faderift | CLOSED: My How the Turns Tables

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CLOSED: My How the Turns Tables

WHO: Ellis, Richard v1.0, Glimmer, Abby, Edgard, Vanya, Richard v2.0, Fenris
WHAT: Riftwatch agents raid a Venatori survey encampment with the intent to capture a researcher or two in the hopes that they'll be able to glean information regarding Corypheus' plans for the Gates.
WHEN: Now-ish; whenever that makes sense.
WHERE: Northwest of Starkhaven, the Free Marches
NOTES: OOC information is available HERE at the sign-ups post. The objective/points pool spreadsheet with relevant instructions is located HERE and should be open to editing. Please include any necessary content warnings in your subject lines.

THE BRIEF
In addition to a mercilessly succinct in-person briefing, a copy of the following orders are also filed:

For Immediate Dispatch,

Selected members of Forces and Project Sashamiri are to proceed by griffon-back to the last known location of the Venatori survey group. Rough coordinates provided, may be readily corroborated by Fenris and Abby. You are to seek out their current position, and assess from a reasonable vantage the details and current state of their work.

Once your evaluation is complete, you are to make your way into the camp and there capture as many Venatori scholars (or similar) as you're able. Destruction of Venatori forces, equipment, and interests is preferable where possible.* Should it prove tactically advantageous, those with anchors are permitted to open rifts and are given license to leave them unsealed should closing them in relative security be implausible.
*In the margin, in Julius’s handwriting: In the case of any notes or diagrams, acquisition would be even better, but of course if there’s any doubt of success, destruction is a viable secondary option.
Captured Venatori agents are to be pressed for information relating to the Gates, including but not limited to: Corypheus' intentions, their number, their function, how they are activated, and suspected locations. Once their intelligence has been exhausted, you are given leave to tend to any captives in such a way as you believe befits their continued value to Riftwatch or her allies.

-J. Flint
If you do open any rifts and notice any odd phenomenon, please do try to remember to jot down any useful observations when you get a chance. Likewise, if you see any strange artifacts and are not able to retrieve them, notes (or sketches?) of them would be very much appreciated. Good luck.

- Julius

THE RAID
The targeted Venatori encampment is pitched in a scrubby, lightly wooded area above a ravine located Northwest of Starkhaven. The camp, which consists of the usual pitched tents and pack animal picket lines, seems to be the base of operations for an minor excavation effort occuring in the ravine itself. Careful observation, stealthy investigation, or the general chaos of the melee may reveal the following details:

The camp sits alongside around a roughly built dam which is currently serving to divert the flow of a very minor tributary of the Minanter from the ravine into a muddy man-made spillway. This seems to have been done in order to lower the water level in the ravine and allow the researchers access to a small ruin there.
Based on the state of the work in the ravine and the activity of the camp, it seems the researchers are primarily focused on recovering artifacts from the dig site. The spillway channel is being used to sift through materials brought up from the ravine. Trays of cleaned material are arranged on portable work tables under canopies, and a small collection of either field researchers or enslaved labor (hard to say which) are studiously picking through them.
The camp's inhabitants consist primarily of Tevinter researchers (which may or may not be mages), some nondescript labor force (which may or may not be enslaved), and a subset of well-armed Tevinter soldiers (which also may or may not be mages and/or enslaved). There are enough people around that a straightforward assault into and out of the camp seems unlikely, but they're scattered enough between the various points of interest that diversions or stealth may be fruitful.
During the day, the camp's inhabitants are scattered between their various work stations. At night, everyone beds down in their various tents or on bed rolls around low fires excepting the soldiers, who keep a watch rotation over the camp, and two bored sentries armed with signal horns posted at the ravine dig.
The draft animals on the perimeter picket line consist mostly of stocky mules, fuzzy Free Marches horses, and two beefy druffalo. A fancy dracolisk is picketed separately within the camp itself.

Now comes the hard part.

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[You know, he was made for this?

Literally. Forged in steel and fire and blood, lyrium grafted onto his body with vicious precision, trained and tutored in all kinds of weaponry, oh, his master had made him to be a weapon. Intimidating and vicious, the perfect bodyguard, a wolf rendered docile by the muzzle forced over his mouth. And of course that hadn't lasted, and of course now he's his own person, but the point is: Fenris thrives in situations like this.

Blade and lyrium, that's what he uses: a dreadful combination of ripping out hearts or lopping off limbs and heads with his claymore. He isn't sadistic, exactly; certainly he doesn't leave anyone alive overly long. But there's a fierce bloodthirstiness that he exudes, a fierce firm satisfaction in the tiny smile he wears as he tears through guard after guard. It's messy and ugly and awful, and he does not regret it, not for a single second, for there's something so satisfying about seeing dead Venatori.

