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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Today is one of the days that Cyril has locked himself up in the tiny dirt shack that he calls home with Sina. Typically, people have several bodies to a home, but he managed to get a small one to call his own only because of the work that he does. It often functions a a safe place for those who travel in and out of Orzammar to stay but when he's working, few want to linger around. He even sends Sina to one of his friends on those days.

He hasn't managed to blow off any of his limbs or fingers accidentally yet but there have been times where he's thought it might almost happen. He works with volatile materials and packs them into bombs and traps that can be transported safely to missions or to other rebel groups who operate outside of the dwarven cities.

He spends most of his day building and improving his explosives but if someone wants to come visit they can. He isn't opposed to social calls and is always there for people who want to take his work and blow up some Tevinters.

At the end of the day he goes to find Sina and take her back home and can be found walking the path between his house and the place she stays easily enough. He even pauses at the market to get something they can eat for dinner.

Living underground had never been one of Waver's ambitions in life. Always, always he had lofty goals. His nineteen year old self imagined the respect of magi for his talents, his twenty nine year old self imagined fighting at Iskandar's side again. Neither of them would have signed up for living in an underground kingdom in another world entirely, trying to keep one's head above water.

But that was the reality of the situation, and while the whole cliche of making the best of a bad situation caused Waver to roll his eyes, he at least knew how to keep himself busy. He walked along the streets deemed safer for those with the Inquisition every morning and evening, ears straining for information and his body glad for the movement. (Not that day and night mattered underground, but he tried to stay on schedule.) There were afternoons where he would try to predict patterns of movements, and days where he would do nothing but write correspondence while smoking up a storm, only to pass the letters off to whoever was taking care of delivery.

There were the rare occasions that Waver took to the tunnels that lead outside. His reasons for doing so were always the same - correspondence - and it happened perhaps once every three months. He never lingered though, being too aware that threats to rifters were reason enough to head out, do what needed to be done, then return. Still, he sometimes slowed his walks to take advantage of sunshine or feeling the rain on his face - the latter a sensation that brought him back to London more than anything else.

Then back into darkness, coupled with a quiet, contemplative pint to set it all off.

In all of these actions, routines, attempts to be busy, Waver never shrugged off conversation. It was more important than ever to know who one worked beside.

They're sent east with the name of a village and the name of a blacksmith and not much else. Arrows nocked and loosed toward a target. And that's fine. Being the ones who chose where to aim didn't help in the end--because there was an end. This is only the long, ghostly epilogue to the story that was over when everyone else died.

So they're aimed, they're shot, and Clarke doesn't question the direction or the goal. She packs a sack and dresses like a peasant for the road. It's only a day's walk to the village, but when they arrive at sunset the blacksmith is gone, his shop cleared out and empty. And maybe that's the plan. Maybe he'll meet them here. Maybe someone else will. She doesn't know. She didn't ask.

They sit against the wall in the shop's loft, dressed and armed, and Clarke alternates keeping watch with sleeping on Bellamy's shoulder, until before sunset the door does creak open and someone does walk in. Clarke lights the scraps of wood in the fireplace with an outstretched hand. A warning, if it's an innocent traveler looking for somewhere unoccupied to sleep, and light enough to see by if it's not--

It's not. Clarke moves onto her knees to slide forward and look down.

"Lexa?"

Lexa enters sideways, and blade first, sword flashing the fire's light around. She stops warily short as it flares, prepared to dart back out again until that voice snaps her head up, a familiar dark hood pushed back to reveal an even more familiar face. It's clean of war-paint, but grimy, and scraped across the jaw.

"Clarke?" She doesn't smile, but eyes widen in surprise and her arm drops, sheathing the blade at her hip. There aren't many she trusts these days, but Clarke has always been the exception to all of her rules. "I thought-- you didn't answer my letters. Someone heard you'd been captured."

She reaches for the blade again at the first hint of other movement, and only half-eases once she's gotten a glimpse to double-check: "Is that Bellamy?"

