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

[faderifting]

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

Comments

[rowancrowned]

"Cyril," Thranduil says, and it's warm and welcoming. He crosses the distance between them, setting to the side the nausea that the Thaig sets to rising in the back of his throat and-- embraces him. Holds him for a brief heartbeat or two. His is precious. All of the elves are precious. They have made it so far, and if Cyril falls, there will be no reunion in Mandos' halls, ever.

He is reminded constantly of just how fragile life is. He holds all the tighter to it.

When he pulls back and looks at Cyril's face, cupping it between gloved palms-- one cannot be too careful these days-- his thumb brushes over the scar along Cyril's eye, but he says nothing, dropping his hands and gesturing to the bench.

"Do you have the time to sit with me, my friend?"

[samahl]

Despite himself, Cyril feels his body relaxing into the hug. He returns it and almost clings to Thranduil for a moment. He wants to believe himself mature and twisted but with Thranduil embracing him he feels almost like a child again - innocent and wanting to be protected. The feeling fades when they pull apart and he manages to hide most of those emotions from his face.

He does, however, frown a bit when Thranduil's fingers touch his scar. He feels like such perfection shouldn't be near that sign of betrayal.

"Of course," he says. "It's amazing to see you. I hadn't thought you'd like to be underground."

[rowancrowned]

"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."

[samahl]

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."

[rowancrowned]

He recognizes that name. Sina's death and his absence for those years weighs on him, but he does not regret. He cannot look back. And Cyril-- Cyril is not dead. Cyril is here, and has been busy not dying.

Thranduil laughs- such a thing does make sense, children have a way of getting into everything, even Mannish ones, though they grow so quickly in comparison to elflings. But-- here, the elflings must age just as rapidly. He has seen a few, with the Dalish, but less. Who would want to raise an elfling now?

"I fear I have been gone for too long," he admits. "Where in Thedas did you find a young lord?"

[samahl]

"Where did I..." Cyril repeats, with a bit of confusion, but then his face falls a bit. "Oh, no. It's not like that. Sina is Pel's child. The baby she gave birth to right as all of this mess began."

He looks away from Thranduil for a moment and feels that old, but always painful, grief settle on his shoulders. "She died during battle when Sina was an infant. Afterwards, it felt right that I should be the one to raise her. I'm not sure I'm doing the best job of it, but at least she brings some brightness to this world."

[rowancrowned]

"Do you love her?" he asks, and he does not feel cocky in supposing he knows the answer. Who can provide for a child in times like these? As much as love is in abundant supply, and the child's protectors likely fierce and devoted to the idea of her, there will be some things she will lack. He cannot fault Cyril for the state of the world.

"You, too, are bright," Thranduil reminds him, his face gently earnest. "And dear to a number of people, Cyril. Your presence warms my day, even in this cave. I am sure many others feel the same way."

Only for a little while longer, he reminds himself.

[samahl]

"Desperately," Cyril responds to the question. Pel may have carried and given birth to her, but Cyril is really the only parent that Sina knows. He loves her more than he thought he could ever love anything.

He is then utterly distracted by Thranduil calling him bright and talking about warmth and how others might feel the same. He blinks, feeling surprised and touched in ways he wasn't sure he was capable of any more.

"Ah, it's been a while since I've enjoyed that level of a compliment," he says and he actually manages to smile a bit, though it's mostly just the upturn of the corner of his mouth.