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

Threaded | Flat

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?"

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.

[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]]

((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. ]

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)

If ever there was one to stand out it was Iskandar. In the darkest of times he was the one with the smile still on his face. He'd pulled people through a lot of terrible times that way, had held people through deaths, had offered song and story to those who needed distractions. When things seemed impossible there he was a reminder that hope was still somewhere. Maybe they couldn't see it yet but at least he was there to keep the door from closing completely.

All that positivity made him stand out more than the average person and it had certainly made him an easy target as a Rifter. Still, he never let any of that get him down as he moved with friends and loved ones to Orzammar. It was here he could continue to lend a hand for the fights as well as just a general welcoming face to those who needed it.

There were times when he went out on missions and he was a fearsome warrior. It was dangerous for the enemy to be before him when he came riding through on his horse. One could be sure he'd do all he could to save them from falling when he was there. It was the least he could do.

The rest of the time he was here underground. Singing songs or telling stories. Sometimes he even trained people to fight. And if one was nervous about approaching him? Good news! He was already headed their way. Then again, he was even if they weren't nervous so there was that.

i

Rey's day often starts much earlier than she wants it to. Not that it's possible to tell day from night in the Thaig, but she keeps track of the days much the same way she did on Jakku, scratching little marks into the rock wall above her bed in the home she shares with Obi-Wan.

Then she heads out, walking the Thaig, checking in with anyone who looks like they need to talk, making note of new faces, or missing old ones. She's tried to keep the rifters together over the years, but there was only so much she could do, and she has always preferred to be on the front lines. Obi-Wan helps a little at least, if people don't trust her, they're likely to trust him.

She stops at different places depending on the day, some days she'll help repair a ballista used to keep the entrances to the Deep Roads clear, other days she'll help draw up plans for attacking a known Venatori stronghold. She tries to keep busy when she's below ground, because standing still too long makes her crazy.

ii

Meditation often takes a different form with her. Rather than sitting still in a quiet room, Rey prefers to be elbow deep in some project or another. There's a sense of calm to her, in fitting pieces of things together, and in one room of the home she shares with Obi-Wan, when she isn't out running around she can be found, building things. Often she's adding modifications to her lightsaber, although more recently her projects have been smaller light crossbows with a quick load and the same firing power as a standard sized bow.

Anyone looking for her will find her sitting at her work desk with as many lighted crystals as she can reasonably acquire and candles added to it, her fingers nimbly fitting together tiny mechanisms and jotting down notes on a piece of parchment spread out next to her, both in Common and a lettering that would be alien to most.

[ooc: prose or action spam aok i'll adjust as needed!]

Merrill hates caves. She forgets that, sometimes -- on the good days, the days where there is some echo of laughter around the walls, where there aren't any immediate threats pressing in on them. It's more apparent on others. Despite her research on red lyrium, she hasn't been corrupted; Audacity taught her well. Still, the red of the Blighted lyrium and the red of her own blood, the only thing keeping her safe, seem to run together; sometimes, when the light hits just right, it seems like everything is red. Where once she dressed in greens and yellows, vibrant colors of the earth, she has changed. Green is still there, but it's dark, the depths of an untouched forest. Black is there also, and not just in her hair; some of it has been shaved, the rest pulled back. Then there's the white, the griffon feathers in her hair and on her staff, and -- sometimes -- the griffon that she rides. But then, as always, there's the red. Red beads with the feathers. Red on her hands, in her mind; the blood of those she's killed, the blood of those she couldn't save, the scars that remind her of how close she's come herself.

She's not as cheerful, these days. There's still some of it -- sparks, optimism injected into plans as needed, into the days of those who are worse off than she is. Still, daisies need sunlight and room to grow. Merrill can't help but feel that they're in a tomb, trapped but not yet dead. There are darkspawn on one side, Tevinter on the other. Still, she works; for those who will allow it, she uses blood magic to try and stave off any infection from red lyrium or the Blight. She fights, either on the ground or on griffon-back, striking hard and fast.

And she is there, with a soft smile, should you approach her in the thaig. If nothing else, she can listen.

Edited 2017-02-06 22:37 (UTC)

Sina loves climbing. She loves running. She loves mud, for some reason. She loves exploring.

