bakerstreet | (no subject)

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THE WAR ZONE MEME

WARNING: Meme will contain TRIGGERS, including war, violence, capture, and general uncomfortable content. Please do not click if you don't want to see, and please respect your fellow role-players.

◊ Post with your character with name and canon.
◊ List any preferences(roles, scenarios, time periods, etc.) you have.
◊ Reply to others! Roll using random.org or choose your prompts.

ROLES
1) The General/Admiral: You're the head honcho, the guy in charge. You have hundreds, maybe thousands of lives resting on you. What decision will you make?

2) The Officer: Not the leader, but you've got responsibility for your crew. What's your specialty -- independent initiative? Insubordination? Or do you let the noncoms walk all over you?

3) The Soldier: Just an ordinary soldier with your pike, or rifle, or energy gun. Your job is to follow orders. But when it comes down to it, when you look the enemy in the eye -- what will you do?

4) Spy: Dressed in civilian clothes, disguised as an enemy officer. Your job is to get as much information as you can, and then get out. Or are you going to sow a little chaos and destruction along the way?

5) Civilian: This is your land that's being fought over. Do you support a side? Do you hide, or do you hold steady in the face of such violence?

6) Other.

SCENARIOS
1) Battle: In the middle of the fighting.

2) Downtime/R&R: A few peaceful moments, to spend as you will.

3) Sabotage: Something's gone terribly wrong. A factory blown up, a bridge destroyed, an assassination. What do you do about it?

4) Planning: How do you go about storming that beach?

5) Capture/Rescue: The enemy soldiers have you surrounded. Or maybe you're on a daring mission to break your buddies out of jail.

6) Other.

TIME PERIOD
1) Ancient times: Grab that centurion's helmet, form up into a phalanx, and let's go crush those Gauls and/or Persians!

2) Medieval times: Suit up in your armor, grab a lance and make sure to bring along your squire.

3) Revolutionary times: Basic guns and muskets, very little medical care, and very little tactics. Give the other army a few days to dig in, and they'll hold you off forever.

4) World War I/II: Technology is advancing, and warfare is more sophisticated than ever. Remember the trenches, the skirmishes in cities, the spies and the drama.

5) Modern times: Guerilla warfare, modern tactics, modern technology.

6) The future: Ray guns? Space battles? Let your imagination go wild.

7) Other.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

(Open to all kinds of canon scenarios: battle in the Arbor Wilds, shoving her into the conflict at Adamant, fighting in the Winter Palace, etc. Also open to straight-up AUs but would prefer for her to remain witchy.)

It's a small miracle that none of the Inquisition soldiers have attacked him by mistake, just another Grey Warden on the battlefield. Really he should have borrowed some armour from the Inquisition so it wasn't a risk, but he needed to fight this battle as a Warden, to show that the order still stood for something.

Besides, being mistaken for the enemy is the least of his worries right now. He'd been helping to clear the way for the Inquisition soldiers scaling the wall and gotten separated from their forces. Now, surrounded by demons and several Warden mages - or what Erimond and Corypheus have left of them - and backed up against the battlements of Adamant Fortress with a steep drop behind him the situation is looking a little grim, to say the least. The Wardens will be stopped no matter what happens to him here, if he dies he'll be just another fallen Warden but that doesn't mean he's ready to follow his brothers and sisters who were sacrificed for this travesty just yet.

A new burst of magic from one side draws Alistair's attention away from his own predicament for a moment. Glancing over he has scant seconds to spot the familiar figure nearby before the pair of rage demons in front of him snarl and lunge towards him, pinning him back against the low stone wall of the battlements. Bracing against them with a growl of his own he calls out, "I could really use a hand here!"

