Undead. Maggot-infested corpses crawling out from all those damned trenches, swaying like drunkards on their broken limbs, clacking their finger bones across too-heavy great swords, staring across at them with sightless socketsā¦ Zahra never wanted to see them again after Crestwood. Apparently life had a funny way of spitting in their faces. Not only did they have to deal with demons, but the undead, too. She was a fan of neither abominations. She couldnāt tell if the entire place smelt like wet dog or death. Maybe a putrid combination of both. She couldnāt decide which was worse. Sheād already decided she hated it.
Hated that there was a beauty here, too. Buried beneath old ruins, and muddy trenches; hidden under centuries of war and slaughter and a stubbornness that prevented people from letting go of the place. Who would choose to live here? She wasnāt sure. The Dalish did. She supposed there was something worth holding onto. Though them being here was still important. She understood that well enough. Marcelineās father was here, somewhere: fighting a war of his own. Hopefully still alive. Marceline was worried. Rightfully so. The pinch to her brows, and the faraway gaze, read plain as day. However, it wasnāt looking promising. From all the corpses theyād seen face down in the muckā¦ they werenāt faring well.
Who could blame them for faltering? Undead creatures, and more demons than she could shake a stick at were hunkered across the hills. Skulking through the various trenches and palisades as if they owned the place. Bastards. Apparently there were bandits tooāyouād think that they wouldāve been busy fending off a common enemy rather than pilfering those who fell beneath them. Opportunists; something she also understood. These days, she agreed less and less with the sentiment.
They were approaching a bridge. Surrounded by the sharp wooden spikes, piercing up towards the sky like spines set across the lip of the trenchesāpresumably to keep their enemies at bay. There were armored bodies, as well as remnants of the undead, rankled through them, as if both had been pushed and impaled. A last stand that ended badly for both parties. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Burnt flesh, rotting flesh; insects and wet earth. An awful mixture. Smoke wept into the gray skies. Everything felt so bloody heavy.
A soon as they were halfway across the wooden bridge, the moans began. A crooning sound above the eerie silence. Two arrows thudded in front of Romās feet, twanging to a halt. It didnāt take long for the source of the noise, and assault, to reveal themselves. Several undead were peeling out of the inner structure, clambering out of the trenches, steel-plated or wearing leathers. The insignia's etched across their chests and backs were familiar. Another volley of arrows sang through the air, zipping past their heads.
Zahra was already notching her own arrow, ducking behind a row of wooden spikes to give her some cover.
āHold your noses and have at it, eh?" Khari was, predictably enough, the first into the fray, red braid trailing behind her like a brighter version of one of the drooping pennants still affixed to the occasional stake in the palisade. Proud battle-line markers once, signs of greyed-out fatigue and decay now. But not her.
She body-checked one of the undead back into the pit it had crawled out of. From the thudding and wet squelches, she'd delayed the ascent of at least a few more. Her cleaver mowed down another, putrefying flesh no match for solid steel, however chipped and cracking the blade had become over time. Like her, perhaps, always coming away with a new mark or bruise or scar, but undiminished. Glorying in the fact, even, if the throaty sound of her laughter was anything to go by. She spun, chopping into another's torso all the way to the spine and casting it off her blade with a foot. Back into the pit it went, still for good this time.
Leon moved to his work with a soft little sigh, almost under his breath, but Zahra could hear it. It sounded exasperated and perhaps a little bit fond; it was almost certainly directed at Khari's enthusiasm. or rather the woman herself. For all his mildness, he was certainly no less violent when it came right down to it, shouldering his way to the front with a sort of deliberate intention, though the expression on his face was left to guesswork. The helmet obscured him considerably.
When the first of the creatures swung a mace for him, he simply weathered the blow, letting it clang off his plate armor. Abruptly, he reached for the weapon on its rebound, giving a hard tug and yanking the possessed corpse forward into his knee. The muffled snap was most likely the cracking of its spine or pelvic boneāhe'd hit too low for it to only be ribs. He shoved it back into the pit as well, turning smoothly to slam his armored gauntlet into the next one's unprotected head, snapping its neck back with a slightly-sharper crunch. It dropped like a stone.
