entrancelogs | [OPEN]

Entry tags:

[OPEN]

Who: Nathaniel & YOU
Where: In the grounds
When: Far too early in the morning (4am - 6am), April 1st
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Nathaniel finds his way outside with a rudimentary archery target and a couple of lanterns. In the dark.

The Story:

He found it chilly when he stepped outdoors, but not enough to make him shiver. The cool air prickled through his clothing and nipped at his fingers for a few minutes before the mild exertion of walking warmed his blood enough to drive it off.

Carrying a large, round archery target under one arm and two lanterns in his hand, he moved far enough from the mansion to not be too much at risk of hitting anyone with a stray arrow (though close enough to be seen should someone peek out of the door or glance through a window) and carefully hung the target on the lowest bough of a tree. Beneath it and slightly behind, he set one lantern, retreating with the other and putting it down by his feet some three hundred yards away from his target.

THUNK

The first arrow hit with a satisfying sound and swung the target back, making the tree branch bob up and down.

He could be found there for the next couple of hours, long after the sky began to turn light and the lanterns became little more than ornaments. He paused briefly to turn them off when they were no longer needed, setting them together not far from where he stood. Almost anyone venturing near would find themselves easily spotted, the bow in his hand lowered and a small nod given to allow them to pass without danger.

[while Nathaniel is not overtly affected by the event in this post, I welcome anyone who is :D]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

THUNK

...No, not quite yet.

Two hours, rewind.

Two hours after midnight, and a cool breeze runs through Cullen's hair. The light of his lantern disappears past the forest line. The worst of the last event's aftermath has passed, but sleep did not come in its stead; first out of refusal, and then-- The event hits at midnight. Cullen will not know it until later. For the time he feels only the death of his unease, replaced by something cold and hollow. He tries to lie down, but sleep refuses him out of habit.

That is when he thinks to exhaust himself, and try again in the morning. The light of his lantern disappears past the forest line, and for over two hours he fights, stances and swings practiced beneath the trees. When he is satisfied with the exhaustion in his limbs he extinguishes the lantern, and heads back to the mansion's lights in the distance, when--

THUNK

Now. An arrow buries itself in Cullen's side, and he falls to his knees with a startled cry.

Nathaniel is entirely unaware that anyone else might be keeping such inhospitable hours. While he's alert, as a rogue ever is, there's a certain relaxation in being alone despite the creeping unease he's felt for the last few hours. Arrow after arrow smacks into the target, the only brief pauses taken when he needs to retrieve his ammunition.

He may be three hundred yards from where he aims but his grandfather's bow is a powerful weapon. Even without the chilling cry of pain to go along with it he knows that one of the few shots flying wide did not simply hit another tree. There is a certain sound that an arrow hitting flesh produces, and he knows it far too well.

"Maker!" he curses under his breath, breaking into an immediate run towards the source of the noise, lantern in hand.

"Hello!? Where in Andraste's name... Make a sound, if you can!"

Edited 2016-04-03 18:50 (UTC)

It takes a split second for Cullen to shake off the surprise, and make a hasty grab for his shield. With it he stumbles to his feet, backwards until the trunk of a tree steadies his weight. Blood runs down his leg, and Cullen groans through grit teeth. The movements didn't do the wound any favours, but if he's become the target of an archer in the dark, then he risks worse with every instant his shield isn't raised.

--Except even as he searches the area for the culprit he catches something hanging over his head, swinging lightly in the breeze. Something round and-- for the love of his sweet Maker's Bride, this can't be happening. Cullen sways on his feet. A small part of that, he suspects, is the injury. The much greater credit goes to the sheer annoyance and embarrassment at the discovery of what truly just transpired.

Confirmed further by the voice, which has little in common with an enemy stealthily looking to fire another shot. Cullen reaches for the hilt of his sword all the same. A precaution, before he calls out.

"Over here! I'm f_ine," he does not quite manage to rasp out anymore. Considering that he slumps against the tree immediately afterwards, it may have been a slight embellishment, after all.

Edited 2016-04-03 19:11 (UTC)

His keen hearing picks up the voice, heel digging into the ground as he turns on it and makes his way briskly towards the returned hail. His heart is pounding in his ears, no room for mortification at having hit someone for the sheer horror that he actually hit someone. His bow is lowered and he stows it with the string across his chest as he speeds his pace to a jog, coming to a stop by Cullen's side.

That.. that is definitely his arrow.