This is madness: Inquisition forces fighting countless demons, Grey Wardens divided on either side, and somewhere out there a dragon surely waits for the least opportune moment to drop in with fiery breath. Hawke and the Inquisitor were together when last she saw them, fighting their way along the battlements, and the Commander was leading a group of his men against a hulking pride demon. The air is charged with magic, enough to make gooseflesh pattern her skin, and the smell of blood and smoke fills her nose. The young Warden warrior caught in her miasma, slowed to a near crawl, was hostile moments earlier, but the fireball aimed at his chest and the two Inquisition soldiers who appear behind her seem to change his mind.

An all too familiar voice catches her attention over the snarling to her left, and her eyes search for Alistair until she finds him with his back against the wall. She owes him nothing, of course; his well-being is no longer a concern of hers. Even so, the barrier she casts on him is immediate, all reflex. She will not see him die here. The Wardens clearly need him.

Despite the circumstances, the smallest of smiles threatens her lips. "Shall I swoop in?" she calls purely for his benefit. Ice blasts from her outstretched hands, staggering the demons.

The wash of Morrigan's magic is still familiar, still unsettlingly different to that of Circle mages. And still welcome in the heat of battle. The barrier that springs up around him to shield him from the demons is a relief and the spell that halts and distracts them even more so.

Alistair finds himself chuckling despite himself, amusement clear in his voice as he responds. "Please. Swoop away." The moment is short-lived as he steps smartly around the demons, getting away from the drop of the wall. Planting himself between them and Morrigan he nods over his shoulder. "Thanks."

It seems ironic that here, surrounded by Wardens, she is one of the more trustworthy allies he could have. But whatever else can be said about Morrigan, if anyone ever tried to tell him that she had fallen prey to a blood magic ritual that placed her under the control of another he'd laugh in their face. Now, as he drives his blade into one of the demons, aware of the Warden mages behind them... Well. He's not laughing now.

Jerking his sword free, Alistair can't resist saying, "I was worried you'd be out of practice from all that time in Orlais."

"Such an invitation." The way he moves between her and the demons reminds her of countless battles during the Blight, though he was much more reluctant to turn his back on her then. In the moment, receiving his thanks feels odd indeed. Perhaps he has not stood stubbornly still while time has passed around him. "I will remember it."

More importantly, she will not let him forget it. Not as long as they are both in the same place, which will be an even shorter time should they grow careless here. She wastes no opportunity, continuing to freeze one demon until she can move forward, reaching for her staff, and shatter it in one simple blow.

His teasing as he dispatches the other demon is closer to what she expects from him, proof that he can still easily make her bristle. Her eyes narrow. "Worry not. Occasionally nobles make for excellent target practice." The smile she offers when she glances over is every bit as sharp as his blade. "Are you volunteering for it?"

The enemy mages ahead become her focus. Something about the eyes of these Warden mages under Corypheus's control makes her skin crawl. Lightning sparks to life in her palm, and she takes great pleasure in aiming it at them, the electricity arcing from her and leaping from mage to mage.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Or at least made it clear the invitation only stood while there were things trying to kill him. But if he still has the chance to worry about Morrigan's acceptance of his supposed invitation to swoop in whenever she pleases later he won't complain. It will be a pleasant change from the other worries of late. Besides, what could she do that would possibly be worse than what is before them?

Snorting, Alistair shakes his head, a grim smile flashing across his face. "I think there's plenty of other War- other targets you can practice on." His voice becomes tight and clipped towards the end there, though he can't say if his anger is directed at her or himself for the near slip. It hardly matters as he directs it outwards towards the Wardens in front of them.

He darts forward to strike one of the shocked mages, familiar Warden blue splitting beneath his blade and darkening with blood. Another is recovering from the shock, raising their staff as the first crumples to the ground without even a flicker of concern for their fallen comrade. The wash of flames drives him back, his shield held protectively before him as he retreats towards Morrigan once again.

"This must seem funny to you." He's scarcely aware of speaking, anger needing somewhere to go as he waits for another chance to strike.

