THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part II

[faderifting]

WHO: Any Inquisition members + all new rifters
WHAT: A semi-involuntary tropical island vacation, continued
WHEN: Kingsway 28 onward
WHERE: An island east of Rivain, the sea, and Llomerryn
NOTES: OOC post. Please direct any questions there and note that a follow-up to the ruins and negotiations with pirates will take place separately via the optional player-led plots described in that post!

I. THE RUINS

The island is littered with bits and pieces of ruins, but enterprising explorers will discover the largest and most intact at the top of the island's central peak. It's a long-dormant volcano, broad and not especially tall, as if the mountain's top was lopped off about halfway down. The ruins are nestled in the crater, completely hidden from view until the summit is reached. They're heavily overgrown, the rich black volcanic soil feeding a riot of ferns and fronds and vines that twine around the walls and columns. But if you bother to look past all the moss, it quickly becomes clear that what at first appears to be a single large building is in fact a composite of several overlapping structures or settlements.

The oldest and most damaged elements are clearly elven in style, and if examined carefully will prove to be the remnants of a single large temple. Most of the identifying features are gone, worn or hacked away over the years, but there are tall, bulky statues, elven in style, flanking several of the doors. It's difficult to tell precisely what they once depicted, but there's a distinct impression of wings.

Built into the skeleton of the temple are smaller buildings in a human architectural style, enough to form a small village that shows signs of having been abandoned many ages ago. Most recent—so recent that unburied skeletons may be discovered—a contingent of Qunari (or more likely Tal-Vashoth) appears to have taken up residence and repaired or rebuilt some of the structures before being wiped out. In the center of both the elven temple's foundation and the "town square" of the human/Tal-Vashoth village will be a perfectly circular pond full of muddy, leaf-filled water which, on closer examination, is an artificially dug pool with ancient tiling along its sides and bottom, fed by a sluggish, dying spring.

The ruins will seem very bright and welcoming at first: exactly the right temperature, alternating shade and sunlight, with a faint fruity smell that promises a nearby food source. If your character and his party linger there, however, they'll begin to pick up on indistinct whispers—fleeting and almost more sensed than heard—and feel something like a pull to remain. Mages and rifters will feel these things more strongly than any non-mage natives—and may be able to sense how thin the Veil is—while non-mage natives may think their friends are behaving oddly at first but will eventually sense it as well.

The longer anyone remains in the area, the more insistent these impressions will become. Over the course of a day they'll be joined by more impossible things that remind characters of whatever they may miss from wherever they consider home: someone may find a toy they lost as a child in the rubble, or step through a crumbling door and find their family sitting around a table waiting for them. If they are hallucinations, they're shared ones; everyone else will be able to see and confirm what's there as well. While mages and rifters, in particular, will be able to tell that something is amiss, the impossible people and objects will be visible to everyone, even dwarves, and those without magic, unaccustomed to the lucid dreaming mages experience, will find it more and more difficult to resist the belief that it's real. For those able to continue to sense that something is amiss, convincing everyone to leave may take some cajoling—or some force.

II. THE ESCAPE

Negotiations with the Qunari are fruitful, and once an agreement is reached things move quickly. The camp on the beach is hastily packed up and loaded into longboats, and the whole of the Inquisition party waits poised on the water's edge until the Qunari ship rounds the headland. Its arrival is announced by a thunderous crack and a heavy splash, red-tinted water exploding into the air in the center of the teeming mass of sea monsters. They scatter, only to converge on the newly-arrived ship, swarming over its iron-plated sides.

The diversion won't hold for long, despite the Qunari's impressive arsenal, and so the Inquisition longboats race across the bay toward their anchored ships, rushing to unload men and essential supplies as quickly as possible. Most of the boats make it unmolested, but the last trip cuts it a bit too close, and is nearly swamped only a few dozen yards from safety when a pair of serpents break off from attacking the Qunari to come harry the Inquisition retreat.

