faderift | OPEN ↠ FALSE GODS, GREAT DEMONS (PART I)

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OPEN ↠ FALSE GODS, GREAT DEMONS (PART I)

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.

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While everyone else is working through whether or not they're hallucinating and whether or not the bear is real, which are very important questions, Alistair is busy going very still. He hasn't been hallucinating. He hasn't been hearing things. Other than a black eye and bruised ribs, he's in fine health. But that was definitely Teren Von Skraedder's voice, just then. Scolding him.

No one else acknowledges how ridiculous that is, or the mention of Skyhold. Maybe he is going mad. Maybe someone's getting subtle and sophisticated with magical mind manipulation. But just in case, he stands and moves to the front bars on his cell, glaring down the dim corridor toward the source of the voice. He can't see clearly at this distance, at this angle, in this lighting. But whether or not she's really there wouldn't change his answer, anyway.

"Shut up."

"I really am the Outsider," says the Outsider, fingertips drawing swirls on the floor of his cell. He's still looking up at the ceiling as he says it, but after a moment cranes his neck back to look out of his cell.

His eyes, noticeably, are no longer entirely black. There are whites to them again, and the dark color of his iris is now a soft brown. He actually looks like the fifteen-year-old boy he once was.

"Something is very strange, beyond the bear."

But then someone is being rather cross, and the Outsider rolls over on his cot to put his feet on the ground and actually look at everyone else.

"Well, that won't help anyone figure anything out."

"Because dead people are supposed to stay dead," Ellana states dryly, wandering over to the bars at the side of her cell to get a closer look at Iron Bull. "It makes me wonder if you aren't some magical thing the Vints planted here to get information out of us."

Because they know already that the torture hasn't worked. Maybe the Vints are expanding their horizons and dabbling in making copies of people. Who knows?

Inessa frowns a bit, wondering if Ellana's musing have any truth to them. Nothing good ever happens in the Gallows, why would they now? It's enough to make her head ache anew, though she doesn't sink back away from the bars. This is the most interaction she's had with anyone who isn't Ciri in a long time.

"...yes, it's me." Her voice quiet, defeated. This isn't a happy reunion, even with bars. "You disappeared, all of you. Of course you had to be dead." Either taken by the Venatori or the Red Templars, to a gruesome fate of one kind or another.

She stares bleakly at Teren in the opposite cell, not daring to hope that they truly are alive and well after all this time.

Edited 2017-02-02 22:13 (UTC)

"No. He's right. Choose your words carefully."

Not that it's remotely likely to be the origin of that shut up, and nevermind that she's a hypocrite about this whole bear business. Wren stops heavily in place, braces herself against the bars to peer in at Inessa through the gloom. She looks like hell — and one of the voices down the hall sounds as bad. An advanced state of corruption, but how?

They need to tread carefully, if they're to figure this out. Voices carry, and the guards aren't far. Anything might be overheard.

"We came from Haven." Known facts, to those that took them. "Three — perhaps four days hence."

"Which would make sense had anyone in our group actually died."

There is a shake in her voice, not fear but confusion. It's worsening her headache and leaving her weak in the knees as Saoirse finally moves, sitting on her knees and peering through the bars in order to listen to Inessa speak. Disappeared? They disappeared?

"Yes, we had arrived at the Temple to investigate and then something strange happened. There was a strange light," She murmurs, searching her thoughts before finally having to ask despite how insane it seemed. "... Just how long ago was it that we vanished?"

"Oh, really?" Ellana asks, a slight mocking tone to her voice. "If that's the case then where have you been these last five years? Living in a cave near Haven?" People just don't up and disappear for five years and then turn back up again. Especially not these people. She looks over at Sam again. He wouldn't just leave Cyril like that.

"This makes no sense," she mutters more to herself than the rest of them.

He'd been barely (bearly?) aware of an influx of new prisoners. He supposes, in whatever thoughts manage to float to the surface, that he was supposed to help guard them, or catch them, or maybe later torture them, but no, he'd had to go and express himself again. Had to go show off fighting the lyrium inside him. Had to fail. Again. So he'd had to be punished. Again.

