faderift | The Lost Temple of Dirthamen

The opening to the temple is a small archway, so obscured by overgrowth that it is no wonder its rediscovery has taken so long. Pel is careful to push the foliage aside rather than cut it, so the entrance can remain discreet for now. Just inside, the ceiling is very low, but remains fairly level with itself while the stairs descend, so there is more and more room to stand. Only Galadriel has any particular problem here, and she can stand at her full height once they reach the first landing.

The walls and floor glisten with damp. The first landing has signs of a long-abandoned camp--ruined supplies, rotting benches, a tent, and a table with a journal. Directly ahead, the stone floor disappears into water and underwater flora. Pel picks up the journal and gingerly opens it.

"So it's true. Lord Gretien Faulx did lead an expedition here, just a few years ago. For some time, it seems. Merrill?"

She holds the book out. The spine is crumbling, but the rest of it is surprisingly legible.

Edited 2016-03-09 22:02 (UTC)

This place is old, and unlike other ruins across Thedas, had been truly lost. Other than the explorers that Lord Gretien led in, it seems that no one has touched it since the ancient elves. It's enough to make Merrill practically vibrate with excitement, though it's entirely possible that it's also the damp that makes her shiver. She shifts unconsciously closer to her companions, staff a comforting weight against her back.

"And they didn't bring everything with when they left, it seems. If they left."

Not that they all need that pointed out, but it seems better to say it, face it, than let them all think it in the darkness.

She takes the book, gently blowing some of the dust off it before carefully opening it. The pages are sticky, stained in old blood. "Personal entries... notes... oh! Oh, dear. The last page is in someone else's handwriting."

A soft clearing of her throat, and she reads: "We’re still not certain why Lord Gretien ran off during the night. The others think it’s the nightmares, though they say it’s voices that speak to them. We took a vote and decided to continue the search for Dirthamen’s Wisdom; if we don’t, we forfeit everything we’ve worked towards. Trying to piece together all of Gretien’s notes won’t be easy. All I can think is that we need to put the relics revealed by the braziers into these flames.

It’s all part of some elven ritual, I suppose. The only gruesome part is all of these desiccated organs. Lord Gretien believed they were part of the high priest of this temple, that we’re somehow ‘reassembling’ him. I find it unsettling that elves would have disassembled their high priest in the first place."

The temple was humid and dank, the crumbling relic of a long sunken structure and, as she moved down the narrow stairs, she found she could not fault her guards for refusing to enter. It was unfortunate, in a way--while she didn't relish being watched, as if she were some dark, suspicious thing, the temple had an odd air about it. There was a quiet, a stillness, that was unseemly--two more swords would not have gone amiss.

Pel stood at the edge of the landing and Merril alongside her as they examined the journal. The book and supplies had not fared well, even in the relative shelter of the entryway. Decay would wipe them away within a decade and, at once, Galadriel wondered what else might have vanished to the creeping moss and the distant glimmer of mushrooms.

She moved from the stairs to the landing and knelt to regard the water that stretched before them. It was clear and stone still, but not fetid; the plants that grew beneath the surface were dense enough that she had no doubt they had grown here for an age, at least. She could hear the distant trickle of water but, as an old friend had ever insisted, there was no surer sign that it flowed in and out of the ruins than the distinct lack of stench.

"A dreadful end," Galadriel commented and peered into the darkness ahead of them. The shadows did not move and she dismissed them; hanging plants, all, save perhaps the hulking forms of collapsed walls and arches. The path was not barred, even if it was sunken and overgrown.

She knew very little of Dirthamen. The Inquisition's library was fairly limited when it came to Elven lore, but what she had learned was not particularly uplifting.

"Do such rituals exist?"

Get out of Skyhold, he thought, it will be good for him to see beyond it's walls again, he thought. Stretch your legs Zevran, what is the worst that can happen? Clearly he had forgotten every dank ruin they had climbed through behind Jonas, every tomb laid with traps, every vine and root that attempted to strangle them in the forest. And the undead. And the ghosts. And the curses.

Here, it seemed, a lovely mixture of all three. Were he better settled into his skin he might laugh about it. As he was not and kept Pel to his blind side so someone could say something when death inevitably approached, he settled for arch commentary.

It was, after all, one of the few things he was very good at that wasn't impeded by the eye. "So we are taking parts of a corpse and putting them back together like some macabre puzzle? How I have missed such absurd antics. Around the next corner there is going to be a demon, a gas trap, or a little squirrel possessed by a demon that only speaks in rhyme."

Last time it had been a cat, but that went without saying.

"Not currently," Pel answers Galadriel. "Dalish culture widely frowns on blood magic. And not in the way Tevinter frowns on blood magic."