He missed the sky. Whether he was down in the Deep Roads for an hour or weeks, he missed the sky. He missed the heat of the sun and the gentler touch of stars. Certainly he could do without the oppressive press of thousands of tons of Earth over his head. He knew the Deep Roads were safe - to a degree - and a necessary, but it had never meant he liked them particularly. Still, they were were of use and offered necessary shelter between missions.

As much as he missed the sky, he was glad to have a place to rest, so he never complained of it. At least not aloud where others outside of his household might hear. Surely Waver and Iskandar were tired of his longings by now. Speaking of longings, he already longed for the comfort of his most steadfast lover, which hurried his steps through the streets (he blended easier now that he wore leather gloves at all times to cover his shard outside of his home, aside from battles).

His pace hardly meant he couldn't be stopped though, and he was not in such a hurry that he would brush off anyone who need his attention - especially a fellow Rifter.

Waver was on his way back from dropping off correspondence. Truth be told, he wished that there was a proper post office for the mail, but he knew better. Something that organized was easily compromised, and that was an unacceptable risk.

He wasn't quite intent on going back to what was home for now. There were a few more hours before it was night up on the surface, and he intended to keep himself busy until then. Cards tonight, maybe. Or at least trying to get some extra food for the cat that Iskandar had taken to years ago.

Passing by Kirk was a bit of a surprise, actually, since their paths crossed more indoors than out - or at least, what counted for out-of-doors while living underground.

"--Hey. Do you need anything while I'm out?"

He tried to be a decent roommate, really.

[OOC: Prose/brackets both okay, feel free to hit me up with your own starters or contact me if you want something in particular.]

The truth of the matter is that they're losing. Slowly, yes, but they are losing. Every second that passes is another second more towards their eventual demise. Perhaps by the end of this year, or maybe the next, or even in the next five... eventually, they will lose. The Inquisition will be crushed. It's an incredibly bleak outcome, he knows, but that doesn't stop Bruce from fighting anyway. To try and slow down that eventuality as much as he can, and perhaps if it was slowed down enough...

Well. It's perhaps too much to hope for, at this point.

Right now it is the present that he has to focus on. The mission had been relatively successful, they had managed to get back more supplies to refill their stocks. Less worry for supplies meant being able to focus more on the offensive, which was what they needed here. Being on the defensive wasn't going to get them anywhere.

As much as Bruce wanted to go back out, he knew that his team needed the rest - the success didn't come easy, and many of them were worn out from the journey alone. So he let them have their rest while he dedicates his time in Orzammar to continue his research of lyrium as well as its red counterpart. From time to time he'll go around to the people willing to talk about their condition and ask them for anything he can think of that'll help him, and if they allow him let him do some tests on them too.

Bruce walking around in Orzammar is always a sight to see. Where his left arm had been now its somehow grown larger while encased in lyrium that glows a sickly green similar to that of the Fade. Anybody who's been out with him on the field has most likely seen him transform into the giant lyrium golem that's been the bane of many Venatori since he broke himself out of their confinement a couple of years ago. Compared to him then now Bruce does everything with purpose, with fierce determination, with rage that still burns within him. There's no way that Bruce is going to let himself get snuffed out anytime soon, not while he can still stand and fight.

Araceli Bonaventura slipped out of the Inquisition unremarked, unrecorded, a thief in the night in 9:45 Dragon. In 9:45 Dragon there arrived a one-handed Antivan named Leandra who had lost her hand in a duel; people still ask if she won that duel, and she will still point out with a smile that never reaches her eyes that she is still standing, no, so what do you think?

Llomerynn is not a home the way that Skyhold had been home but that's because she's rarely there long enough for her to settle. Of course it didn't go down easily. This is the home of pirates, and pirates know the sea, and the sea will never be tamed even as she receives every new report with a heavier heart, drinking alone in the dark. More and more names she recognises. Casualties, losses, or simply question marks recorded against them.