Today, she found a way to slip past the perimeter guards--sheer luck, for they are alert and vigilant--and creep quietly through the caves beyond. It's more frightening than she thought it would be, with no adults nearby to warn her if something looks off. But she has her own eyes, her own instincts, and Merrick has trained her well in self-defense.

For some reason, she has the idea in her head that the surface is not far from here. Or if it's not, maybe there's something wondrous the next cave over, or someplace safer, or someone who needs help. Wouldn't it be a good start for a little girl dreaming of becoming an Arcane Warrior one day, to be a heroine before the age of five?

When she screams, it's not really because she's afraid. It's because that's what she was taught to do when danger presents itself, to bring the adults running. Never in play, only for real. Out comes the solid oak walking stick made from a surface souvenir, swinging at a face with too many eyes and a body with too many legs.

All right, maybe she's a little afraid.

I. FIRST DAY

When they finally reach the Thaig, Alistair stays with the pack at first, if only because he's too tired to do anything else. If anyone who's been away for a while has questions about the state of things, he tries to answer, with levels of acerbic side commentary varying based on how personally betrayed he feels by the asker.

Midway between the tunnel that brought them there and the quartermaster who now gets to find somewhere to house the newcomers, though, Alistair sees bright red curls and peels away from the group without a parting word to anyone at all. Somehow he finds a large enough reserve of energy to jog a few paces before he slows down to a quieter creep, footsteps matched to the repeated thuds of her arrows into her target. When she reaches back for another arrow, he grabs her hand—fully expecting to pay for it, and already smiling.

Later, he searched out the small packs of children unlucky enough to have been born into the Inquisition. There aren't many. Even Alistair has wondered now and then if it wouldn't be kinder to sneak them into the care of collaborators topside, people who could keep them safe if not free—but barring that, everyone is being particularly careful not to add to the number of helpless mouths to feed. This is plenty.

He's looking for two elves in particular, and when he finds either of them, he's content to watch them play and wait for them to notice him.

II. ORTAN THAIG

That Alistair returns from Kirkwall little worse for the wear means he only takes a day off before he's slid back into the routine he'd left behind. Two days in the Thaig, three at the barricades holding the darkspawn at bay, rinse, repeat.

During his two days in Ortan Thaig he—well, he sleeps, first of all, and eats like he's preparing for hibernation. But otherwise he keeps busy, moving from task to task in an unhurried amble that disguises, like it always has, exactly how disciplined a schedule he keeps. As if a full day's work just happens to him by accident as he wanders aimlessly around. He spends time training people who lack tainted blood or prior experience to fight darkspawn without contracting the corruption—hopefully, no promises—or helping to repair weapons and armor that can no longer be cast aside and replaced. He chases after people for news and status updates. The second day he goes out with a few others to collapse a tunnel to the surface that may have been compromised. And he runs laps around the Thaig without a shirt on, if you're into that kind of thing.

One thing he doesn't do is seek out their new resident time travelers, or ask about them, or acknowledge their presence at all unless someone else insists on it. It's a bit like instinctively looking away from a wound.

III. DEEP ROADS BARRICADE

The outermost lines that the Inquisition, Wardens, and Legion have drawn against the darkspawn are a decent hike away from the Thaig; the further they push, the more warning there will be for everyone else if the blighters manage to break through. When he arrives this time, it's quiet. On the other side of the chasm he can see their fires and the occasional form walking past them, but they're out of range of the archers, which means everyone is out of the range of their archers, too.

It probably won't last. The favorite strategy as of late seems to be to wear at them one small raid at a time, making sure no one ever relaxes for long, and then launch a larger assault every few weeks when they're the worst possible mix of exhausted and complacently bored.

Alistair climbs up on a rock to get a better look alongside whoever is on watch without bothering to say hello, what a month it's been, I'm not dead and neither is Teren. Just, "How long?"

IX. WILDCARD

Whatever, I'm easy.

Edited 2017-02-11 09:00 (UTC)

He's never been to Orzammar, past or present, until right now. It wasn't a place he really expected to go, being that he wasn't the biggest fan of tunnels and caves - more so what usually lurked in them - but here he was, standing in the middle of the dwarven city. Honestly the mage was finding himself in a lot of unexpected places as of late, which was still pretty perplexing when he stopped to think about it.

