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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"Keeping people fed is an ever-increasing challenge," she replies, gathering the map up too to tuck under her arm to bring with her. "Without any Inquisition fleet to get information from, even our best estimates at dreadnought numbers involve more guesswork than I'm happy with."

Keeping people in arms and armour, getting them out of a nightmare or to wherever the front may be is even worse; the cabin door is kicked shut behind them with more force than necessary, her map locked away in the desk much the same, the candles lit as she goes to flex her left hand only of course, there's nothing there.

Three years, she ought to be used to that by now. "What I have here is small, and fleeting, clumsier than a child learning to play the Game but I am not about to lose it. I have sacrificed to get this far Korrin." In here the weariness can bleed into her voice as she leans back against her desk, shutting her eyes for a moment even though that burns worse than it did last time or the time before that. "Have you heard anything new from anyone?"

[Rump Roast is a traitor for the way he squeaks happily, readily escaping Yngvi for the clutches of someone who won't eat him. Only Yngvi is less likely to do so but well, grass is always greener on the other side and what is grass when you can be lit by the festive lava pits?]

I was meaning your halla. [He lived with twenty nugs before the world went to shit, he's so used to the smell of them he didn't enough notice long before they all had to live on top of them.] There was a reason we'd barbeque them whenever--

[Everyone cuts themselves off these days don't they? Always some stories that just seem to end abruptly or taper off into nothingness. Yngvi has an abundance of them as a consequence of a life lived in the pockets of others, now isn't the time to go stirring up the dead.] We're living by the Darkspawn because Orzammar was full of useless wankers until we all showed up and got on with doing useful things so I find that having a healthy musk helps when I'm required down near those disreputable parts. Some of the Wardens are looking a bit peaky these days.

M'lady is well. [Always and forever he'll use her title, that's just etched into whatever sort of soul a thing such as him has.] Fending off suitors with her pretty knives and sharper words of course, you'd expect no less. [Yngvi doing more than that slacker Big Jim, hopefully he didn't die.]

Generally Yngvi is always Busy. (Sometimes a dwarf has regrets about getting so many of the family out of Kirkwall; one the one hand, plenty of people who can get the job done because they're Carta and they will adapt to not only survive but thrive, on the other hand they're his family so he's stuck with them and also they're Carta.)

He's an important dwarf. Baffling. Brilliant. Pain in the arse. Rich in nugs not including the ones that absolutely aren't for eating, mostly in the business of getting information out and about because dwarves all look like dwarves to basically anyone so it's pretty hand when your enemies are mostly human. Today though? Today he's taking a break.

(There are no breaks but let us pretend.)

"I miss this," he says to Rey from where he's leaning rather perilously into the ballista without any thought for his safety since he's survived with all his bits and pieces attached thus far so he doesn't really care. "Miss fixing things and making things and fiddling with things." Since both hands are occupied presently, he slides the toolbelt her way with his foot if it's needed.

"Yeah," says Bellamy, from above. "I'm here."

He'd jerked away when Clarke had moved a little too sharply, nothing he could excuse as fitful movement. Ready immediately, with his arm twisted back to grab at the sword he wears strapped to his back. He and Clarke always worked well together. Now they're seamless counterparts.

But it's Lexa, like a shade. Bellamy moves forward into the light so he can get a better look at her, and she at him. Then he throws his legs around over the edge of the loft, to climb down. He offers Clarke a hand before anything else, so she can climb down as well--not that she's not more than capable of climbing down all on her own, but he's already on the floor.

"We heard you were dead."

Maybe dead. And they'd counted it as fact, because everyone else was dead. Why not Lexa, too? He glances to the door.

"You alone? Who sent you?"

Is she who they're meeting?

Cyril nodded and then stepped back to let James in. He took some of their storage of water and put it into an extra jar from his work. They couldn't spare much but it was for a good cause.

"Sina's with some friends right now," he explained. "I was building all day and I don't really want her running around while I do that." He gestured to his work table that still showed signs of him having been there. "I can go get her early though, since you're back.

Cyril easily leaned against him. He even paused for a moment to let himself feel those muscles and the strength in them. There was a part of his chest that ached at the way that they reminded him of Taas but Iskandar also had a presence that was unmistakably him.