The danger doesn't end once all are aboard: as the Inquisition ships weigh anchor the Qunari head back out beyond the reef, and while some of the red lyrium-tainted beasts follow them, many linger, harassing the wooden vessels as they attempt to navigate the narrow channel through the reef. None of the sea monsters are quite large enough to sink the Inquisition's ships, but that doesn't mean they're not game to try. Tentacles slap at the deck and wriggle through portholes, crystals of red lyrium scraping along the barnacle-crusted hull with a dreadful shuddery sound. Snakey tails spiked with more of the same rake at the sides and whip at ropes along the rail.

Even once the Inquisition ships reach open water, still the monsters pursue them, and just as it appears they're finally safe, the kraken rises to the surface, its massive, lyrium-lidded eye blinking at the ship, its pincers snapping, and lets fly a burst of lyrium-tainted ink, stinking toxic bile that paints large chunks of the ship's rear with red-black acid that quickly begins to eat its way through the wood. The ships only go free when, finally, something else seems to catch their attention, and then fall further and further back until all that can be spotted on the horizon is a great, shadowy grey shape in the midst of flailing red before it all disappears beneath the waves.

The damage to the ships, while not fatal, is enough to make even the short journey back to Kirkwall impossible, especially given the dangerously low supplies of food and water. After surveying the worst of it, the captains insist that there is no choice but to make for the nearest port: Llomerryn. Though only a couple days' journey, the deteriorating condition of the ships requires constant attention, and all Inquisition personnel who are not grievously wounded are pressed into service to keep things together until they can dock and make repairs.

III. THE PIRATES

It's a near thing--or at least it feels that way--but after a couple days, just as the last of the water rations is running out, land is sighted. The ships limp into Llomerryn harbor and disgorge their thirsty, sunburnt crew onto its long wharf, the sailors to begin repairs and the Inquisition's agents to explore. Some are tasked with errands to run to assist the sailors, things like procuring supplies or inducing local craftsmen and laborers to pitch in, but otherwise the group is more or less at its leisure until the ships are seaworthy once again.

At first, the locals may give Inquisition members a hard time. Llomerryn is famed for both is political neutrality and its lawlessness, and the merchants, sailors, and tavern keepers who make up its population have no interest in being drawn into the Inquisition's cause or policed in the name of Andraste. It's a noisy, dirty city whose energy nonetheless shines through the grime, where fights are common and there's a 50/50 chance of them ending in sudden, violent death or back-slapping laughter. Unless you excel at blending in in that sort of environment, most taverns will refuse service (and especially refuse to show you the back rooms) and in many establishments, Inquisition agents will find it hard to even get through the door without being heckled or manhandled back out, at swordpoint if you're pushy. Walking around alone during this first stretch is inadvisable, as you're likely to be robbed. A picked pocket would be counted as good luck around here; getting robbed at knifepoint or beaten for your purse in an alley is just as likely.

But a couple of days after the Inquisition's arrival, something changes. Someone with some weight to throw around must have noticed how much money the Inquisition was spending, or else decided that Corypheus won't be good for business, because doors begin to open, drinks begin to pour more freely, and the Inquisition is slowly given free rein of the town. Its markets and bazaar teem with goods and people from every known corner of Thedas, a riot of color and noise and strange scents and the ever-present flash of treasure of all sorts. They're home to nearly anything imaginable--likely stolen, but that's not your fault--including a number of items that most likely fell from rifts somewhere in Thedas. There are relics from every culture scattered throughout the stalls (though very few of them are authentic), and at least one merchant has a metal box containing a sliver of red lyrium, straight off Meredith Stannard, she claims. It would be in everyone's best interest if she didn't keep it, whether that means buying it or stealing it off her.