"Maker," he curses again, darting a glance towards the mansion. The last thing he needs here is a third party. "I didn't see you- Sit. I know a healer. He'll come out here if I have to drag him by the back of his robes myself."

He squints against the sudden brightness of a lantern, and tries to make out features beyond a blurred silhouette. The voice is unfamiliar, but when he hears the words Cullen gives himself permission to drop the shield between them. Most attempted murders do not feature 'I know a healer' in their attempts. He needs to believe that this still applies.

"Should've watched where I was-," He swallows. Feels the difference starkly now, between the cool morning air, and the warmth that leaves him from the wound, pooling in his boot. Maker, he's regretting those movements.

Cullen braces himself against the tree, ready to sit down cautiously, when the man's last words reach him. His head pounds, but not so badly that it cannot bring a suspicion to his mind. There are only so many people here, only so many who have the skills to help. And only so many of them in robes.

Perhaps some murders do start with 'I know a healer', after all.

"Waitno. Clinic. They k-- They keep a clinic on the first floor. Someone- someone there."

Said healer in robes is the only one that Nathaniel knows, but he wouldn't doubt that Anders is the only healer here. Honestly, who sneaks around in the dark like this without watching where they're going? He bites back the irrational irritation and nods curtly, moving to support the man as he obviously struggles to stand.

"As you wish," he concedes, huffing out a sharp breath through his nose. The stranger sounds Fereldan, yet hasn't recognised him. He can consider what that means once they have him in a better condition. The lantern lowers, casting sharp shadows against already angular features but making them easier to see.

"Can you walk? I hope this clinic of yours is consistently manned."

It's only lucky that they aren't far from the building.

During moments of great duress Cullen has many times found strength and perseverance in the depth of his faith in the Maker. Tonight he finds that surprisingly similar strength can be found in the depth of his desire to not see Anders' face again.

"Hope so as well," he mumbles, because in truth Cullen has barely even been there once. Heard of its existence, and stuck his head through the door to confirm the truth of it. Saw strange instruments and appliances there, and hoped he would never have cause to discover their use.

Well.

Cullen pushes himself to his feet, and takes as little of the man's support as he can, carrying heavy legs towards the mansion, as best as he can.

The rogue is not a man given to small talk and this situation is hardly one which calls for it. He aids the man in walking to the mansion door, awkwardly opening it and using few words to ask the direction of the clinic. From what he has seem of this place so far he isn't entirely sure of what to expect, but he has no doubt there will be at least some things that he will puzzle over the use of.

What concerns him more at this juncture is that there will be no one there when they arrive. Nathaniel is skilled with a bow or a set of lockpicking tools, but he is no healer or surgeon. The arrow will have sunk deep - far beyond his basic field abilities.

He calls out as they enter, and shoots a look tinged with concern at his companion, as if he might gauge the possible blood loss in doing so.

"I will check further inside. You should sit down."

He puts his focus into the next step, always the next step. Somewhere he tries to think of a frustration to let out on the other man, but only one of them was skulking around in the darkness. Only one of their mistakes might have made the difference between a trivial wound and a blood-soaked cloak. He groans quietly. Still not as bad as his worse days without lyrium.

(That deserves a mirthless laugh, but then he might not make the next step.)

When the light of the entrance hall floods into view Cullen finally takes a closer look at the man whose shoulder he currently hangs on. Not a familiar face-- or is it? He squints, but that only makes the features blur more. Another time then, when--

Cullen grasps down on the man's shoulder hard. He points to the corridor on their left, quickly.

"Second door, that way. I c'n come."

He takes a first step in the direction, just in case his decision is mistaken for a point of debate.

While he may not immediately be recognisable as his father's son, Nathaniel does have many typical Howe features that have given him away before now. Now is not the time to argue bloodlines should this Fereldan realise that he does in fact know his accidental assailant - who sighs in barely hidden exasperation as the man insists yet again that he can remain on his feet.

"You must be a soldier," he comments dryly, turning his steps to match and heading directly for the door. It's a good thing he's become used to holding up the weight of injured Grey Wardens.

"Not far," the muttered remark is mostly to himself. Would they find the place empty, as he fears?

The next step, once more. His hand still pressed to the wound numbly, to stem the flow. Once or twice it slips, and a spurt of blood slicks his glove. Cullen should commend the man while he still can, he must have hit a supremely inconvenient spot to boot.

"Templar," he comments back instead, because years of habit outweigh the ex- and much else, in moments such as these.

