faderift | 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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Kirkwall was, alas, an absolute shit festival from the beginning to the end - but the information he had gathered during his sojourn there had been vital. Especially vital since ... thanks to Ciri, gigantic parts of it weren't there anymore. He had been wily enough to get his agents out of town, and barely got out himself.

So yes, he was exhausted. He had a few more scars. He had a fairly close call and honestly he wanted to sleep for a damned week. Yet, here was his wife in a surprisingly modest nightgown, whom he had not seen in months and was brushing his hair from his face. He was bathed, she smelled delightful so ...

"Yes. Yes I will." He stated, giving her a weary, but bright smile, before he frowned at a new scar on her arm. "What happened?"

"I didn't get out of the way fast enough," Sansa says. It's from a sword, but only a glancing blow and she hadn't been the intended target anyway. She touches the scar, frowning at the shiny, still-healing skin.

"Hopefully it'll fade. Two lords were dueling over me in Orlais and I tried to stop them. It's funny how much men will fight over a woman, even a woman neither of them had a chance to bed."

He traced his fingers along the scar, then leaned over to kiss it gently, before he cozied under the blankets closer to her.

"Absolutely ridiculous that they would fight over someone as lovely and intelligent as you, I completely agree." He stated with mock solemnity, "Why would any one bicker over such a fine specimen of a red-headed goddess, anyways?"

"Flattery gets you everywhere, my lord," Sansa says, laughing softly. She lets her own hand wander, traveling up the back of his shirt to stroke his skin. "Did you miss me as much as I missed you, Tyrion? I hate when we're apart like that."

It makes it better to accomplish a mission, naturally, but Sansa spends a good portion of her time wondering what he's doing and if he's safe. She feels distracted when she's not beside him.

"I certainly hope so, my lady." He teased, before he leaned in to cup her cheek then pulled her face to his, so he could kiss the breath out of her for a few minutes. Once he realized they would need oxygen, however, he pulled back enough to kiss the tip of her nose, murmuring. "What do you think? I missed you enough that I ached without you."

"I ached too," Sansa confirms. "Especially late at night when I was cold in my bed with no one to warm me. I suppose I could have found someone, people were offering, but none of them were my husband so it wouldn't have helped anyway."

She's quite firm on the stance of her vows, even though it hadn't originally been a marriage she wanted. Years have passed now, both in Westeros and Thedas, and Sansa is a different woman.

"If you had let a single person into your bed who was not me, I would have cut off their manhoods and strung them around our bedchamber while I politely reclaimed my martial bed." Tyrion stated with a mock-serious face, "So it is quite good that none of them compared to me to begin with."

He kissed her again, before he crooked a smirk at her, "Not that I didn't get offers myself. Who knew women found scars so alluring?"

"I've been telling you that for ages," Sansa says. She traces her fingertips down the scar on his face, the one that makes him look so rakishly handsome.

"I wouldn't let anyone touch me unless it was you. I'm yours, Tyrion, and you're mine. You taught my body how to sing even though it's a broken instrument."

"Yes well, you are biased." He took those fingertips, kissing each one, before he grinned, then gave her a gentle tap on the nose. "Now what have I told you about that, darling wife?"

"Well, it's been a while since you've scolded me. What have you told me about that, Tyrion?"

Sansa is baiting him a little, yes, but sometimes she needs the reminder that Tyrion sees her as perfect even if she isn't any longer.

"What I have told you ... " He leaned in, interspersing kisses with his words, "Is that you are not broken. Perhaps bruised, but you are still in one piece. You are stronger than you know, and that is one of the things I love best about you."

Sansa whimpers a little under his mouth, eyes fluttering shut. He knows her so well by now and she feels like they haven't been apart at all when she gets a chance to be with him again.

"You're the best man I know," she murmurs. "You know that, don't you?"

He runs his fingers through that thick red hair, before he stated simply, "And you are the best woman. So are we not fortunate, to be married to one another?"

"Oh, I thank the gods every day," Sansa says, biting her lip a bit. "What you're doing to my hair feels divine. Then again, you knew that already, didn't you?"

Sansa's always had a weakness for having her hair played with.

He quirked a smirk at her, as he continued to play with her long, auburn hair, letting it slide through his fingers. Like red-gold silk, if he was going to be poetic about it.

"Well naturally. I am your beloved husband and I know just about everything to make you happy, darling Sansa."

"You're not wrong on that front," Sansa agrees. She whimpers a little when he touches her hair, feeling utterly amazing and absolutely content to lie there and let him touch her.

"Tell me, you denied all those women your bed, didn't you?"

"I rather enjoy being right." He murmured, letting her hair slide through his fingers as he leaned in to nuzzle her ear, as he tucked her locks back.

"Now why would I allow any other woman in my bed, when I have the most beautiful woman in the world who has allowed me in hers?"

[continued here.]

Edited (moving to inbox) 2017-02-24 01:43 (UTC)

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

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