"Are you guys doing anything nice for supper today?" he means Iskandar and Kirk when he says 'you guys.'

Obi-Wan has his hope, he ought to hold tight to it—and Thranduil respects him for it. It pains Thranduil to see him aged. He has lost many, will lose more, but even the elves here will not be reembodied; he has so little time with them, and he has unlearned or at least fumbled the important lesson—that all mortals will die, and how painful it is to try and hold on.

He slides to the end of the bench so that Obi-Wan might wheel himself to the other end, and they can sit closer. It is a very clever chair.

“I have indeed. Shall we round it to two years?” He, graciously, will not count the two where he didn’t speak with anyone.

It has not been easy, courting her, and it was not easy to be with her—he did not soothe himself with the fantasy that it would be easier once everything was put to rights, but he did not want perfect. Gwenaëlle fought back; he did not want some simpering creature. But that doesn’t mean he enjoys navigating either of their moods, when they occur. Which is—often.

“He lives.” And if it was a secret, it will not be much longer, for he was told long enough ago that he made it from there to here as quickly as he was able. His fingers curl tight around Gwenaëlle’s waist, squeezing, his hands do the same to the figure—just a twitch of movement. He stops himself, rewinds, explains.

“His Craft favors the act of creation, of making. He has seen this sort of disruption of time, this travel through it, as if years were but rooms. He says it can be undone. He and the others we thought lost, they are all well. They were brought to Kirkwall. I do not know how long it will take them to come here.”

"I loathe it," he says, surprisingly cheerful despite the words themselves. They settle onto the bench, and Thranduil turns to face Cyril, shifting to turn his torso towards the younger elf, one leg folded over the other.

"You ought to come to us more often," said with utmost sincerity, though the message from the Outsider still rings in the back of his mind, what it all could mean-- soon. They'll know soon, and choices can be made from there, fully-informed, and none of this guessing. Cyril might not need to-- none of this could be--

"What have you done today? I hope I have not interrupted you at work."

Cyril easily settles next to Thranduil and tries not to lean too near him. He's worried that his desire to touch Thranduil will be unwelcome. waves away the concern with a smile. "Oh no, you never could," he explains. "I was going to pick up Sina. I was working earlier and I usually like to keep her safe while I do."

He considers that a moment and then adds, "The childe has far too much energy and I make explosives. Having those two things near is dangerous."

"Why not? We seem to have rounded every other corner," That could be cruel, might once have been a more pointed jab, but it's delivered with a tired, gentle sort of smile as Obi-Wan pushes himself into place, "I would have come to you, but-- Well. Sending a letter is more and more risky, these days."

And the crystals are watched; old instincts make him discount them. A tapped transmission might as well be dead. You listen to it for what information there was, if you like, but you never speak, that was how he was trained.

"It's alright. I know this-- the Thaigs, and the Deep Roads, they're hardly a place for your people," The elves, this time, and here is their old game. The people, your people, our people, and mine. His smile quirks sideways at the memory, "I have something important to share with you. But first, tell me, what's happening, how you've been doing? I get reports, I hear it from Rey, when she'll go, but it isn't the same as knowing."

It's jarring news that she doesn't quite know what to do with, her hand falling to his at her waist - combs her memory for the names that go along with the Outsider and in their place finds her uncle's face, how she'd said Ser Coupe and he hadn't said anything at all for a long time, cupped the back of her head and kissed her temple and given her an errand that left him alone.

All the little griefs, grieved alone.

"What?" she says, blankly, struggling to wrap her mind around it at first. They live, but they didn't live all this time--

She doesn't stop what she's doing as Obi-Wan speaks to her, focused on keeping a pin in place as she twists another delicate piece around the gears.

"Miniature crossbow," she replies to his question after a slight delay, turning in her chair to hold up the mostly-completed body of one. "I've been trying to make a model that can be fired similar to a blaster but is light enough for a scout to carry without being encumbered." She misses blasters. She may not have ever used them much, but if they had enough blasters, the Venatori wouldn't have them hiding underground like rats.