He spots the familiar door, and pushes against it, finding it give away so lightly as to make him stumble. He catches himself and breathes a sigh of relief. The blurred outlines of strange devices swims into his vision. He closes his eyes against the blinding light, even brighter than the corridors before.

So brightly lit, and yet completely empty.

Cullen's legs give out, and he crashes to his knees.

"Ah."

Templar, then. Wait. Templar? Hadn't Anders said something about-

He doesn't get the chance to finish that thought as the man goes down barely a step into the clinic. Nathaniel, unblinded by pain and blood loss, surveys the empty room with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ah.

Nathaniel had dropped with the wounded man if only to keep him from falling too heavily, or keeling over onto the arrow still sticking out of his side. Now, he reaches for the small communication device that he has already grown the habit of carrying around with him and contacts the only person he can think of.

Anders was going to love this.

The impact jolts through him sharply, and cuts into the haze. Out of a brief window of clarity he sees all the people he can think of who might be of aid- in battle, or before, but never after. Never injured, not for the lack of will-- Dorian and Hawke are no healers, Bethany- he couldn't say, but where he might find her to ask he doesn't know. Jowan-- The mirthless laugh on his mind leaves his lips, he can feel the sound in his throat.

--All the others? As far as he knows they could treat the wound no better or worse than he. That will have to be it, then.

"Might still be nearby," he mumbles a half-voiced thought; that the clinic is lit, that its abandonment may only be temporary. That the man should check their surroundings if it could be so.

That energy for clarity must go towards something else, however. His legs don't budge, at first. Only on third try do they move, shakily, and steady enough for Cullen to rise again. Bandages. He ought to find bandages, so he can finally pull this blighted arrow from his side.

"Sweet Andraste's--" He doesn't finish that curse, but grips the templar's arm before he can go trailing blood off into the (startlingly) clean room laid out in front of them.

"Ser, I'm going to have to insist that you sit. I know very well the damage my arrows can do."

If he had to knock this man out to keep him from moving further then so be it. He doubted there was much he could do to defend himself at this point in time. Pulling the arrow out before proper help had arrived would only be another mistake to add to what had turned into an entirely undesirable early morning.

"I have sent for aid and should someone be nearby they will find us sooner. Unless you wish to bleed out the remainder of your life over this floor, sit down."

Faintly he thinks he ought to feel relief. He does not, in the slightest. He finds that curious, until he remembers why he was so insistent on walking here at all. Because the nature of the aid offered is not one he would willingly stake his life on.

He'd sit and watch me bleed out, Cullen says, or- thinks he says, did he? It doesn't matter. If all the help he has left to hope for is Anders, then it must be in his own hands now. He takes a step before he slumps a little, but the step was enough- underneath him he feels a shelf of metal, which to prop himself against.

Underneath his fingers he feels fabric of sorts, white cloth rolled up, clean. It will do. Cullen looks up at the man, who waits for him to sit. With all the swiftness left in him he snaps off the arrow's feathered shaft end, and pushes the rest of it through on the other side.

In brighter news: If anyone is indeed nearby, then the scream will have alarmed them to their presence.

There's no expectation in Nathaniel's mind that a Templar soldier would actually be so idiotic as to remove the only thing in a wound that might be keeping them from bleeding to death. Apparently they just don't make them as smart as they used to.

He swears vehemently once again and grabs a bundle of the white bandages off the shelf, pressing hard against the wound.

"Blighted idiot," he snaps out, the pressure of his hand firm enough to do much more than smart but the urgency of keeping this man alive has been increased tenfold by his sudden action. "Why did you do that? I know they teach Templars more than how to deal with runaway mages."

"Yours," Cullen breathes in response, and presses the bleeding arrow into the man's free hand. The other point-- takes too many words, and his throat is already dried up, breaths coming through it ragged and raw.

He only groans quietly at the pressure, and bunches his fingers around some of the bandages in return. Presses more to the wounds where there is still room. Has to tilt his head uncomfortably, because the white fog narrows his vision, and he needs to see-- There. Cullen nods at the closet by the wall.

"Poultices," he sums up eloquently.

This is... actually unbelievable. At first he had suspected simple stubbornness - he knows the type - but this goes far beyond it. The arrow is immediately discarded with a look that perfectly blends confusion and complete revulsion and then he finds himself forcing the man to sit on the nearest chair, bed, whatever is nearest and most convenient with both bloodied hands on his shoulders.