Even though he's heard that Ortan Thaig is a place that most have taken up residence, he needs a break from traveling - and attacks - and decides to hang back in the big city. He doesn't know where anything is so for the most part he walks with no general direction, keeping to busier parts of the city or where there seems to be merchants. Every so often he'll stop to ask for directions or to ask a general question to someone passing by - they seemed a lot friendlier then the guards.

At some point it’s suggested, not unkindly, that the barricades always need more men, and it’s been quiet lately but why don’t you run these supplies along, and —

— And she knows a fuck off when she hears one, and really it’s a relief just to be doing something, anything at all. She's restless here, even worse than the boat. Ortan Thaig is the kind of place that rabbits run to die.

She’s deep into the tunnel before she spies them, a small snarl of figures; counts at least one dead dwarf, one skinny thing (Human? Elven?) with blades in hand. The ghoul's finished, though its hooked arm still thrashes with the motions of the woman above it.

This little scene's all played out, and thank the Maker because an armful of sandbags isn’t about to do shit against Darkspawn.

"Maferath’s Balls," She murmurs, lifts her voice in wary disbelief. "Lady Vauquelin?"

It’s a distraction. Enough so that she never notices the shriek, lunging from behind.

If Hermione had been hoping for a stronghold anything like Skyhold, she's sorely disappointed when she arrives at the Thaig. And if she'd been expecting to see a barrage of familiar faces, it seems as though she's also going to be at least somewhat disappointed. Given everything that had led to her ending up here in the first place (not the mention the sight of what the Inquisition currently is versus what it'd had the potential to be), it's hard to resist the urge to cry, and so she doesn't.

While she'd much rather not do so openly, it's not exactly as though there's much in the way of privacy here. With everyone being crammed so close together when they aren't off on their respective duties, it's inevitable that people will notice the young woman sobbing softly against a wall, trying not to wipe the tears away because her hands are still dirty from fighting and an escape and a rescue and more fighting before a barely-successful escape. They might notice, but whether anyone would care to remark on it is an entirely different matter, given that bitter desolation isn't exactly an uncommon sight around here.

Still, it isn't as though crying is all she's good for. She'll eventually get it out of her system, and once she does, she intends to do what she can to help, wherever she can manage it. She'd much rather not risk falling into a routine of being useless; she'll never see her own time again that way, never mind her proper home. That's not a prospect she's yet willing to face.

Darkness around his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks, but the song in his head is full of light. He closes his eyes and thinks he can see it, when the world tilts and the darkness is clearer. His eyes are clouded when they open, and if he's not careful, his breath rattles. His consciousness drifts away on occasion, when the ground seems to shake from the song. He thinks he knows the direction it comes from. It takes all his strength not to physically chase it.

He sits at the perimeter, glassy-eyed, no longer really Nathaniel but definitely still a Grey Warden, somehow. He speaks less than he once did, though his reactions are slower and his thinking is more primal. And always, there is the song.

Sansa is quite talented at the grand game, it seems, even if the grand game is taking place in Orlais and Kirkwall now instead of back in Westeros. The players are different but her partner, Tyrion, is exactly the same.

Sansa sometimes is struck by just how incredibly clever her husband is and this is one of those moments. They've been separate for a while, working to achieve their goals from opposite ends of the country but now, camped above ground at Orzammar, she's able to see him for the first time in a long while.

He has a few new scars, as does she, but that doesn't change anything. Their tent is nothing like the grand places she'd stayed in Orlais but it doesn't matter. He's there. She's been abed for a while, dressed in a surprisingly modest nightgown, and she reaches out to brush a curl off Tyrion's forehead.

"I know you're exhausted but I missed you," she says, giving him a sheepish smile. "Stay up for a while?"

Honestly? There are some fates worse than death. Times when ending a life is the greater mercy. At present, Aleron is in just such a state. It would have been far kinder to put him down like a rabid dog than to bring him back to the Inquisition. But no one really wanted to make that call and his lucidity slipped away before he could ask anyone to end it already.

Not that he made the trip easy. The pain and paranoia instigated uncharacteristically violent outbursts at least twice en route. There was also one very angry, unhinged episode where he demanded not to be taken to his family, that he refused to be bait. Bait for whom or what never was revealed.

Now that they've arrived, the red lyrium poisoned Seeker has been delivered into the hands of the healers. There is nothing they can do for him beyond offering sedatives and waiting for the inevitable. When he's not in a restless sleep, he's awake but only so much to recite the Chant under his breath. It's a focus to block out the pain and the madness.