Malcolm isn't too far gone yet to not be responsive. General Samson does, after all, like to play with his food before eating it, and his steady diet of red lyrium hasn't entirely turned him back into the mindless slave of a former Seeker he was mere days ago. He never knows how long the effects last, but he always manages to claw his way back to the surface of his own mind.

And he prays to the Maker that Aleron is doing a better job than he is.

To Teren's right, a shadowed and sallow lump of a figure doesn't move, but it's where the voice comes from.

"Just as likely to get mauled by a bull as a bear. Clearly taking paranoia to a new level." It's weak, not his usual crisp and clear tones, and he coughs roughly after, but it's perfectly amused by the irony. "Certainly saying something from..."

Hold on. He goes quiet again, trying for once to focus outside himself instead of strictly on 1) breathing and 2) not slipping back into the red for a little while longer. Hold on. These are people meant to be dead, dead so many years ago. Is that Ser Coupe? The odd Outsider? No...no, perhaps this is another form of torture, or yet another side effect of the red lyrium.

Suddenly, voice sharp through his haze of magebane: "Nowhere."

The Outsider pauses, leaning against the bars. There is a little hum, and then a hollow laugh. He's weak from being drugged, pale fingers curling around the bars, but he is standing. That's something.

"The Fade was close. The Veil thin. Present, so present, and traumatized by great power- I've seen this before, in my world. Time that no longer flows as it should. Strange occurrences, missing people..."

And a pause as he peers further down the row of cells.

"Is that you, Seeker? I'm still not a demon, for the record."

Resting her head against the bars, ignoring the reddish haze emanating from her body, Inessa tries to focus past her mental fog. That's becoming more difficult with each passing day, but she's not at the point where she's more red lyrium than person, not yet. The Outsider's voice gets her attention this time, and she narrows her eyes a little. They met before, didn't they? But the how and when isn't coming to her, and not nearly as important as the present.

"It's not easy to tell what is real and what isn't these days, not for some of us." She sighs, then her brow furrows. "That you would all resurface now, after all this time...it shouldn't be possible." But isn't that what people would have thought about the Breach, about people from other worlds?

"What?"
This to Alistair, in a sharp tone-- he's never told her to shut up before, and she's on edge enough to ensure that he never does again. But there's another familiar voice in the interim. "Inessa?"
She recognizes the men on either side of her, one as a Seeker and the other as.. just.. someone, and is somewhat relieved when Wren attempts an explanation. But it doesn't seem to satisfy anyone, and she has a deeply disquieting feeling that not everyone is speaking the same language.

Still a bit stiff from the ordeal, Teren levers herself up and plucks two pins from her hair, which she then reaches through the bars and around to the keyhole so she can attempt to finagle the lock. But no such luck-- it's cold in here and her hands keep shaking, so she just ends up dropping them instead.

"Bollocks," she mutters, and then, a bit more loudly, "have you all lost your damn minds?"

She's given pause by the Outsider, but his explanation is, of course, utterly ridiculous. She stares a moment in his direction, then removes two more pins from her hair to try again. Her hair was already starting to look messy from the journey, and now she's sacrificing it even further. This is bullshit.

The Doctor had been listening to the conversation and getting more frustrated and annoyed as it dragged on. Obviously these people didn't know anything. So, he dragged himself towards his bars - quite the feat, as he had to fight whatever the drug was that rendered him pliable. Still, at least his ability to heal rapidly was still in-tact. That meant he wasn't actually in that much pain.

His Glaswegian accent cut across the room. "Are you all so simple that you can't figure it out?"

Of course he had figured it out the moment they had moved in time. He was a Time Lord, but even then, it didn't take much to know the planet felt older, the air felt older, and certainly their captors were. The trick was, did he want the guards to understand it? Well.

"You are all asking the wrong questions. It's not who, what, where or why. The only question that matters right now is when. And I think those shocked to see us have already answered that for us."

How was what mattered next, because time travel in this primitive place would be a problem.

"And before any of you say any more, let me remind you that they can hear everything we say."

Corvo spends most of his time in his cell in a silent daze--well, he's almost always silent anyway, so that's not surprising. But he's rarely aware of his surroundings. He's weary, tired with an ache that will never go away, no matter how much he sleeps.