The word he cuts so short is not lost on her. It is no less accurate here and now for his unwillingness to say it. She knows Alistair as well as they ever allowed each other such a thing; she recalls, if a bit vaguely at this point, how poorly she thought he took the elder Warden's death at Ostagar. Can she expect anything else from him after ten more years of life in the Order?

A thought there is little time to waste on, that much is certain. Those he may once have been willing to think of as comrades are far from it now, their fire billowing against his shield. Dodging flame, she quickly casts a barrier on herself, her own temporary shield, and renews his. In her experience very few enjoy burning, and she is all too willing to fight fire with fire.

"Must it?" Barely a question, the two words hold a hint of indignation. His statement steals a bit more of her focus than it should. "And why--" She shapes flames into an unforgiving inferno before them, a swirling pillar of fire that envelopes the nearest Warden, tearing an agonized cry from him, and threatens two more, forcing them to scramble. "--is that?"

She spares a moment to caste haste, allowing them to take full advantage of the moment.

Alistair doesn't quite flinch as the Warden mage before them cries out in pain as he's burned alive but it's a near thing. His jaw clenches and he spares a moment to glare at Morrigan.

"Most of these mages are from the Circles originally." Taught by the Chantry that blood magic was evil and dangerous as were the demons who taught it. Expected to know better than to sacrifice others to summon such creatures. And here they were. It was almost like Kinloch Hold all over again but this time it was far, far worse.

He remembers well Morrigan's disdain for the Circle and the mages who chose to live by its rules in the past. Somehow he doesn't think that would have changed over the years. What the Wardens were doing is wrong, that is undeniable. But their reasons are all too easy to understand with the Calling lurking behind every sound on the battlefield. (Maybe that is the real problem. That he can almost understand it.) Not that he expects her to care why they'd let themselves fall into such a trap.

Feeling the world slow around him, Alistair darts around the inferno and towards one of the retreating mages. His shield slams into them faster than they can react, knocking them off-balance until a second blow takes them to the ground. He's snarling as he stabs down at the prone Warden, harsh words spat out as he does. "I thought you'd enjoy that."

He glares at her.

Never an uncommon occurrence during the Blight, his glare seems wildly misdirected to her now. She is one of the few people in the immediate area who is not intent on killing him and knows on sight that he is not on Corypheus's side. It makes her wonder why she bothered to help him at all. Whether this is grief or one of their many old grudges, she thinks he is ridiculous to wave it in her direction while he has no better ally.

"Oh, there is something almost poetic in this tragedy, that is true," she answers, matter-of-fact. Her attempt to cast paralysis on the other retreating form only slows it. She moves out of the way as a fireball is thrown at her, but it passes close enough that its overwhelming heat pulls a gasp out of her and easily wipes her barrier away. Her pause is a longer one, her exhale heavy. "'Tis also true that minds have been manipulated and this was a foolish endeavor for your fellow Wardens." Raising her staff in both hands again, she aims bolt after angry bolt until the slowed mage stumbles. She looks toward Alistair again, stepping closer to him, no hint of apology in her tone or face. "But you forget that I know how vital the Wardens are."

And she suspects they both know they were fortunate to end the Blight a decade ago and do it quickly, though very little about it felt fortunate at the time. Darkspawn have often had far longer to spread their destruction. What will happen if no Grey Warden here survives the night and Corypheus, who for the moment is absent, manages to awaken a true Archdemon, perhaps one below these very sands? He will not wait for more Wardens to trickle in from other countries, and his ability to sway their minds will only amplify the natural power of the Archdemon.

She will continue to take all the pleasure she can in besting those who would end her life, regardless of who they are, and she will never pretend to have respect for Circle mages, but her reasons for being here are not particularly enjoyable.

"I know better than most."

Poetic. It's what he expected, what he essentially accused her of and still. It draws a low, wordless sound of anger from him as he yanks his sword free before driving it down again to finish the job. There's nothing poetic about this slaughter of good men and women whose crimes stemmed from fear of the death looming over them and their determination to do their duty while they still could. The fact that Morrigan can also acknowledge it as a tragedy does nothing to lessen the anger that's still simmering away in his gut.