Michaƫl sighed as well, though Zahra could tell his was far more earnest and detached. He lacked the spirit and enthusiasm Khari held for the battle at hand, and even seemed tentative to jump in with the rest. He gave Lady Marceline one last glance before he pulled his armored mask over his face and dove into the battle behind the others. The sound of a pair of longswords scraping out of their sheathes accompanied his plunge into the undead.
The first shambling corpse didn't get the chance to attack him, his first blade piercing the thing's chest before the other looped around and lopped off its rotten head. A heavy kick saw the corpse dislodged from his blade and crashing into another that was caught behind it. With the next step, he twisted his body and began a spin while he held both blades out. A full rotation saw the blades crash into the next one, tearing through its arm and digging deep into its torso. The force of momentum saw the swords rip free of its body, leaving the undead to twirl limply into the ground.
Lady Marceline stood a safe distance behind him, and dealt with any undead that managed to get around him. Zahra could tell that the stress of worry was beginning to affect her as her technique suffered, and was replaced by a yet to be seen fierceness.
Rom took the sides of the fight, not bothering with the confined quarters of the trenches and instead climbing onto the ramparts around them, where some of those undead archers had taken up positions. He sprinted forward, staying low, catching one arrow on his shield as he went, and stepping in swiftly to meet the first archer before it could draw another projectile. Their bodies were weak and decayed; he reached out, grabbing the thing's head and sawing through the neck, cutting it clean off. The corpse continued to stumble around without its head, but he soon kicked it over and sent it tumbling away.
A second was behind it, already aiming, but Rom ducked low, the arrow passing over his shoulder as he lunged in. He reached with his left hand, grabbing hold of the creature's exposed spine. It hissed in displeasure, but a few seconds and a green glow later it had exploded in half, the small burst of energy from his mark obliterating that block of its spine. It fell in two pieces to the ground. Rom had been about to move on when the top half grabbed hold of him, empty hands clutching at his boots. He yanked his foot free and stomped down on its head, lip curling in disgust.
Asala remained in the rear, though her presence in the fight could still be felt. Barriers sprung to life to in front of whomever needed it most, blocking the arrows from the undead that Romulus had yet to get to. When her barriers were doing that, however, she was using them to funnel and stagger their foes into their frontline fighters so that they wouldn't get overwhelmed. The layout of the ramparts helped her in that regard, the tighter quarters requiring less extensive use of her spell. However, once every now and then, an undead was crushed by the careening force of a shield being swept across it.
Several arrows sliced through the air and thumped into soft-fleshed skulls, felling or incapacitating them for the others to finish off. Plucked in quick succession from behind the general safety of the wooden spikes. A terse grin tugged at the corners of her lips, though it felt more like a grimace on her face. She could see everyone from where she was, advancing down into the trenches, and circling around the main body of undead. Marcy had not escaped her vision either. Her struggles, or sluggish movements, did not go by unnoticed. Zahra shouldered the bow in lieu of her rapiers and stepped down into the muck beside her.
āIāve got your backāā the rest of her words were interrupted by a clang of metal as a flanged mace bit down overhead. She parried the blow, and allowed the mace to sink its teeth across the blade, dragging the gawping creature off-balance, so that she could sever its head from its shoulders with her second blade. It thumped and rolled away from their feet. The body shuddered and flopped to the side, still as a corpse should be. It hadnāt taken her long to regroup as she circled to Marcyās flank and swept an incoming blow away. Sheād never seen Marcy fight like this beforeā¦ but if she was faltering, she would be her blade.
Though it came slower than usual, Marcy's rapier lashed out all the same and pierced the forehead of the undead that Zahra had just deflected. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she nodded, the appreciation surprisingly clear in her usually subdued body language, and though she wore her silverite mask, her crystal blue eyes read it as well.
The undead couldn't stand against their small group, and as they advanced deeper into the ramparts, the sounds of other fights rang over theirs. The squad of Chevaliers they'd seen were not want to stand around and watch while the Inquisition dealt with their problem for them. With the extra hands, it wasn't long before they'd fought their way to the center of the encampment. Their destination was clear, as ahead of them a rift pulsed with energy above a pit. The smell of death and decay wafting from the pit was almost overpowering, probably holding who knew how many corpses for the rift to raise.