Even so, he appreciates his sleep, and it's hard to do so when people won't stop talking. The prison block is not usually a chatty place, and Corvo finally rouses himself to see what's caused all the discussion. He can't really make heads or tails of most of it, though a few familiar voices cut through--one of them is familiar enough to make Corvo actually...reactive.

He stands, wincing at the protesting of joints and bones long ago broken. But the sight before him is enough of a distraction from the old pains. For a moment, he steps to the front of his cell, peering around, then moves to the back, rapping his knuckles on the wall and staring in Malcolm's general direction. Hey. Hey. Malcolm. Hey buddy. Hey hetero dude guy buddy.

That's all he really has to contribute.

The only question that matters right now is when. Wren turns away from Inessa, the better to roll her eyes in the dark. She almost wants to ask how long he’s been saving that one, but that won’t get any of them far. Nor will punching a wall — as sorely tempted as she is.

Saoirse hit on it, and the reactions have only confirmed. Five years. Could they have been held in some sort of stasis, like the bodies preserved? Against herself she’s inclined to believe the Outsider. If any of them should know what they’re speaking of,

"Insults will not assist us." She resumes pacing. If they need to start a real diversion, easy enough to fake a strangling through the bars. "And each of us may believe what we will. The situation remains."

And for some, grows urgent. She can’t get a good angle to look at Malcolm, but she thinks it’s him. If it is, they might not yet be wholly fucked.

She does her best to ignore the unhappy little call that echoes through the stones of the place — and just a little deeper down the hall. This close to Inessa, it might only be the mage's song that strains at hers.

Edited (SORRY FOR EDITING AGAIN EMA) 2017-02-03 04:39 (UTC)

Well, now that they're all on the same page, Ellana wanders around her cell in a circle, rolling her eyes as well. She's still not sure if these new prisoners are really the group lost at Haven or some clever Venatori trick, but they're all stuck here now.

"We could all speak a language they don't understand, like elven," she says airily, before adding, "Oh, wait." A comedic genius, this one. But look, she really doesn't know what you guys want from her. They're all prisoners now, and trading stories or coming up with theories as to how they ended up here doesn't help them escape these cells.

There's a glum nod to Teren, both in recognition and to the question asked. Perhaps they have lost their minds, but nothing else makes sense. The man with the Starkhaven accent gets her attention, but she doesn't respond to him directly, mulling over what's been said. It's a fine story, one she would like to believe, but hope is a luxury long since spent. Why now...and more importantly, does it really do them any good in the end? They're all still behind bars.

A sour look is directed at Ellana, not needing or wanting any Dalish superiority directed her way. Maybe that's not how it was intended, but she's not in the frame of mind to give the benefit of the doubt. "As that's not a possibility, we shall have to endure as best we can."

Endure. That's all she's been doing for the past few years, and it shows. She can see it in the faces of those who didn't disappear as well, or their voices.

"I don't know how to speak that much elven," he groans softly - why was Ellana here? - from where he's propped up at the back of his cell, finally joining in the conversation. He's been able to hear some parts of it going on as he slipped in and out of unconsciousness, thanks to the magebane and something having hit him in the back of the head. Groaning once more he tries sitting up a bit straighter, wincing at the aches and pains going through his body. Some healing would help with that, but he still feels rather drained to try any at the moment.

Course being more awake he's finally more aware of the bear in the cell next to him, who was very, very close to the bars between them. For a moment Sam blinks, trying to get this through his brain, before shaking his head slightly - and regretting it immediately.

"Maker..."

Like Sam, Hermione has been hearing bits and pieces of the conversation, but unlike him, she hasn't really been listening. Fighting and pain is something she's had to grow used to, but drugs aren't the way wars are fought, in her personal experience. It's almost like cheating. Actually, no, it is cheating. But she doesn't suppose that would matter much to their captors.

When she makes out Iron Bull not too far away from her, she has a few fleeting moments of reassurance, because clearly, it's hardly as though anyone as big as he is can be put down for too long, right? But then she notices the bars between them, and then the bars on her opposite side, and the ones just before her, and she frowns as she slowly gets up, straining her ears to try and parse through the bickering voices and figure out where this conversation is going and where it has already gone.