[ the griffons are beautiful creatures, but he drops the glamour and approaches merrill first; smiles at her as he fades into existence. thranduil clasps her hands in his, kisses her cheeks, and then steps back. ]

Good evening, my lady. [ he'll observe politeness- this is not the end of everything, even if it feels like it. the griffon gets a nod, too. they're the sort of creature that thranduil frequently reminds himself that he ought to be grateful is on their side, even if he won't risk touching one. ]

What did you see? [ perhaps he's spared a thought for flight, for flying, but merrill-- merrill is suited to it. born for it. ]

Edited 2017-02-07 04:41 (UTC)

He follows her line of thought to it's inevitable end; blasters, mass-produced and deadly, for all their inelegance. And their lack.

"Mh. A few good Troopers might have made a certain difference in the odds, I'll give you that," Obi-Wan replies, quiet, but never too quiet to be heard. He knows their experience of what had begun as the Grande Army of the Republic was very different.

It is not the first time he's missed the solid, unwavering presence of Commander Cody. It is unlikely to be the last.

"You're always thinking of others, before yourself. When did you last sleep?"

She answered Kirk's smile with one of her own, equally quiet in measure, though even before the world had started going to pot she'd been more reserved with her own enthusiasm. She appreciated every friend that she still had, and even if she had things that needed to get done, they could wait.

"A drink sounds good," she replied, inclining her head.

"If you keep looking so damn grumpy, your face is gonna stick like that."

Kaisa may be tired, true, but that's hardly going to stop her from swaggering on up to Bruce and cheerfully throwing an arm around his shoulders. Look!! Pals!!! Or. Something.

She examines Bruce critically for a moment, her gaze ever unsettling with that red, softly glowing tint to them, little tendrils of red smoke drifting away from her eyes as she moves. "Although, I think it might be to late for that." She tsks, face solemn for exactly one second, before she bursts into a grin again, giving Bruce a little shake.

"C'mon! We won today! We did great! It won't kill ya t' smile, I promise."

These days, her stupid banter and menacing of Bruce doesn't serve to fluster him, is hardly an attempt to flirt. Mostly, she's just fucking worried. People aren't meant to keep all their happiness locked up like that. So she pokes and prods, trying to get some kind of reaction from him--even anger would be preferable.

No need for a nug, or at least, not another one: Gwenaëlle comes bearing Nug Wellington under her arm, Hardie an ever-present shadow at her heels managing to somehow convey stately disapproval as the self-appointed guardian of every small thing nearby his mistress.

"Merrill's griffon is going to eat him," she says, in lieu of an actual greeting, "if he doesn't mind himself. Hardie rescued him." Is it a him? Maker knows, she isn't checking.

She deposits nug upon dwarf, leaning down - Yngvi is the only person she regularly speaks to she has to bend for - and belatedly providing that greeting in the form of a swift and chaste kiss pressed to his cheekbone. She never corrects him, when he uses her title, but every day the people who matter to her dwindle to a smaller and smaller number, and she won't have it said later those that lasted didn't know it.

"I know you have, kadan. I know." Seeing and hearing that weariness in Araceli makes Korrin's heart ache, even as she knows it's infected her as well. Anyone who's still alive and fighting is beyond weary, at this point. But it's either that, or give up and be killed, allowing worse fates to befall those more vulnerable. Maybe it's a futile battle, but the Qunari won't advance without her fighting them every step of the way.

Moving to lean against the desk as well, Korrin reaches over to run a hand gently through Araceli's curls, taking as much care with them as she's always done. No one ruins those curls, even herself. "Not recently, no. Barely anyone talks openly over the crystals these days, for good reason. They're still holding the status quo down south, but the status quo sucks there as much as it does here. What victories they can get are small ones, and could be easily overturned. If the north could help them--but that's just not going to happen, and we both know it. Not with the fucking Qunari spreading like a bad rash."

She picks up the bottle, a faint nostalgic smile on her lips. "Antivan brandy. I was shocked to find an intact bottle, after all this time. It was too good to keep to myself." Given that there isn't much left of Antiva anymore, they can't count on easily finding another. It also brings to mind Zevran, who disappeared -and likely died- five years ago. At least he isn't around to see what's become of his homeland.