"Romulus, please?" Marcy asked, burying her nose within the shoulder of her cape.
Even Rom appeared bothered by the stench, suppressing a cough. He lifted his hand, the mark crackling to life and latching onto the rift. The number of dead here meant that the Veil had been weakened significantly more than usual. Or at least, that was how these things usually went. More dead, more demons. Still, he didn't seem to have any great difficulty in getting the rift to snap shut with a loud crack, allowing them to freely access the bodies. As soon as he wasn't required, Rom made to put some distance between the dead and himself.
"Asala, can you," she paused for a moment to cough and shook her head, "Can you set fire to the bodies? They deserve better but... We must ensure that the undead will not continue to rise," she added.
Asala had a spell in her hand and pressed to her face, and judging by her reactions to the scent it appeared to be filtering the air far better than their clothes were. She nodded and quickly made her way to the pit, tossing down a small fire spell. Though not in her usual repertoire, the bodies were dry enough that the flame caught instantly, and in only a few moments the whole pit was engulfed. Still, the scent lingered, and with the issue dealt with, they didn't need to linger so they made their way back to the bridge.
Along the way, they ran into the soldier they'd spoken to earlier, and though he seemed more battle worn than when they first met, it was clear that their actions had raised his spirits. When they approached, the soldier was in the midst of ordering his squad to mop up any undead that were left and then take defensive positions around the ramparts. "Hail, Inquisition," he said, raising a hand in greeting, before he placed his hand over his heart in a greeting. "We are... truly grateful, for your aid. We could not have closed the rift, as you say, on our own," he said.
"You are welcome, Ser," Marceline answered with a polite bow, though even Zahra could tell that she was anxious to keep moving. Her father was not there, after all, and undoubtedly the woman wished him found soon.
The soldier scratched his head, almost ashamed in asking, "I fear there remains one more, to the north. If Fort Revasan is to be opened, it will need to be dealt with as well." Another soldier approached the first as he spoke, a horn in hand. He received it and turned back to the group, "But for this one, we can handle the rest." With that, he blew into it, sounding it with a deep breath. The call would reach deep into the plains, and into the fort in question. "We wish you luck, Inquisition, and... I hope you find your father well, Lady Marceline," he added.
With a distinct direction to head in, Khari took the lead. Of those present, she seemed least affected by the pervasive smell of death, though why so was hard to say. In any case, it made sense enough to have someone with heavier armament in the front, and it worked out for the better when they reached the northern ramparts on horseback.
The battle there had spilled out onto the surrounding plains, undead having shuffled away from their pits to give ambling pursuit to what looked like only a few heavily-injured chevaliers. Clearly, these had not fared as well as their comrades to the south, but they fought on grimly. Upon catching sight of them, Khari spurred her horse forward, the momentum of its charge carrying her past three corpses before she used her legs to wheel it around. The blade of her cleaver came away black-red with foul ichor, but then she was maneuvering back into the fray, and Zahra's attention forced to her own battles.
There were more, this time, but they were no mightier, and the Inquisition did not flag. When the last had fallen, Khari, still mounted, shook her sword free of as much blood as possible and set it across her lap. āFort Revasan now, right?" She seemed eager to get there, if without mentioning why.
āIndeed," Leon confirmed, flicking his armored fingers to cast the blood off his gauntlets. He swung back astride his horse with deceptive lightness, pointing her nose to the east. The clicking of his tongue was audible, though trapped behind his helm, and this time, he led.
The plains were oddly empty, for the battlegrounds of a Civil War. But then, by now surely even the soldiers out here had heard that peace talks were imminent. At least imminent by political standards. So the fighting in the fields had died down, but not nearly for long enough that the wildlife had resumed normal activity in the area. Until the fort itself came into view over the horizon, they and their mounts were the only living things to be seen for as far as Zahra could tell.
Fort Revasan was built upon a rock formation, tucked back against the edge of the forest in the rear. Elevated well above most of its surroundings, the well-maintained edifice was only quite small for such a building. But then, it was likely also quite old, a better testament to its effectiveness than mere capacity. They were forced to approach the gate no more than two abreast; Leon dropped back to allow Michaƫl to ride beside Marceline. He seemed to be inclined to leave the talking to her.
