faderift | Player Plot: The Brecilian Ruins

The Brecilian Forest smells of rain and pine, and a mist has settled heavily upon it. The dawn will break soon, the sun melting the mist, but right now it is icy and blue in the waxing light. Pel's hood is drawn up to protect her ears. The chill is turning her breath to frost, but she doesn't seem troubled.

The door to the ruin is ajar. She toes it open wider with a booted foot and steps inside.

The grand structure arches overhead, some pieces of the ceiling fallen, as is typical of local Tevinter ruins. Leaves have fallen through the ceiling to the floor, an abundant array of bright color against grey stone. There's an eerie silence, the sort of natural reverence one might hear in a tomb, not a living thing making a sound inside. Here, the women can hear their breaths as well as see them, everything amplified by the resounding silence.

Edited 2016-11-03 17:40 (UTC)

It's on the second level that the first sounds from other living things can be heard--tiny, shrill whimpers from one of the other rooms. The wooden door has long since rotted off its hinges. Inside, there is a dim light from cracks in the ceiling. As this level is shielded from the autumn winds and insulated by being underground, it is marginally less cold than the upper level.

One of the whimpers turns into a yelp--a startled sound that does not indicate attack so much as play. The whimpers cease as the room is approached.

Edited 2016-11-03 19:14 (UTC)

On the top floor, Merrill is briefly alone, the other two having promised to catch up. Wading through colorful leaves, she can explore the entirety of the floor as noisily as she pleases. But the crunching and rustling does not drown out the high register of a young voice crying, sobs skipping off the stone like a pebble over water. It is high morning now, though overcast, and a chill wind, carrying the spicy scent of autumn, echoes the mournful sounds of the child across the cracks and windows in the ruin.

The majority of the artifacts they find are when they are together. By now, the sun has long since melted the fog. There are clouds overhead, and the wind turns the remaining leaves on the trees so their silver undersides show as they quiver--a sure sign of impending rain.

One room has been nicely fruitful for them, in the Lower Ruins where they should mostly be sheltered from the coming rain. There are battered tomes and crumbling scrolls, as well as a broken stone altar.

Pel is squatting on the floor, sorting out a pile of things with a delicate hand, when she picks up the oddest thing she has seen yet--a phylactery, ancient but intact, with bright red blood inside. She holds it to eye-level and opens her mouth to summon Merrill, but stops. Her jaw slowly drops and her gaze goes distant and vague.

Edited 2016-11-03 19:36 (UTC)

Ruby stops short, head canted to the side, and she holds out a hand to indicate for the others to stop. "Hang on."

A deep inhale eyes shut. There is a new sharpness, a focus in her that's been absent thus far on their quest. Her expression is also, it should be noted, really confused. "It's the wrong time of year," she says to Pel and Merrill, or maybe just to herself, as she starts to move towards the whimpers. There are other sounds that she can hear which others cannot, the sound of movement.

In her wake, white flowers crawl across the damaged floor. Nature invaded here long ago, and her ring is Dalish and thriving.

Ruby's cloak is red. Always red. She'd no great desire to leave Skyhold, truthfully, not now and not for a long while. This trip was important, though. A chance to learn of werewolves, to spend time with Merrill and be supportive in another adventure when Merrill had done so much to help Ruby and all the rest of them. The smell of the place is intense, and Ruby inhales deeply to try and get a sense of it. It just feels so old, though, and it's amazing.

She holds the door open after Pel goes through, propping it open for Merrill. "Do we speak, or are we going for the reverent silence thing?"

Whispered, and quiet enough that she hopes it isn't disrespectful.

This is for all three of them, as far as Merrill is concerned. She also thinks it's good for them all to go out like this -- there is some concern about Pel, due to being pregnant, but Ruby should be reminded that she's no danger to them without being forced to be one. As a result, Merrill has been more affectionate than usual for the both of them (hope you enjoyed your hands being held, ladies).

It also makes her a little more giggly than usual, though it's calming down in the ruins. It doesn't stop her from giggling at Ruby's question, Merrill shaking her head. "No, I think we can speak. Maybe quietly, just in case something is in here?"

While she stops in place, Merrill doesn't really stop moving; she rocks up on her toes, as if she'll somehow be able to see something around Ruby. She knew there was something in here -- puppies, from the sound of it.

Wolf puppies? Werewolf puppies? She doesn't know, but she knows two things: one, cute, and two, possibly protective pack. Her staff is still on her back for the moment, but there's always magic at the ready; she's not horribly concerned just yet.

Pel offers a rare grin, especially after Merrill giggles. She is a quiet sort, but it's not the ruin so much as the autumn that has her hesitant to break the silence. Skyhold is magnificent, but she has missed the quiet woods, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the bending branches and smell of spicy mould as the decay fertilizes the earth for spring. She breathes deep, hoping the goodness of it can travel from her breath to her child.