And he will, to be clear, kill as many as possible. It's not that the only good Venatori is a dead one, but at the same time . . . there's no obvious reason to keep anyone beyond the researchers alive. And the laborers, perhaps, if they clearly aren't interested in fighting. He's not a savage, just mercilessly efficient.

Perhaps you catch him in some of the breathless moments between, covered in blood with a pulsating heart dropping from suddenly visible fingers. Perhaps you feel the lyrium singing so sweetly from his body as he activates it again and again, oh, surely every mage in the area must feel something for how he moves and weaves in and out of the Fade. Perhaps he saves you via a well-placed hand through a Venatori chest; perhaps you're both fighting together and you literally phase right through him, because lyrium is tricky and sometimes people go through him without anyone meaning to do that! Wild.

Or perhaps it's later, far later, and you catch him as he walks through the camp, idly looting or untying the druffalo (somewhat warily, truthfully), freeing them. Maybe you help stitch up a wound, god knows he'll be sustaining a fair few, for Venatori don't usually like being killed, and some of them did put up a fight.]

Edited 2022-07-12 19:41 (UTC)

(If he had noted this aloud Abby would have pointed out, drily, that to her, exactly none of the Venatori seemed to want to die, and that whichever one got a knife point across Fenris' shoulder was the most unwilling of all. They got him good. She has a wad of cloth bunched up against the slice, keeping the pressure on it.

She directs his palm to the spot-) Hold this for me. Tight, (while she reaches for her pack, and idly wipes her bloody hands off on her pants. Clearly this is a situation she's been in a thousand times before.

There is a little first aid kit in here, with needle and thread. A couple of stitches across the trench of the cut will do him good.)

So, (she says, and puffs at loose strands of hair falling in her face, freed from the braid.) Did you get it all out of your system? (The murdering, that is.)

[He doesn't flinch. It's notable if only because he should be flinching, or wincing, or even making a grimacing sort of face, but he doesn't. Hold this for me, and he does, quietly and without complaint, his fingers growing hot as his own blood seeps through. It's a nasty wound— not life-threatening, but still, ugly— and oh, it hurts, the pain throbbing in time with his pounding heart. And yet all Fenris does is take a long, slow breath inward, watching her as she prepares her things.]

If you mean are you tired of killing Venatori, then no. But if you mean are you liable to go around slaughtering any of our prisoners when no one is watching, then yes. Er— no. [Wait. Blood loss is a bitch. He waves his free hand impatiently, ignoring the white-hot shock of pain that brings, and clarifies:] My point is: I am not out of control. I simply see no reason not to slaughter Venatori as swiftly as possible.

[A few seconds pass . . . and then, with a small, grim smile, he adds:]

And if I terrorize the rest before they fall, all the better.

Still. It was a satisfying fight, was it not?

(If he's shittalking freely, that means he's okay. Abby didn't have doubt in the first place after watching him fight (savage, controlled) but it still helps loosen up a knot in her chest. Enough that she's happy to roll her eyes at him, anyway. And then she has to dodge the animated flap of his hand when she turns back in toward him, needle threaded.)

It was. (And,) Hold it still, c'mon. (He isn't putting pressure on the wound at its deepest point and unluckily for him, Abby's bedside manner still leaves a lot to be desired. She just doesn't want to have to fight against a sluggish bleed, here.

A sigh. She's finding some elfoot salve, so she can disinfect everything to the best of her ability.) Do you usually fight with such... (what's the word.) Enthusiasm?

[Fine, fine, he's holding it, he's holding it, he's . . . probably going to gesture again in a minute, but at least not intentionally. But ah . . . hm. He takes in a breath to say something, seems to reconsider, and instead settles on:]

No. If we were to be jumped one night by thugs in an alley, I might be as brutal in my methods, but only because tearing out hearts is an efficient method of killing someone.

But I find those who serve Corypheus to be repugnant, and fighting has always been a useful way for me to ease tension and channel my anger. It is the same with slavers. I am . . . enthusiastic, yes, and sometimes sadistic, but it is not unearned.

[A beat, and he glances over at her.]

Was it so shocking to see? You, yourself, seem adept at fighting. I would have thought such enthusiasm familiar.

(Abby shakes her head, and squints at her needle to thread it.) It is familiar. (Almost too familiar?? She sighs, and looks at Fenris for a moment, pausing in her preparation.) Everybody around here treats killing like it's work, or something. I guess it is for them, but that's not all it is.