Others are selling treasures of a less material sort, including a particularly persistent fortune teller who keeps materializing out of the shadows at the market's edges to spout cryptic warnings in a sonorous whisper, the onyx orb that has replaced one eye glimmering. His messages are difficult to parse, and it's hard to see past his open hands, constantly thrust out to demand payment of anyone who seems to linger to listen. But even so, there's something strangely familiar in each of his foretellings, some unlikely detail that just catches the attention enough to make you wonder.

Whether a pirate's life in Llomerryn is for you or not, it doesn't last. By the fifth of Harvestmere, the repairs on the ships are complete, the crews have fully restocked, and it's back to Kirkwall.

Comments

[kartereo]

I. A.
Going deeper and deeper into the ruins, the more and more Waver wondered about what it was that had caused the previous inhabitants to leave. Determing that could be a life time's worth of work, and here, now, he only had a few days.

Craning his neck up at the great statues, he did not hide his curiosity. "Wings," he muttered to himself. "How common are those?"

His curiosity only intensified when the smaller built in vilage revealed itself. Building on top of ruins did not surprise Waver at all, but what did surprise him were the skeletons. There was no sentimentality as he knelt beside one, only curiosity. Without touching the bones, he leaned in to try and examine them. Were there wounds, were there cracked bones, were there signs of how they died?

Waver sighed heavily. "Why weren't you buried? Any of you?"

I. B.
[Remaining among the ruins had been a choice Waver made, and he stayed there trying to draw out the entire scene as well as he could. He...was not the best, but he tried, filling page after page with notes about the layout of the ruins, the layout of the village, and even going so far as to have a small map noting where there were unburied bones. Whatever this place had been, it could be helpful to someone sometime in the future and...it was fun, charting this all out. It wasn't improving his magecraft, but it was improving himself and his skills. It was a chance to do one of the things Clock Tower made it seem impossible to work on.

But as he worked, the sun starting to dip in the sky, the place echoed in a way it should not have. Ought not have. There were whispers, far and unfamiliar, their words just too far away to understand. Every time Waver heard one, he perked, only to be sure he was hearing things.

And then there were the things he began to find on the ground, just as twilight began to fall. In a blanket of purple glow, Waver spotted a video game cartridge that he could have sworn he misplaced only a week before arriving in Thedas. He walked over to examine it, convinced that he had to be seeing things.]

What the hell is this doing here?

III.
Llomerryn's market is loud, crowded, and goddamn fascinating. Waver's aware that he is not blending in, feels it in his bones. He stares down at the materials for sale for too long, he moves slowly. Fuck it. He's allowed to indulge after...whatever the hell that was back in those ruins. He still hasn't quite figured it out, and right now he's far more intent on examining the thick woolen fabrics in front of him in order to determine what he actually wants to purchase.

"Damnit," he sighs, talking to himself. "Should've asked what winters are like in Kirkwall first."

[onlyhymns]

II.
Cade had a hard time with the first set of beasties, and that... hasn't changed. In fact, rather than be used to it and more helpful this time, the attack seems to push him further, and there's no hope of doing any fighting anymore. Every pitch of the ship or scrape of a tentacle drags him further into total dissociation, and by the time the decision is made to sail to Llomerryn, he's seemingly vanished.

In truth, Cade has curled into a corner of the hold, surrounded by crates and completely silent. He's content to stay here indefinitely, paralyzed by fear and more or less waiting to be killed.

III.

It's at least a day or two into having docked when Cade has slowly made his way off the boat, with or without company, and he remains near the docks, driven by a wild and irrational fear that the Inquisition will leave without him if he doesn't keep an eye on the boat. He's an easy target for muggers and ruffians, more or less letting them have their way with what limited coin and dignity he has. He won't eat or sleep, and the only time he seems to take interest in something other than obsessing is when passing by the fortune teller, whom he watches with nervous fascination. Anything, to know what will become of him next.

[doneisdone]

I. (ish)

Teren isn't at the ruins, because she's busy helping run the camp. It's strange to keep things rolling for a group that isn't just the Wardens, but she proves competent and is well capable of delegating tasks to anyone standing around.
Staying busy also has her in a reasonably approachable mood, though she's certain to shoo off anyone who tries to waste her time.