"We can speak," she says finally. "We can even shout if we need to, and we might. Giant spiders and all. I just...love it, is all."

She has the best job in the world.

Pel comes up behind, with a spell to mind if they need a physical barrier to protect them from a mother wolf. Ruby is right, it is certainly the wrong time of year. But a mother wolf doesn't appear, and Pel is left blinking and stunned by what is to be found in the room.

"Giant spiders. My favourite."

Spoilers: they are not her favourite. Still, Ruby smiles brightly, albeit a slightly strained kind of brightness. She squeezes Merrill's hand gently, all the same. This is fine, she is fine, everything ever will be fine. They've got this.

"It's very beautiful," Ruby adds, looking about the place. It's so rich in everything, smells and all the rest. It's almost hard to really grasp just how beautiful it is, how... wild and isolated it is, at the same time. "I've never seen anything like it."

Tangled roots, shafts of light, broken stone in some places and everything complete and perfect in others.

Inhaling deeply, Ruby explains a little more. "I can't smell their mother. Or... any other wolves for that matter." Her steps quicken, and Ruby is moving down the hallway and grimacing as she ducks lower.

It doesn't take long to reach them; two little pups, one with dark fur and eyes that are sharp and yellow, another fur that is white and many hues of grey, and eyes are brilliantly blue. Two very tiny balls of fur, and Ruby crouches down before them with her hand outstretched, letting the two little ones sniff. They an smell the wolf on her, and the black pup almost trips over himself in his rush for attention.

"I think they've been abandoned or gotten lost. There's no food, no trace of other wolves here."

Merrill makes a face, agreeing; giant spiders are awful, text it. Sending crystal it. Whatever.

"I almost- is it weird to say I almost like it better this way? With the light coming in, the plants, the life. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that those in Arlathan maybe didn't live so readily with the wild as the Dalish do."

The Dalish did not do it by choice, but as someone who has now lived in an alienage, Merrill knows which one she prefers.

"What?"

Merrill's question is almost sharp, for its surprise -- and its concern. The poor pups! She follows quickly, abandoning the thought of needing to defend themselves in favor of needing to Save The Puppies.

"Oh- oh, poor little ones. They must be cold and hungry- are they eating meat? Do we have anything we can put some water in for them?"

As much as she wants to scoop the little ones up in her arms, she waits; she, unlike Ruby, smells entirely like Elf. Well, and some dog and horse and griffon, but not wolf.

It is tempting right up until she hears the cry to take her time, to lose herself in the ruins, the merging of nature and structures raised by elvenkind. All of that is forgotten, however, as soon as Merrill hears the crying. She freezes for a moment and then she moves, trying to find the source, trying to follow the cry to wherever it is loudest.

"Hello? Da'len?"

It is luck that has Merrill turning to look at Pel as she's about to call her over, as her face goes slack and her expression distant. There's a startled cry of her own, then, and she rushes over. She's not sure what is causing it, exactly, but her guess is the phylactery, the blood inside. She would smash it, if not for the fact that she's not certain if that will help. Instead, her fingers close around those belonging to her friend, working to try and pry them off the vial.

The sobbing stops suddenly. The only moaning comes from the wind.

Mamae? calls the young voice; tentative, uncertain, desperate. As if he thinks this call might come from a familiar person.

Pel appears to snap back to herself and raises her free hand in a gesture to halt Merrill.

"I'm fine," she says, shaking off her shock. "It's not...it isn't malevolent. Please, I don't think it's even the sort of--wait."

The babble ends, and she looks focused for a moment.

It doesn't come in words. It comes in flashes, images, emotions, exactly the way a Veilfire rune feels. But instead of communicating a message left by an author that has long since moved on, it is connected to a particular spirit. There is great pain, loss, and unbearable boredom. Desperation for peace, a willingness to grant a boon in return, but none of the ambition that marks a dangerous or harmful spirit.

Slowly, she releases the vial into Merrill's hand.

"Do you feel that? Or...hear it? It's not a harmful spirit. But it is in great pain."

Oh. Oh, no, the poor thing -- Merrill almost bites down on her own fist to keep from crying out in hurt. No, she's not this one's mother -- but she is something, maybe something that can help.

"Nae, da'len; ir lethallan." She bites her lip for a moment, trying to think. So many of their own words have been lost and she falls back into Trade. "Are you lost? Let me help you. I won't hurt you, I swear it."

She stops. She's not, at first, entirely sure of what Pel is even referring to -- a malevolent bottle?