Pel avoids glancing at Merrill. She's pretty sure Varric exaggerated the tale, there.

"It's more likely Gretien's theories were based off pre-existing prejudice. Misconceptions about elven culture. Lots of Chantry followers think we sacrifice human children and the like. Unless he knows something we don't. Must be some reason he thought he had to piece a skeleton back together."

Pel takes the journal and tucks it safely away under her leather jacket to keep it dry.

"Hope everyone packed plenty of socks. The floor's flooded ahead."

With one hand braced against the wall, she steps into the shadows.

Edited 2016-03-12 03:11 (UTC)

"Oh, there are almost certainly spirits," Merrill agrees with Zevran, shifting on her feet as though that will help her see further in the darkness of the temple. "This place is old, and the Veil is probably thin due to rituals -- especially if they did involve any dismembered body parts."

Dalish culture may widely frown on blood magic now, but perhaps it wasn't always that way. Perhaps that was even part of why they fall, though that thought sounds suspiciously like Fenris, and so Merrill ignores it.

"So much of what the ancient elves did and believed has been lost; it's impossible to say what the ritual may actually be until we see more. And it's possible, if this temple lasted until after Tevinter's presence, that traditions... mingled." Because they certainly did everywhere else, making research a pain.

For all their speculation, however, she is not expecting Pel to just keep walking. Sucking in a breath, Merrill carefully summons a small amount of fire of her own and gestures for Zevran and Galadriel to go before her. May as well have a native mage at both ends of the group.

Besides, she has no idea if Galadriel's eyes seem to glow in the dark when light hits them the same way they do for elves native to Thedas, and she wants to see.

Galadriel wasn't particularly eager to move into the water, but neither did she resist. She rose as Pel began down the path and, as Merrill ushered her forward, stepped off the landing and onto the sunken path. A strange sensation swept over her as she crossed the threshold and moved into the temple proper, but both the cause and result were difficult to place.

"If there are creatures who speak in rhyme, I daresay that will be the end of it. I will have seen all there is to see," Galadriel said, a bland attempt at levity as she moved forward.

There was something disconcerting about the depth of the darkness, here, about how it seemed to amplify as they moved into the hall. It unsettled her greatly and, after only a few steps, she turned to glance back at Merrill. Her eyes didn't flash in the darkness, nor as she caught the reflection of the flame off the walls, but they did widen as she glanced down at the surface of the water. The light of the flame danced on the inky black surface, but her own light was missing. She was not reflected--why was she not--

She lifted a hand and, to her horror, found that it was dull.

Some ward in this place had doused her light.

"Flooded? Oh. Joy." The excitement in his voice, it was overflowing. He was lousy with enthusiasm for wet boots and soaked toes and corpse hunting. This was what he got for wanting out of the hold and being a sucker for pretty eyes. You think he would learn, but no.

Pel did not even have to bat her lashes for him to say yes. More the fool he.

"Truly, my coin is on demons. Putting an ancient body back together is not the strangest thing I have had to do for a quest such as this. The Temple of Sacred ashes had a Gauntlet of sorts full of it's own bizarre trials to test for the pure of heart or faith or nobility- as I was able to cross I dare say they were not the best trials." The bridge, now, that had been something.

Dark, light, it mattered little. Zevran forged ahead behind Pel, head tipped for the telltale noises of Shrieks, movement in the water, or the dull click of traps.

Edited 2016-03-22 20:27 (UTC)

Pel hears the faint song of the Veil up ahead, and spots a faint glow. Good thing they're all elves, and can spot such things. She sloshes ahead, summoning a handful of Veilfire to peer at a glowing Veilfire rune at the end of the little hallway. There is a room to the left, and a hallway that stretches out to the right. Inside the room to the left is a luminous, flickering green glow.

She squints at the rune.

"This is...strange. Merrill, come look. You can understand everything. Someone write this down, quick.

"We few whisper here where shadow dwells.
Some words remain unuttered.
Truths are pushed down, down
Where they shall never arise again."

Galadriel may not be able to see, but Merrill can see her -- she looks horrified, and she quickly takes a step closer to gently reach out and touch her arm. "What is it? Is there something we can do?"

But already there is a rune, and not one that speaks only of runes -- this is something else, something in their language. Informative, and something that nonetheless makes a shiver run down her spine as she steps closer, peering at the writing.

"Oh, definitely spirits. And maybe ghosts. Where they shall never arise again... except we're going to try, aren't we?"

Merrill comes close but, all too quickly, is drawn away toward the cold fire light. They are huddled about the rune and, for a few moments, Galadriel ignores them. Her gaze is locked on her hands and there it remains as she assesses her state. She is not dying--indeed, she does not feel particularly weak.

Did this place simply prefer darkness?

The thought is concerning but she doesn't dwell on it. She can hardly stand thinking on the darkness around her, as it is, let alone the implications of it. Galadriel follows after the Dalish and stands apart as they study the rune. The verse is ominous, but unfamiliar--if this place merely threatens ghosts and spirits, she will be at ease. She has never feared either and was unlikely to begin.

"Apropos for a tomb."

Demons. If there aren't demons Zevran will eat his boots. ANd he does not much care for the taste of leather but this? This reeks of demons and the dead and bloody memories. The last thing he needs is to spend the rest of the day hip deep in cold water and rotting flesh.

Next time he'll have to convince Pel to bring something along for the smell. Ugh.

"Something will be rising again. If we are fortunate it will be what we wish and not, say, a demon. That happened often during the fifth blight. We think we're completing an ancient ritual or puzzle and no- it was a demon."

"There doesn't have to be. We don't know what the ritual was meant to accomplish, or why reversing it would be as simple as putting old bones back together."

Corpses make Pel incredibly...weird. And shaky and weepy, sometimes. But bones are different. Bones don't bear much of a resemblance to people.

She nods toward the room to the left, seeing a faint Veil-glow far within.

"Let's take a look."

Merrill takes the lead this time, sloshing a bit through the water. One hand, the one not casting any light, reaches for Galadriel's as she goes by -- whether Galadriel lets her take it, whether to walk hand-in-hand or to squeeze, is up to her, but Merrill hopes the gesture at least helps.

What she's fairly certain does not help anyone is what she finds near the glint of the rune.

"Oh. Well. That is... certainly a severed head."

On something that appears to be an altar, no less. How lovely.

"It looks like it's in rather good shape, if this belonged to the priest -- that must have been quite a long time ago!"

As far as Merrill's concerned, corpses are only scary if they're moving or fall on you.

She did not resist Merrill's gesture and, indeed, found that she was glad for the hand in hers when they came upon the glimmering rune and the altar alongside it. It stands free, shaped as a hooded figure bent over an open dish. In that dish, a head rests; it is not the first she has ever come upon, nor the most gruesome, but it is staggeringly in tact.

"Indeed," Galadriel agreed and shifted her grip on her glaive. "If it is as old as this temple and remains so...uncanny...we should be cautious. There is some sourcery at work, here."

Galadriel regarded Pel, though she was loathe to look away from the altar for long.

"Could this be one of the explorers, perhaps? Or a part of the ritual?"

"There is that weird tingle I get on the back of my tongue when there is magic about. Or that could be mold from all the water. Either is likely." Ah, mold spores. If they are fortunate? They'll cough and sneeze for a few days. If not? They might die. But there isn't the usual bitter tinge to the air that would signify such a thing.

How fortunate.

Zevran wades closer to Pel, one hand slipping up to rest on her back.

"What do you make of this?"

Pel takes a while to answer. Merrill's announcement came just before Pel saw the severed head, and she is slightly hunched over, refusing to look. Trying to breathe. Thank Mythal for Zevran, the warmth of his hand on her back. It grounds her, makes it so she can move a little, though she can't look at the head yet.

"I can't...I can't, Zevran," she whispers, and her voice bounces off the walls, carrying across the room. She knows the glow of Veilfire, she has studied Veilfire so intently and immersively since she joined the Inquisition, in the field and out, she might be able to see what's happening. But she'd have to look at it. She's sweating and shaking, the green glow lighting the sheen on her face, glassy eyes trying not to see anything.

Oh. Oh, dear.

Merrill squeezes Galadriel's hand, then lets go -- but only for a moment. She's unwilling to leave her side for long, and Zevran is taking care of Pel. She simply grabs a sack from her belongings, carefully tugging it out and opening it. "Galadriel, could you set it inside of here, please? Whatever it is, part of the ritual or an explorer, we should bring it with instead of leaving it here. If not a part of the ritual, then whoever this was should be treated properly."

And while Pel will know it's with them, at least she won't have to look at it. Although speaking of looking-

"...there are no eyes, though. Or tongue. Or... ears. If not a part of the ritual, then..."

Then whatever happened to the expedition is truly sinister and likely much, much worse than they had thought.

"Well. Either way, we shouldn't leave this poor person's head here in the darkness."

"Agreed, there are few who deserve a tomb such as this," Galadriel answers as she takes the sack from Merrill. Zevran attends to Pel who is...distraught by such things, apparently. Galadriel felt a pang of sympathy for the elf, but she left it unvoiced. It is an understandable aversion, this, and one that Galadriel had once shared.

The head is a somber thing and, in the cold veilfire light, seems almost to have a sorrowful expression...insofar as it could. Galadriel offers it a short, apologetic look as she sets her glaive against the altar figure. Her hand free, she reaches out and lifts it from the dish.