Sometimes where her hand should be still aches. Those are the nights she goes to the ship she calls Leviathan with the figurehead she talks to like an old friend, sorely missed, a splash of green paint on the chest all she can dare. They always have to be in and out, ferrying supplies or refugees, not a ship for risking open battle. Long gone is the smiling girl from before but she can still walk tall and get the job done. Efficiency is crucial in a war, she remembers the Nightingale telling her but last she heard her old teacher sings no more.

[[ooc; prose/action spam welcome, will follow along. Catch me on plurk or discord if you'd like a different starter]]

In a world where the Qunari are entrenched in the north tearing Antiva apart in the process, Korrin rarely has time for a breather. She went north, first to pursue Araceli, but later immersing herself in fighting the ongoing invasion with a fierceness -and a recklessness- few could match. There's been no word from her family for at least a year, and she knows without having to confirm it that they've all fallen in battle against their erstwhile kin. Just as she will, someday, though that hasn't happened yet.

Still alive and kicking, the nonetheless weary and embittered Vashoth woman approaches the Leviathan with an unopened bottle in hand. She had been saving it for better times, but those times seem to be constantly eluding them. They might as well enjoy it while they can...and it's been a while since she had a moment of privacy with her kadan. 'Kadan' is all she ever calls Araceli in public; training herself not to use her love's given name is hard enough, she can't manage substituting it with another.

Edited 2017-02-05 19:32 (UTC)

((separated by post style and location! i. is in the thaig and ii. is close to orzammar but aboveground. ))

i. In his own opinion, he had stretched his luck and excuses to the breaking point with his refusal to enter the Deep Roads and the Dwarven realms. He would have continued to give his excuses—they are so close now—but everything has changed.

The Outsider has returned, and Thranduil urgently needs to speak with him—and with Beleth—but it will be a waiting game until they can make it to the Thaig and Thranduil is patient, but it has been worn thin by the past few years.

The rock above his head is not truly pressing down on him. The room is not actually closing in on him, there is still enough air to breathe, and just because he does not see any green or color in this chamber beyond drab grey and brown does not mean that it is a tomb. He cannot see a way out, and for that reason he perches on the bench like a coiled spring. He cannot imagine being able to sleep down here, but running in and out of the hidden entrances will only draw more attention to them. So, he is stuck, and the only thing he is able to do is wait it out.

He leans back, against the odd little house that is carved directly from the rest of the rock that forms this little thaig. It’s certainly busy down here—noisy, everything echoing, and he hasn’t been denied the joy of people watching, and occasionally giving a polite nod to those he recognizes.

ii. [ the air feels different. he cannot hear the trees in Thedas, but only a fool would be unable to notice the differences by sight alone. the remaining halla held by his people—and they are his people, he will do what is needed to keep them safe, he will make the sacrifices needed to keep them safe, he and galadriel and his lord, returned to him—are skittish, and were it not for the size of the herd, he would be concerned about them overgrazing what land they do have.

as it is, they are safe, far away, and it is thranduil who is skulking about in the forest, cloaked in glamour and a warm cape as well, waiting for his contact to arrive. ]

It has been a long and hard few weeks on the outside. James and his small crew of Templars and other former Chantry soldiers arrives back at Ortan Thaig looking worn and hungry, so even the simple pleasures of the Inquisition base look like the Maker welcoming them home.

James himself headed straight for the run-down little hut on the far end of the thaig, hauling with him a long branch with bright green leaves upon it. He rapped on the door, and waited for an answer.

Araceli doesn't turn at her approach. She's too practiced, recognises Korrin's tread easily even so she doesn't look up from where she's bent over a map pinned to what they've salvaged as a table. There's a possible supply line sketched out that she might be able to swing if people can be guaranteed to make the drop-off for her, or if her people can find a good place for a cache.

How long before one of her people turns around and hands her or Korrin or both of them in? The people here might be fooled well enough but the Venatori slipped into her head once, she wouldn't put it past them to be able to do it again.

