faderift | OPEN ↠ FALSE GODS, GREAT DEMONS (OPEN LOG 1)

OPEN ↠ FALSE GODS, GREAT DEMONS (OPEN LOG 1)

WHO: Living Residents of the Horrible Future
WHAT: Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
WHEN: ALTERNATE FUTURE, 1-15 Cloudreach 9:48
WHERE: Anywhere, but especially Orzammar
NOTES: This is the first open log for False Gods, Great Demons. Anything that happened prior to Cloudreach 9:48 should go on the flashback meme. Most members of the TTT and their friends in Kirkwall will be arriving in Orzammar on approximately Cloudreach 7. In the meantime, feel free to make your own adventures. If you want to blow up an bridge, assassinate an NPC of your own invention, steal supplies, or anything else--it's all yours, go for it!

SOUTHERN THEDAS is a wasteland. The Blight crawling across the Orleian countryside and into Ferelden leaves nothing alive in its wake, scarring the land like an insatiable fire until no birds sing and the only things that grows is the Red Lyrium that speckles cliff sides and crawls up dying trees until they look like rows of jagged bloody teeth. And where it's still green, where people can still survive, the atmosphere is nearly as stifling. Every city and settlement is watched over by a Venatori or trustworthy collaborator. Those who don't keep their heads down and their dissent a whisper may vanish without warning. They may take their whole families with them. There are flashes of hope--an assassinated lordling here, a village rousing itself to brief and doomed rebellion there--but for every man the Imperium loses, they seem to find two to take his place.

NORTHERN THEDAS is at war. The worst of it doesn't reach west into Tevinter or the Anderfels; the line between the Qunari and the Imperium is drawn straight through Antiva, with Nevarra and Rivain on either side quiet and calm as only lands under martial law can be. The Free Marches vary between complacency and rebellion, but the rebellious ones risk ruin--there are murmurs it won't be long before a whole city is made an example. A steady stream of desperate refugees is fleeing north to the Qun, but plenty are picked off and punished as traitors before they can cross into Qunari-controlled territory. Your best best for a clean escape are the pirates who still hold Llomerynn free from both sides of the conflict.

ORZAMMAR is the only kingdom in Thedas that looks much the same--and Kal-Sharok, but they're not accepting outsiders. The heavy doors at Orzammar's entrance are sealed and guarded, as much against the steady flow of refugees asking for help as against the Venatori. The refugees are turned away. There's no way to know who can be trusted, and even if there were, there's not food enough for people who can't fight. Orzammar Thaig is still the dwarves' home--though with stealing shrinking numbers and poor prospects, King Bhelen has been amenable to allowing casteless surfacers some leeway--but the once-abandoned Ortan Thaig is the Inquisition's. Quietly. The only things stopping a full assault on Orzammar is the Venatori's need for dwarf-mined lyrium and the plausible deniability that the Inquisition's remaining rebel bands are using the Deep Roads with Bhelen's consent.

An hour's walk through caves and deepstalker swarms, Ortan is a city in its own right. A crammed city, one where cots and bunk beds crammed into shared housing are the norm no matter how important someone is and you occasionally have to protect your dinner from a restless, swooping griffon, but one where you can still find a pint of ale or a game of cards if you've time to waste on them. It's just that not many people do. There's the watch to keep; the tunnels that creep further into the deep teem with darkspawn who are held back at barricades, while the hidden, narrow tunnels that lead to the surface are watched at all hours so anyone coming or going can be identified. There are weapons to forge and sharpen. Plans to make. Bands to lead. Maybe you weren't a leader five years ago, but these days, there aren't that many people with more than five years' experience still alive to give orders. Fewer every week.

And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,
We dreamed up false gods, great demons
Who could cross the Veil into the waking world,
Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you.
Threnodies 1:8

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"It's a long shot -they're the ones who invented gaatlok, after all- but I'll still take it." Korrin shrugs, not thinking it especially likely but it's a nice mental image. "How are things here? Aside from 'everything sucks', because that's just universal these days."

She huffs a little sigh. "I know, parchment is a little...hard to spare these days." Not when they use what they can for updates, secret encoded messages, attempts to get through to anyone else not ransacked or turned or killed out there, drawing up battle plans. And kids probably don't even care enough to keep their drawings preserved like that. It's not like it'd be something they're used to.

So she kicks up a little more dust, expanding the 'canvas' as it were, and plops down on the ground. "How are your drawing skills?"

She's smelled worse, but that still gets her nose wrinkling as she grabs the flask by anywhere but the top. "If this was ale, it was shit ale to start with." Despite her nose, she gives it another whiff. "Or really, really good ale. If what you're looking for is to die slowly on the inside."

