lovingvambrace | For pavus

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

The taste of ash lies thick in the air. For once something manages to overpower the foundry stench and blacken the perpetual orange of Kirkwall's night sky. Rubble lies massed in the streets, flung from the highest point to almost the lowest. Insanity and sudden chaos in the wink of an eye, a fateful explosion that has Cullen still blinking back blue lines, negative light impressions burned onto retinas.

Knight-Commander Meredith has left the Champion with an ultimatum that she not surprisingly doesn't take, murder her companion and choose their side, or the mages will all face the consequences. Hawke has vowed to fight to the bitter end to protect the mages of the Circle from the Right. Cullen privately hopes that she'll keep that word whether he agrees with her sparing of the abomination or not. This is all moving too fast with blame falling in the wrong quarter. The right answer isn't more blood. Meredith is implacable with all of them drawn along in her wake of righteous fury.

Cullen doesn't stay silent, arguing about the Champion. Surely arrest will be enough. Kirkwall's nobility won't stand for one of their grudging own being murdered by the arm of the Chantry. It isn't their place, Viscount or no Viscount in office. To his surprise, he earns concession on that front.

Then there is no more room for talking. They come upon their first wave of demons and abominations slaughtering unfortunates. The night turns red and black, a mist of blood and ichor. Cullen bashes his way through wave after wave of evil torn straight through the Veil, called by violence and horror. His sword arm burns. His shield feels as though it gains twenty pounds of its own volition, all of that before they reach the Docks District.

He hears a sound up toward the boarded up Qunari compound, more fighting. He peels away from the main force following Meredith, promising to catch up shortly, and runs up the steep steps. Breathless at the top, he sees flashes of fire past the barrier. He throws his weight behind his shield and bashes it in enough to gain entrance. A lone figure stands in the long abandoned plaza battling demons with magic and not an abomination himself. Without further thought, Cullen charges into the fray. "Aid behind you!" he shouts. He doesn't want to be mistaken for another enemy in the fight.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He snorts softly. "Desperately if you want the truth of it. I never saw myself as the administrative sort. Staying cooped up behind that desk all the time with endless paperwork isn't why I drilled countless hours in plate mail under a beating sun."

No, never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd be a Knight-Commander under any circumstances, much less these. Being out on the open on the hunt gets his blood pumping like few other things can. Knowing there's no ambiguity in it is even better. They're not hunting frightened children and youths. They're not even hunting crazed demon worshipers. Just bad men and women up to bad things who should have thought twice before bringing their brand of depredation here.

"I have a mind, yes, and I've never been afraid to put it to use. But this... This is what I know." Tactics for out thinking the enemy, then training for out fighting him.

"Why did you join the Templars and not the military or guard?" he asks, his natural curiosity taking over. Dorian couldn't help but be curious. He found himself in the company of the Templar over and over. He has to know more.

He can't imagine what the answer will be but if Cullen enjoyed tactics and battle he would do a great deal more of that if he joined the Ferelden army or some city guard. Templar seemed a strange choice to Dorian.

Then again, anything with Templars felt strange especially ones that smelled like lyrium constantly.

His expression goes a little far away. It's difficult to connect to that time in his life. He's so far removed from that idealistic boy, so jaded now, but if he lets that color his answer, then Dorian won't have the truth of it. It's easier to talk about with his eyes closed. He does so and relaxes down just a bit further.

"In Honnleath templars were seen as protecting people. Everyone, mages and those without power. Soldiers...well, soldiers served the king, and we didn't have much in the way of a town guard. They were a bit of a joke, old men with pot bellies and ill-fitting armor who marched around and thumped children on the backs of their hands for pilfering in farmer's stalls in the open market."

He cracks an eye open to look at him. "But the templars were grand. Disciplined, drilling, the arm of the benevolent Chantry, and before you laugh, try to understand my village was small and had an uncertain and frightening history with our one local mage of note, the unfortunate owner of the golem. Heady stuff for a young boy more quiet and introverted than his outgoing siblings. Our house was chaos. Happy chaos, but chaos. I wanted more, and I...perhaps naively believed that good intentions and hard work would be enough." A mouthful, he realizes, likely more than the man truly wants to hear. There's no taking it back now. He closes his eyes again.

"I imagine it's different when you're a mage. It...happens to you, not the other way around."

Now that's a story and not exactly the sort of thing Dorian is expecting. It's odd to picture. He's met Cullen when he's rather cynical and thinking of him as an optimistic young boy is a bit strange.

"I suppose that does explain it," he says with a slight not. As a child Dorian wanted nothing more than to be a Magister like his father. Those were the days when he thought he would be just like every other mage in Tevinter. How wrong he had been.

