There was never a chance that Danse wouldn't blame this all on the Institute. It all adds up: the teleportation, the strange green lights, the roaring mutant monstrosities surrounding him, and the way they've singled him out for abduction--only him, only M7-97 from their list of fugitives, only the one who's spent his entire tour in the Commonwealth trying to wipe them out--and left his companions behind.
Yes, he knows what confirmation bias is. No, he doesn't care. This is the work of the Institute, goddamn it.
And now he has to mop up these...whatever they are. Deathclaws, but skinnier? Laser-enhanced mirelurks? They're loud and ugly and clearly capable of killing him if he puts a foot wrong, but in his experience, what isn't? His power armor seems to have survived the trip through the rift only slightly the worse for the wear, and his laser rifle is charged, and he's more than happy to unload it into the demons that home in on him from the luminescent rip in the sky.
Not that he wouldn't welcome help, of course, but he seems pretty well content to do it himself, if the bellowed "I'LL SEND YOU BACK TO HELL!" is any indication.
Myr was not anyone's idea of a first choice for Rifter retrieval. At least, not for the sharp end of the spear--he was fine enough support staff, handy with an explanation and completely sympathetic to any poor bewildered soul suddenly dropped arse-over-teakettle into Thedas. But most Inquisition commanders wouldn't have fielded him in a combat role--whatever his preferences, even if he also knew better--except in the direst emergencies.
The rift opening square over the arriving Inquisition expedition, disgorging demons directly onto their supply train, surely counted as one of those. A knight-enchanter, whether he'd sat his vigil or not, couldn't let himself be meekly shuffled away with the non-combatants in that situation; instead, he'd taken up staff and blade, slapped marker glyphs onto everyone near him, and set to the grim work of death alongside his fellows.
Or, really, the grim work of dispensing barriers and keeping the healers topped off with spellbloom-- Though he'd gotten a fine riposte off against a rage demon who'd gotten too close that left the thing in two pieces. Mostly, his support's been for the Inquisition forces--they're who he can hear to track and target even through the din of battle--but when a new voice sets up shouting near his position he doesn't hesitate to wrap its Rifter owner in a protective fold of the Fade.
The problem with Myr's (perfectly competent, possibly lifesaving) assistance is twofold, for Danse.
Firstly, the unfamiliarity of the bizarre energy field he finds himself enveloped in sets him immediately on his guard, as any self-respecting soldier of the Brotherhood would be when faced with when appears to be powerful foreign technology. How is this barrier being projected, and what is it made of? Some kind of modulating field like a Stealth Boy? And if so, is he the one being exposed to the psyche-altering side effects of the technology, or is the one using it on him taking on the risks?
And secondly, speaking of taking on risks, Danse nearly has a heart attack when he realizes that the man flinging himself into the thick of battle with this sketchy shielding device is blind. There's no technology that can possibly mitigate that enough to make it safe. What in the good goddamn is this man thinking?
"Check your fire!" he barks at the nearest sighted person in range, lest this crazy blindfolded sonofabitch wind up as collateral damage. Though that does seem a bit less likely, once it registers that most of his comrades-in-arms here are using...swords? Quarterstaves? Crudely-made daggers? Danse is hardly one to judge people for medieval-styled larping when he'd held the title of 'Paladin' until three weeks ago, but honestly.
The screeching rift-monsters have thinned considerably in number by now, but they don't seem to understand the concept of retreat, and one of the snake-headed green ones is barreling directly toward the blind man.
"Move, civilian!" One can only hope Myr realizes this is directed at him, because Danse can't move quite fast enough in his power armor to put himself between demon and elf, try as he valiantly might.
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no subject
Yes, he knows what confirmation bias is. No, he doesn't care. This is the work of the Institute, goddamn it.
And now he has to mop up these...whatever they are. Deathclaws, but skinnier? Laser-enhanced mirelurks? They're loud and ugly and clearly capable of killing him if he puts a foot wrong, but in his experience, what isn't? His power armor seems to have survived the trip through the rift only slightly the worse for the wear, and his laser rifle is charged, and he's more than happy to unload it into the demons that home in on him from the luminescent rip in the sky.
Not that he wouldn't welcome help, of course, but he seems pretty well content to do it himself, if the bellowed "I'LL SEND YOU BACK TO HELL!" is any indication.
no subject
The rift opening square over the arriving Inquisition expedition, disgorging demons directly onto their supply train, surely counted as one of those. A knight-enchanter, whether he'd sat his vigil or not, couldn't let himself be meekly shuffled away with the non-combatants in that situation; instead, he'd taken up staff and blade, slapped marker glyphs onto everyone near him, and set to the grim work of death alongside his fellows.
Or, really, the grim work of dispensing barriers and keeping the healers topped off with spellbloom-- Though he'd gotten a fine riposte off against a rage demon who'd gotten too close that left the thing in two pieces. Mostly, his support's been for the Inquisition forces--they're who he can hear to track and target even through the din of battle--but when a new voice sets up shouting near his position he doesn't hesitate to wrap its Rifter owner in a protective fold of the Fade.
"Barrier up! Give them the Void, soldier!"
no subject
Firstly, the unfamiliarity of the bizarre energy field he finds himself enveloped in sets him immediately on his guard, as any self-respecting soldier of the Brotherhood would be when faced with when appears to be powerful foreign technology. How is this barrier being projected, and what is it made of? Some kind of modulating field like a Stealth Boy? And if so, is he the one being exposed to the psyche-altering side effects of the technology, or is the one using it on him taking on the risks?
And secondly, speaking of taking on risks, Danse nearly has a heart attack when he realizes that the man flinging himself into the thick of battle with this sketchy shielding device is blind. There's no technology that can possibly mitigate that enough to make it safe. What in the good goddamn is this man thinking?
"Check your fire!" he barks at the nearest sighted person in range, lest this crazy blindfolded sonofabitch wind up as collateral damage. Though that does seem a bit less likely, once it registers that most of his comrades-in-arms here are using...swords? Quarterstaves? Crudely-made daggers? Danse is hardly one to judge people for medieval-styled larping when he'd held the title of 'Paladin' until three weeks ago, but honestly.
The screeching rift-monsters have thinned considerably in number by now, but they don't seem to understand the concept of retreat, and one of the snake-headed green ones is barreling directly toward the blind man.
"Move, civilian!" One can only hope Myr realizes this is directed at him, because Danse can't move quite fast enough in his power armor to put himself between demon and elf, try as he valiantly might.