"I'll get them. If you don't stop moving, you will bleed to death. Do you hear me? It already looks as if someone has been murdered in here." And he'll have to clean up. It's hardly fair to leave it.

And why was Anders choosing now to take his time? Nathaniel could kill them both and be done with it. It was starting to feel worryingly like a sane decision.

"Stay there, or I will knock you out. I'll let that be your choice."

Cullen's response is- a garble of three to four consonants, the meaning of which might have gotten lost long before they passed his lips. And then he sits on a bed, the how or why somehow already forgotten. It can hardly bode well, and he tries to stand again, but his limbs have cooperated for the last time.

Instead he feels himself sinking backwards, somehow idly wondering if the mattress underneath is truly that soft, or if he's become too numb to feel otherwise.

His side almost feels fine now-- and he quickly remembers to press the bandages down harder, until it doesn't, anymore. He tries to lift his head to check on the other man's progress, without success. Groaning Cullen accepts that measure of defeat, and lies still, to gather his strength for whatever is to come next.

Arya watches from the lower boughs of a nearby tree, eyes flickering from the archer to the target, enjoying the satisfying thunk the arrows make as they hit true. She hadn't expected anyone else to be around at this time, her own sleep pattern still not having recovered to anything resembling normal after so many months on the road, but watching the rhythm of the arrows, the familiarity of his actions, is a comforting distraction from her own thoughts.

"You missed."

An unwarranted observation that would surely be unwelcome, but it comes tumbling from her mouth before she can stop it.

Sometimes Clint found it difficult to sleep, or to stay asleep. He's spent years working as an undercover spy, an assassin, an Avenger, and that wasn't even taking into account the years prior to that. Sleeplessness was almost like a familiar companion some nights, which is why he was up on the roof just as dawn was breaking looking out over the grounds. It was hard to miss the guy shooting arrows at a target and Clint grinned. It wasn't often he found someone else who knew how to use a bow, most people back home preferred guns...or a shield or a hammer...

He made his way down until he was about a hundred feet behind the guy and he notched an arrow and let it said right passed him easily hitting the bullseye.

When Nathaniel turned around it would see Clint standing there with a cocky little smirk on his face, the ass.

He hadn't expected the voice, but doesn't flinch. His gaze flicks briefly in her direction and the back to the arrow that flew wide, a faint arch to his brow as he sets another to the bowstring.

"I did," he concedes, his low voice and gruff tone conveying a kind of irritation that is rarely as strongly meant as it sounds. "But if one never misses, one never learns."

The next arrow strikes on the bullseye, and he lowers the bow to give the child a larger amount of his attention. They looked young to be out so late, but hadn't he been much the same? It wasn't his place to scold, either way.

"Thinking you've perfected an art only means that you've fallen into habits."

The smirk may not be so firm on Clint's face when Nathaniel immediately turns on his heel, an arrow nocked and ready to fly directly at his neck. This archer uses no modern bow but a single piece of carved wood, and three hundred yards is a modest distance to expect his arrows to travel.

His eyes narrow briefly, the tip of the arrow lowering only by a fraction.

"You are lucky, ser, that I am well trained in telling friend from foe," he says gruffly, easing the arrow loose in the bow. "That kind of game might have cost you very dearly."

Good. Good, he stopped moving. Nathaniel allows the tiniest fraction of tension to ease out of his shoulders as he crosses to the earlier indicated cabinet and pulls it open. A quick glance back to the templar has his brow furrowing deeper - he should have been quicker in keeping the man from removing that arrow. He can only hope that Anders doesn't idle out of some kind of misdirected spite.

When he returns with a couple of poultices in hand, a thought intrudes abruptly on his concern.

"I saw you at Kirkwall," he says. One templar can look much the same as another until you see them alone. He's sure he knows this one. It's with some measure of care that he eases Cullen's hand away to check the measure of the bleeding, only to just as quickly press it back again. "Do not move your hand."

Clint's not really bothered by Nathaniel pointing the arrow at him, he's used to people trying to shoot him. It's the bow that draws Clint's attention though, that is archaic, which is awesome. His smirk morphs into a friendly grin and he moves forward.

"Sorry, I don't find other people who appreciate a good bow, couldn't resist." He hooks his bow onto his back as he walks. "You're a good shot." He figured a compliment would help smooth the ice a bit, it's always a good thing to compliment an archer.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3

[OPEN]

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