II.

Here we go again.
Having established herself as a Person To Listen To when it comes to dealing with the camp and provisions, Teren is on nearly every trip to and from the ships in the longboats, sometimes rowing herself and sometimes simply calling orders and encouragement.
Though still no doubt extremely bothered by the serpents, Teren knows when she has a job to do, and faces the pair down as they harry the boats. Slashing at them each time there's a patch of scaly hide in her line of sight, she's far from able to kill either of them, but one hopes they're at least slowed by the injuries.

For her trouble, Teren takes a tail to the face right before they ascend the ladder, leaving an angry gash over the left side of her face from forehead to jaw. Bleeding profusely from the face, she nonetheless doesn't stop until she reaches the deck, at which point someone forces her to get below to have the wound seen to.
Feeling a bit faint, she curses them out, and also the sea monsters, because really.

III.

Freshly patched up and looking all the more like she belongs here, Teren dons her more... unaffiliated leathers and wanders the streets of Llomerryn, finding it an excellent reward for putting up with all that nonsense on the sea. She's having a veritable field day in the market, and though naturally a few local have tried to menace her, she has a way of menacing them back. Never mind that she's weak, there are bargains to be made.

I.

[fireandsmoke]

It begins as telltale pinpricks tingling the back of his neck, a crawling sensation nagging at his earlobe, brushing against the tops of his shoulders. Brushing an arm against a spiderweb would produce a remarkably similar feeling.

And yet that very same tingling, one that Sarkan cannot describe as fully malevolent nor fully safe and pure, is what draws him to venture deeper into the island ruins, his brow knotted in a cold, intense curiosity. He skirted the remains of the once-splendid settlement and temple several times throughout the past week, alone, with the strange calling pulling him a small distance closer each time. But he always returned to camp to tend to other business, attempting to put his mind and skills to good use and keeping the campers fed, reasonably healthy, and calm with the aid of a smattering of light cantrips on his side. So when an exploration team assembled at his camp, it served as the perfect excuse; he chose without hesitation and without explanation to accompany them.

That's where he finds himself now, standing amidst the rubble and wreckage of a village, a human skull grinning mindlessly at the toe of his boot. The air smells eerily ... delicious, in stark contrast to the decay and death lying around him. But that's not what ensnares his attention; he is distinctly distracted and disturbed by a burnt and brittle pile of books seated, quite obviously, in what was once the flooring and foundation of a small building. Half the burnt pile lay drowning in mud. But it is one sheaf, one shining flicker of gold lettering on singed white leather, that he cannot tear himself away.

"Impossible," Sarkan hisses through his teeth, unaware of anyone with ears to hear overhearing his low swear.

Luthe's Summoning. Of course it is impossible that it could be there. Not only is it an exceptionally valuable and complex working, but it was totally and undeniably destroyed before his very eyes. In Polnya, not Thedas. It couldn't be here.

He crouches down and makes as if to reach for the rent cover of that tome, but his hand hesitates and stops just short of touching it, poised, uncertain and disbelieving...

Still crackling with the distinct feeling that something is not quite right.

[arlathvhen]

I. The Ruins

a. beginning

It should surprise exactly no one that Beleth is drawn to the elven temple. She ignores the remnants of the human buildings that have been built into the skeleton of of temple--not too unlike Skyhold, really--and instead focuses on the bits that are definitely elven in origin.

The statues are of a particular interest, and she can be heard speaking out loud as she circles around them, trying to brush off whatever debris has accumulated on them to get a better look. "Wings...A raven of Dirthamen? It doesn't look much like a bird. Perhaps a dragon, for Mythal...?"

She's no mage nor does she have an anchor, and thus is safe from peculiarities for the moment, too wrapped up in her own study of the crumbling remnants of her culture.

b. later

It doesn't even occur to her as odd at first, that creeping feeling of wanting to stay here. Of course she wants to stay here, studying what once was. Remembering the past glory that her people had achieved. Of course it feels familiar, home-like. How often had she tread through ruins much like these with her clan?