A small team of chevaliers stood guard at the mouth of the gate. On their approach, they shifted into a defensive stance, no few shields rising to greet them. Their caution was warranted as a number of lifeless corpses littered the path, many pushed off to the side and out of the way. Rotten blood was even still present on the chevalier's weapons. "Halt!" one called, "Not a step further. What business do you have with Fort Revasan?" he asked suspiciously. Who could blame him, with that they had to contend with.
"The Inquisition, Ser," Marcy answered. The name seemed to have relaxed a few of them, but regardless their shields and weapons remained raised. "We have aided your men in closing the rifts and cleared the undead from the ramparts. You have heard the horns, no? We wish to speak with your commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx," Marcy said, the impatience growing in her voice. It was subtle, but Zahra saw Michaƫl lean in and rest a hand in the small of her back. The touch seemed to take some of the tension out of her shoulders.
The soldiers exchanged glances amongst each other before they finally set their weapons aside. "We have, milady. That was your doing then?" the chevalier asked, who received a nod of Marcy's head in response. "You have our thanks then. The Marshall will want to see you," the chevalier then glanced toward the gate and shouted something in Orlesian. Not long after, the gates leading into the fort parted and the chevaliers moved to allow them passage.
The inside appeared as old as the outside, the masonry having cracked from age and grass growing between the stones that made up the floor. A number of chevaliers resided inside, in various states of rest. Upon their admittance, many of their eyes were turned to them, some curious, some suspicious. However, Marshall Proulx was easily made out from the ordinary rank and file. The man was outfitted in finely crafted bronze colored armor with an ornate tallhelm, accented with the Grand Duke's scarlet red. He and what appeared to be a few of his advisors stood over a table that held what was most likely a map of the region.
"The Inquisition, yes?" he said, stepping around the table to greet them properly. "We heard the horns sounding from here, I assume we have you to thank for clearing out the dead from the ramparts?" he asked.
"Yes, Ser," was the only answer Marcy offered.
"Maker's breath, then there's hope for us yet," he said.
However, before he could go much further, Marceline posited a question of her own. "Marshall, if I may?" she began, and continued without waiting for his answer, "Your men said that you may be our best chance for any news of my father--Marshall Lucas LĆ©cuyer?" she asked, worry and impatience infecting her tone.
"Lucas... Lady Marceline then?" he asked, tilting his head, though his face was obscured by his tallhelm. "Uh, yes. I sent scouts out before we locked the gates. The last they saw was that he and his men were falling back to the old Citadelle du Corbeau, fending off undead all the while. We have... not heard of them since, I fear," he said, and through his tone, it was clear he did not have much hope for his chances. "Lucas was a good man, despite our being on different sides of the war," he added.
Marcy didn't have much to say after that, instead sighing deeply and leaving the conversation outright, heading into some other part of the fort. Michaƫl lingered for a moment after, but spared Leon an apologetic glance before chasing after her.
Leon took up the thread of conversation easily enough, but he didn't dither before asking the question he seemed to find salient. āThe Citadelle. Is there anything we should know about it?"
The Marshall's eyes followed Marcy for a moment before they returned to Leon's. "Heavily defended, built to outlast anything thrown against it. and ancient elven make, much like this fort. I am afraid I do not know much more than that, Lucas was keen on keeping us as far away as possible in spite of our many attempts, as I am sure you can understand, but if the demons have gotten inside..." he said with a shake of his head. "He had honor, unlike these undead curs," he added, spitting through his tallhelm.
A sigh also sifted from Zahraās lips as she rounded to Leonās right side, arms crossed over her chest. There was a spattering of gore freckled across her cheek and nose, though she hadnāt taken any notice. She doubted she looked any worse than the others, especially Khari. The way she traipsed out of battles, one mightāve thought that sheād doused herself in blood andā¦ ichor. She glanced over her shoulder at Marceline, hounded closely by her husband. Only for a moment. While she harbored the same doubts, she understood holding onto the hope that her father was alive.