"Templars are a bit of a joke in Tevinter," he explains, "The Army is much more respected. I would never dream of enlisting. That's for the lower classes. Yet, here I am with guards and Templars. My life is a very strange fever dream at the moment."

Dorian is not sure he likes it. He misses Tevinter a great deal and yet he's adjusting. It's a strange situation.

"All of Kirkwall is a fever dream right now, friend, and we're all sharing it. It surprises me that you've stayed with us, not because you're Tevinter and not because you're a mage. I wouldn't expect any foreigner of any nationality or skill set to invest in our Gallows issues. You may not have the coin to leave, as you say, but I am certain you could have done better for yourself than all of this." He sweeps a casual hand to include their encampment, but he means the larger picture, too.

"Maybe you understand my early motives better than I anticipated." Every now and then he sees a glimmer of an idealist in Dorian. It draws him at the same time it stings him. It hits close to home and reminds him of just what he has lost.

Dorian frowns because one of his dwarven contacts was willing to take him out of Kirkwall and on to his next port of call but he had stayed. He feels a sense of accomplishment here, helping these wayward mages who have no idea what to do with a little bit of freedom. He's fixing something. It's a good lesson for him when he wants to change his homeland.

"Ah, what's better than this. The annoying insects, the cold breeze, and the delightful name Wounded Coast," he says flippantly. No need for Cullen to know what kindness lurked in his depths. "Who would ever want to leave Kirkwall?"

"Mmm." It's deliberately noncommittal, the other eye cracking open to rest on him for a few. It's interesting, the small ways he deflects compliments or the faintest suggestion of them. If he were the sort to dig or pry, it's an inroad he'd explore.

He's grateful enough for his help that he doesn't want to risk alienating him. He closes both eyes again. His face is more relaxed than ever it is behind closed doors. "You'll have a place with us for as long as you want it."

He adds after another moment or two, "But when the Seekers come, I recommend setting your sights on a new shore. Might be the ideal time to go visit the queen in Denerim."

"Any word on when your mysterious and supposedly terrifying Seekers are coming?" he asked, still unsure if they were as scary as Cullen made them out to be.

They were a branch of Templars and the Chantry, he understood that, but why they were more threatening was not exactly clear to him. There were no writings available in what remained of the library and asking the other mages mostly got him the sorts of stories children told each other to scare themselves silly.

He really wished he had some concrete evidence about this organization.

"None. There's been no word at all out of Val Royeaux. It's...worrisome. At best it could mean they're occupied with something more pressing. At worst it means they've cut us off and are preparing for war. I have some eyes set in the Vinmarks. We wouldn't be caught completely flat-footed. If it happens, though, it won't be good." He'd do everything in his power to be sure to minimize the blame. He's not sure how much power he'll have in that situation. Seekers are notoriously hostile toward templars and will do as they see fit with or without his say.

The trouble in his expression is somewhat quick to melt away, though. He's still focused on their current objective. "Whenever it happens, it will still be a while yet. We'll have time to get you well away."

"I would offer to help but I have no contacts in the southern Chantry to ask," Dorian says with a shrug. His name would probably have people turn away and run in Val Royeaux.

He waves a hand at Cullen's concern. "Don't worry about me. You have enough on your shoulders and I am quite good at taking care of myself. You know, competent mage and all."

He's bothered that Cullen thinks he needs to escape before the Seekers arrive and that Cullen might think he would run just because some buffed up Templars walked n to Kirkwall. He's not sure which idea bothers him. The idea that he's bothered at all is really bothersome as well.

"Right, I forgot." The words come in something of a lazy drawl, likely more because he's teasing him than because he's getting anywhere near sleepy. No, it's a different sort of relaxation, the calm before a storm. "I'm not supposed to be concerned. My humblest apologies, Messere Mage."

The curl of his lips is entirely too smug, all the more so because his eyes are still closed.

Concern implied care and Dorian didn't know what to do with things like that. Sarcasm is much easier and safer. Still, he's tempted to kick sand in the resting Templar's face for being a little shit. Dorian's the sarcastic one.

"The correct way to address me is Altus Pavus," Dorian corrects in his best haughty Tevinter voice. It is as natural as breathing to slip back to that superiority. "You would do well to remember that."

That's better. He feels back on equal footing now. He imagines Cullen is going to laugh at him for this. He feels oddly okay with that.

He's not wrong. Cullen's laughter is free and uncomplicated. "I have the feeling that if I do forget, you'll be at the ready to remind me. How is that word pronounced, now? Altass?" The temptation to look at him for the reaction to that is too great. He slits an eye open, his nose wrinkling in the process.