It's easy to imagine her clan here with her, exploring right alongside her. She swears that she can hear a clatter of the hooves of a halla, in the corner of her eye a hunter dashes past.

Maybe her clan is here? Maybe they've been here all along. Maybe she was exploring these ruins with them? The magic imposing on her fits in with her own memories of similar days, similar ruins, and it's all too easy to slip into those memories, and to suppose that nothing is amiss. She's supposed to be here, she needs to be here. Her mother is counting on her--and Beleth can nearly hear Deheune's voice, floating through the ruins. "Da'len, take your time. Who has learned by rushing about?"

Good luck trying to get her out of there.

iii. port

Beleth kind of wishes she'd stayed in the ruins after all.

There's a feeling that she ought to be working here, gathering information and learning. This is the kind of environment a rogue should excel at, that a spymaster ought to fit into. But it's dirty, and grimy, and smelly, and Beleth wants nothing to do with it. Nor does it want much to do with her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, too Dalish for her own good here. Vallaslin and proud bearing do not mix well with the people here.

In the end, she spends most of her time in the ship, much like when she was on the island. She passes out orders to those who fit into the environment, organizes information, and does her best to network without actually going into the city.

Maybe she'll make an attempt at it, later. It nags at her--this is the type of thing she ought to be able to do, right?

But it's so...ugh.

iii;

[foxsays]

Aside from her hand (and sailors always have jokes about green hands, she had jokes before there was a rift that spat her out into another world) she knows this sort of place as well as Kirkwall. As well as landing in Rivain proper a year ago. Either time she's been to Antiva. That feeling of how if she squints and believes just hard enough that any of this could almost be home to her in some way; there's the smell of the sea, the complaints of dockhands, the sound of the taverns spilling out onto the street--

Familiar enough that her bones ache.

Her cards are with her, safely tucked away during the storm along with her dice and she does what she did in Kirkwall when they landed: finds the people willing to gamble with the stranger. There aren't many. Not at first. So there's usually plenty of extra seats around for a spectator or an extra person but this is what she's always done and even back in Skyhold when she liked the Herald's Rest better than the Hanged Man, settling down with whoever would play then reporting back to Leliana every third day with her findings. Be a fixture, get them used to seeing you, just be someone who likes to sit and play a game.

Of course she can't ignore the markets or bazaar since when hasn't she come back with something from a trip for people? Merchants are always easier to talk to, have a vested interest in actually talking to you while you examine the merchandise though she skirts far and away from the red lyrium shard hawker. There are some things no one is going to appreciate and no matter what's in the box, she really can live without knowing, thank you señora. Sometimes it's good just to go for a stroll. To see what there is to see though again she misses having Lux trotting along at her heels as a second pair of ears and eyes to help her out for things a human might miss.

freddie durfort-lacapalette | ota

[aventuriere]

↠ ↠ the ruins

There is plenty of island to explore, but as soon as the ruins in the crater are discovered it becomes Freddie's practice to set out each morning, walking stick in hand and worn leather satchel on her back, to hike up the volcano's dark slope. She spends the first day mapping the site, moving back and forth through it in a sort of grid pattern, marking the lines of what remains into her notebook. Every now and then something will catch her eye and halt her progress--an engraving on a wall, the shape of a column--and she will pause and turn to a clean page, filling it with notes and sketches and questions.

That sort of exploration fills the rest of her time at the site, and it is equally likely to find her scaling a tree to for a better view (she does all of her exploring in sensible trousers and knee-height boots, not Val Royeaux silks), squeezing her way into the half-collapsed remains of a building, sifting through detritus for odds and ends of pottery or metalwork, or painstakingly reproducing a series of carvings in pencil in her sketchbook.