(Killing is bad. Abby knows that, okay, it's- that's an easy one. But sometimes, when you're facing off against an enemy that wronged you, or wronged your people, or it's somebody who deserves what they're getting... well. The lines start to blur, easily. She thinks that way all the time. It's not right to think that way but she does, and this is the first time she's felt that sentiment from somebody else in Riftwatch who isn't Ellie.

So yeah, maybe it was a little shocking?

She goes back to her needle, pulling the thread through the salve to coat it.) I feel that way too. Exactly the same way. (The sadism, the anger, the release of tension. Every last bit.

Besides.) ... If I could tear out hearts like that I'd definitely do it. (Sheepishly,) It's cool as fuck.

Edited 2022-07-22 02:51 (UTC)

[Ahh. So not shocking at all, then, save for the startling realization that comes of finding someone similar to you. He watches her work for a few seconds, trying to decide on how best to phrase this— and then she adds that, and a flattered sort of chuckle emerges first.]

Thank you. It is . . . deeply satisfying, I will admit. Especially with Venatori.

[Truly, he means that. There are plenty who balk at such a thing (and with good reason); it's pleasing to have someone admire it. But ah . . . how does he put this? He's quiet for a moment, trying to put the words together to explain.]

I was made for it. Literally, made for it, for my former master selected me and molded me to become his ideal bodyguard. I was made to be protector to him and intimating presence to everyone else all at once, to be someone who reveled in violence . . . I suspect my former master thought to make me mindless with it at times, or at least to give off that impression, but that, at least, I do not embody. But I do relish a fight. Blood and gore, especially against someone who deserves it . . . some traits remain, and I will not apologize for them.

[He meets her gaze.]

Nor should you. Not if you have a grip on it.

(While he's talking and distracted by his story, Abby finally allows him to lower the rag. She wipes the area clear, ghosts the salve across the cut with two fingertips, and starts her work. Her hand is steady, and the stitches are both neatly spaced and taut, the movements methodical; this is almost relaxing for her, something she's used to doing.

When she glances up it's to find him looking steadily at her, and it gives her an odd sort of shiver. Fenris is quite intense, when he wants to be.

Looking back at her work, she shrugs a shoulder.) I didn't have a grip on it, for a really long time. But I do now. (She can be certain of it because Lev helped her find her control, and she'll be forever grateful toward him for it.

Before she returns to the stitching,) What do you mean he moulded you?

Good. It is no easy thing to accomplish.

[He means that.

And listen: stitches hurt. There's no way around it. It's a very small blade piercing your skin over and over, it hurts. So there's a line of tension in his body, a terseness in his voice, and you know, it's almost entirely because of that.

Almost.]

He . . .

[How to say this? It's an old trauma, one that he has long since come to terms with, but that doesn't mean it's easy to speak of it without eliciting either pity or quiet horror, neither of which he wishes for. And yet he will not lie about it.]

I was born into slavery. [An idle fact, offered neutrally.] And when I was a teenager, he took me and, utilizing the kinds of magic that the Venatori slaver over, seared rivulets in my skin, filling them with lyrium and sealing them with a spell. He also erased my memory— or perhaps the pain did, and he simply cleaned up what was left over. Either way: it left me a blank slate, ready to be shaped into whatever form he wished.

And what he wished for, [a small grunt of pain, his mouth tightening briefly before relaxing again,] was a bodyguard. Someone who could inspire awe and fear into his enemies and allies alike— a savage dog on a leash, muzzled only by his good graces. And then again someone who could protect him from all harm. And to that end, he trained me on . . . oh, all kinds of things. A multitude of weaponry and battle tactics, crowd control and such . . . I became exactly what he wished me to be.

So. Moulded, in that he quite literally took something and gave it shape and form.

(They do hurt. The sudden tension ratcheting through his body get a soft, "I know," out of Abby, but she doesn't stop. If she gives him time to adjust to the pain he'll be anticipating every push of the needle; better to get it over and done with instead of dragging the process out.

Her eyes flicker from the wound to his face as he speaks, and the only pause she takes is to dab at the blood. She won't interrupt completely, but the look on her face gets uglier the longer he goes on, jaw set, brow furrowed.)

That's sick, (is her cold assessment. It reminds her too much of Lev and the Seraphites, of what they wanted him to be against his will. At least he was able to tell them no and get away. Fenris wasn't so lucky. She takes a breath before the next stitch to steady a suddenly shivery hand. That something like that happened to him at the hands of another- she likes him, she realises, enough to feel protective of him in this moment. Righteous anger burns through her, hot and familiar.

When she asks, her voice is calm.) But you're away from him now. What happened?

(Did he get what he deserved?)