"You know us Southerners and our uncouth tongues." He clicks it against the roof of his mouth once. "You really should settle in and relax a while. It's going to be a very long night and day. The sand has ways of sapping all of the energy out of your legs if you walk in it for too long."

Dorian visibly winces at his pronunciation even though he knows it is deliberate. He shouldn't rise to the bait but damn it no one should butcher the beautiful language of his home.

"Relax? How am I to relax when you can't even address me correctly?" he huffs, glaring at Cullen. "Altus, it's a u sound, you barbarian. These are the sorts of things that would get you ostracized from Tevinter nobility you understand."

He huffs again and hunches his shoulders forward. "I have to practice with my spells. I'll be fine."

"I'm afraid the fact that I'm a southern templar has already sealed that deal, well before anything I could say or how I could say it." His reaction amuses him more than it should. He's prickly enough that he can provoke him without tremendous effort. It's a switch from being the one people usually rib, not something he'll take too far or abuse. He doesn't want genuine anger.

"Then get in some practice while I get in some rest. After everyone is done eating, I'll have to brief them anyway." He glances out past Dorian and smiles again. There's no good in the smugness of it.

"Third plate for Guardsman Hendyr. I'll take that coin when you come by it."

"I'm glad you've recognized the problem is yourself," he says sarcastically. "It's the first step in fixing it. I'll have you speaking proper Tevene in six months. You'll be ready to face the Magisterium."

He can't imagine Cullen anywhere near the Magisterium or the cut throat politics of Tevinter. He does take a brief fanciful moment to imagine him in the Tevinter armor and it's a nice imagine before he stops and thinks no further.

"I'll move so you can get your rest." He rises to his feet, intending on joining the mages.

"I haven't a clue what you mean, good sir. I would never gamble."

Cullen rolls his eyes expressively, as though he'd ever have enough interest in the language to give it any sort of serious pursuit. He really is too much sometimes.

"No one likes a welcher!" he calls after him. Shaking his head, he settles back down again. He won't actually nap, but he'll be a little more rested by the time the rest are done with their meals and cleanup.

He feels strangely optimistic for a man facing a difficult, dangerous night. He thinks that says a lot about the way things have been in Kirkwall the past few months.

Dorian gives him a little wave as he joins the mages. Some of them know ice spells and are happy to instruct the Tevinter Magister for once.

It's not terribly exhausting either for a mage of his skill and practice. By the time the sun goes down he's mastered three basic ice spells that will see him through any fight that might occur.

It's also about the time the Guard Captain starts to gather her men for the briefing on tonight's plan.

Shortly before dusk, Cullen gets back in motion, gathering his people to explain what to expect from Dorian and sharing the information with Aveline to disseminate to her guards. He ignores any uneasy looks beyond making it clear that accepting Dorian's help isn't a suggestion, but an order.

The plate clad party members don black tabards and outer gloves that cover any glint of mail that could catch in starlight or moonlight. They're ready and eager. Those remaining behind at camp seem to know their part and when to join up. They split up and form a winding column toward the top of the ridge above the camp. Once there, two groups split off with two runners designated between to keep communication open.

Cullen and his group take half the mages and Dorian with them, Aveline and hers the other half. The night sounds of the coast still around them as they pass, only to restart a few dozen yards behind them. The white sand paths show enough in the darkness to let them see the way. Cullen keeps his eyes open for any tell-tale glows of campfires.

They're less than a half hour out before they come across their first. The forward scout takes the smaller ridge and returns about five minutes later. "Fewer of them than us," he whispers, "but they've got caged mabari."

Cullen looks to the mages. "Two priorities for you. Don't let anyone get to those cages and try to kill the beasts while they're trapped. We don't want to be pack rushed." Two archers peel off from the group to climb the ridge and position themselves. "The rest of us, we hit them hard, we hit them fast. No fire grenades. Remember. We don't want to call attention to ourselves." He draws his sword and signals. "Let's go."

It's a bit worrisome that so many guards and Templars look at him when his part in the plan is mentioned. He straightens up as if he's under the scrutiny of Alexius and one of his mysterious tests and raises one eyebrow.

Apparently, they find something that settles them and everyone gathers to set off. Dorian keeps with the mages instead of up by Cullen and the Templars. No one is nervous, per say, but there is some anxiety. The mages want to do well and show they can be useful. They don't want to let anyone down.

"You heard the Knight-Commander," he says softly to the mages as the archers take position. "Mines and walls around those cages. Whoever comes near them dies, simple yes?"

They would have only a moment before the raiders tried to get to the cages. He could feel the other mages drawing on the Fade as they readied to cast mines as soon as the signal was given. This would be an interesting fight.