āHad. Was. Poor words, serah,ā she didnāt feel as if she needed to explain herself. Realistic as she was, she mightāve chosen a gentler route. Probably only because she considered Marcy a friend. Besides, there was no proof that heād perished. Not yet, at least. āIād bet a hundred gold that weāll find more surprises than weād like inside. Best not to keep them waiting.ā
Hated that there was a beauty here, too. Buried beneath old ruins, and muddy trenches; hidden under centuries of war and slaughter and a stubbornness that prevented people from letting go of the place. Who would choose to live here? She wasnāt sure. The Dalish did. She supposed there was something worth holding onto. Though them being here was still important. She understood that well enough. Marcelineās father was here, somewhere: fighting a war of his own. Hopefully still alive. Marceline was worried. Rightfully so. The pinch to her brows, and the faraway gaze, read plain as day. However, it wasnāt looking promising. From all the corpses theyād seen face down in the muckā¦ they werenāt faring well.
Who could blame them for faltering? Undead creatures, and more demons than she could shake a stick at were hunkered across the hills. Skulking through the various trenches and palisades as if they owned the place. Bastards. Apparently there were bandits tooāyouād think that they wouldāve been busy fending off a common enemy rather than pilfering those who fell beneath them. Opportunists; something she also understood. These days, she agreed less and less with the sentiment.
They were approaching a bridge. Surrounded by the sharp wooden spikes, piercing up towards the sky like spines set across the lip of the trenchesāpresumably to keep their enemies at bay. There were armored bodies, as well as remnants of the undead, rankled through them, as if both had been pushed and impaled. A last stand that ended badly for both parties. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Burnt flesh, rotting flesh; insects and wet earth. An awful mixture. Smoke wept into the gray skies. Everything felt so bloody heavy.
A soon as they were halfway across the wooden bridge, the moans began. A crooning sound above the eerie silence. Two arrows thudded in front of Romās feet, twanging to a halt. It didnāt take long for the source of the noise, and assault, to reveal themselves. Several undead were peeling out of the inner structure, clambering out of the trenches, steel-plated or wearing leathers. The insignia's etched across their chests and backs were familiar. Another volley of arrows sang through the air, zipping past their heads.
Zahra was already notching her own arrow, ducking behind a row of wooden spikes to give her some cover.
āHold your noses and have at it, eh?" Khari was, predictably enough, the first into the fray, red braid trailing behind her like a brighter version of one of the drooping pennants still affixed to the occasional stake in the palisade. Proud battle-line markers once, signs of greyed-out fatigue and decay now. But not her.
She body-checked one of the undead back into the pit it had crawled out of. From the thudding and wet squelches, she'd delayed the ascent of at least a few more. Her cleaver mowed down another, putrefying flesh no match for solid steel, however chipped and cracking the blade had become over time. Like her, perhaps, always coming away with a new mark or bruise or scar, but undiminished. Glorying in the fact, even, if the throaty sound of her laughter was anything to go by. She spun, chopping into another's torso all the way to the spine and casting it off her blade with a foot. Back into the pit it went, still for good this time.
Leon moved to his work with a soft little sigh, almost under his breath, but Zahra could hear it. It sounded exasperated and perhaps a little bit fond; it was almost certainly directed at Khari's enthusiasm. or rather the woman herself. For all his mildness, he was certainly no less violent when it came right down to it, shouldering his way to the front with a sort of deliberate intention, though the expression on his face was left to guesswork. The helmet obscured him considerably.
When the first of the creatures swung a mace for him, he simply weathered the blow, letting it clang off his plate armor. Abruptly, he reached for the weapon on its rebound, giving a hard tug and yanking the possessed corpse forward into his knee. The muffled snap was most likely the cracking of its spine or pelvic boneāhe'd hit too low for it to only be ribs. He shoved it back into the pit as well, turning smoothly to slam his armored gauntlet into the next one's unprotected head, snapping its neck back with a slightly-sharper crunch. It dropped like a stone.
Michaƫl sighed as well, though Zahra could tell his was far more earnest and detached. He lacked the spirit and enthusiasm Khari held for the battle at hand, and even seemed tentative to jump in with the rest. He gave Lady Marceline one last glance before he pulled his armored mask over his face and dove into the battle behind the others. The sound of a pair of longswords scraping out of their sheathes accompanied his plunge into the undead.