Alistair glances back at her gasp, checking that the fireball didn't hit her as much as he feels it would be deserved. He has little chance of making it through the battle alone unless he can fight his way back to the Inquisition's soldiers. Who might not remember that not all the Wardens here are the enemy when they see one coming towards them with a bloodied sword. A problem Morrigan doesn't face, whether or not her chances would be any better alone.

Turning to watch her draw close as the other Warden mage stumbles his eyes narrow. She's right about that at least. Most people who weren't present for the Blight and didn't see the archdemon and its army of darkspawn can't appreciate how important the Wardens are. Morrigan knows that much and yet he can't say he's ever believed she respected the order or the sacrifice many of its members make for the sake of others.

The point stands that she does know better than to dismiss the loss of the Wardens as being irrelevant. He's still furious about the entire mess and still doesn't expect her to care about the Wardens who have been sacrificed or enslaved by this. But she has a point.

With a snort, he turns his back on her, the closest to a concession he wants to give right then. "Then we should see how many of them we can salvage while we're here."

Her eyebrows rise, lips pressed together. It crosses her mind that this may be the angriest she has ever seen him. She does think what they face is one of the best causes he has had for it, though he seems almost as willing to assign blame to her as he is to any enemy. Alistair is, as reluctant as she is to acknowledge it, not a bad person -- she has seen far worse -- but his particular gift for trying her limited patience is proof that some things stay stubbornly the same.

"On that we agree."

Just as she attempts to assure his safety, though he obviously has little appreciation for the assistance, her assistance. If he must, he can tear his hair and gnash his teeth later, and hopefully not by her side. One day perhaps they will not meet over conditions that compel her to assure that he lives. Perhaps coincidence could even allow them to never meet again. She had thought they cut ties effectively.

As much as she would like to ignore him, she only turns her attention from him as long as she can. Without looking at him, she replenishes his barrier, and a burst of ice makes sure the mage who was last to fall does not rise to fireball them in the back after they pass. Ahead, near more stairs, she sees two Wardens battling a trio of rage demons, and as they near she does him the favor of frosting his blade, then those of the other Wardens.

To their credit, they do not falter much in their surprise. Reaching into the pouch at her hip, she withdraws a small vial of lyrium, uncorking it with her teeth and quickly drinking. Feeling her mana swell, she makes a near graceful gesture in the air that casts a hurried glyph on the stones beneath two of the demons, knocking them back a bit.

His heart jumps at the sight of the Wardens in front of them, facing down the demons. There's still some of them that have their free will and haven't been used as blood sacrifices. It's just what he needs to see, proof that there is still hope of salvaging the order.

Ice flickers along his blade and that of the other Wardens - as angry as he might be, he can admit that having a mage fighting alongside him has its advantages - and he turns that anger outwards, charging towards the nearest demon with a wordless battle cry. Another flare of magic is all the warning he gets as his target and one of its allies are sent reeling and Alistair's on it before it can recover, magically chilled steel biting deep into what passes for its flesh.

It's with a sense of pride he sees the other Wardens are also quick to press the advantage they've been given. They might have no idea what's really happening or why they're under attack but that's not holding them back. They each face off against a demon and that's all he has time to notice as his own target snarls and rakes its claws against him. Morrigan's barrier absorbs the blow as well as any armour he's ever known and he barely blinks before driving his blade into it again with ease.

The battle is certainly easier with her magic to help, that's always been true. Part of him knows he owes her some thanks once this is all done. She need not put quite so much energy into ensuring his safety here. Maybe he'll even be able to appreciate it once the battle is over and the truth of it isn't so raw. If he's still alive.

Something the demon seems intent on preventing. It drives him back with the force of its next blow, heat lapping at his face. It's getting just a bit too friendly and he calls out a warning to Morrigan, "Keep back!" moments before a flash of templar stabs into it.