She's often the first person there in the morning and reluctant to leave when the sun goes down; by the time their days on the island seem to be coming to an end, an agreement with the Qunari reached, she's almost impossible to drag away, working by torchlight through the night to catalog as much as possible with single-minded focus.

↠ ↠ the camp

The portion of the beach occupied by Freddie and her friends is, to the surprise of many, a perfectly sensible corner of the camp. No lavish pavilion tents here piled with down mattresses and silk pillows, servants fetching and cooking. Three very normal-sized canvas tents (erected with astonishing speed by the trio themselves) cluster around a central fire, a few logs and some worn rugs, strategically placed, provide seating on the sands. In the evenings it's typical to find Freddie there, lounging and picking through her day's finds, while something that smells absurdly delicious cooks over the fire.

↠ ↠ the pirates

Pirate taverns certainly have their appeal, and Freddie is not about to miss out on them, but the true marvel of Llomerryn, its one unmissable site in her estimation, is the market. If ever there were a place to stumble on some strange artifact from a far off forgotten place, this is it, and Freddie spends much of their time in the city scouring every inch of it, making friends with merchants, plying traders with questions about this bauble or that book. She rather quickly earns a reputation, the Orlesian lady willing to pay good coin for strange old things, and soon every hawker is pulling out supposed relics for her inspection, her steps dogged by dealers claiming to've found the lost seal of an ancient thaig or a crown worn by Asha Campana herself.

It's tiresome enough that she comes in disguise after that, dressed variously as an Inquisition scout in uniform borrowed from somewhere, or an Antivan in this season's fashionable veils, complete with heavy accent, or even as a young man, cabin boy on some made-up vessel. They're disguise enough to fool busy merchants and disinterested crowds, but that's all.

[castintoflames]

I. THE RUINS

Eru help him, Maedhros knew all too well the effect of supernatural pulls. The ruins were ominous to him, therefore, and he drew his sword as he entered them. If it weren't for the other explorers, he would not have entered them at all. But if there was some foul presence at the heart of the ruins, he knew he stood a better chance of defeating it - or, at least, slowing it down.

The skeletons reinforced his opinion and his lips were pressed into a grim line as he observed how they fell.

"There is mischief in the air." unwelcome mischief. The sort of mischief that Morgoth and Sauron would have delighted over.

"Let us tarry only a short while." he knew he had no power over those around him, but he would not be silent on this point. For the time being, he set about scanning the perimeter, quickening his strides to cover more ground.

II. THE ESCAPE: Part One

Nothing was easy. Thankfully Maedhros was accustomed to hardship. Upon seeing the sea beasts again, his sword, which had not stayed long in its sheathe since he arrived, was out and ready to cut off the parts that threatened the longboat he occupied. The vessel rocked violently to and fro and eventually he was forced to crouch - instead of standing up.

"Hold on as best you can and keep rowing!" he gave the order as if it was perfectly natural for him to do so. He had been the leader - the elder brother - since he was an Elfling. Madness and grief would not keep him from continuing his one decent legacy: the protection of those he allied himself with.

II. THE ESCAPE: Part Two

Once aboard one of the main ships, he kept himself on deck, facing the beasts without any sign of tiring. His sword cut easily through wriggling tentacles and some dark part of him rejoiced at the sounds of pain he inspired. However all of his good deeds could not save him from the acidic blast. The force of the attack knocked him flat and he felt the wood give away beneath his back.

He also felt something wet soaking through his shirt.

No, not soaking. Burning. With a cry, he rolled himself onto his knees, away from the crumbling remains of the ship and tore off his shirt. His back was already sorely blistered.

[motherfucking_ghost]

I
Church isn't interested in archaeology. Mostly he's here to be a strong arm and a sword of protection. There doesn't seem to be a lot to fight here, thank god, but one can never be sure. If anyone needs something heavy dragged or lifted, hey, he's here for that, too. He's not super about this place, because it's a volcano, however dormant. Who knows how dormant it really is?