[ Glimmer is still picking through the remains of the camp herself, her armor splattered with gore, streaked where magic has singed too close. She's sifting through a chest she's pulled out of one of the tents, not finding much useful so far. There's a pile of books and papers to one side that she has yet to go through and she looks up as Fenris approaches. ]

You should get that looked at.

[ Matter of factly about one of his many small wounds. ]

[Is she right? She absolutely is. Small wounds lead to big ones in a hurry if you don't bandage them before they disinfect. He knows this. Spending seven years with Anders taught him rudimentary healing practices, if nothing else, and yet Fenris pulls a slight face. Not dismissive, but rather distracted: yes, yes, I'll get there . . .]

I will.

[Eventually. But he leans forward, peering at some of the papers shifted to the side. His fingernails still have dried blood beneath him, but at least none of it is fresh as he picks up a book.]

Can you read Tevene?

[This particular one just seems to be a history book, which is interesting, but not particularly helpful.]

Good.

[ She'll leave it at that (for now). No need to harass him over it if he knows he needs to take care of himself. GLimmer is still sorting through things as Fenris picks up a book. ]

Ah... No. I'm just grabbing anything that looks like it be helpful.

[ Glimmer admits with a grimace. ]

You may wish to leave this one behind, then. It's a fictional novel.

[Of course, such a thing might be interesting either way, but just so she isn't lugging several tomes all the way back to Kirkwall for no reason. He sets it down, then comes at her side.]

But if you would like to know what some of the papers say to determine their usefulness, I can translate.

Glimmer, isn't it?

[Glitter? Glamor? He remembers hearing the name at some point on the journey here, but sometimes his memory is spotty.]

Oh! Thanks.

[ the book in question is tossed aside. She's just trying to be helpful, which is hard when she doesn't know the language. Oh well. ]

That would be really helpful, thanks.

[ Glimmer's smile is, as is typical, a bright and genuine thing. ]

Yeah, Glimmer. You're Fenris, right? I didn't know you could read this stuff.

[He gives a little nod, yes, Fenris.]

It is my first language.

[He assumes, anyway, but it's not as if he can remember his childhood or teenage years. But the Trade tongue and Tevene go hand in hand with one another, and one is as good as the other. A beat, and he glances up to clarify:]

I was once a slave in Tevinter. Literacy came later, but Tevene is familiar to me.

[Maker forbid she think him willingly part of that population. He is a man freed, not a defector. And he says that the way he might tell her that he killed someone today: steadily, firmly, a neutral statement rather than a bid for pity.]

Show me which you have accumulated.

Oh. Well, lucky for us to have you along then. Glad you got out of there.

[ Glimmer says it with genuine feeling. Not exactly happiness, but a sense of gratification that Fenris has managed to get away from them and is helping to fight them. It's better that way. ]

Here, uh...

[ She shoves a pile of papers and books over towards him that she's picked out of the chest. Some of it is probably valuable, but really, it's anything that has writing on it so it could be anything from a laundry list to a ream of valuable research notes. ]

[He leans himself up against the table, narrow hips settling there as he takes some of the papers in hand. Idly he skims each one, and perhaps if she's observant she'll note it takes him slightly longer than it might others to skim, but ah, he gets there. Two piles eventually form: useless, the larger and messier pile, filled with things Fenris deems irrelevant, and useful, which is unfortunately rather smaller. So it goes.]Glimmer . . . is that a name you chose yourself?

[It's curious, not snotty. He glances up.]

I have not heard its like, not outside certain professions.

[Actors. He means actors.]

[ She keeps sorting through the chest, though the supply of books and papers is slowly petering out--there's plenty of writing supplies, blank parchment, and so forth arranged as well, none of which she's interested in. Glimmer glances up at Fenris' question, her lips pursed. ]

Ah... no. My mother and father picked it for me.

[ She smiles. ]

I wouldn't change it for anything.

[ Thankfully, she doesn't seem to take offense to last comment--she just seems mildly confused. ]

What professions?

Actors. Players. People who put on performances. Glimmer is a word typically associated with brightness, isn't it? Gilt and glitter. Things that appeal to those who make their living putting on performances.

[It's not that he dislikes the stage, but actors are a little much sometimes. And yet it's a unique craft, he can admit that.]

Is it a common name, where you hail from?

Mm, it is. I wasn't an actress, though. Back home, I was a princess--a queen, now, actually.

[ And now here she is, sorting papers in the wreckage of a camp full of people they just killed. ]

I don't know if it's common? My mother was named Angella and my father was named Micah... I've never met anyone else with it, so I guess not?

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CLOSED: My How the Turns Tables

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