Visitors are not turned away, but they are cautioned at the door that Aleron is not in his right mind and might turn aggressive on a whim.

Ortan Thaig

Evie hated being below ground. She felt trapped, like a bird in a cage. A bird that at any given moment could be killed from any one of a dozen hidden locations. She knows, reasonably speaking, that she's safe here, but her sister's assassins were getting more persistent, and it's hard for her to hide her trail when she's stuck in one location.

Still, when she needed some variant to the people she saw day to day, the Thaig is the best place, and remaining with the Inquisition is arguably the safest place for her to be.

All the same most of the time when she's below ground she can be seen either sitting and meticulously maintaining her sword, or sitting and watching, less prone to smiles and flirting now than she'd been a few years ago.

First Day

When the group arrives, it's chaos. People who have been gone for months, years, thought dead long ago reuniting with their loved ones. Beleth has none of those, so it's easy for her to skirt around everyone. She's still wearing most of her Venatori robes, but the cowl was replaced with a hooded cloak, obscuring much of her figure. The hood itself is pulled as far over her head as possible, leaving only glinting lavender peeking out over it.

She doesn't stay to watch. She doesn't care (she lies to herself). No one is waiting eagerly for her, unless it's with a knife. So she moves quickly through the crowd. Where is she going, what can she even do? She's not sure. The best plan is probably to just try to secure a place here to bunker down, and...wait. Wait for them to throw her in prison, or interrogate her, or just wait to die, either from the threat above them, below them, or from a knife from a resident.

Boy, isn't she glad to be back.

In the days after

Beleth had told Alan, not so long ago, that living underground would be an abhorrent, soul-sucking thing for her.

She was, naturally, completely right.

No matter how tall the roof is, no matter how spacey the Thaig is (and it's not very spacey), she feels like a creature trapped in a cage. Fitting, others would probably say, so Beleth complains to no one but Cade. A bunk bed for the two of them had been secured by her in the same shared housing, for the idea of having to sleep with strangers, without the safety and comfort of Cade's presence, was beyond thought.

It's in this shared housing that she is most often found. Much like the cramped 'apartment' she kept in Kirkwall, she's made some attempts to make this one a little more homey--a few paintings she scrounged up, some bright fabric hanging on the walls. Nothing very fancy, but it helps her remember what green looks like. In there, she holes herself away, a stack of papers written in the Elvhen script on one side, Beleth feverishly scribbling away at a translation. It is her most important work, the culmination of three years of study. If it survives, then everything will have been worth it.

But she can't spend all her time tucked away in the house. The Inquisition isn't going to keep a useless double-agent, after all. She spends time telling them what she knows, everything she can remember. And she takes time to go to the healers, the other researchers. They're the only ones spending time studying how to cure the red lyrium, and she learns everything that she can, tries to implement it for the Red Templar under her care. If it can't be reversed, cured, then at least stop it, or slow it down. Anything to keep the red lyrium from taking him from her.

When she's on the move, she wears her cloak, hood pulled low, walking as quickly as she can. She's sure everyone can see her, knows who she is, knows what she did, is judging her. They don't understand, how could they. How could anyone.

Once, just once, she visits the training grounds, and picks up a bow for the first time in years. She's as clumsy as a novice, struggling to remember the proper hold, the proper body position. It used to be she could fire an arrow while running, diving, jumping. Now it takes all her effort just to get her body centered, to pull the string back far enough. Right to her nose, she remembers, body at a 90 degree angle from the target, feet shoulder length apart. The string is harder to pull than she remembers, and when she lets go, the arrow sails...a couple dozen feet, before feebly falling, rattling onto the ground.

A few more arrows follow. None make it to the target. She puts down the bow, disgusted, and turns to leave. It doesn't matter anyway, she doesn't want to fight. And if they have any sense, they won't let her.

Who even cares. Not her (she lies to herself).

Outside

It is, probably, not the best idea to sit outside of one of the secret entrances to the Thaig. It's not like she can even say she's guarding it--all she has is a small, slightly dulled dagger in her boot, the one weapon she was allowed to have, just in case.