But it's...nice. At first. It's nice right up until he gets that tingle up his spine of...it just seems like someone or people are speaking to him, but not really? (He almost hears the fragments calling him by a name he doesn't go by, welcoming him back--) Something trying to soothe him, except he knows it's wrong. If he starts getting antsy, paranoid, whirling around to look for something not there, well. There's a reason.

But he can't just go trodding off back through the jungle alone, except during the one time he steps into one of the remains of a building to get out of the sun for a moment, when there's a woman in modern (for him) gear, fatigues, blonde hair, a fist on her hip and a smirk on her face.

Before she has a chance to say anything, he stumbles out backwards, tripping over himself into the dirt and deciding this is a good place to lay a while until his heart stops hammering. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

But it'd be nice if it were right.

III
Church does not get shanked while he goes around the city. It might be the hand of the Maker Himself blessing this stupid fool who insists on being grumpy about being denied access. He does get into a fist fight, and over what he can't recall anymore, but the black eye he sports is apparently a trophy to take with him. He might not understand the types that see a good fight as male dudely bonding, but he's not dead, so he'll fucking take it. He's got some sunglasses to try and hide the shiner anyway.

But once they're allowed by the city at large to exist, he takes to the markets to pick up gifts for people. (Mostly for Christine, but he tries to hide those in pockets or smuggled under other items.) He's also pretty sure he spies some other things fallen out of rifts, and picks through those with interest. In the evenings, after a few drinks, he tries to regale some locals with tales from back home, dumbed down to a Thedosian level of technology.

III

[gatheringstorm]

Not long after the Inquisition is made to feel a little more welcome, Korrin Ataash arrives in Llomerryn. Clad in an antaam-saar (because it's too damn hot for full armor) and sporting a new tattoo on her back, she takes advantage of people moving aside for a large qunari woman to make her way as she pleases. The Inquisition ships are spotted, of course, and she heads in the general direction of them, but it's also quite possible to find her before she reaches her destination. She does tend to stand out, after all, even here.

The market easily draws her attention, of course, and she can be spotted lingering near sea-themed jewelry (no doubt thinking of spoiling her kadan), or conversing with a vendor about a small cube of softly glowing pink granite. Or more accurately, listening to the vendor gesture dramatically as he brags about its potent properties. ("If placed in a liquid while that liquid is consumed, it will triple the effect!") She seems to be giving this due consideration, though of course the Vashoth woman knows better than to just take him at his word. It's time to verify this, one way or another....

[provenforce]

ii;

The trip from shore to the boats was a terrifying experience for Rey she doesn't soon want to repeat. Every pitch of the longboat she'd been occupying had brought with it the promise of a watery grave, with the others too occupied and too unaware that were she to fall into the water she wouldn't know how to right herself.

Once they make it alive to the far more sturdy ships, her demeanor changes considerably, though she is still careful not to venture too close to the sides. There is still plenty of damage to do, even if she isn't climbing up into the rigging or hanging off the sides to fight the monsters. Lightsaber in hand she cuts limbs that threaten to pull at ropes or sweep people off their feet. She then kicks or Force pushes the offending limbs off the side of the boat, back into the water below. Always close at her side is Padawan, who only darts away to lunge at offending tentacles that Rey hasn't yet dealt with, or bark alerts at other people fighting on-deck. She's a mabari, of course she thinks she's in charge.

iii;

Rey isn't entirely comfortable in the pirate city, but she blends better than a lot of the others. She grew up around thieves, in a way was shaped by them. She'd also been spending a lot of time with native thieves, so it's a transition she can make. She's more out of sorts because of the expanse of the city. She had seen small caches of pirate glory in her own galaxy, but here it practically glowed. She's left alone as she walks the streets, maybe because she doesn't look entirely out of place, and maybe because of the large white mabari hound always at her side. Either way, she doesn't look like someone easily messed with, and there are easier targets elsewhere.

