Despite how he'd like to crack a joke but can find no ground to put it on after their failure to retrieve Herc.]