The first shambling corpse didn't get the chance to attack him, his first blade piercing the thing's chest before the other looped around and lopped off its rotten head. A heavy kick saw the corpse dislodged from his blade and crashing into another that was caught behind it. With the next step, he twisted his body and began a spin while he held both blades out. A full rotation saw the blades crash into the next one, tearing through its arm and digging deep into its torso. The force of momentum saw the swords rip free of its body, leaving the undead to twirl limply into the ground.
Lady Marceline stood a safe distance behind him, and dealt with any undead that managed to get around him. Zahra could tell that the stress of worry was beginning to affect her as her technique suffered, and was replaced by a yet to be seen fierceness.
Rom took the sides of the fight, not bothering with the confined quarters of the trenches and instead climbing onto the ramparts around them, where some of those undead archers had taken up positions. He sprinted forward, staying low, catching one arrow on his shield as he went, and stepping in swiftly to meet the first archer before it could draw another projectile. Their bodies were weak and decayed; he reached out, grabbing the thing's head and sawing through the neck, cutting it clean off. The corpse continued to stumble around without its head, but he soon kicked it over and sent it tumbling away.
A second was behind it, already aiming, but Rom ducked low, the arrow passing over his shoulder as he lunged in. He reached with his left hand, grabbing hold of the creature's exposed spine. It hissed in displeasure, but a few seconds and a green glow later it had exploded in half, the small burst of energy from his mark obliterating that block of its spine. It fell in two pieces to the ground. Rom had been about to move on when the top half grabbed hold of him, empty hands clutching at his boots. He yanked his foot free and stomped down on its head, lip curling in disgust.
Asala remained in the rear, though her presence in the fight could still be felt. Barriers sprung to life to in front of whomever needed it most, blocking the arrows from the undead that Romulus had yet to get to. When her barriers were doing that, however, she was using them to funnel and stagger their foes into their frontline fighters so that they wouldn't get overwhelmed. The layout of the ramparts helped her in that regard, the tighter quarters requiring less extensive use of her spell. However, once every now and then, an undead was crushed by the careening force of a shield being swept across it.
Several arrows sliced through the air and thumped into soft-fleshed skulls, felling or incapacitating them for the others to finish off. Plucked in quick succession from behind the general safety of the wooden spikes. A terse grin tugged at the corners of her lips, though it felt more like a grimace on her face. She could see everyone from where she was, advancing down into the trenches, and circling around the main body of undead. Marcy had not escaped her vision either. Her struggles, or sluggish movements, did not go by unnoticed. Zahra shouldered the bow in lieu of her rapiers and stepped down into the muck beside her.
āIāve got your backāā the rest of her words were interrupted by a clang of metal as a flanged mace bit down overhead. She parried the blow, and allowed the mace to sink its teeth across the blade, dragging the gawping creature off-balance, so that she could sever its head from its shoulders with her second blade. It thumped and rolled away from their feet. The body shuddered and flopped to the side, still as a corpse should be. It hadnāt taken her long to regroup as she circled to Marcyās flank and swept an incoming blow away. Sheād never seen Marcy fight like this beforeā¦ but if she was faltering, she would be her blade.
Though it came slower than usual, Marcy's rapier lashed out all the same and pierced the forehead of the undead that Zahra had just deflected. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she nodded, the appreciation surprisingly clear in her usually subdued body language, and though she wore her silverite mask, her crystal blue eyes read it as well.
The undead couldn't stand against their small group, and as they advanced deeper into the ramparts, the sounds of other fights rang over theirs. The squad of Chevaliers they'd seen were not want to stand around and watch while the Inquisition dealt with their problem for them. With the extra hands, it wasn't long before they'd fought their way to the center of the encampment. Their destination was clear, as ahead of them a rift pulsed with energy above a pit. The smell of death and decay wafting from the pit was almost overpowering, probably holding who knew how many corpses for the rift to raise.
"Romulus, please?" Marcy asked, burying her nose within the shoulder of her cape.