But then it makes sense. She can feel it, the ache familiar enough that it makes her own hurts ache in sympathy. She knows loss. She knows, and Merrill nods as she looks back up to Pel.

"Yes. I- we should help it, shouldn't we? I mean, we can't just leave it here."

There's a long, long pause. There is no response, but there is also no crying. If Merrill looks around, she will see half of a small face with wide eyes peering from over a door frame. The other half of the face appears when he notices she sees him.

Lethallan? he asks. Ir...ir elvhen? Eman emmar dhru?

The spirit in the phylactery reaches out to Merrill now, crippled with pain, but able to remember some of what it was. It lived in the time of Arlathan, it served a great house as an expert in the dirth'ena enasalin. It remembers training, remembers fighting, technique and form and magic, and will trade the memories of it to this bleak world that long since forgot it in exchange for oblivion.

Pel peers into Merrill's face. "Do you...feel it? Do you know what we can do?" Merrill, after all, has the real experience with spirits.

As soon as she sees the small face Merrill crouches, resting her staff on the ground next to her. She doesn't want to appear to be a threat, but she does open her arms.

"Ir elvhen," she confirms. There's a gesture up toward her ears. Still, she can't quite make it all out and she also can't quite figure out the words to tell him. "Ir abelas. Ma Elvish..."

Another gesture, now -- one hand to her mouth and then quickly away, fingers splayed out, as if scattering her words to the wind.

The boy hesitates, as if he does not understand. What he does understand is those open arms. That is a universal language. He peels himself from the doorway and approaches her at a slow pace. When he reaches her, he wraps his arms around her neck.

Ma halani, lethallan, he says mournfully.

Edited 2017-01-07 22:10 (UTC)

"It was an elf," Merrill murmurs, almost dazed. That is not what spirits are meant to be, is it? Yet here this one is. It was an elf, or believes it was one, and is that not close enough? "From Arlathan. An expert in dirth'ena enasalin, which so many have thought was lost for so long -- it wants to pass its knowledge on so that it can finally rest, I think. So- someone has to learn what it wants to teach us."

The poor soul inside likely can't feel it, but Merrill lightly strokes the vial just in case it can. "Hold on, I'm going to see-" and she focuses, both with her mind and her magic and her voice, in case it can sense one but not another. "How would you give those memories?"

Pel looks faintly worried, for obvious reasons. As much pain as there was in the spirit, it could still prove treacherous.

To show what it means, the spirit channels a flash of imagery into Merril's mind--no, more than imagery. Memory. Smell of woodsmoke, touch of steel, burn of muscles as they hold a form with a sword, channeling magic inward. But the self of the spirit remains in the phylactery.

Oh, the poor thing. Merrill wraps her arms back around the child, gently pressing a kiss to his hair.

"Garas quenathra?"

It's asked gently, a way to figure out how to help rather than to scold.

Well. That's something. Merrill almost coughs at the sudden smell of smoke, even though it's only in her mind.

"It can show us its memories," she says, once the shock (and awe, if she's being honest) has worn off. "I- would you like to try?"

Mara san Mamae, the boy answers tearfully. Ma halani? Ir souveri, lethallan.

Pel's eyes widen. She's having to wrack her mind to come up with dirth'ena enasalin at all, for a moment, but if it is lost, it does not matter what it is. She trusts Merrill, and Merrill is offering it. She holds out her hand to receive the phylactery.

"What knowledge is it which leads to victory?" she asks quietly. "What does it want to show us?"

She soothes him with another kiss and nods. Of course she will help -- how could she ever do anything but? With the strength of someone used to both hauling around other elven children and a wriggly dog, Merrill picks him up. Her staff is grabbed also, returned to her back in a moment of careful juggling.

There may be some gaps in language -- enough that Merrill is not so certain that this boy is truly a child, but not enough to prevent her from trying to help -- but there are tunes that she knows. They cannot have been changed so much, can they? And so she hums softly, an old song about a hunter as she begins to walk, carrying him through the ruins to find his mother.

There is a breath. This is important, if she's correct. Learning it, preserving its way is important -- and helping this spirit is important, also.

"You have seen what humans call the path of the Arcane Warrior, correct? Where they use magic and physical combat together? I think- I think the People developed it, first. It feels something like that."

Mamaaaaaae, the boy calls out, calmer now that Merrill is here. He genuinely seems reassured that his mother will soon be found. He is still a ghost, and weighs almost nothing in Merrill's arms.

Soon Merrill will come to a room with no door, only rusty hinges on the stone frame. Pel stands just inside, blocking entry, and she does not move when she hears footsteps behind her.

Ar tu na'din! comes a female voice from the other side. Ir emah'la shal!