The camp is undisciplined. Raiders are gaming with dice over crates. Others lounge and drink straight from bottles of rotgut obtained from who knows where. The guards are lackadaisical. They have no reason to expect that anyone from Kirkwall will be after them, not with the city in the state it is.

It's the Mabari who notice something is off, suddenly setting up angry snarls and bays and lunging at the bars of their crates as though they can break through by sheer force of will. While the men and women in the camp scramble for weapons, wide eyed and looking for what has the dogs stirred up, Cullen, his templars, and the few guards with them charge forward. Arrows sail overhead and thunk into other archers.

Cullen sets his sights on the best armored of the lot of them. If he's not the leader, Cullen's a knight enchanter. The man has enough time to snatch his maul off the ground and turn toward him, and the two of them are clashing. He opens with a shield bash and gives him no chance to recover his equilibrium, hammering him with his sword and focusing on weak spots in the armor. The once peaceful night is full of the sounds of shouting and the clash of steel on steel. The rage of the Mabari carries above the rest of the din, the powerful dogs wanting their own chance for blood.

The moment the dog goes mad the mages lay their mines. It will take the magic a moment to ready itself and luckily the Templars and Guards changing in keeps the camp distracted.

Dorian and the other mages keep to the back of the battle. He hurls ice towards feet and limbs, trying to slow the enemy as they scramble to close in. The other mages are also keeping to ice, barriers or spirit magic. He can see some of that Force magic that Kirkwall mages specialize in.

As the raiders begin to die he begins to feel the spirits gathering. It allows him to horrify the mabari in to silence. He's reluctant to summon the dead given how jumpy the raiders are. They could make some sort of signal if he panicked them enough.

He kept his focus on ice and silencing the dogs.

It's eerie to Cullen, how the snarling and baying gives way to whimpering and yelps. No matter how much he knows the war dogs are a threat, he can't help but to feel a small pang of regret that they were brought into this by bad people. He's Fereldan to the core in that respect. It doesn't stop him from keeping his head in his own battle.

That maul comes down on his shield hard enough to jar him all the way down through his shoulder and into his lower back. He tilts and deflects some of the blow, leaving himself an opening to plunge his sword tip up and through exposed lower jaw. The leader is done.

Most of the raiders are scattering, screaming and yelling only to get cut down by the archers watching for them. A few make the mistake of going for the cages and triggering the mines. It's chaos, blood and destruction, and a good example of how discipline in attack will almost always prevail, no matter how good any individual fighter may be.

It's over surprisingly quickly. "Kill the dogs," Cullen gives the order as soon as it's obvious the raiders are gone or soon to be finished where they lie. The fully trained hounds are no good to any of them, loyal to dead masters and a liability. Some of the guards are already stepping forward to secure the camp and check for valuables or anything of use on further raids that night.

This first foray hasn't cost them anyone and only minor injuries. They're fresh and were spoiling for the fight. Cullen knows it will get harder as the night goes on, when fatigue becomes a factor and word has chance to spread. All it will take is one escapee.

With the raiders dead the mages feel confident to take a look around the camp with the rest of the fighters. Dorian makes his way over to Cullen, taking a brief moment to look him over for injuries.

"I don't know if there are any camps close enough to hear what just happened," he says, "We kept the dogs as quiet as we could. Their barking would carry more than anything else."

He deliberately ignores the sounds of the dogs being put down. He's not a fan of the beasts but he still finds it unfair for them. They were good dogs with bad owners. Such a shame.

"Your archers didn't let anyone get past so as long as no one heard the fight we should continue our ambush without trouble."

"It's a consideration. If there are other camps with more Mabari it will be worse, because they'll know what was happening here and convey it to their masters in some way." That was always a risk in fights like this, something they couldn't prevent.

"This, however, went very well. Early victories are always good for morale." He doesn't look injured. The blood on him isn't his and much of it is soaked into the black tabard.

"I'm glad no one made it through. They foolishly chose a camp with only one access point. Not sure what they were thinking with that. I doubt all of them will be so sloppy." That's the other uncertainty with dealing with raiders. Sometimes they're uncouth, disorganized ruffians. Sometimes they're shrewd gangs with a multi-national presence and network that rivals the Coterie's. There's no way to know which is which on quick and dirty raids until the fighting starts.

"Let's get everyone back together. We can't linger." He claps him on the shoulder and steps past him to start rounding up the men. He only glances toward the cages to make sure no beast is left to suffer. Letting out a soft sigh, he moves on, mostly using hand signals to coordinate. They leave the fire burning. A sudden dousing would be more suspicious than just allowing it to burn out. Nine men and three women dead in less than an hour. It's not bad for a start, he thinks. The night beckons. They're off again.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject