OPEN ↠ FALSE GODS, GREAT DEMONS (PART I)

[faderifting]

WHO: Time Travelers & Future Kirkwall Residents
WHAT: Time travel, captures, escapes, explosions.
WHEN: ALTERNATE FUTURE, Early Cloudreach 9:48
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES:.This is the first plot log for False Gods, Great Demons, specifically for the time travel team and adjacent plot efforts. An open post for general Darkest Timeline adventures will be posted separately! A plotting post specifically for the escape from Kirkwall can be found here.

It's been over a year since the village of Haven was burned, ransacked, and buried beneath snow and ice--a year for the snow to melt and leave behind blackened, rotting wood for a new year's snow to fall over. The stone walls and Chantry stand, but the rest of the village is a jagged scar, and the path up the mountain to the Temple of Sacred Ashes still shows signs of the battle against the Breach: toppled carts, abandoned crates, a broken bridge.

Given the debris, obstacles, and lingering demon-infested tears in the Veil, it takes the better part of a day for even a well-armed team of trained fighters to make the trek from Haven to the Temple. Despite that, there's been a steady stream of pilgrims to Andraste's final resting place--and now the site of the Herald's death. More still wait on the road and outside the entrance to the Temple ruins, guarded now by Inquisition soldiers until the recent deaths within the walls have been investigated.

Save the wind and quiet crunch of bones being gnawed on, the Temple itself is silent. The molten-ash corpses that were once outside the walls, contorted from their final moments of agony, have been removed and given rites--but the icy dust beneath the band's boots is still partly bone and burned flesh, and patches of red lyrium still resist efforts at removal.

The bone-crunching comes from down the main staircase and around a corner. Five corpses are slumped around a campfire, dressed for warmer weather, preserved by the cold somewhat but withered and too decayed to have died within the week, let alone overnight while no one else was looking--and with one arm currently being chewed on by a bear while two others amble nearby.

Stopping them from eating the evidence is a good idea, probably. And perhaps as the effort to chase them away from the carrion gets underway, in the midst of the chaos and roaring, someone will notice one of the bandits splayed out across the icy stone floor. She's as withered as the rest of them, save one outstretched arm that's still fleshy-plump and pink where it falls outside some invisible line.

But if anyone does notice, it's too late. There's a flare of light that shifts quickly from rift-green to a blinding white, a white-noise roar and a gust of windy force that propels everyone forward to--

Exactly where they were, except a few yards to the left, and in the last two seconds the few stubborn scraps of red lyrium on the Temple walls have crawled and expanded to form whole walls of crystal. For a moment it's silent again, save the wind. The one of the bears--the only one carried along with the group--lets out a bewildered, irritable roar. Beyond the walls there's a shout, then another, then too many for it to be only the handful of Inquisition soldiers posted outside the Temple.

Seconds later, they're surrounded.

Comments

STEP ONE: Go Directly To Jail

[faderifting]

No matter how good a fight they put up, no matter how many Red Templars and Venatori and enslaved giants they take out before they go down, they do go down. They're bound. The bear is chained. They're drugged if necessary, dragged back down the path to a reconstructed Haven that's crawling with soldiers, given no answers and only asked a few questions, and soon packed onto a ship and sent across the choppy waters of the Waking Sea in the dark belly of a ship built in the Tevinter style. Days later there's a brief glimpse of sunlight--and the strong smell of fish--as they're transferred onto docks and herded through a fortress courtyard.

The fortress is called the Gallows. Once it was a center of the slave trade, then the home of Kirkwall's Circle of Magi. Now it's a prison, heavily guarded, with red lyrium crawling up the walls. All ten prisoners--and the bear, still, which their captors periodically issue orders to, unconvinced that it isn't a shapeshifter in disguise--are escorted roughly down stairs and through tunnels and shoved into cells without being read a single right, because they have none.

But they do have company!

[ NOTE | This log is for conversations in the cell area. New top-levels will go up as we progress through the plot; please don't post your own! You can make new replies to this comment and start conversations between any group of the present characters, with the understanding that nothing is private--not from your cell neighbors, not from the guards outside the doors --so conversations might be threadjacked. Here is your seating chart. ]

hey party people

[limier]

"Do we still have the fucking bear?"

There are plenty of useful, practical things to ask. This probably isn't one of them.

It’s the first real thing she’s said in a few drugged days, and it’s in the barely restrained hiss of someone who is very, very angry and trying very, very hard not to yell. Pacing hurts, but pacing’s what she’s got — a narrow, ceaseless shuffle about the cell's perimeter.

Even if she has no idea what's going on, the cosmic irony of being penned into the Gallows isn’t exactly lost on her.

partying partying

[extramural]

From almost all the way down the hall comes the Outsider's voice, though it's altogether more floaty than usual. Magebane is a hell of a drug.

"Yes."

Anyone able to actually see inside his cell will find that he's sprawled out on his bunk, or whatever passes for it, limbs wide and eyes (now with whites!) staring at the ceiling. Every once in a while, his cell neighbors have probably heard him hum or even sing slightly, though none of the words are particularly pleasant.

"It snores."

a visitor.......

[arlathvhen]

Footsteps tread down the stairs, lighter than those of the armored guards. A woman in the flowing robes of the Venatori arrives at the bottom of the stairs, and begins walking past the cells. It's hard to make out any details about her, covered in dark robes, the hood pulled low over her head. On her heel is a Red Templar, following like a pet dog.

She seems intent on the back of the room, but brings herself to a hard stop after walking past a handful of the cells. Slowly, she looks up, turning to one cell in particular. Those nearby can see a reflective glow of purple eyes as she studies the occupant, before finally speaking out loud.

"...Is that a bear."

[byblow]

Alistair is here for everyone's pissy two-word terrible comebacks, apparently, because he doesn't move, doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge the bear in the room. He only says, loudly and with feeling, "Go away."

another visitor, party of one

[ichaer]

More footsteps echo down the stair until the heavy door to the cells is opened and a figure, covered in a tattered cloak but it does little to hide the glow of red lyrium that radiates off her at almost every single angle. She walks awkwardly, her left side clearly heavier than the right and the red lyrium that has grown into a sharp point over the years scraps the floor.

She doesn't give the new additions much of a second glance but the bear does get a raised brow because holy shit. Her destination is further down the line though. It is the same trip she has been making for a year now, or however long it has been with book and other stuff for her friend. It's only when she is sat down in front of Inessa's cell does she lower her hood, reaching her hand in and sighing.

"Nessa..." She manages, voice barely what it used to be.

[circleprodigy]

Sitting down as well, Inessa immediately reaches for Ciri's hand in turn. It isn't much, she knows, but with the bars in the way and their bodies in pain from the red lyrium, this is as much as can be managed. Touch-starved as she is, Inessa will gladly take it. It's the one comfort left.

Her voice isn't quite as rusty as usual, thanks to the shock of the new arrivals, though still distorted. Every day she swears it sounds less like it should. "You picked an interesting time, Ciri. Teren's returned to us...and the others who disappeared with her." And a bear, for some reason. "It seems the last five years did not exist for them."

15 years late w/starbucks

[qunari]

There is a deep, resonating snort from within the Bull's cell as he apparently begins to stir. Not dead after all. There's some garbled mumbling under his breath, something about silk and underpants, before he appears to fall under again.

Of course, it could just be to throw off the guards. With Bull? Who can really say for certain.

STEP TWO: Do Not Pass Go

[visus]

There hadn't been any ceremony to it. This man -- a mage, judging by the cut of his robes, and a Magister, judging by its elaborate quality -- had entered the dungeon, stood at the doorway, and pointed.

"That one," he said, to the Red Templar at his shoulder. His gaze tripped over the other prisoners. The shape of a qunari makes him pale. Then there's the bear. It's the bear he stares at for a solid several seconds, a swallow working its way down his throat, before he flips a hand at another jail cell, where Saoirse is located just to his left. "And that one. For questioning," he added, a little louder for the cheap seats, before turning with a flare of robe and disappearing back out the door. It's the smell, you know.

Teren and Saoirse are summarily dragged from their cells and put in a room.

No windows, and only one heavy door that, when the Magister opens it again, they can see is guarded on the outside, but he locks it within. The two women have their hands shackled and drawn up over there heads where the chain dangles from the ceiling. When Russo turns, he regards this set up with a hint of distaste, and then over at where a low table is laden with a whole manner of horrifying looking tools with sharp ends and seratted edges.

He stands in place, folding his arms.

"Are you Inquisition?"

[doneisdone]

It's been several decades since Teren was last interrogated, but the smell of the room brings her right back, the stone and metal and faint traces of blood. She doesn't protest, struggling only slightly when she's yanked from her cell, lingering for a split-second to meet Alistair's eyes.
I won't crack, her expression says. This ain't my first rodeo.

Once inside, she concedes easily to the manhandling, allowing herself to be secured and beginning to breathe deeply, preparing for an test of endurance in holding her silence.
However, she does briefly look over to Saoirse, a girl she hasn't met, but who looks... considerably younger, more fragile. If the girl looks back, Teren actually offers her a small smile, vague reassurance.
I'll take care of you.

When the first question comes, she doesn't answer, just looks boredly at Russo without showing any sign of stress whatsoever.

[sulena]

It has been a much shorter time for Saoirse. She remembers these walls, she remembers the torment and daily pain that mingled with sobbed screams for mercy. She remembers laying awake at night missing her home in Starkhaven, her family and the comfort she felt within the Circle walls back in the city she loved. When the Magister motions toward her, she holds her head high and does not falter in her steps.

Much like Teren, Saoirse takes a needed deep breath into her lungs before her gaze shifts onto the other woman that she shares the space with and smiles reassuring in turn. She is both young and fragile but she has survived these years. Andraste's grace gave her strength and it has not left here even in these dark times they have literally fallen in.

Turn back to the man, she looks at him curiously with a tilt of her head but does not acknowledge the tools nearby.

"Proudly." She says simply as if it was the easiest answer in the world.

STEP THREE: Steal $200 When The Banker Looks Away

[faderifting]

Magister Russo is true to his word. There are three full guard rotations--and with them three full sets of ears, stifling any open discussion of what transpired when Teren and Saoirse were dragged from the room--and then there are half so many footsteps as normal, outside the doors, as solitary guards settle outside the twin doors. One ahead, one behind. Only the one behind is a Templar.

And someone has a key. Someone has a sending crystal.

Beyond the guards, of course, there will be more guards. Templars, mages, the usual big men with swords--the Gallows is brimming with them. But Kirkwall is a city of secrets, tunnels, twists, and trap doors. If they find somewhere to tuck themselves for a few hours, to reach out for help and make some sort of plan, they may be able to make it out alive. Most of them, anyway. And yes, the ones who are only dead inside still count.

[ NOTE | This portion of the plot will not be GMed! Break out, find shelter, then wreak havoc and/or escape to the shore. Divide into smaller groups/threads as you see fit. If you'd like your character to take a quick, exciting detour to Nevarra between Kirkwall and Orzammar to assist in rescuing Dorian Pavus, CLICK HERE. ]

[doneisdone]

Everything's quiet for a while. Fewer guards, little fuss, most everyone is sleeping-- even, perhaps, the person manning the door, but Teren won't count on it.

She has spent the day since returning from the torture chamber working on a questionable arts and crafts project, one which has required tearing a scrap off her prison shift, biting a small wound in her finger, and dipping a hairpin in the blood to write a little message.
"Sirsha" is written on one side (she doesn't know how to spell Saoirse's damn name, thanks for nothing Gaelic) and "now" on the other. It took an unreasonably long time just to get the letters clear and dark enough, but it seems that if it doesn't happen now, it never will.

Putting the small scrap on her tongue to dampen it (Maker, the things she does for freedom), she becomes convinced it is sufficiently heavy, and wads it into a little ball. Positioning herself at the edge of her cell, she gently flicks it through, aiming for the cell containing Samouel.

Against all probability, it lands squarely in front of him. If he should look Teren's way, she widens her eyes a bit in the universal look of 'don't fuck this up'.

[el_tybs]

Lucky for Teren he isn't sleeping - the bear made too much noise - when the wad of cloth lands in front of him. For a moment he stares at before reaching down to pick it up, immediately making a face when he notices it is damp and leaving it on the ground. Instead he leans forward and looks out through the bars to figure where the cloth had come from.

He almost misses the look on Teren's face, but she's pointedly looking at him so instead he locks eyes with her. Frowning he looks down at the cloth again before actually picking it up. Slowly he unwraps it and sees that there is writing. Sirsha? Least he thinks that's what it is since the letters are smudging just a bit from the moisture. Turning it over he sees 'now'. For a time he just looks at it before crumbling it back up. It's a message of some sort and the only person he can figure who has a 'S' in their name is Saoirse, who had been taken out of the cells with Teren earlier on.

Getting to his feet Sam looks around to check if no guards were around before sticking his arm out and giving an underhanded throw to the other side of the room. The throw is good enough to get the paper into Saoirse's cell, but whether she'll notice it, he's not sure.

SOMETIME LATER, ELSEWHERE

[byblow]

However they make it from Point A to Point B, they do, eventually, make it to Point B: an out-of-the-way storage room in the lower levels of the Gallows, listening to the shouts and pounding footsteps of guards searching for the escaped prisoners until eventually they fade and disperse to look elsewhere. That's good. What's bad is that Point B is still the Gallows, a fortress in the middle of Kirkwall's harbor, and Point C is... somewhere not here. Probably somewhere that requires getting across the water to the city without being seen, sunk, or seized.

"Maker," Alistair says, once it feels safe to say anything, standing up from behind a stack of barrels. He looks around and winds up staring at the bear, who is still here. Put to sleep by a mage, maybe, and not causing any trouble, but Maker. "Who do we have in Kirkwall?" he asks the room in general, then zeroes in on Inessa's white hair. "Inessa—Ciri?"

[circleprodigy]

Inessa is busy inspecting the staff she had managed to snag from a downed guard. It felt good to hold one in her hands again; at least she would go down armed, and that's a comfort. Her red eyes slip over to Alistair and she nods with a small smile, despair having faded and replaced with a resigned calm.

"Ciri will be here. I have no doubt she's on her way already." And with an effective distraction to secure the escape of the rest. That part can go unsaid, though, not seeing a reason for the others to be aware of such until the time comes. It's better if they don't.

VARIOUS POINTS IN THE ESCAPE, waves hands | OTA

[limier]

Somehow they’ve become separated from the main group. The lower Gallows are a warren at the best of times, and they're all literally in the Worst, so.

A. WHERE’S WALDO

"Here," She stoops up from the Venatori whose pockets she’s been rooting through to hand over a long, wicked-looking knife. Fucking Tevinter blood magic, and all that, but you can never have too many knives. "Think there’s any point to retracing our steps?"

B. FRIENDLY FIRE

There are benefits to blending in. She doesn’t pass long to her brothers, but the armor’s easy invisibility among the rest: mages and mundane soldiers and functionaries, all used to looking past their identical, grotesque ranks.

There are drawbacks, too. Chiefly, that it’s hard to tell who’s on your own damn side. Right now, she just looks like any other problem — one currently standing in your way.

C. CHITCHAT

"Do you have a moment?"

They all do. They’ve made it out, or at least to a rest point. Plans are in motion, preparations have been made. There’s nothing to do but to wait, and talk.

D. WILDCARD

[ have fun, hmu if you want a specific starter ❤ ]

C.

[not_the_question]

The Doctor raised an eyebrow when Wren spoke to him. He really hadn't expected it. He looked around and seeing no one overly close to where he was sat, he gestured to the bit of log next to him.

"Won't you step into my office?"

Very Hand, Much Waving

[not_the_question]

If anyone had overheard any part of the conversation the Doctor had with Wren, they would either follow him or leave him alone. It's so hard to tell with with these creatures. (Creatures being everyone who isn't a Time Lord.)

He has no TARDIS to escape. There's nowhere to hide properly. And there are far too many humans (well, elves too, but they're close enough to human), sick, wounded, and otherwise in this place. And now that any immediate threat is over, he has time to think. Time to grieve. Dangerous things for the Doctor.

He moves far enough away from the group to give himself some semblance of privacy, but it's close enough that should something happen, he will be able to spring into action right away. He sits down with his back against a tree. His knees are bent and his arms are wrapped around his legs. Again, a little more sense of privacy. But his attention is over the little group. He's a silent sentential. Keeping watch over people who don't seem to want his help anyway.

He should have gone with Hermione and the others on the rescue mission...

He doesn't weep. Not really. Tears might glisten in his eyes, but this isn't the right place for the kind of emotion that he really needs to release. He misses his TARDIS, and River, and lord, even Nardole. He's really in a sorry state to admit that - even to himself. And he could really use some brandy. Or scotch, given his accent this body.

So, he remains there, huddled around himself, trying to control the emotion so that he makes not much noise. He closes his eyes and tries to escape to his Storm Room, which is, not so ironically the TARDIS. River isn't there, though he can smell her perfume permeate the place. In his imagination or not, he hopes it's not hallucinogenic or worse - he figures that even in his mind, she just might find a way to do that. And there's that twist of pain even as he tried to make light of memories of her.

To the outside world, the only see him huddled, seemingly resting against a tree, but some might have heard the tell-tale hiccup of strained emotion. Because sometimes it's when you're trying to be quiet that you make the most noise.

EVEN LATER, DARKTOWN

[ichaer]

( ooc: content warning for suicidal and possible other such dark talk. )

Ciri has never liked visiting Darktown. She never liked the close press of people so sick and tired and barely living in this terrible city. Unfortunately the shadows made for good hiding places even for monsters like her, a step away from being another living statue or some reddened monster tearing away at everything to ignore the pain or the songs in her head.