"Like Knight-Enchanters?" Pel hesitates, but her mind races on. "If it knows a lost discipline, could it teach us more about ancient elves? Maybe we can...Merrill. What if we took it with us?"

"Er," says Merrill. She's not so sure that whatever that woman said is polite, but she can't exactly cover the boys ears when she's holding him, so.

"Pel? I don't suppose that woman is looking for her son, is she?"

That would rather neatly solve things. Hopefully.

As long as the boy explains that Merrill didn't kidnap him.

"Yes- and maybe? I don't know how much it knows, or how long it can last... It's been here so long."

She looks back down at the vial and gently strokes it, again. Poor dead elf. :c

"I mean- I suppose I wouldn't be very good at it, so unless you wanted to learn it, we would have to."

"I...do want to learn." Pel is practically salivating, thinking about gaining knowledge directly from an ancient elf. "More than anything. But...what if we still took it back? What if we could question it and learn about our people from it?"

It sounds incredibly cruel, but maybe they could make the spirit comfortable. Maybe they could...she doesn't know what.

Pel does not move. As Merrill gains a better angle, she will see a dagger hovering midair, aimed for Pel's throat, with no hand guiding it. Inside is indeed a ghostly woman, and she does not look friendly. She glances toward the boy in Merrill's arms, but does not appear to recognize him.

"Ir len?" Pel asks her breathlessly.

The woman sneers. Banal'len, she spits back.

Mamae! cries the boy, reaching a hand for the woman and squirming out of Merrill's arms. Mamae! Ir ma dirtha?

Edited 2017-03-03 14:47 (UTC)

"We have to ask it," Merrill says after a moment, firmly. "It's up to it."

Again, she focuses on the vial, directs her thoughts to it.

The culture of the People is almost lost. My friend wants to know if you could share with us anything you know, anything you remember. She will learn what you have to teach her, and we will share it with others so that your gift to us is remembered.

She wants to ask you questions, bring you back with us to where we are living, but I don't think that's necessary. It's up to you, hahren.

I know only what they drilled into me, is the jist of what the spirit sends back. I know the way of the knowledge that leads to victory. I have forgotten the names of my family, the names of places or the shapes of words. Everything but what I was taught never to forget.

Oh no. The boy escapes but Merrill can't help but move after him (the dagger isn't pointed at her throat, but she hopes, prays that it doesn't dig in just because Merrill is trying to protect a long-dead child), startled.

"Ir abelas-" breathless, for Pel, for taking so long and for her sudden movement.

"Ir abelas- dareth, da'len!"

It's meant for the woman first, of course, but if she were to strike out at this child- well. Merrill isn't sure she'd be able to move fast enough. It's a horrid thing, to have to tell a child to be safe around his own mother, a woman who doesn't recognize him.

Do you know who drilled it into you? Merrill asks, right before looking back at Pel and shaking her head.

"Everything but the Way has been lost, forgotten. I'm seeing if I can can get a little more, but... there's no reason for it to lie when it could gain from tempting us with knowledge."

Pel looks momentarily disappointed, but there is no point to remaining so. The spirit offers everything it can, asking for nothing more than it already has. The decision is sealed, then. She holds out her hand.

"I will learn," she says quietly. "Everything it can teach me. And I will release it."

Pel understands the conversation roughly as well as Merrill, maybe a little less.

"Is there something that can convince her?" she asks hoarsely.

The boy halts when his mother does not reach for him or recognize him. His hands open and he looks into them. He says something entirely unintelligible, then looks to Merrill with keen eyes. She is to find something, and she will know what it is when she finds it, perhaps? He is still a child, if a dead one, and with the language barrier cannot communicate well.

Merrill smiles at her, soft, grateful. Pel's resolve is passed on to the spirit, and then she hands over the vial.

"Good luck, lethallan," she murmurs, just before it's out of her touch.

"We'll figure something out," Merrill reassures Pel immediately, then reaches out for the boy again. "Just- um, don't- move, I suppose... oh, dear."

This is really not a situation that she wants to leave Pel in, but it seems like she'll have to. She can't kill the mother of a child right in front of him, even if they're both already ghosts and the mother doesn't even recognize her child.

What a complicated situation.

"We'll just- look, then."

Player Plot: The Brecilian Ruins

Arrival

Wolves

Ghosts

Artifacts

HIDEOUSLY LATE i'm so sorry

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EVEN LATER

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I beat you all at lateness

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gets increasingly more competitive about it

sorry about the delay, my wrist decided i wasn't allowed to use it for 3 weeks :'|

I WIN

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bites u for not reminding me

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I didn't want to pressure you!

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bites you for... being considerate!!!

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<3

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<3!

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i suck i suck i suck i suck i suck i suck

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no :|

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