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Post by mark amell on May 22, 2014 3:25:16 GMT
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it's another day in the life of markus amell. that is to say, he has another half-dozen templars pursuing him, and he hasn't eaten nearly enough breakfast that morning for this sort of thing. after felling the weakest templar among them, mark had blown them a kiss, but they had just kept chasing him. mark hadn't the heart to tell them that he didn't really find lyrium addiction to be an attractive trait in a partner.
or maybe the gleaming swords and shields were an indication that they weren't looking for a partner. well, their loss. mark dashes past the overhead log and casts fist of the maker to send the wood crashing down upon them. three templars stop just in time. the others don't. they route around the wreckage, giving mark a few extra seconds. mark laughs. time is all that a mage really needs. he slows his run and pivots carefully on the balls of his feet, careful not to pull anything on the heavily-textured forest floor, rich with roots and uneven dirt. his hood is down - he fears nothing when he is still nothing but a faceless apostate.
he hurls a wall of telekinetic force at the templars and watches them fall backwards in satisfaction. he decides to make himself scarce.
ah, there is a tree stump just around the corner. it's a rather crude move, but he certainly does not want to be running forever. mark plops himself behind the wood before realizing that someone else is already there.
maker, he hopes that she isn't the dalish. an arrow in the throat would be a nasty surprise. mark grins and presses a finger in front of his lips, the universal gesture for 'i'm not here'.
ELODI BYTHELL |  |
coded by electric of gs |
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ELF
“ Acclimatize but don't you lose the plot. ”
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Post by ELODI BYTHELL on May 22, 2014 6:13:18 GMT
Sentimental was not a word she would use to describe herself, but Orlais was home and despite the dangers and numerous citizens who wanted her head on a spike and would likely fashion her skin into fashionable boots if they could get their ornately decorated hands on her—she just couldn’t bring herself to stay away for too long. That and she had some mildly trustworthy contacts (trustworthy being used rather loosely, because if she’d had to define it in the context of her situation ‘didn’t want to skin her and make footwear out of her’ was probably more accurate) in the capital and along the border. Information on the order was obscenely difficult to gather outside of Orlais, and as dangerous as these trips were they were undoubtedly the reason she’d managed to live as long as she had. Like clockwork, the ritual chase that came along with getting in, getting what she needed, and getting out began once more. They pursue her—pursue is a better word than chase, chase makes her imagine sprinting and sweating and yelling and none of that is much her style—in broad daylight. They weave through crowds, walking quickly with a sense of purpose, never fear (on her part) or urgency (on theirs). As she moves further towards the edge of town, the crowds grow thinner, and instinctively she draws her cloak closer to her body as her pursuers draw nearer. She continues at her brisk but aggressive pace, fighting the urge to look back mostly out of morbid curiosity (which nondescript lackey is it this time?) even though it completely defeats the point of attempting to be covert on her part. But her inability to take any of this entirely serious anymore is getting the better of her, and she knows that when she looks back the collected façade of the novice bard sent after her (because they’d been foolish enough to assume fatigue would make her easy to nab) will crack and that moment of realization when a bard realizes their cover is blown— Absolutely priceless. And completely worth pursuing turning into flat out chasing. She sprints past the boundaries of the border town, into the surrounding woodland with an easiness in her step that would make someone assume she was playing tag and not running for her life. Her amusement can only hold out for so long, and then fatigue really does set in and she realizes she would rather not sprint all the way to Val Royeaux. She’d spent years training in espionage, but somehow she concludes that behind a rotting tree trunk is the most appropriate hiding spot. It was so juvenile; other bards would never assume one of their own would hide there.
It seemed someone else would think something similar, as not ten minutes passes before she hears distant footsteps. She has her hand poised on a dagger hanging from her belt, but hesitates—and that’s when he plops down beside her. A human man, seemingly amused by their situation.
She frowns.
“Ah, excuse me.” She hisses, completely ignoring gesture. “We seem to be over capacity, but that pile of rotting leaves looks awfully cozy”
Distant voices and the snapping of twigs fill the air once more—whether because of bards, or whoever he was fleeing didn’t matter. She had half a mind to push him over into plain sight anyway.
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Post by mark amell on May 22, 2014 15:45:54 GMT
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mark is much closer to an academic than alya is. that is to say, orlesian isn't much of a language barrier. he has a slight (inevitable) accent, but it's nothing that impedes comprehension.
his cover is already blown. "you orlesians are an awfully friendly lot" he remarks, remembering gabriel, and now the group of templars chasing him. though he would argue that templars are pretty much the same everywhere. so maybe that wasn't very fair on the orlesians.
both the templars and the bards gained ground, and neither seemed too interested in the presence of the other party - they knew exactly whose skins they were interested in flaying. mark grunts and decides not to shove elodi into the pile of rotting leaves after all.
instead, he runs past her and uses his force magic to shove her into the direction of the templars - his magic won't do much good against their lyrium resistance. mark doesn't feel too bad about it either -- he did see those knives on her belt. "go get em, tiger"
which left mark with several bards, which he freezes with a single cone of cold. rogues were brittle things, and it didn't matter how evasive their movements were if mark could simply freeze over an entire block of air solid.
he thinks about just leaving them there. except he knows a little something about orlesian assassins, and that was how talkative they can be. how much his secrets might sell for on the chantry market. mark smashes a fist of the maker on their frozen bodies, watching them collapse with a sickening crunch. almost too easy.
(note: lemme know if what i pulled wasn't kosher and i'll edit lol)
ELODI BYTHELL | |
coded by electric of gs |
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