It only takes a moment for Bruce to notice the movement directed at him, and another to see who it is. Kirk, one of the Rifters--though there's really no distinction at this point. There hadn't been any more of them for a good while now.

Perhaps even Thedas itself was aware of how little time it had left.

"Yes," he replies. straight to the point now. There was very little beating around the bush now with Bruce these days - no sense in wasting time when there were always more important things at hand. "Just gave the report of the latest mission." And now that that was done, there were other things at hand for him to do, which he was on his way towards.

Sometimes Bruce wonders why he ever agreed to having Kaisa in his team, let alone is second-in-command. They had always been as different as night and day, even back before all of this went down. She was good with what she did, sure, but still--

No point thinking about it. The arrangement had been working well, and there was no reason to change it.

"The victory is minor, and if we don't build on it soon it will soon be insignificant." With his entire focus set on the war and their survival there is little else that Bruce really registers now, especially when coupled with everything the Venatori did to him. He grew stronger from that, though, so he supposes that's one thing he could thank them for. The him of five years ago would have never dared to do anything that he was doing today.

Bethany isn't much like herself these days, either. The sun has been clouded with loss and heartache. She still had dimples, but they were ranged with tiredness. Her brown eyes were still bright, but sometimes they were tinged yellow. Her hair was cut short - shorter than it had been - and although she still wore the the red scarf around her throat .... she also wore the Hawke stripe of blood across her nose and cheeks.

Yet she was still Bethany Hawke - and she was still trying to work to save as many people as she could. Which was why she worked so hard with Merrill on the corruption, doing it the Warden way. Whatever way they had to. With this, it was able to give her another way to put her focus ... that was not entirely trying to find her husband, no matter what.

She was going over their latest notes, brushing her short hair out of her face, gnawing her lower lip. "Merrill ... I've been testing these red lyrium blood samples we took from the Venatori with spiritual magic. What do you make of this?"

Rachette had made friends in the Carta when she'd left for the surface, though never family. Still, she recognizes their worth, especially in times like these. Sometimes thugs are what you need, and she doesn't mind associating with them. She's done good in the Inquisition, though--better than she ever could have done with the Carta.

Being back in Orzammar does not sit well with her. Being tied to the Stone again is nice, don't get her wrong, but she left these people for a reason. It absolutely amazes her that they even bother pretending to give a shit. "Need a couple springs," she says matter-of-factly to Yngvi, leaning on the table. "Just a couple. I keep telling people, there's nothing wrong with a well-concealed bear trap. The classics are classics for a reason."

Iskandar's about as big as a qunari, the likes of which Rachette is sure nobody in the depths of Orzammar had seen before anyway. She can remember, back before it all went to piss, finding him utterly confusing, and in some ways that was a charm. Now his songs, his stories, his positivity, and yes even his confounding attitudes and insights were a bright spot in her life.

She finds she needs that now more than ever, surrounded by reminders of what she'd tried so hard to leave behind. She's a grinning fool, waving him over. "Come look at this--some of the locals have gotten creative."

There's always plenty of dust, and she herself recalls spending some time drawing shapes in the dirt in old Dusttown. Here are a few drawings lined out from some bored rascals, clearly of some of the Inquisition. There's an elf with crudely exaggerated ears and long long hair. Someone maybe human training with a long stick. There's a big one, though, with a lot of muscle, and most of the face seems to be one big grin. Wonder who that could be?

"Think some Orlesian nobility might pay good coin for that," she jokes.

Maybe because Bruce needed someone on his team who isn't a nihilistic LOSER. You can't just have it be all business, all doom and gloom. And Kaisa injected the necessary emotion and optimism into the group--whether Bruce liked it, or not.

"Bruce, c'mon. C'monnn." She whines at him, giving his shoulder a little shake. "No victory is minor. And we'll keep building. But that's why the victories aren't minor. You can't build a house with half the bricks missing. Everything we do, every gain that we make, is important t' keep building." And Bruce gets a pat on the head from the taller woman.

"You gotta think of the good that it did. And you really gotta chill a little. Like, not even a lot." She holds her hand up, fingers a few inches apart. Just in case Bruce can't grasp the concept on his own. "Just a little bit. Like. Do you ever do anything for fun? Do you even have any hobbies?"

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

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