But she doesn't care. She really, truly, does not. Her skin was itching, she was suffocating down there, like someone just slowly and gently pressing their hand to her throat. So she takes opportunities to sneak outside, before she forgets what grass and trees and green looks like. Tree climbing is a rusty skill, much like everything else, but it's much easier to pick up again. So she tucks herself into the lower branches of a tree, not quite hidden, but at least she's not running around like an idiot.

This is better, she tells herself, over and over. This was the right choice. Who cares how she feels? No one--they've never cared, not in her entire life, why should they start now? But now she's back, suffering for the Cause, like she's spent her entire life doing. Like she's spent her entire life being mocked for, but Maker--Corypheus--Creators forbid she ever stop.

It's so fucking great to be back.

ORTAN THAIG | OTA

He hasn’t been back in months. Not since he slipped out one night, without any intention of returning. But things have changed.

It's not a kind adjustment to find himself underground again, so he's brisk about the business of it: Reintroductions, messages to carry, tunnels that a rat might travel undetected.

He’s as little luck at hunting as anyone these days — they’re just running out of prey — but catch him dragging back a deepstalker (yum). Or perhaps find him embroiled in quiet discussion of the Chant, sketching wide chalk marks on the walls, or just tossing small stones into the lava and watching them disappear.

Hey, he doesn't ask how you use your downtime.

ORLAIS | Lexa

The clamour of wings announces him; it doesn't pay to sneak up on an ally.

The Blight is beginning to take Verchiel, disease blown east on a sour wind. In a month's time the land will be black as a bruise, stippled with streaks of ruby.

There's a low wall that's survived this stretch of fields, where most crops haven't. A little stone posting where a bird might perch — and abruptly a little man leaning against it, arms crossed.

(Ignore the undignified stumble.)

"Lexa," He bows his head. It's less deference than it is a moment of reorientation, of adapting to a different balance. "Kirkwall's on fire."

Hello. There's never been much point to pleasantries. Alan stretches his neck back up to survey her, pulling a stubborn quill from his elbow.

Edited 2017-02-25 05:31 (UTC)

The Doctor doesn't sleep much. Never has. He sleeps even less these days. Not because he (again) finds himself thrust in the middle of a war, but because he doesn't like his nightmares. So, he wanders. He does 'standing-up cat-naps'. And generally relies on his Time Lord abilities more than normal.

He's discovered that while his heart and soul ache at being separated from the TARDIS, he doesn't have the mental deficiencies he normally experiences. It's a small comfort. He won't turn into a homicidal maniac or completely forget himself because of the separation.

He has discovered he is a bit friendless. Even Jamie is less than pleased with him right now. And those who are 'natives' don't understand the things he does. He's not really certain of his friendships with Cosima and Hermione. He's not good at this any longer. Being alone. Twenty-four years of having... her by his side has made him weaker in the face of these kinds of things.

So the Doctor is wandering. He looked deep in thought, but he's analysing the surroundings. And debating if an offensive or defensive measure would be better right now. How much training should he give to anyone here? And most importantly, how to get back and convince the others of the importance of maintaining the timelines.

As much as the Doctor liked to convince himself that he was 'unreadable', any of these emotions are displayed pretty plainly on his features. Another downside of spending so much linear time with someone he trusted completely...

Edited 2017-02-25 17:43 (UTC)

Orzammar

For the brief periods that Velanna is in Orzammar, she rarely sits still. She's driven by the spirit inside her as well as her own resolve, moving around the underground city both on foot and by her root teleportation, the boosted power from Purpose enough to make it so she can do so much more than she could before.

She doesn't actively avoid people she knows, but she doesn't often seek them out. If she does, it's to discuss something specific, or offer information learned on her trips on the surface. She's easy enough to find, however, she's usually walking perimeters, examining the defenses and adding magical reinforcements where she can.

Surface

Velanna is much more elusive aboveground. If she's working with a team she's usually a little distant, not particularly different from before. She spends a lot of time listening to the forest, sensing where unwanted visitors might be. She might disappear from the group and return later with a surprise guest, bound up in vines and roots, already primed and ready to give information to the first person who hears it, anything to get him away from the terrifying elf witch.

It's really better you don't ask what Velanna did to make him so compliant.

Threaded | Flat

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Orzammar - Cyril OTA

waver, ota, at Orzammar

eastern orlais; lexa & bellamy.

KIRK | ORZAMMAR | OTA