echoes and specters and ghosts of none the wiser

[extramural]

WHO: The Outsider and OPEN
WHAT: Dream wandering and more.
WHEN: Wintermarch
WHERE: in and around Skyhold & your dreams~*~
NOTES: Spoilers for Dishonored 2 possible. Open and closed prompts below, hit me up via PM or gadgetsandgears if you'd like one or start one of your own! Brackets or prose.

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CLOSED | THRANDUIL

[extramural]

He wakes slowly this time, the grip of sleep (and magic, he is certain) ebbing away like the tide. He breathes in and out, readjusting to the feeling -- physically, it is no different than it was when he went to bed the night before, but in his mind? In his mind he was in his own world, in the Void, and was again more than he is in Thedas. In dreams, in the Fade, he lived fifteen more years -- a trifle for an immortal, truly, but much happened in those fifteen years.

When he sits up at last, it is not in the black coat and pants he is accustomed to wearing. He is dressed in clothing Thranduil had made for him, dark in color but softer; it has the effect of making him look like the young man he once was, of making him look softer. There is a faint laugh into the morning sun, even as fingers toy with the ring of Thranduil's that he wears in place of one of his black rings. He feels- he isn't sure. How does he feel? He had his power, all of it, and now he is back in Thedas -- but some of it has lingered. He can feel it.

One hand lifts. He reaches out, not with his hand but with his power, and magic responds. Rapid-fire, the ability people have called Far Reach extends to latch onto Thranduil's blanket, to pull it toward the Outsider and leave the elf exposed -- and, hopefully, wake him up to the sound of the Outsider, laughing in delighted wonder and some measure of desperation born of long years and a dream that wasn't a dream.

[rowancrowned]

His bed is a nice bed. He has grown to like sleeping, even if the abrupt loss of consciousness concerned him at first—control is not a thing he hands over so easily. Thranduil has even come to enjoy his room—Bill the Pony, Duinenor, Duinenor’s table (altar) and the scraps of metal and wood atop it.

He does not wake sweetly, blinking his eyes open, stretching, feet curling off the edge of the bed and sweeping his hair out over the pillow. He—falls out of bed, a tumble of limbs and long hair, hall-pulled with the blanket and half throwing himself off the mattress to address whatever is going on. Bill whinnies.

Hands and knees on the thin carpet Samwise had acquired, he looks about the room—but the Outsider’s satisfied expression and laughter is enough to wipe the shock and battle-ready hardness from his face. He stands, brushes off his loose sleeping pants, and smoothly flips his hair over his shoulder.

“Good morning, mellon-nin,” and his expression is wry. He sits on the edge of the bed, gently pushes Bill’s face away when he comes to investigate. “What has you so very delighted?”

[extramural]

As always, Thranduil seems graceful even when he is being tossed about from his mattress. The Outsider is grateful for it; he imagines he might feel somewhat bad, should the elf be injured or truly frightened by actions of his own making. Instead, Thranduil takes it in stride, even calming their equine friend. It makes the Outsider laugh even louder, all the more delighted.

"I dreamed a dream," he announces, as though this is an incredibly important statement. It is, really, but- not for the reason two immortals who before did not dream might think. "I was in my own world. I was in the Void. I watched events unfold as I have done for years, and I was there for fifteen of those. This morning I awaken to find that no years have passed here, but I can feel it -- I can feel the magic that is a part of me. I can hear its song, just slightly different in tune."

They are not cut off from their worlds. Not entirely. Perhaps not forever.

OPEN | SKYHOLD

[extramural]

It is cold, compared to the climate of Karnaca. It is bright, compared to the darkness of the Void. For all the Outsider feels in his head and his heart that it has been fifteen years since he walked through Skyhold, it is only the very next day; it has not changed, and he finds himself running fingers over familiar stone as he walks. There are several places for him to seek out, though there is always the distance in between.

The library is where he spends most of his time, pouring over books to try and learn if his dream of home that felt like so much more has occurred before. He doubts it will be in any books, as there are no mentions of Rifters in them, but he tries. He continues his reading about the Fade and magic in Thedas either way, wanting to know more about how it works so that he can use his own abilities better. Despite the general distrust of mages throughout most of the world, the Outsider is nevertheless gathering quite a stack of books at the alcove he's planted himself in. Every once in a while, one is pulled off the shelf by an invisible hand and added to the pile.