The false calling had been a spa day compared to the marching band currently drumming in her brain. It makes concentrating on her work now, arranging and breaking open barrels of foul smelling liquid, harder than it should be. The coughing just slows her more as spits blood, bright red and sparkling with shards of red crystal, in the puddles at her feet.

Yes, she likes this state of Darktown more. Empty, barren and quiet expect for the odd murmur of those that had escaped still lingering around in the area. They had done a good job of getting people out of here, away from this scene and away from the year long plotting that had been Inessa and her own final fuck off to this shit world. It was the only thing that they had left to give now when the corruption was already so deeply part of them now.

Again, she spits and shakes her head. Clearing up her thoughts before turning, kicking over another barrel and sighing.

"Dammit," she hisses tiredly. It will be over soon, she tells herself. She'll be done with this farce of a life soon.

A Most Stunning Redemption Arch

[arlathvhen]

[[ AKA Beleth and Cade pull a double cross on the Venatori and probably regret every life choice they've made. ]]]

Last Chance

[arlathvhen]

News of a breakout had reached Beleth and Cade's little corner of Kirkwall, and Beleth wondered if it had to do with those...time travelers, if that's what they really were. This'll mean that security will get tightened up for a while, which is kind of a bummer, but honestly? She's glad they made it out. Good for them. It's inevitable they'll all get caught and executed, but at least they made a statement.

It's an interesting blip on her radar, but a blip is ultimately all it is. Life goes on, her job is still there, uncaring of what happens on the other side of Kirkwall to a bunch of prisoners. So she continues on, pouring through texts older than most countries, on the trail for this sanctuary of Fen'Harel that had been mentioned--always vague, always mysterious. But there have to be more clues.

She's entirely occupied with this search, when a bird unexpectedly drops out of nowhere, and onto her table.

There's a moment of surprise--jumping back, gasping, etc. But she realizes she knows this bird, and holds a hand out to Cade, stopping him from...whatever he might do. Birds aren't usually what he'd consider a threat, but this bird--well. It's hard to tell, sometimes.

"...Alan? Is that you?"

A Daring Rescue

[arlathvhen]

When Beleth steps into the room containing the isolated Aleron Darton, she looks every part the cold, careless Venatori. Back straight, chin up, expression like she was personally suffering, being forced to come down here. Her pace is brisk, bodyguard following right after her as she marches to the guards.

"I'm here for the Seeker."

The guards ask her some basic questions, which she answers smoothly. After a moment of consultation with a sheft of papers, they nod, and one moves to Aleron's cell, unlocking the door. Beleth stands off to the side, and then stares icily at the guards and Cade, eyes narrowed.

"Well? Get him out, and hand him to my guard. I haven't got all day."

She's careful not to spend any time actually looking at Aleron. She's not sure she could keep her snide facade up if she did.

The Judgement (TTT & Co)

[arlathvhen]

The closer they get to the hideout for the ex-prisoners, the more nervous Beleth gets. As they trail after Wren, her grip on Cade's arm gets tighter, her other hand balling into a fist so they can't see it shake. She's been avoiding a confrontation like this for years, forced to face what she's done, forced to face the people she did it to, without cell bars between them, and without a half dozen guards within shouting distance.

The fact that Cade is here is the only comfort she has. The only person that she knows she can trust. Knowing that he must be just as worried as she is, Beleth gives him a glance, offering a thin smile. Everything will be okay, as long as she has him.

When they finally arrive, Beleth lingers outside as Wren and Aleron go through the door. Let the others see them first. Hopefully it will stop them from attacking her and Cade as soon as they step inside. Once they're alone, she whispers, voice shaking. "I'm scared." It's hard to admit, but there it is. "Stay by the door, if you can. Be prepared to leave quickly if things go sour."

With those instructions, Beleth closes her eyes, letting out a long breath. Then she opens her eyes, and transforms. Hands stilled, back straight, she looks every bit as superior as she had when she fetched Aleron. There's no trace of fear in her as she marches forward, and through the door.

Old Friends and New Plans (Merrick)

[arlathvhen]

Back to her workroom. It's just as messy, in a comfortable, controlled way. And there's Beleth, shuffling papers around just as before. But there's an urgency to her movements, the way she glances at papers and skims them, before tossing them into one pile or another. She hurries around, grabbing books, flipping through them, and throwing them back down with a frustrated grunt.

She has so much she needs. Three years of work, packed up and ready to be carried across southern Thedas. Surely Cade can carry some of it, but she's not going to load him down like a pack mule.

For a moment, she eyes the map on the wall.

"I'm never going to get that to fit." Being a rebel was honestly the most inconvenient thing she had ever experienced.