It's the heating just right part that will be tricky, but she's willing to give it a go. There'll be some kind of use for it somehow even if not as oil. If only it was darkspawn repellent. "Promise I won't use up all the steel wool. They don't have to be shiny new, they just have to snap." She punctuates the word with a slap of her hand on the table.

"Very true, and I wish it was the weirdest part of my life right now. But," he gestured widely with one arm. "Thedas."

Not that one word captured the nuance of the past few years, but shared experience likely got the point across. Besides, dwelling on that point wasn't as important as the prospect of fresh meat. In response to the tug, Waver paused in his steps, his eyes scanning the streets quickly.

"Okay, then we're taking every shortcut possible," he said, voice more iron clad than it had been a minute ago. "This way."

This way was down a street so narrow that only one person could fit through the corridor.

Bellamy, with scabbard strap helpfully and unprotestedly adjusted, lets Clarke take the middle of their short column. He keeps to the back--sword sheathed, arm tense, ready to bare steel at hint of threat. And that's what he's watching for, with the occasional glance to the back of Clarke's head, like he has to make sure she's still there.

"Yeah. Picked it up, figured I was due for a trade." An upgrade. No questions on how or where he picked it up; could have been found in a chest somewhere or on a body, skeletal or otherwise. "It's good steel. Cuts through anything."

Spare, brief conversation. He's listening to make sure they're not about to get ambushed. Where he would once suspect Lexa of leading them into a trap, now he's following behind her. Watching out for her nearly as much as he is for Clarke.

"Good eye," he congratulates Lexa. More with a kind of amusement than his usual gruffness.

The few familiar faces Hermione has come across hadn't done much to raise her spirits. They had, of course, in the moment, but afterwards she'd come to realize just how much she'd missed and wonder over whether she would even still be alive if she hadn't gotten tossed about through time. But then she would have had to have lived through this, and she'd be every bit as cold as some of the people she'd come across, like Bruce and Ellana. Neither of those are particularly pleasant thoughts.

It comes as a surprise, then, when she feels someone move in besides her, offering her something. Looking up, Hermione recognizes Saoirse's face right away, and though she lets the tea be placed in her hands, she doesn't make any move to bring the cup closer to her. She does appreciate the warmth radiating from it, though.

"Thank you," she murmurs softly, mostly so no one has to hear the roughness in her voice. "I take it no one has had any breakthroughs in terms of getting back and setting things right?"

Korrin might not possess the full truth behind that initial claim, but that doesn't stop her from giving Araceli a skeptical look. Even if she'd guessed wrong there, it doesn't change her own position. She could no more remain behind than she could stop breathe, stop being what she is in all senses.

That shuddering breath makes her heart ache, makes her want more than just that one touch. Araceli looks as bone-tired as Korrin feels, but when do they ever really have the chance to let it all out like this? It's not pretty, but it's needed to happen and a reluctant part of her is realizing that. For all her general forthrightness, she's been uncharacteristically putting this off for years. "I don't know if I'll ever get it, but maybe that's just something I'll have to live with. I needed you to know how I felt; no more, no less."

Her heart is still heavy, from pain and grief and loss, but it's strangely lighter upon realizing that. And it's lightened a little more when Araceli lays her hand upon her own. Staring downward at that, her eyes are suspiciously bright and her tone a bit rough. "And I would never forgive myself if something happened to you here while I was somewhere else, kadan. I know this mess isn't much of a life, but that's one I'd want to live even less. Don't doubt it, kadan. And please...don't push me away. Whatever happens here, I'll take it. Let's both try to stay alive as long as we can, and go from there." The world is making that desire increasingly difficult, true...but they've managed so far.

"Besides, I'm not a huge fan of being stuck in dwarf-land indefinitely. The ale there is terrible." There's a faint flicker of a smile, an attempt to lighten the mood just a touch.

Everything ... stopped, as she stared at Alistair with absolute horror, before she grabbed one hand with the other and squeezed it hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Where - where is he? Where did they take him?"

James stared at him for a long, long moment, before he took a few steps towards the other man, until he was in touching distance. And ...that was what he did. He took one finger and poked it directly into Sam's chest.

"...You're all -- really here?"

Rey gives him a grim smile, pushing away from the stone doorway and moving to crouch down in front of Obi-Wan's wheelchair, reaching out to take his hands, squeezing gently.

"I know. I lived my life in despair, this is much easier." Her smile warms a little for him, because while she had been used to the loneliness, having him around made everything a little less lonely. If she'd lost Obi-Wan, despair may very well have taken over, but as long as he survives, it's held at bay. Squaring her shoulders up a little she attempts to shift the mood. "Have you eaten? I saw Yngvi today and he gave me half a nug's worth of meat."

