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Entry tags:
closed.
WHO: Bastien, Derrica, Edgard, Flint, Julius, Marcus, Tiffany, Tsenka
WHAT: It's a lovely day for a rescue mission
WHEN: Vaguely late Justinian
WHERE: A day out from Val Chevin
NOTES: Viiiolence
WHAT: It's a lovely day for a rescue mission
WHEN: Vaguely late Justinian
WHERE: A day out from Val Chevin
NOTES: Viiiolence
preamble and negotiations.
Six armoured individuals, Templar plate, five on horseback and one driving the carriage. The driver is accompanied by a seventh individual sat beside them, someone in light leathers without any clear, distinguishable sign of affiliation. The open road ambles across gentle foothills with only light forest dotting the countryside, and they are making good time with a steady but not leisurely pace forwards.
Despite this quickened momentum, stopping them is a matter of blocking the road by standing in its centre, with a horse drawn carriage to contend with. If this is a group of charlatans pretending at playing Templar, they are very skilled at it as those on their horses all uniformly dismount and muster together, all raising heavy crossbows squarely upon the united front of Flint, Bastien, Tiffany, and Derrica.
After a pause, it's the leather-armored agent that stands where he was perched, and engages in what appears to be a conversation.
Why yes, they do have Marcus Rowntree in their custody. If the outfit known as Riftwatch wishes to petition for his release, it is best they take it up through official challenges. They have no authority, personally, to negotiate the release of a prisoner of the Chantry. As for anyone slain in the moment of arrest, certainly one should know better than to get between blade and quarry.
Speaking of which—
It's Derrica that spies the signal, and has the ability to act when, in near unison, five bolts spring loose from crossbow.
rappels in
They are not receptive. Derrica had not expected anything else, not really. Not from templars. (If they are bandits, will they drop their weapons and run at the first sign of real trouble?) The casual dismissal of ostensibly dead Julius expected as well. They are not cowed, and that is their mistake, maybe.
Derrica is painfully aware of them. These six men in their armor with their crossbows, likely soaked in mage bane, unconcerned with the presence of the Commander, or of a Seeker are a threat. She has spoken gently, coolly, careful with her words and harmonious with Bastien and Theophania. She wasn't lying earlier, she would have liked to be able to avoid a fight, but—
It might be a fight. She doesn't wait for the signal to come to it's logical conclusion, just raises immediately a barrier between them. Not aggression in kind, yet. Her eyes cut sideways to Bastien, then Flint, both checking that no one has been hit as well as questioning.
Repayment in kind, or...?
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But in case not, they've kept two mages and a bowman posted in the sparse midsummer shrubbery of the offing. 'Aim to incapacitate if you're able,' Flint had instructed the trio as they'd waited for the heavily armored convoy to come rattling to meet them. 'Though if it comes to a fight, better to come clear of it than not. Julius, Tsenka—make use of whatever surprise can be mustered. Edgard, aim for their horses.'
Operating in good faith is one thing. Acting needlessly naive would be another matter entirely.
So: The hot crackle of bolts deflecting from the barrier pops loud in the ear. And while the flinch back from the aborted velocity is instinctive, so too is the disparaging thought of how stupid it is for the Templars to have fired their full volley at once. Even the best trained arbalist takes time to reload. That's plenty of time for Flint to spit out the sharp whistle that serves as their own signal.
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the same kind of odd subtlety yet oppressive discomfort of a shift in atmospheric pressure, and while glimmering radiant light flashes out, it's mostly Derrica that feels it. The staff in her hands, thrummed with potential, is now a slightly unwieldy stick as her tie to the Fade is severed.
It's joined by the whisper of steel and leather as three Templars, crossbows discarded, draw their blades, and advance on the group. The two others draw back to reload, and one helm seems to clock something about Flint's signal that has it turn to look to the trees.
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When he releases the spell, it requires standing, and while it doesn't require dropping his hood, when it falls he doesn't pull it back up. But presumably that's not the first thing the Templars notice. The first thing they probably notice is why the spell is called "fist of the maker," as it slams its targets to the ground hard enough to rattle their bones.
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but when she releases stonefist and a boulder bigger than her torso fires violently across the space, the way Julius has already brought them down means the collision is not necessarily with their legs and the force of the impact on them, pre-grouped, is a mess.
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the part in the scooby-doo episode where they take off the rubber mask.
Despite this considerable downturn in his circumstances, some of that air of casual condescension bordering on the driest of humor which had colored his earlier remarks lingers. He must come by it very honestly.
"I'll take a bit of water if you have it."
and they woulda gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling kids.
The unavoidable fact is: this is her duty, and she cannot abandon it midway through.
"We do," she answers. "We could spare some, to a man willing to offer honest answers to us in exchange."
Derrica is still sheathed in ozone and sparks, coolly serene in the center of all this crackling energy. The pop and spit of it builds as it draws in what is left from all the magic expended in the course of the brawl, passively gathering strength in the absence of a dismissal. Are they done here? Perhaps, but she will wait until there is no doubt.
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He does shoot the templar a lingering look that's more fire than ice as he goes to make sure Marcus is in one piece, his staff still handy in case Derrica and the others need the backup.