"Korrin," she greets because they're on the open deck of a ship still, someone in the crow's nest, a few on watch and one or two playing Diamondback together to forget that the world is slowly ending somewhere on the mainland. Enough of them have sailed to Rivain to know that kadan can mean many things so she-- she tells herself she has allowed it. (That they lasted with what she did sometimes is a miracle that not even a dragon's tooth split in two and a mermaid clutching the moon should have allowed.) One-handed she rolls the map up, tugs out the daggers and tucks them into her belt before she finally, finally turns. "Do you need me for something?"

The glance in the direction of the deckhouse leading to her cabin isn't insignificant.

[If you want a job doing proper, you end up doing it your bloody self cursing an arsehole what dares to call himself Big Jim who had the sheer gall to write and complain about eating green leafy things that should've been fed to the white hoofed things.

This is a war, Jimothy, Yngvi had written in Orzammar in the midst of other more important work. You make sacrifices. Like we all didn't do worse in Kirkwall all the time. And then he'd had to go get blind drunk because Kirkwall isn't a name he even wants to hear unless he knows one way or the other about Liadan.

(And no one knows. No one knows because what's one elf-blooded ex-Coterie mercenary to anybody but him and his, why should anyone care when they're slipping through his fingers, when he's mourned two and maybe should be mourning three--)

So topside. Been a bit. He works better underground because he knew the Undercity long before he knew even Lowtown, knows all this and so he's come with nugs in his pocket, intel stuffed about his person but more in his head, a small shabby figure.]

Psst. [No oi. That's all long gone unless it's pulling rank because guess what you still need to be able to do that down below.] Forgot how rank these things smell, they're going to give you away mate, mark my words.

When it's a good day, Yngvi will still say that he clearly predicted they'd be requiring as many nugs as they do by gesturing to his brood with a crooked smile. But the good days are few and far-between when the Boneflayers have been made to live up to their name so literally by the world, and so most days he just makes sure that his nugs are not the ones being eaten.

Part of him isn't surprised at how quickly he got used to living in the dark again. You can't just toss a childhood in Darktown aside so easily especially not when they did manage to get so much of the family out (but oh at what cost, he doesn't ever want to talk about that one) because some of it was just business as usual. Sure, profit margins were down but hey, what can you do.

Well, you can glare at the Deep Roads and realise that you really do not have any sort of feel for the Stone at all but Yngvi is pretty much everywhere at once it seems, though he's carved out a decent space for himself with a chunk of the Carta by now. Holding court as it were and doesn't that just tickle him, getting to do that right where he'd be hated by pretty much everyone. Still, same old Yngvi, ready to gossip and catch up if you've got five minutes, or someone who knows where you can get your intel, some trap parts, or maybe a brace of nugs if you're peckish.

[[ooc; prose/action spam welcome, will follow along. Catch me on plurk or discord if you'd like a different starter]]

Ortan Thaig

It's been longer than Jamie cares to remember than he's used his own name. Openly being a rifter is a death sentence, and he's made the decision long ago to go underground, long before the Inquisition was forced to abandon Skyhold. The people that know him also know that "Jamie" disappeared in 9:45 Dragon, gone for long enough for people to assume that he was dead. The man that has come back to the Inquisition may bear some faint resemblance to Jamie, if anyone cares to peer past the beard and the scars and mentally dress the man that favors dark leathers and gloves in a kilt, but he never calls himself Jamie anymore, at least not in anyone's hearing. He's Black Donald now, or just 'Donald', to his friends. It's the only tie he allows himself to his old home now - some people back in Scotland use 'Black Donald' to refer to the Devil - but it's a tie he's never explained. The days of him trying to talk about Earth are long gone.

Instead, he focuses on what needs to be done, going on patrols and taking his turn at fighting off darkspawn or the occasional deepstalker incursion, using his downtime to make sure his blade is sharp and ready for whatever needs to be done.