She may have little favorable to say about Alistair at the moment, but she can reflexively appreciate his instincts in battle. Whether this is a matter of their forced teamwork recalling the Blight or simply a testament to how much combat he has seen, nothing she does makes him hesitate. He makes the most of every advantage she gives him, never seems to forget where she is. If they could excise his personality and keep the warrior she thinks perhaps they could get along.

Rage is, for her, a welcome change from most demons: it is inelegant, all fiery instinct. Rage will not wear a face you long for, offer false promises, lull you to sleep. That does not mean it can be easily dismissed, that indiscriminate anger fueling every tear of claws, and the one that charges Alistair proves it very well, driving toward them both with surprising speed.

She is just fine with holding her position, letting Alistair meet the demon with the shield and armor she lacks. Cold blossoms from her outstretched hand, billowing out toward the demon, and in the face of their combined effort it meets its end quickly, remains smoldering on the stones.

"Alistair!" she calls, another blast of cold from her directing his attention to the one of the other Wardens. The woman sinks to one knee, favoring her sword arm as the demon lunges.

Her Creation skills still may not have the strength of the potions and salves she creates, but they have improved over the years. She narrows her focus long enough to cast a minor healing spell, and seeing the Warden promptly raise her sword to strike again satisfies, at least for a moment.

The last few days he'd have happily given up just about everything outside of his skills as a warrior if it meant he wouldn't have to face this as he is. But then, that's what Corypheus has turned so many Wardens into - human golems who act at the whim of their master. And for all that Alistair hates killing his brothers and sisters in arms, it's far better than being like them and offers the chance to save at least some of them.

The demon before him falls, magic and steel putting an end to it far more quickly than he could have alone and then Morrigan directs his attention towards one of the Wardens they're assisting.

His stomach drops as he sees the woman stumble. The blast of icy cold slows the demon but not enough - it's still coming for the wounded warrior as she struggles to defend herself. His feet move regardless, hoping he won't have to see another of the order die. A feeling Morrigan would seem to share to some degree as another flare of magic gets the Warden back on her feet.

He leaves the third demon and the Warden facing it to Morrigan, having little choice but to trust that she is serious about wishing to save as many of the order as they can. Nothing she's done so far has indicated otherwise.

Surprise flashes across the face of the Warden in front of him as they both strike at the demon, leaving it with no way to defend itself from both sides. Whether she recognises the traitor to the order or is just shocked to see another member still free of Corypheus, she's happy enough to accept the help. They take turns drawing the demon's attention while the other strikes its unguarded side and before too long it too crumbles into nothing.

Sparing little more than a brief nod to the woman before him, Alistair turns to see how Morrigan and the final Warden are faring.

Though she gave the Inquisitor a firm no in response when asked if she would be tagging along to help much as she did during the Blight, she is not immune to the thrill of battle. She has no particular wish to put her life at risk, especially for any less worthy cause, but she fears little and enjoys the power that ripples through her. As Alistair falls in with one Warden, she wastes no time in assisting the other. Hastening the man only sharpens his rogue reflexes, dual daggers still coated with ice and making the demon before him let out a furious roar. Yet another burst of cold from her own hands slows the demon further to let the rogue finish it off before it can lash out again.

"Are you wounded?" she calls to him once nothing of the demon is left but smoking ashes.

"Only mildly charred," he assures her, and she does not blame him for barely daring to lower his blades. Putting one's claws away now would be unwise.

"There are Inquisition soldiers farther down the ramparts." It seems unlikely that the pride demon she saw them facing wiped them all out. "The two of you should either join them there or follow us to the Inquisitor." Wherever the Inquisitor and Hawke may be now. She glances toward Alistair. This chaos has not been their friend.