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Here, down in the mud, the man in the leather armor slides his attention from Derrica to Julius retreating toward the back of the transport, and back again. He's quite clear when he says to her, "Well, I can't make any promises. But let's see if a drink relieves this itch in my throat enough to make conversation."
He is maybe forty and sports a Marcher accent so broad that it's indistinguishable. Under a dark, closely kept beard, the man has a fairly unremarkable face excepting the scar that clips through one eyebrow. That said, his smile involves a fair number of teeth and might be charming were it expressed in less fraught circumstances. In these, it's something of an aggravating pretense.
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Her hands fold, one over the other, onto the worn-smooth grip of her stave as she looks back into his face. Wrestles with the urge to threaten.
Instead, she nods silently, and then turns to look to the nearest set of free hands that might pass her a waterskin.
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dick in a box.
Clang-clang-clang as the transport lock is broken, far more real in this space than any of the noises previously, vibrating through the shadows. It brings a shock of heady adrenaline, Marcus scrabbling properly out of his stupor, a chain dragging. Going through the necessary motions that turn fright into anger.
The lock gives. It wasn't too concerned about being a lock, on that side of the door.
One hand braced against the inside wall of the carriage, half-kneeling in an attempt to get to his feet, Marcus is less a few things since Julius saw him last: his staff, the outer shell of his armor, the opportunity to shave, and a few meals. There is bruising, dried blood, and manacles fastened around wrists with the telltale signs of runic inscription. A length of chain, fastening an ankle to a metal ring, allowing him only as far as the door.
He will react intelligently to individual identities in a moment, once he's finished simply determining friend or foe in the shock of daylight.
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Julius absolutely does not do that.
He's leaning his staff against the side of the carriage so he can climb inside instantly. "Maker," he says, without thinking; Tsenka had said he was alive, there was no reason to think that had changed, but the relief that washes over him at confirming it is uncharacteristically easy to read in his face. "We're going to get you out of here, just a moment," he says, coming a bit closer to either break the chain or try to clear Marcus's head, Julius himself hasn't quite decided which immediately.
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Decision making is nullified as Marcus does it for him and reaches out, a hand landing heavy on Julius' shoulder and snagging on his clothing with all the grace of a dog paw, hooking fingers like blunt nails. He reels the other man in closer, close, no matter how awkward it might be, and also grazes Julius' chin with the edge of iron manacle in the process of getting his arms around him in a trapping embrace. Clumsily leaden-boned, but determined.
Something spoken into his shoulder, muffled. Probably an echoed Maker, or less polite.
slides in one more before someone else arrives
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(“I've heard you fucking.” “You misheard.”)
If he hadn't just been abducted by the Chantry, it'd be a perfect, uninterrupted moment for both—
but what she actually does is say, “I told you both I was coming,” with some satisfaction. Tsenka Abendroth does not make threats, she makes promises.
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later.
With the immediate threat settled, Derrica finds herself free to do something about all the lingering evidence of harsh treatment.
"Do you mind?" is the first question though, as she draws up beside him. Marcus has had so little say in what happens to him over the past few days. The last thing she wants is to impose.
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Standing, leaning, arms closed around himself. He rouses at the feeling of someone approaching, looking up in time for Derrica to speak.
The most obvious is the split at his mouth, the bruising that curls up as far as his ear. One hard strike, by the looks of it. Wrists ringed with chafed, tender bracelets of damage from shackles that he'd fought with all the stupidity of predator what wandered into a trap. There's probably more of the same, the way he holds himself, which is: defensively.
And still slightly that as she asks, but he does nod. Shifts slightly, an elbow nudged back to push his weight off his leaning spot.
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What? Nothing, surely. Nothing can or will touch him now. And they won't be caught unawares again. But the idea that someone cunningly, deliberately orchestrated these events and the price they'd nearly paid for it, weighs heavily on her. Julius could have died. And what would have happened to Marcus if Tsenka hadn't been able to reach him?
"Wrists first," she decides, prompting. Not touching, just waiting. Letting Marcus offer them to her on his own.
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"During the fight," he explains, clearing his throat. "One got me with their blade."
And then they did him the courtesy of seeing to the wound, is the implicit addition.
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bow time
On the Road Back
Every so often, he stops and sighs and reaches for his bow as if to check it's still there. But not for long, then he'll be back to checking hooves or building a fire.
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"You and I are going to collect firewood," he tells Edgard. It doesn't seem optional. Less so splitting up if Flint's brisk "This way," as he cuts out into the surrounding brush is any indication.
oh yeah i forgot about griffons oops
Instead, he picks up a few sticks and feels them in his hands, they're not damp.
"Saw a fallen tree up a ways." He offers faintly.
Fully I had to rewrite my tag when I remembered
They move after the tree in question, in apparently no great hurry. It isn't until the burgeoning encampment has fallen far out of outshot that Flint breaks the silence, speaking without looking back at the man trailing in his wake:
"I'm curious." He sounds awfully conversational. He's yet to pick up any loose sticks himself. "Did you mean to kill that Templar, or did you just miss the target I instructed you to aim for?"
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"Neither." He answers honestly. He goes to continue and his nerves cause him to stutter slightly. "didn't think about killing him. Just thought he was about to--"
He trails off, knowing he's not going to give a good answer. Again, without warning and in a flash, he sees in his mind their entire party dead on the ground.
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