There's still flashes of the old Jamie that surface from time to time, however - times where he makes sure to help the members of the Inquisition who've made it here are taken care of as best as he can. Sometimes it's making sure that someone's wounds are tended to, either by finding a healer or dressing them himself if he has to. Sometimes it's making sure those who need it have food, even if it means he'll go hungry. Every once in awhile, there'll be a friendly clap on someone's back or a joke or two told, but even during those times, it's rare that the smile on his face reaches his eyes. There's been far too much lost for him to be truly happy now.

Above ground

He goes out more often than some, using his knowledge of the tunnels and back passages to slip out quietly. There's more that needs to be done than just keeping the darkspawn away. There's contacts to be met, either to pass along or get information. There's supplies to be gathered, either through hunting or through raids. There's strikes to be made against the enemy - and where he goes, a sigil of a bear follows, burned into whatever nearby surface he can find.

There's still fighting to be done, and while he may not saying so publicly, deep down he's still a McCrimmon...and a McCrimmon's not going to go down without a fight.

Edited 2017-02-05 23:41 (UTC)

It isn't often that Thranduil ventures underground; Gwenaëlle does not expect, is not expecting to see him there. It's entirely possible she may be less impressed when she finds out what it is that brought him, or at least part of it, but when she catches that flash of silver hair under the strange light (the adjustment is hard; she veils her eyes, sometimes, above-ground) she doesn't hesitate in making a beeline, crashing into him -

If it were her he was waiting for, she'd have been expecting him; she knows that, knows that something must be afoot, and will want to know what it is, but first, first. This, which is how considerately he's provided her with a lap to land in, a moment of awkward jostling as she endeavours not to do him an injury with sheathed knives, Hardie trotting behind her more sedately as he registers familiarity and lack of threat in her collision.

Korrin doesn't visit the south much these days; living underground has even less appeal for the Vashoth mage, especially when there are Qunari to fight up north. And there are always Qunari, their dreadnoughts and soldiers seemingly neverending. Still, Orzammar is one of the few places that isn't under siege right now, and their high-quality wares often make the trip worth-while. So it is that she finds herself in the commons area, perusing bomb components, poisons, traps and anything else that will make the Qunari's invasion more difficult.

Mentally calculating what she needs and can afford, Korrin doesn't spot Kirk until she turns and nearly slams into him. "Ah, fuck, sorry--"

For a moment, there's that old impulse to pick Araceli up and spin her around, bring back a wisp of Araceli's infectious smile through sheer stubbornness. It's entirely fair to say that stubbornness is what sent her north, not allowing for the bond between them to be sundered just because of what happened. If she can be counted on for anything, it's to be unswervingly loyal to the bitter end...even when it hurts.

A small, crooked smile forms as she lifts the bottle. "I don't need to have been standing there to know that you've been staring at that for too long. C'mon." She'll head to towards that cabin without another word, ready to hold doors open as need be. If she's going to crash and insist on attention, she can at least have manners.

He could not argue if Gwenaëlle brought up that he has never come here for her-- he can admit when he is in the wrong, and this is one of them. This place puts a fear into him, and so when he holds her, wraps his arms around her and holds her close, eyes falling shut as he breathes in the smell of her hair and focuses on having her here. He loathes being apart, but he must—

There are things greater than him. This must remain an asset, and not another thing for him to lose his head over.

Slowly, he leans back, lets her come into view, catches one of her hands in his own and brings it to his lips. “Good afternoon, my lady.” He is not sure, exactly, what time it is, if the stars are out or veiled still, but he’ll wager a guess. Hardie gets his attention next as Thranduil shifts to reach out a hand, allow himself to be inspected, and then pat the hound. As his hand passes over Hardie’s head, he leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of her neck; a slow exhale. “I missed you very much.”