Not particularly fond of crowds, the Outsider also tends to wander the high walls of the ramparts. Sometimes he looks to be staring off into the distance, still and unmoving; some of the more fearful guards skirt around him in their patrols, content not to check on the strange Rifter. Other times he is up on the edges, balancing in a seemingly precarious manner as he paces back and forth. Rarely, he is sitting flat on the stone and gently shaking out seed for the birds, smiling faintly. In all cases, he certainly doesn't seem too busy for an interruption.

Despite his general dislike of crowds, there are times the Outsider cannot avoid them. He sometimes must pass through the courtyard or the great hall. He does try to take his meals away from the masses, but there's always someone in the kitchens. Even when the walls seem to be closing in, the wilderness is roamed by hunters and scouts, not just black-eyed young men.

Re: OPEN | SKYHOLD

[judgemewhole]

No one can blame James for not meeting the Outsider before now. There was the Western Approach, and then there was everything that happened in the Anders and then they had to deal with the Orlesians ...

It went on, and on. So really, you cannot blame the Templar Representative to be crossing the ramparts, reading over a letter, to suddenly look up and to find ... whatever the Outsider there.

All things considered, it should be noted that he did not yelp in surprise. Instead, he dropped the letter, went for his sword and yelled, "Demon! You are not welcome on this plane! Begone to the Fade!"

Because, you know. Templar. And ... whatever the Outsider was, he was not human. Not by a long shot. Had to be a possessed and twisted demon -- right?

[extramural]

There is a moment where, the Outsider, in a moment that can either be called confusion or simply an attempt at comedy, looks behind him. There's no one there -- at least not anyone who can be confused for a demon, though there are some guards who look extremely startled -- and that has him looking back at James, head cocked to one side.

If he were that glib, this is where he would say 'who, me?'

Instead, he spreads his arms. They dangle loosely; he has been challenged but he is not afraid, holding himself with all the lazy confidence and grace of an apex predator. There is a glint of green from one hand, from the shard, but he imagines no one is going to care -- demons are also from the Fade, after all. There is a sword at his belt but he does not draw it. He could, he knows -- he has been given leave to protect himself. Crossing blades at the first insult is so boring, though.

"Should you know a way to open a rift back to whence I came, please do so and I will return."

One arm sweeps to his front as he bows, though not for long; there is, after all, still a sword being waved about. Still, a challenge for a challenge.

Library

[watchesandlistens]

It's not like Corvo goes out of his way to observe the Outsider, or to follow him around. That he notices anything is out of place is more a testament to the Outsider's usual behavior, rather than Corvo's observation skills. He doesn't even bother to approach the other man right away, peering over some books--when one of them is snatched right off the shelf and whisked away.

He didn't even know the Outsider could do that.

Finally, he turns to study the pile that the book he'd just been looking at had been spirited off to. Then, he studies the person that has apparently decided to start his own personal library, right there, in that alcove.

"You've been busy," Corvo states, undoubtedly dazzling the Outsider with his keen skills of observation. "Are you looking for something in particular, or are you just hoping to become the foremost expert here?"

[extramural]

It's a testament to just how absorbed he is in his reading that the Outsider doesn't realize Corvo is there until the man speaks. He doesn't drop his book, doesn't jump -- but he does stop at his place on the page, gaze slowly lifting until it reaches Corvo's face.

He is unchanged. Well, unchanged for Thedas, at least; there are some small differences between Corvo in Dunwall and the Corvo before him. But he is still fifteen years younger than the last time the Outsider saw him, and his place in the book is marked before the volume is set to the side.

"I dreamed," he says as he stands, not moving from his spot save to reach one hand out, to slide his thumb over one of Corvo's (young) cheeks. "I was in our world for fifteen years."

Ramparts

[conqueredhearts]

As social as he was, there were times when Iskandar just loved the solitude and to breathe in the fresh hair. He was taking advantage of that now as he smiled out at the world around him. Of course he did notice the man nearby feeding the birds. Perhaps he could have left him alone but instead he made his way over to him and gave him a wide smile. At least he kept his voice down to keep from scaring the birds away.