"Excuse me," she brings up as she steps closer to the front of her cell and peers down the length of matching cells, "but instead of us all improvising some sort of secret code in vain attempts of shutting the rest of us out of vital information, I don't suppose someone could try explaining things, could they? If time travel was involved, there's a gap that needs to be filled, or else most of us in here are at a distinct disadvantage, and that helps no one."

The Doctor was face-palming so hard at the humaniods. Just... And he couldn't bring himself to say anything until Hermione piped up. She had point. Sort of. He had a point too, though. And he had to weigh his options.

He decided screw it. If anything had changed substantially in those five years - and going by things, they had - they wouldn't be able to keep themselves a secret anyway. However, he had a duty to keep specifics quiet. If their captors found out where the tear was and how to use to to travel back to their original time, well. It would be bad.

"Yes. Okay. Fine. There are all kinds of rips and tears all over the space-time continuum. All the rifts that brought us here are an example of that. Clearly, we passed through one and we ended up here. Five years in the future. Is that clear enough for everyone?"

"Does that make you all Rifters?" Not a good time for jokes, but hey, you try being a puppet of red lyrium and torture and see how on the up and up you are after. His head leans back against the wall, another laugh heaving out of him. Sounds like it takes effort.

At this angle he can at least roll his head to peer down the cells through bars. Is that ser Corvo? He does recall the man being a prisoner, in the midst of a red and hazy song. Hullo, Corvo.

Time, space, what does it really matter now that people who were dead, people who were mourned, are now here in the Gallows? "You've all missed a lot, if true."

"The especially stubborn ones won't listen," the Outsider calls down toward the Doctor, leaning more and more against the bars so that his arms hang out and he can annoyingly flap them, shard glinting in the dim light. "Though yes, that's what I said."

In- less clear words, sure, but it's what he said.

"What we don't know is what happened in those five years, short of us vanishing so that everyone thinks we're dead. Unless there were actual bodies, which would be- a concern."

To put it mildly.

There's another flap of his hands before the one with a shard curls around the bars again. The other one points toward Ellana's cell, because it's the closest one he can point at that demonstrates his point. "Though based on all the red lyrium, I'm going to assume everything went badly. If you would like to explain...?" Instead of just saying they missed things, thanks.

Also someone please tell him Corvo is here so he can be flip his shit a little. In fact-

"Who is banging on things?"

"For the sake of brevity; Tevinter invaded, the Qunari invaded, and an impostor Herald decries us all. The Inquisition cannot turn the tide." Inessa doesn't bother to hide her bitterness. What else truly needs to be said, other than that they lost in the most thorough manner possible? There is no reclaiming Thedas from this, and they all know it. Claiming Denerim and Orzammar is just a matter of time.

Edited 2017-02-03 15:43 (UTC)

"That's the joke, Sam," Ellana replies. Honestly, did people think she was serious? Calm down.

"What else do you need to know? First you say to watch what we say in front of the guards, then whine you want an explanation. Make up your minds." And here she waves her altered left hand back towards the Outsider.

"I'm trying to keep my remaining fingers intact here. The Venatori are going to keep taking them, and I'd prefer not to speed up the process, thank you." Meaning she's not going to launch into an informational lecture on the new Thedas. She's planning her escape, okay? She'll leave getting in trouble with the guards to the dying one with the red eyes.

"She's pretty much covered everything. If this has happened with rifts before now, I haven't heard of it."

"None of my tools work, so I can't say if it's happened with rifts before or not. But, I have experienced similar things in my universe before."

He'll just set aside that he was usually in a time and space ship when he does it. The Doctor looked down and across the cell-block and debated the next question, aware of the guards.

"So the five of you have been here, and you presumed we had died. Everything turned against you. How long have the five of you been imprisoned here?"

Because while was certain everyone wanted to get out, it might be better to stay put.

Teren can't wrap her mind around this conversation and, frankly, isn't trying to. She is still sacrificing hairpins for the cause of picking her own lock, cursing quietly to herself each time one bends or breaks or falls.

Whatever the hell happened, she's not going to learn all she can while sitting here helpless.

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