The rift itself is like an explosion, light to mirror (and link with) the muddy gleam in their hands, enormous and twisting, stretching tendrils of the Fade out to launch demon after demon—
by the grace of whatever's left to give a fuck about them, they aren't alone. Mourn Watch (which she thinks of in her head as Mournwatch, like Riftwatch, a thing they would probably hate) tangles with the demons, and she's fought alongside necromancers often enough before not to balk at their magic. She recognises the faces of other Riftwatch agents in the space they're approaching but focuses on Wanda: new enough to Thedas that something like the buddy system isn't a bad idea.
A despair demon shrieks. Gwenaëlle speaks urgently under the sound,
and there's so much sound, the reverberation of the rift spitting out monstrosities, familiar now but not somehow less fucked for that,
“They'll come in waves,” she says, a quick refresh of what someone has likely told Wanda but that she knows from brutal experience is hard to remember in great detail the first time you're swept in it, “it won't close permanently the first few tries. If the Nevarrans' take out the demons between times we'll have breathing room while it regroups each time, but we can't count on that, and when it's open we're targets.”
The demons allowed through are not, understandably, thrilled about the prospect of having the thing closed.
Gwenaëlle slows as they approach, gaming out strategic placement, where they can reach the rift and be the most difficult to knock off their target,
no subject
by the grace of whatever's left to give a fuck about them, they aren't alone. Mourn Watch (which she thinks of in her head as Mournwatch, like Riftwatch, a thing they would probably hate) tangles with the demons, and she's fought alongside necromancers often enough before not to balk at their magic. She recognises the faces of other Riftwatch agents in the space they're approaching but focuses on Wanda: new enough to Thedas that something like the buddy system isn't a bad idea.
A despair demon shrieks. Gwenaëlle speaks urgently under the sound,
and there's so much sound, the reverberation of the rift spitting out monstrosities, familiar now but not somehow less fucked for that,
“They'll come in waves,” she says, a quick refresh of what someone has likely told Wanda but that she knows from brutal experience is hard to remember in great detail the first time you're swept in it, “it won't close permanently the first few tries. If the Nevarrans' take out the demons between times we'll have breathing room while it regroups each time, but we can't count on that, and when it's open we're targets.”
The demons allowed through are not, understandably, thrilled about the prospect of having the thing closed.
Gwenaëlle slows as they approach, gaming out strategic placement, where they can reach the rift and be the most difficult to knock off their target,
“We can use the architecture for cover, there—”