"It looks like you have quite a few friends here. Do you often come here to feed the birds?"

If so then he rather liked this man already. Whoever he might be.

[extramural]

Some of the more nervous birds scatter despite Iskander keeping relatively quiet. Still, they don't go far; the food is tempting and there are close enough perches just out of reach. It makes the Outsider chuckle slightly, tossing some more seed out closer to them to try and tempt some of the braver and bolder ones back into the little flock.

"When I am not elsewhere, yes. They make better company than many." They are not as interesting as many, perhaps, but... it's peaceful. It lets him rest for a while, in a manner of speaking.

"Birds have no concern for what you are, only if you are going to either eat them or provide them food to eat."

RAMPARTS

[universal_charm]

Kirk found the ramparts peaceful, a place closer to the sky than he was used to. He often liked to wander them at night to look at stars, but the day could be refreshing too, as if by being just a few more feet off the ground he might see something more hopeful in the sky than an endless sea of blue.

"Not planning on playing the part of Humpty Dumpty, are you?" Kirk inquired as he came across the Outsider during one of his walks, clearly not as disturbed by the man as the guards were (but then Kirk didn't have the most developed sense of self-preservation either).

[extramural]

Not many interrupt, at least not directly. Plenty murmur about him as they walk by, but Kirk is the first in some time to say something. It makes the Outsider pause in his step, if only for a moment, before he returns to walking across the stones. He can walk and talk at the same time, thanks very much.

"I have no idea, in truth, what 'Humpty Dumpty' is. But I will not fall." At least, he won't fall and actually injure himself. Being able to levitate is pretty useful, among the variety of his other abilities.

OPEN | DREAMS

[extramural]

He has dreamed a dream unlike any others. He has dreamed in general, in Thedas, for the first time in thousands of years. Now that he has had a dream that seemingly drew him back to his world, his Void, it is time to explore them further. He has read, in bits and pieces, about ancient mages that could walk through dreams. He is no ancient mage of Thedas, but he is old, and dream walking is not a strange power to him. Those that are familiar have their dreams targeted first, but the Fade is a confusing place, even for him -- perhaps especially for him, someone who knows something that is similar but that is also very, very different.

In any case, if you are dreaming in Skyhold, you might turn to find that you are not alone. The Outsider might be there, black mist swirling around him, and he might have his head cocked as he looks at you and, slowly, says "Hello."

[limier]

She’s late. Of course she is — difficult to be on time, with a staircase that can’t decide whether it wants to be up or down. Running would be dangerous enough, even without the sword she’s carrying. She could put an eye out.

So she’s not altogether upset to look down and find it’s actually a broom (thank the Maker), but the black-eyed boy still comes as something of a surprise.

“Hello,” Uncertainly. Wren grips the broom, not seeming to notice as it swirls away into nothingness. “You must be new.”

Too young to be anything else, and she can’t place his face. It seems odd they'd let a blind boy into training... though perhaps with both eyes out already, he won't have trouble with the stairs. She reaches for his shoulder.

"Didn’t they give you a uniform, yet?" This could be a boon. Even if they’re late, she can’t be blamed for helping to get him settled. "We should find you something. Before the Captain sees."

[extramural]

It is both something of a surprise (ridiculous, he's been in Thedas for some time now -- yet the dream was years as much as it was only hours, and he finds that he has to readjust somewhat) that the woman has adapted him into the dreamscape, her unconscious mind folding around him like a glove, and something that makes a bit of a pleased twitch appear at the corner of his mouth. He is something, someone, that makes many in Thedas nervous. Whether she is a Rifter or not doesn't necessarily make that any different, and so he nods, calmly accepting his new role in this evening play.

"I'm afraid I wasn't given much instruction," he says -- true enough, considering that he hasn't met anyone else (that he knows of) in Thedas who can do anything like this. "Mostly shoved in by myself, it seems."

Somewhat literally, if one considers his past. Otherwise, he was certainly shoved in by himself, but he pushed himself also.

[arlathvhen]

Beleth's dream is...chaotic, a mixture of sounds, feelings from multiple years. It appears to be a soiree taking place in the main hall of Skyhold, shadowy figures from across Beleth's memories dancing together. In a corner there's a band, but the music it plays doesn't match the sound it should produce--it's a wild song, hundreds of years old, and born of the forest. On the dais is two thrones, occupied by a Dalish man and woman, sharp eyes watching the proceedings.