Even Rom appeared bothered by the stench, suppressing a cough. He lifted his hand, the mark crackling to life and latching onto the rift. The number of dead here meant that the Veil had been weakened significantly more than usual. Or at least, that was how these things usually went. More dead, more demons. Still, he didn't seem to have any great difficulty in getting the rift to snap shut with a loud crack, allowing them to freely access the bodies. As soon as he wasn't required, Rom made to put some distance between the dead and himself.
"Asala, can you," she paused for a moment to cough and shook her head, "Can you set fire to the bodies? They deserve better but... We must ensure that the undead will not continue to rise," she added.
Asala had a spell in her hand and pressed to her face, and judging by her reactions to the scent it appeared to be filtering the air far better than their clothes were. She nodded and quickly made her way to the pit, tossing down a small fire spell. Though not in her usual repertoire, the bodies were dry enough that the flame caught instantly, and in only a few moments the whole pit was engulfed. Still, the scent lingered, and with the issue dealt with, they didn't need to linger so they made their way back to the bridge.
Along the way, they ran into the soldier they'd spoken to earlier, and though he seemed more battle worn than when they first met, it was clear that their actions had raised his spirits. When they approached, the soldier was in the midst of ordering his squad to mop up any undead that were left and then take defensive positions around the ramparts. "Hail, Inquisition," he said, raising a hand in greeting, before he placed his hand over his heart in a greeting. "We are... truly grateful, for your aid. We could not have closed the rift, as you say, on our own," he said.
"You are welcome, Ser," Marceline answered with a polite bow, though even Zahra could tell that she was anxious to keep moving. Her father was not there, after all, and undoubtedly the woman wished him found soon.
The soldier scratched his head, almost ashamed in asking, "I fear there remains one more, to the north. If Fort Revasan is to be opened, it will need to be dealt with as well." Another soldier approached the first as he spoke, a horn in hand. He received it and turned back to the group, "But for this one, we can handle the rest." With that, he blew into it, sounding it with a deep breath. The call would reach deep into the plains, and into the fort in question. "We wish you luck, Inquisition, and... I hope you find your father well, Lady Marceline," he added.
With a distinct direction to head in, Khari took the lead. Of those present, she seemed least affected by the pervasive smell of death, though why so was hard to say. In any case, it made sense enough to have someone with heavier armament in the front, and it worked out for the better when they reached the northern ramparts on horseback.
The battle there had spilled out onto the surrounding plains, undead having shuffled away from their pits to give ambling pursuit to what looked like only a few heavily-injured chevaliers. Clearly, these had not fared as well as their comrades to the south, but they fought on grimly. Upon catching sight of them, Khari spurred her horse forward, the momentum of its charge carrying her past three corpses before she used her legs to wheel it around. The blade of her cleaver came away black-red with foul ichor, but then she was maneuvering back into the fray, and Zahra's attention forced to her own battles.
There were more, this time, but they were no mightier, and the Inquisition did not flag. When the last had fallen, Khari, still mounted, shook her sword free of as much blood as possible and set it across her lap. āFort Revasan now, right?" She seemed eager to get there, if without mentioning why.
āIndeed," Leon confirmed, flicking his armored fingers to cast the blood off his gauntlets. He swung back astride his horse with deceptive lightness, pointing her nose to the east. The clicking of his tongue was audible, though trapped behind his helm, and this time, he led.
The plains were oddly empty, for the battlegrounds of a Civil War. But then, by now surely even the soldiers out here had heard that peace talks were imminent. At least imminent by political standards. So the fighting in the fields had died down, but not nearly for long enough that the wildlife had resumed normal activity in the area. Until the fort itself came into view over the horizon, they and their mounts were the only living things to be seen for as far as Zahra could tell.
Fort Revasan was built upon a rock formation, tucked back against the edge of the forest in the rear. Elevated well above most of its surroundings, the well-maintained edifice was only quite small for such a building. But then, it was likely also quite old, a better testament to its effectiveness than mere capacity. They were forced to approach the gate no more than two abreast; Leon dropped back to allow Michaƫl to ride beside Marceline. He seemed to be inclined to leave the talking to her.