It's a small victory but a victory nonetheless, the four of them still standing and a few less demons swarming about. It also offers a moment to catch their breaths before the next fight. A moment he admittedly needs as Morrigan's words remind him of where he should be.

Alistair shakes his head and grimaces, looking from her to the two Wardens. "The Inquisitor was searching for Clarel. Finding her is what matters." Her and that magister controlling the Warden mages. It's their only chance of putting a stop to this before any more members of the order are sacrificed.

The warrior steps forward to volunteer, "The Warden-Commander was in the Main Courtyard." A moment's hesitation then, "With Magister Erimond." There's clearly some unease regarding the man and it's good to see that not everyone has been taken in by him.

Following the direction she indicates across the battlements and deeper within the fortress, he takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Alright. We'll try to catch up to them." Glancing over to the pair of Wardens he offers, "The Inquisition soldiers could use some support." With a look of relief, they turn towards where the Inquisition's forces do battle and he can't blame them, as much as their support would help.

He turns back to Morrigan, expression briefly conflicted before with a tilt of his head he says, "Shall we?"

Which will end up being the bigger threat now, she wonders: the Warden-Commander or the Magister? An attempt should be made to stop Erimond first, if possible -- Corypheus's influence may take an immediate blow if his agent cannot personally direct anyone -- but she is ready to do what seems necessary when they reach the courtyard. Alistair has always seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve and she thinks he is unlikely to feel quite as resolved as she does.

If they are fortunate, the Inquisitor has already reached the courtyard and interrupted whatever misguided ritual was no doubt taking place. She gives a brief nod of thanks to the rescued Wardens and then answers Alistair with arched eyebrows. "I thought you would never ask."

As dry as the words are, she has his back every bit as much as she has up until this point. As they head across the battlements toward the center of the fortress, she casts a minor revitalization spell and aims a crackling bolt of lightning ahead of them to help clear their path. Though she would dearly love to summon a full-blown blizzard, that will have to wait for a moment when the difference between allies and enemies is more obvious.

Before they can reach the fortress's inner wall, a thunderous rumble above them makes her lift her eyes to the sky. The sound of such massive wings is unmistakable. The dragon stands out clearly in the moonlight, diving as if in search of prey, and fire pours from its open mouth.

Edited 2016-11-29 06:23 (UTC)

The question of what they'll find in the courtyard is one that Alistair finds himself contemplating as well. Their push towards their goal and the obstacles in their path, fortunately, keep him from spinning too many worst-case scenarios but he still finds himself picturing the kind of destruction that could be wrought if Corypheus has already gained control of Clarel. Never mind that if the Warden-Commander has already fallen it's hard to hold out much hope for the rest of the order.

The familiar flow of battle manages to distract him from following that possibility through. His blows surge with energy as he dispatches another demon with a vicious satisfaction, the crackle of lightning making the hair on his neck stand up straight. Whatever they find there's hope they'll be capable of handling it.

Or, it would seem, not.

Staring up at the dragon as well he freezes, eyes widening in shock. It's a sight he'd hoped not to have to face ever again after the Blight.

So it's a good thing he's not much of a gambler, given his luck.

Shock makes him slow to react and it feels like he's moving through water as he runs towards Morrigan. His shield makes a flimsy barrier between them and the onrushing flames, not one he's willing to stake his life on - will magic do much better? It's a question he'd rather not see answered as he throws himself towards the cover of the fortress walls, prepared to drag Morrigan after him if he has to.

She can count her high dragon encounters on the fingers of one hand, and when fire is raining from above is a truly terrible time for reflexes to slow, second only to having the dragon directly ahead and lunging forward with open jaws. But to suddenly see it there is more startling than it should be, and its reflexes are not at all bothered by the people running around below it. No matter what side of the fighting anyone is on, all must seek cover when an angry dragon is overhead.