In the middle is the dreamer herself, watching two figures arguing. One is a human, his features shifting freely to match multiple humans throughout Skyhold. The other is an elf, but tall, shining, and featureless--though clearly based on the elves of Middle Earth. "She can't be an elf, look at her. Short and clunky. No magic! She's practically human." The elf argues, and the human shakes his head. "Well, she can't be a human. Look at her ears, look at the tattoos."

After a few moments, one glances over at Beleth for the first time. "She could be a dwarf." The other turns as well, studying her. "She hasn't a beard. Girl, can you grow a beard?" And Beleth, startled to be addressed, stares at them for a few confused moments, before hazarding, "I can try...?" The two figures nod in unison, seeming satisfied with the answer. "We'll come see you in a month, and if you've grown a beard, you can be a dwarf."

Then the two figures step away, fading into the shadows, and Beleth is left with her hands on her hips, looking perplexed by the turn of events. That's when she finally seems to notice the Outsider, and turns to look at him. "...But I don't want to be a dwarf."

[eolasemah]

All of Sina's dreams are the same. She's on a beach, the surf is washing all about her feet, sometimes up to her knees, sometimes higher. The beach never ends, the sky is black, the water is green. There are always demons here and there, never getting too close.

She's standing in the water as usual, and then she feels the telltale twinge of another joining her. Blinking slowly, Sina turns her head to regard the intruder. She's never seen him before.
"Are you a demon," she asks wearily. She can usually tell them from dream people, but she's gotten weaker. Things have changed.

Re: OPEN | DREAMS

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Kirkwall is in flames.

Debris falls from the sky - no, from the height of the chantry, tallest building in all of Kirkwall, and people are running and screaming as parts of it fall on the populace and homes below. The entire top of the building, of course, is completely gone.

Until ... Until she appears, and suddenly the screaming turns into cheers of joy and relief. "She's here! She'll save us all! Marian Hawke!"

In the crowd, Bethany is cheering as loudly as any of them, beaming as her sister strides down the road, to deal with the Templar threat to all mage lives

-- which is when she sees the Outsider, and dimples at him. "No magical whale this time?"

[foxsays]

Dice rattle in a cup, swallowed by the crash of the waves against the hull of a ship; sitting at a low table atop a barrel is a man with tightly curled black hair and a rakish moustache silhouetted by the moon is a man with Araceli's smile. Several others sit at the table, all playing a game of liar's dice as Araceli looks on from where she reclines by the rigging, the wind tugging at her hair as it does with the sails. Across from her is a woman with the same eyes, the same jawline, but with the moon seemingly caught and spun into her, two younger sailors are telling her a story though she and the captain only have eyes for the other.

Araceli runs her fingers over her hand, over where her mother wears a ring of a pearl and silver. In her dream her hand is unmarked because unless her dreams are jagged edges of Fade green and lyrium blue she's as the sea made her so she's Araceli Bonaventura y Castell.

Someone lights a cigarillo, the smoke is too dark, spills out into the night and over into the night like ink. She doesn't even see them spark the match.

"Where is the sea taking you next?" Araceli asks her father as he pulls a neat pile of coin towards his cup.

"Where is it taking you, that's the better question. Always the journey. And don't be rude to that one there, your mother and I raised you better. Least I'm certain she did."

Turning, she peers around the rigging and smiles, rising to her feet since her mother's here (or close enough) and she did raise her better. "Buenas noches, what tide swept you here?"

[circleprodigy]

As often happens, Inessa's dreams place her in Kinloch Hold. To say that the present circumstances are chaotic would be an understatement. The hallways of the Circle tower, normally immaculate, are smeared with blood and gore. Screams and growls fill the air, as do blasts of magic. Sometimes there is silence, after sickening thuds and moans, but it never lasts. The blood mages and abominations won't stop until they've rooted out all resistance in the tower.

Inessa is but a young child here, lacking both armor and the large mabari that is always at her side. Here, she nothing more than an apprentice again, surrounding by dark magic that far eclipses her own. The library is ahead, and she's always felt safest there; but now the scent of parchment and ink is mixed with blood. She's afraid of what she'll find if she takes another step further. They'll come for her, and then....