A small team of chevaliers stood guard at the mouth of the gate. On their approach, they shifted into a defensive stance, no few shields rising to greet them. Their caution was warranted as a number of lifeless corpses littered the path, many pushed off to the side and out of the way. Rotten blood was even still present on the chevalier's weapons. "Halt!" one called, "Not a step further. What business do you have with Fort Revasan?" he asked suspiciously. Who could blame him, with that they had to contend with.
"The Inquisition, Ser," Marcy answered. The name seemed to have relaxed a few of them, but regardless their shields and weapons remained raised. "We have aided your men in closing the rifts and cleared the undead from the ramparts. You have heard the horns, no? We wish to speak with your commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx," Marcy said, the impatience growing in her voice. It was subtle, but Zahra saw Michaƫl lean in and rest a hand in the small of her back. The touch seemed to take some of the tension out of her shoulders.
The soldiers exchanged glances amongst each other before they finally set their weapons aside. "We have, milady. That was your doing then?" the chevalier asked, who received a nod of Marcy's head in response. "You have our thanks then. The Marshall will want to see you," the chevalier then glanced toward the gate and shouted something in Orlesian. Not long after, the gates leading into the fort parted and the chevaliers moved to allow them passage.
The inside appeared as old as the outside, the masonry having cracked from age and grass growing between the stones that made up the floor. A number of chevaliers resided inside, in various states of rest. Upon their admittance, many of their eyes were turned to them, some curious, some suspicious. However, Marshall Proulx was easily made out from the ordinary rank and file. The man was outfitted in finely crafted bronze colored armor with an ornate tallhelm, accented with the Grand Duke's scarlet red. He and what appeared to be a few of his advisors stood over a table that held what was most likely a map of the region.
"The Inquisition, yes?" he said, stepping around the table to greet them properly. "We heard the horns sounding from here, I assume we have you to thank for clearing out the dead from the ramparts?" he asked.
"Yes, Ser," was the only answer Marcy offered.
"Maker's breath, then there's hope for us yet," he said.
However, before he could go much further, Marceline posited a question of her own. "Marshall, if I may?" she began, and continued without waiting for his answer, "Your men said that you may be our best chance for any news of my father--Marshall Lucas LĆ©cuyer?" she asked, worry and impatience infecting her tone.
"Lucas... Lady Marceline then?" he asked, tilting his head, though his face was obscured by his tallhelm. "Uh, yes. I sent scouts out before we locked the gates. The last they saw was that he and his men were falling back to the old Citadelle du Corbeau, fending off undead all the while. We have... not heard of them since, I fear," he said, and through his tone, it was clear he did not have much hope for his chances. "Lucas was a good man, despite our being on different sides of the war," he added.
Marcy didn't have much to say after that, instead sighing deeply and leaving the conversation outright, heading into some other part of the fort. Michaƫl lingered for a moment after, but spared Leon an apologetic glance before chasing after her.
Leon took up the thread of conversation easily enough, but he didn't dither before asking the question he seemed to find salient. āThe Citadelle. Is there anything we should know about it?"
The Marshall's eyes followed Marcy for a moment before they returned to Leon's. "Heavily defended, built to outlast anything thrown against it. and ancient elven make, much like this fort. I am afraid I do not know much more than that, Lucas was keen on keeping us as far away as possible in spite of our many attempts, as I am sure you can understand, but if the demons have gotten inside..." he said with a shake of his head. "He had honor, unlike these undead curs," he added, spitting through his tallhelm.
A sigh also sifted from Zahraās lips as she rounded to Leonās right side, arms crossed over her chest. There was a spattering of gore freckled across her cheek and nose, though she hadnāt taken any notice. She doubted she looked any worse than the others, especially Khari. The way she traipsed out of battles, one mightāve thought that sheād doused herself in blood andā¦ ichor. She glanced over her shoulder at Marceline, hounded closely by her husband. Only for a moment. While she harbored the same doubts, she understood holding onto the hope that her father was alive.
āHad. Was. Poor words, serah,ā she didnāt feel as if she needed to explain herself. Realistic as she was, she mightāve chosen a gentler route. Probably only because she considered Marcy a friend. Besides, there was no proof that heād perished. Not yet, at least. āIād bet a hundred gold that weāll find more surprises than weād like inside. Best not to keep them waiting.ā