Her battle instincts, she thinks, are good, but not as recently honed as Alistair's. He rushes toward the wall with a momentum that she does not resist, her legs starting to move faster than her brain acknowledges, and hitting the stone wall knocks the breath out of her. For a few minutes the only thing that seems to match the volume of the dragon above is her own pounding heartbeat.

She offers no thanks for the nudge. Setting aside their differences just long enough to better their odds of survival is what they have always been forced to do.

Briefly, she grabs the elbow of his shield arm. "Now is our chance."

Thinking quickly again, she nods toward the shadowy stone archway a short distance away. It must lead their way down toward the courtyard, and the dragon has provided them with an opportunity to run for it with as little in their way as possible. What lies past the archway is a surprise they will have to be ready for when they reach it. Their barriers are, for the moment, still intact, so she hastens them both again. If they hug the wall, she thinks they can make this particular part of the process painless.

His attention is torn away from the dragon, still managing to fill the sky with its presence even when it's no longer directly overhead. Morrigan directs him towards an archway and his eyes widen in understanding. They're close enough to the centre of this mess that he can hardly believe it - and he certainly can't believe the appearance of the dragon now is mere chance. It can't have been intended to stop them personally - he's not arrogant enough to think his contribution has done anything but bring the Inquisition here faster - but something has happened to make Corypheus send in the beast. Maybe it's not too late.

If they can get to the courtyard.

Alistair feels the spell settle over him, speeding his movements, and nods. "Keep close behind me." He has the better chance protecting himself should the dragon make another pass or if anything else tries to stop them, and in the worse case scenario Morrigan can still aid the Inquisitor.

Trusting her to follow behind he darts forward, armour practically scraping against the wall as he runs. The wingbeats overhead are getting louder as the dragon circles back around and he'd swear he can hear it drawing in air before it attacks again. He can't tell if it's noticed them or if the chaos of the battlefield is working to their advantage for once and doesn't slow down to see.

The roar of flames comes seconds too late, a wash of heat chasing after them as they gain the safety of the stone archway. Alistair stumbles to a halt and turns back to see the blackened stone behind them, a bellow from the dragon drowning him out as he says, "This isn't good."

It has been a long time since she last had to run so quickly, almost stepping on Alistair's heels as they sprint. Unforgiving heat presses against her half-bare back as fire chases them, whipping across stone. Her barrier dissolves almost instantly, their narrow escape only seeming possible thanks to their speed, and she nearly goes sprawling when Alistair stumbles to a stop before her.

The smell of burning wood -- and worse, burning flesh -- creeps into the air. They can only hope the dragon's fiery breath is claiming as many demons as allies. The cry it lets out makes the fortress tremble and mutes Alistair's words, but she thinks she knows the sentiment he shares.

For once, he may be right. Did the dragon appear to turn the tide? Does the Magister need something to pose a larger threat than the mages he controls? "Perhaps Corypheus himself is near."

There is but one way to find out, and no time to catch her breath. "Are you hurt?" she asks, an afterthought that makes her look sideways at him in quick appraisal as she turn toward the steps.

If so, she may not have a better opportunity to do something more about it. The sound of clashing steel and the palpable prickle of magic both rise from below.

The possibility that Corypheus himself could have chosen to become involved is one Alistair hadn't even considered and the thought sends a rush of equal parts anger and fear through him. If the darkspawn - magister, whatever he truly is - is here it could mean a chance to end his schemes. The Wardens captured him once, somehow. Maybe they can do it again.

Or maybe they'd all fall victim to his influence. If Corypheus is the cause behind the Calling then who knows what else he might be able to do with the taint in them?

It's unnerving to think he himself could become anything like the enslaved Warden mages. Better by far to push that aside and focus on what's in front of him - the sounds of battle ahead, thankfully uninterrupted by the dragon so far, and Morrigan's offer.

"Not too badly." It's often hard to tell in the moment, the rush of battle dulling all but the worst pain. But he can't feel anything worse than a few minor burns and the usual assortment of bruises already blossoming under his armour. He'll be black and blue and stiff later but for now- "I can keep going. You should save your magic." They don't know what might be up ahead but it can't be anything less than what they faced to get this far and he'd rather she have as much to direct against their enemies as possible.