As she lifts it, the sensation is unmistakable--the skin crawls with pulse, the wounds are tacky and young, she even has the sensation of breath being drawn between her fingers--this head is alive.

The curse she releases, in her shock, is both vile and vicious--it is fortunate that none among them spoke Quenya, else she would have to explain herself. In her effort to recoil from it, she very nearly drops it to the ground but, through some grace, it finds itself inside the sack Merrill had given her.

"Delipa nata--what foul thing is this?!"

"Breathe." He tugs gently, tucking Pel against his side. "Breathe. Think of nothing."

Much what he's told himself and others when the work becomes quite so difficult- though his bar for such things is higher than his fledglings, or most of his friends. A benefit (ha) of being an assassin.

To Merrill he snorts. "That sounds as though it has been here and picked clean or someone had a very unpleasant end."

Or there is magic about it, if Galadriel's reaction is anything to go by. He does not know the tongue she speaks, but swearing is swearing and he knows the tone if nothing else. "Magic, is my guess. Awful magic."

"What is it?" Pel still can't look, pressed trembling against Zevran's side. Deep breaths. Squeegeeing tears from her face with her hands. When she speaks again, she sounds a little calmer. "Let me see. Let me see."

She peels away from Zevran, still trembling. Relieved to see that the head is hidden, she approaches the brazier where it lay. But the fire is gone.

"What...what did you see? What is the matter, Galadriel? Was it immersed in Veilfire?"

That Pel had approached first, despite her distress, spoke well of her determination. Galadriel regarded her for a moment, disgust still lingering on her features, and finally motioned to the bag.

"Nay, it was not--the head..." she paused, but she would not do Pel the disservice of withholding the truth. "It lives yet."

There's a beat of silence when Pel is standing in the woods, the splash of water becoming the crunch of dead leaves and fallen twigs. She is holding Merrick instead of Zevran, and Elan's head is at his feet. Staring up, still bleeding, eyelids still fluttering--

To the outsider, it looks like Pel has completely vacated her body. For an instant, she is a wax doll, unresponsive and lifeless. Then the forest floor becomes water again, and she sucks in a sharp breath. Instead of being intelligible, she starts muttering to herself under her breath, then steps toward the altar, shaking like a leaf. She has to work. She has to remember where she isn't.

"Veilfire...Veilfire. Then it was the altar and not the head that kept the Veilfire and...the head. It's still alive because it's being kept alive, and Veilfire can...Veilfire spells could..."

What follows is a long, quiet stream of obscenity before she picks back up where she left off.

"It's like a rune, except they used..." Nonono no magic jargon, get to the point. "The High Priest is alive. Not just his body. At least, I think. Faulx didn't need to reassemble him. The...no. I'll have to see more to say for sure. Just...keep that," she indicates the bag, "where I can't see it. Just now. I can't look at it."

For her part, Merrill quickly pulls the bag closed -- enough that the head is in no danger of falling out, at least. Still alive. She shudders, looking down at the bag with wide eyes, but her grip does not falter. It doesn't change the fact that this priest should not have to continue to suffer.

"Alive or something like it, at least," Merrill breathes, shaking her head again and then looking back up at the others. "It's strong magic either way, to keep him in this state for so long. And if they didn't want him brought back, there's probably going to be a trap as soon as we move, so-" Don't mind her fastening the bag to her belt and getting a firm grip on her staff.

"Either way, there have to be more pieces of the-" body "-puzzle around."

Galadriel is not distraught as Merrill takes the bag from her, though she finds she is disquieted anew once the bag leaves her grip. She ignores the sensation, as best she can, and reclaims her glaive.

The temple feels as though it has drawn a deep breath and held it, like a cold draft pulled beneath the stone doors of a crypt, and she is uncertain if it is likely to release it soon. She steps away from the altar, very carefully, and into the water once more--fortunately, nothing greets her movements but weighty silence.

"Then let us search. Zevran, I trust, can assist with traps--else I will dispatch anything more...sinister that comes of this ritual."

"Right. Let me make a polite request that if there is ever a magical means of preserving me after I've been killed and it involves my living like this? Don't." This was no way to live. It isn't even living as best he can tell. Simply...

Existing. It must be some manner of punishment. He cannot think of any other reason, though now he wonders if the thing is simply flesh that breaths or if the mind that was once in the skull lingers still and-

He shakes it off, focusing on the water, the ripples, any traps or tricks or line of wire.

Pressure plates would be his guess, those wouldn't have been set off by the water. Not yet. "Mind your step."

The Lost Temple of Dirthamen

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Just gonna do a quick tag, slightly out of order.

Me too

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