[ thranduil isn't exactly a shining example of 'how not to be seen' when he's not glamoured to the skies and back-- making an impression is important, and the whole 'very tall elf who is very angry' has worked in his favor enough that he doesn't bother switching it up very much. if he needs to hide the armor, he'll hide himself. meaning that he has no excuse not to be delighted by smelly, potentially location-betraying nugs, what is personal space, yngvi, going to reach right into those pockets and pull out rump roast, the favorite, and hold him in two absurdly long elven arms. ]

Are you marinating the poor creatures? It would not hurt either of you to bathe. [ thranduil you are literally the only one who looks like they stepped out of a l'oreal commercial in the middle of this apocalypse, stop.

but rump roast gets a hand stroking him like someone's a bond villain and rump is the persian as thranduil settles down elegantly on a rock, smoothing his robe out before he does so, looking for all the world more comfortable here than he'd be inside on a fancy chair. now, he's slightly more on yngvi's height. ]

How is Gwenaëlle? [ yngvi might castrate him if he didn't ask. ]

He saw Cyril on the way and went to walk at his side. A hand fell to his shoulder and he walked with him, a small smile on his lips. Times were hard but that never stopped the giant man from being a positive force among the people here. He never let anything get him down and that was perhaps why some turned to him for comfort or just for a reminder that hope still existed. Or just to stay a little sane.

It didn't matter to him why Cyril might need him today but he was always there to offer any of that to him. This was a dear friend of his and he would do all he could to help him out.

"Welcome back, my friend."

Cyril heard the knock but needed to finish his mixture before he could get up and answer it.

"I'm coming," he called, to let whoever was there know that he would answer soon. Then when he did he opened the door and raised his brow a bit. He didn't really smile anymore, not unless Sina was around, but the expression was a pleased one.

"James! When did you get back?"

The unforgiving words murmured into his hair when he leans close - "Whose fault is that, exactly?" if he misses her - are decidedly at odds with the way she laces her fingers through the hand that takes hers, claims his space as her own and breathes out like it's something she's been holding. In the past few years they've been apart more than they haven't been, and it is a little bit harder every time. A little bit harder every time someone falls and she's selfishly glad it wasn't her, it wasn't him; every time she isn't sure it won't be, the next.

The long silences, the distance. The both of them deciding where to stand, and not budging.

And it can't be set aside forever, so, when she straightens and nudges Hardie closer to the bench to keep out of passing foot traffic:

"What are you doing here, Thranduil?" because as much as she might like it to be to see you, my lady, it won't be. The resignation to that is as evident as it is apparent she really does want to know what's going on.

Just being near Iskandar was a comfort, and though Cyril rarely smiled to anyone who wasn't Sina he did relax a bit when he was touched. The hand on him was more comforting than he could say.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low. "You look well."

Cyril has forgotten what it felt like to see the elves from Thranduil's realm. Every time he was near one of them before he would feel that weird longing fill his stomach and made him homesick for a place he had never really experienced. He wouldn't have thought those feelings would linger after all this time and yet just the sight of Thranduil is enough to make him blindsided by them. The emotion knocks the air from him for a moment. Despite everything, Thranduil manages to be so beautiful and regal seeming and makes Cyril feel an ache he can't fully describe. His presence is a reminder that the world still has green and warmth and beauty in it.

Cyril had had his reasons for not going into the woods and joining the elves in their treehouse, but now that Thranduil was here he felt himself doubting every single one of them.

"Thranduil?" he asks, as if he cannot believe his eyes.

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Page 1 of 45

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

Orzammar - Cyril OTA

waver, ota, at Orzammar

eastern orlais; lexa & bellamy.

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KIRK | ORZAMMAR | OTA

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Bruce 'the fireflake' Not-Banner // Orzammar // OTA

Araceli 'Leandra' Bonaventura; Llomerynn; ota

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thranduil || ortan thaig + aboveground.

Re: Orzammar - Cyril OTA

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ii;

Yngvi ; Orzammar ; ota;

Jamie/"Black Donald" - Ortan Thaig or above ground

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ortan thaig