His answer is close enough to ideal. Already the heated skin of her back protests from their fiery near miss, but there is nothing she feels would not be better treated once the battle is done. She only has one more lyrium potion on her as it is.

She does study him a moment longer, as if to judge how much he may understating out of any foolish pride. The usual scrapes and bruises and bumps of battle are not what concern her, but her quick scrutiny picks up nothing out of the ordinary and that satisfies her. "Let us avoid death then, shall we?"

A familiar roar -- not that of a dragon this time -- sounds from nearby before they reach the bottom, and the gasp startled out of her as a hulking pride demon looms into view before them and falls to its knees, staggered, is louder than she would care to admit. A rift in the air above the courtyard casts its shimmering green light on everything around them, and in the distance she can see the Inquisitor with one arm raised, hand glowing, struggling to maintain a connection with it long enough to mend the tear. It takes her a moment to recognize the Champion of Kirkwall and more familiar faces closing in on the demon before them, but instinct flares up again quickly enough and she lends her assistance in the form of flame, a well-aimed ball of fire.

"That's usually my plan. Not dying." How likely he is to be successful at it is hard to say but he doesn't ever set out to die.

The words are barely out of his mouth when the pride demon draws his attention and he automatically places his shield between himself and it. As foreboding as the demon's appearance after such a declaration seems, it's not as bad as it could be. He can see Hawke and several others he remembers seeing with the Inquisition before already attacking the creature and Morrigan is quick to join in. The rift is a little worrying but everything he's seen says the Inquisitor can handle it before they have too many more demons to worry about.

Alistair himself moves to attack the pride demon as well, darting in to drive his blade into its back before it can rise again. There's Wardens all around them, some attacking the demon and several mages trying to hold them off. In the chaos, he can't see if Clarel or Erimond are anywhere to be found, no matter how he searches. He's so caught up in looking for them that he's caught off-guard when the demon regains its feet and sweeps a crackling whip of lightning down on its attackers.

He staggers back, teeth gritted against the pain as his muscles twitch uncontrollably. Sheer dumb luck locks his fingers tight around the grip of his sword so it stays in his hand so at least it's not all bad news. The sentiment is a little hard to hold onto as one of the Warden mages turns towards him and raises their staff while the sound of wingbeats grows overhead.

Alistair has traditionally not been a source of plans she enjoys, but this is one of those rare occasions where they agree on their preferred course of action. While she is no more inclined to let her guard down now, it is a nice change to have more familiar allies around, all focused on the same handful of enemies. Somewhere to her left she can feel someone -- the Seeker, if she had to guess -- nullifying the barriers and boosts the enemy mages have cast upon themselves. Even when not directed at her, nullification puts a unpleasant hollowness in the air.

It does not last long. As the pride demon finds its feet again she hurries to escape its range, narrowly succeeding before electricity whips down. Flame leaps from her hands again, hitting the demon in the side and making it howl, but even more effective is the abrupt shockwave of energy that ripples through the air, an almost violent surge of green, as the rift closes.

Not a moment too soon, it seems: she can hear those massive wings again, the dragon's attention no doubt drawn to the busiest pockets of activity it can see. Overhead protection here in the courtyard is scarce, but she will take her chances until she feels she should not. Turning, she sees a group of Warden mages past Alistair, and she hoists herself up onto the base of a half-crumbled statue to gain a better view.

Her allies are distanced just right, with the possible exception of Alistair and he has proven several times tonight that he remembers how to use his shield well enough. She centers the deadly swirl of ice and snow she summons directly behind the mages and lets it do its worst.

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fatherlesskind - 2016-12-18 10:49 (UTC) - Expand

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Morrigan | Dragon Age

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Wow, please excuse that typo in my last tag

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