"He never gave up hope, you know. He always thought you'd come back somehow."

Harry's had more hope there than he has, sometimes, but at the same time, he's been so sure that Jamie's kept the tiniest flicker of hope alive as well. It's something he's more than grateful for now, and his fingers curl in, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

"And I know you'd change things if you could, Hermione. Look, it might sound daft, but I think you've one the of the biggest hearts of anyone I know."

It was one of the things he likes the best about her - although, to be fair, there's a lot about her that he likes, and having her here again is only reminding him of that. Without the mention of the Doctor, he might have said a bit more, but hearing his opinion on the subject is enough to distract him, his lips pressing together brief as he glances away, in the general direction of the last place he'd seen the Doctor.

"Figures he'd insist things shouldn't be changed and then decide to try and change them anyway. That's just like him. Did he say why it shouldn't be changed, though?"

Sam looks down at where he's being touched, but doesn't do the same. It seemed a better idea to go at this slowly and let James make the moves.

"Well, yes... and no. We all ended up here, but a few broke off to help elsewhere. We didn't die at the temple, James, but we did get misplaced."

It's not hard to sense the hostility that she has already - not that Bruce is surprised at all. Things haven't really been the same at all since back then, and every second that passes is a reminder to the highly inevitable end they were all heading towards. And when something like that haunts your every waking hour, changes were bound to happen, for better or for worse.

And now it didn't matter what other people thought of him. All that mattered was to try and delay the inevitable.

"Then don't waste time," he repeats himself once more. "Use that head of yours properly, if you have time to argue back."

He doesn't even wait for a response this time; after he says that Bruce turns and takes his leave from her. Just as she shouldn't waste time mourning for what is already lost, he wasn't going to waste time arguing a moot point. There were far more important things at hand.

For a moment Bruce almost considers doing something to get him to move, but thankfully Samouel makes the decision to do so before anything can happen.

"To my room," he replies, tone curt. "I want to ask you some questions."

As Bruce walks down the path people are quick to scurry out of his path, as if almost afraid to cross him. Or maybe its because of how he looks now, though at this point the two reasons could be the same. Not that Bruce cares about it.

The frown on Bruce's face only deepens further. He understands the reasons why Kirk is doing this, yes, but it certainly doesn't make it any easier to deal with. He could handle himself - there was no need to people to try and coddle and take care of him. That effort could be put into more important things.

"I'm fine," he repeats, stressing on the word 'fine'. "I know when I need to rest. I'm sure you have your own duties to attend to." Now please just leave him alone so that he could actually go and do the things that he needed to do.

"This needn't be real," he says. All the dead never lost, all the land never poisoned, and oh-- he stops, suddenly, because they would never—how had they been to one another, five years ago? Less kind, certainly, less tender and without the crucible of the world coming to an end, unlikely to find themselves in the same circumstances that had led to wedding.

He looks away from her, turns his head and focuses instead on the wall of a nearby house? Cave? Whatever the dwarves choose to name the places where they sleep and eat.

“He has vowed that such a thing is possible.”

“I move often.” The courier, he thinks, would be the problem. Few are willing to risk the journey to the small, hidden places where succor and safety might still be found. He spreads his hands; gestures to all of Orzammar with just that. “But I am here now.”

Here, and glad to see old friends. “No,” he agrees, clasping his hands back in his lap. “They are not.” But he is coping, and he is keeping silent about it.

“Well enough. What news do you have?” Like that isn’t the most interesting thing—what do the little things in his life matter? There’s been nothing extraordinary.

"The both of us or the Inquisition in general? First one we might manage. I'm no so sure the second one's possible anymore."

He's not daft. The Inquisition's not winning, not even close. Whatever small victories they're managing aren't enough to offset the losses, and sooner or later that losses are going to do them in. Unlike the Doctor, he doesn't get up, only shakes his head. As much as he wants to be able to give the Doctor some shred of hope here, any hope that he might have once had about the war's disappeared long ago.

"We're fighting a battle of attrition, Doctor, and we're not the side with more resources. I know you know well enough what that means. Barring some sort of a miracle, eventually we're the ones that are going to be destroyed. It's just a matter of how many of the bastards we'll take down with us."

"Comforting," he mutters. He's already been attacked in the open, so knowing he was being taken someplace private didn't make him feel any better. Less so with how people were making an effort to get out of the way.

He never felt like he needed to fear or worry about Bruce, but now he certainly felt he should be cautious to a point.

He nods once and returns to sit next to Jamie.

"There's no shame in running and hiding."