The voice causes her to jump, but at least it snaps her out of that frozen state. She backs up against the wall, large eyes widening. "...Maker, not now. Not another demon."

[gatheringstorm]

For a moment, Korrin doesn't respond. She's too busy staring at the figures before her, on their knees and mouths open in a silent scream. Unlike the real remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, some of these figures are still identifiable to her through their horns. Members of the Valo-Kas, lost in an instant and forever beyond her capacity to save them.

The rest of the area is mostly accurate, from the crumbled remains of the temple to the spikes of red lyrium throughout. What remains in the physical world no longer is still present here; the rift in the center, currently dormant, and the Breach above, dominating the sky and filtering everything through a sickly shade of green. Silence reigns, at least for now.

Taking a deep breath, the Vashoth woman unclenches her jaw and looks over, her posture still tense though not due to her company. "Hey. Welcome to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, such as it is. If you don't want to linger, I'd understand. This...isn't a great spot for visiting."

[in_death_sacrifice]

It's a dark, bleak desert landscape that's unmistakably Orlesian, although it doesn't correspond exactly to anywhere in the world. It's more of a dreamscape, some half-remembered setting from the past.

Kain is on his knees, clearly appearing defeated. In front of him is a tall and powerful-looking mage with silver hair. The mage gestures, and one by one, four demonic creatures appear out of the air to surround Kain. With a second motion, the mage forces Kain to get up and start walking toward him... it's clear he's the one in control here, making Kain move against his will.

The black mist is... somehow very out of place, as is the voice that suddenly speaks up. "Who- who's there?!"

[redinside]

Among the irregular shapes of dreams yet unresolved, within no landscape in particular, only the jagged surfaces of the raw Fade, there stands a suit of armour with a man inside. His arms are bent, elbows by his sides, palms up, fingers loose, a state of benign benediction. Long shapes wind around his arms, his hands, gliding over the geometry of steel pauldrons, encircling his neck: snakes, all sleek, thick as sword handles. Their scales are the hot red of blood smeared on skin, just the same as the heavy, luminous crystal jutting like a horn from his chest. As they crawl over him, they hiss—no, not a hiss, a whisper. Voices like ghosts murmuring in endless harmony.

They are biting him. His face, his neck, through his gloves, fragile teeth piercing the fabric between buckles. Searching, biting, releasing, searching. He does not flinch when they strike. His skin is freckled with pinprick wounds that do not bleed.

Nothing indicates he notices the stranger's approach. He seems blind and deaf to all around him—or at least unwilling to recognize that he is anywhere, that there is anything nearby. And still, when the Outsider draws near: "Take it," he says, and extends a hand toward toward the stranger, one long body writhing between his fingers, between the spiked knobs of crystal on his knuckles. It stretches toward him, little tongue sipping the air. Bright-eyed. Hungry.

late-ish wintermarch

[bloodredcrow]

Natasha doesn't dream much, but when she does, they have range, and they often follow the same pattern. She hates the ones where she has no control most of all. They startle her awake in a cold sweat, leave her unsettled for hours. This one, though, is not new, and not so bad. She's in the dark - dark room, shadows that move and consume, and it's far too hot, the air sluggish through her lungs. If she panics, she will dream of suffocating on the heat. She doesn't.

It's easy to miss The Outsider, at first, just another shadow among many. When he speaks, though, she snaps her head around to face him, eyes sharp and suspicious. "Why are you here?" The question isn't really asked of him, but said to herself, because it's her dream and so it's her thoughts that have put him here.

[justice_is_blond]

It's the Fade. It's always the Fade when he dreams, sideways rocks, sitting upside down in a tower, watching massive demons move about in the distance. Normally the area around him aches of loneliness, a gap left from a spirit-turned-demon, and his only company is a small, winged spirit that's sitting at a distance. Normally. Now he feels the presence of someone else and turns, not caring that he's upside down. The outsider, his mind supplies. Possibly an illusion or demon, it adds.

"Hello," Anders says anyway. He knows, more or less, that it's a dream. It's the Fade, after all. "What brings you here? Other than dreaming, if you're really here. Wherever here is." At least there's no Darkspawn this time.