It's said quietly. He can't save everyone and Jamie had done well enough to this point. Not that Jamie needed the Doctor at this point, but it doesn't mean the Doctor won't do what he can to save the younger man. He shakes his head sadly.

"I have no way to win this one. No sonic, no TARDIS, no tricks up my sleeve. Even talking doesn't seem to work for me here."

And he hates that feeling.

"They... want to go back and change everything. I'm not sure I can let them."

He scratches the back of his head. Timelines. History. He's a Time Lord, nothing good has ever come from changing things like that...

"You're the one that came from Orzammar to start with so this is the fruit of your empire right here. They've got their oysters in Antiva, actual hair of the dog in Ferelden, who can even say just how many Orzammar babies were made with the aid of this beauty?" Because isn't that what having kids does to you at the end of the day?

"Some of this came from Kirkwall with the folk we got out." Nothing about the people that didn't since that doesn't do anyone any good, sitting around thinking about it, getting distracted at the worst sorts of moments. He jumps. Jumps like he wouldn't before. Can't really cover it either when his eyes go wide for a split-second before he hides it with tired irritation. "If you've woken up the old folks you're singing them back to sleep because I've told them tales of the honeyed voices of casteless lasses I know. What'll they be snapping this time. And where. Since it makes a difference and I might have things lying about from last time the Boneflayers were about."

(He always has things 'lying about'.)

Obi-Wan regards his friend with a small sigh, imbued with more meaning than so short a breath has any right to carry. That's no kind of story, Thranduil, that gives him nothing-- or, next to nothing. Obi-Wan sits in silence, for a moment, silent where once he might have spoken. He has never been a particularly model Jedi, to his mind, but here he will strive to embody the ideal.

He must reconcile himself to life as it is; that he cannot yet know. Patience.

"News?" He replies, eventually, "No, this is... long in coming. I'm not getting younger, you know. It's the lyrium and-- and this."

He holds up his hand, carefully gloved glove. It's a thick thing, worked with dragonscale in Rey's clever hand. Better than most, the two of them have fared: there have been Rifters who've died when the shards lost their integrity. Obi-Wan has been fortunate, but the progress of the fade against his flesh is not insubstantial He considers it a moment, before continuing.

"I have wondered if I'd run out of time, before I saw you again. I know your lifespan is much longer than most... I don't intend to be caught unaware by my own change of life. Of course, Rey will still need guidance."

His sigh is this time mostly affect, mouth quirked into something wry that he wants to be a stern line, but which is more smile than Obi-Wan would care to admit. It's a rebelliously fond expression; here she is again, trying to cheer up this sad old man.

Such a bright spark, is Rey; the Force is well-kept, in her hands.

"I haven't eaten today, no. Let's make stew, shall we?"

A bard inspires passions in others but rules her own. It was something of a mantra to try to live by sometimes, to do what she could and in a way she'd attempted it tonight but she can't lie to Korrin about something that matters. You can't give pieces of yourself to someone then expect to go snatching them back again or to somehow build walls and shields about them to keep another out.

Taking a steadier breath this time, she moves away just enough to bend over to unlace her boots because save her they're not fighting now, before she gets undressed. Ignoring whatever old lessons she might be remembering right now because she doesn't care, she doesn't want to be that person, she wants to just be Araceli or whatever she might remember of her. She isn't tired but she's weary and they've earned this, kicking them out of the way to scoot back and pull Korrin with her. "The Game might not exist now but there are still bards. I have to live with the choices I have made and knowing that it hurt you, unequal as it is. I am sorry that what I have done has hurt you, I-- I cannot promise not to hurt you again in the future when we never know what that holds."

After all, one of them being wounded or captured or killed has been a hurt that's crushed the other in the past, it's not something they can deny so she isn't going to promise that it can't happen because she's always tried to keep her promses.

"If all hope is ever lost then we have the ship. It's a fast ship Korrin. Maybe we can get word to anyone that's still left. Say to bring the food and drink that they can and we sail, we sail and we sail and we sail. The scouts must press farther than any ever dared in the past as time goes by so..." So they might have no other choice but you never know what the glitter in the dark is, silver or tin, so better to take the chance and hope, no?

Managing a ghost of her own smile, she gives Korrin a nudge with her elbow. "Do not mention that in this bed when I'm naked or you sleep on the deck."

"I don't know."

He looks up from his boot, since he can no longer use the hand she bent down and grabbed for the buckles, and frowns up into her face. That's probably not a very good answer to give an upset wife who's already trying to murder his hand. But it's the only one he has.

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Page 13 of 45

OPEN ↠ FALSE GODS, GREAT DEMONS (OPEN LOG 1)

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this is what happens when he goes from not-banner to not-wayne--I mean

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