A lot of her time is spent exploring the markets, examining the treasures held there. She has never really had cause to bring back gifts, but she has a few friends now, people who might like these things. She even finds herself looking at a jacket made of some kind of animal hide, an oddly wistful look on her face as the thought that Finn would like it passes through her mind.

the pirates, for nell.

[exequy]

Kostos has looked happier. He's been less sunburned—and affronted, though that's harder to see at a glance, by even the idea of being sunburned, clearly he's spent too much time in the south—and he's been far less sober, because he's been in places where his attempts to order a drink weren't ignored, which were also cleaner and smelled better, and he's been less recently almost eaten by oversized sea monsters encrusted with nightmare crystals.

But he's also looked more unhappy.

The last time he saw Nell, for example.

And when he sees her now, as he's turning disgruntled away from the bartender to give him the silent treatment right back, some of that more-unhappiness makes an immediate, instinctive return, without pausing to be startled or relieved, as if it hasn't been months, as if he'd just turned and walked back into the room to say and one more thing.

He walks toward her about that way, too, sits down across her table without waiting for an invitation, and leans forward over the table top to say, accusing, "That island tried to kill me," punctuated by a quiet click as he places a bit of hard candy on the table between them. He hasn't eaten it. He's pretty sure if he did it would taste like reconciliation.

[utulien_aure]

I.

In some ways what can be discerned of the elven ruins feel strangely familiar- here a motif popular among the elves of Mithrim, there arches that any Noldorin stonemason would be satisfied with. Even the statues, with their great bat-like wings, would not be unimaginable as products of some of the more abstract sculptors of Fingon's acquaintance.

(Though, admittedly, there was something else familiar about those, something which put him on edge....)

But there's another feeling about the place, tugging on his mind, coaxing him to stay. And the more it whispers, the more he doesn't quite trust it. Instead he hums snatches of melodies, of Hithlum marching songs and the ballads of the Aman of his youth, to drive them out of his head.

Maybe it works too well, as light catches a jeweled hilt in the corner of his eye and Fingon turns to see an all-too familiar blade.

"Ringil" he breathes in shock. His father's blade, lost with his father- it couldn't be here.

Could it?

III.

Fingon grew up in a city and is used to the press of crowds, but Llomerryn is nothing like Tirion; nothing like any settlement of the Eldar or the Edain that he has ever seen. He's happy to wander the streets, drinking in both the harshness and the richness of his surroundings. And if anyone tries to take advantage of the stranger with the long black hair and the glowing eyes, well-

Not to worry, he's not looking to be cruel.Even the truly stubborn ones will be smarting more from wounded pride than actual wounds.

Eventually he finds himself lingering over a stall of musical instruments, chatting easily with the merchant about her wares. The instruments themselves he eyes keenly, looking for anything new and interesting or of acceptable quality. His own harp remains in Arda, and while he's here it may not be a bad idea to look into a replacement.

the pirates, for anders.

[exequy]

There's a reasonable explanation for why Kostos is alone in a dark alley in a lawless pirate town, trying to fasten the hook-clasps on his shirt with the neck of a mostly-empty liquor bottle keeping half the fingers of one hand occupied and therefore useless for the task—which is further complicated by several of the hook clasps being missing, or bent out of shape—and that reasonable explanation is sex. Past sex. Over now. Don't worry. The only evidence is his Shirt Problems and a red mark on his neck.

He's muttering in Nevarran, but when he drops the bottle and it shatters, he says, "Fuck," which opens up all sorts of questions, like when is your native tongue no longer your native tongue, and is it possible that swearing like a Marcher or a Fereldan might make him as dull as one, and had he really planned on drinking the rest of that, did he really think that was a smart idea—

Questions he is not asking himself. He kicks the largest piece of the bottle instead. It's a lazy kick, meant to move the glass aside more than to inflict any furious violence, but it's noisy anyway.

He has made many mistakes. The first was likely coming along on this journey at all.

Kain | OTA

[in_death_sacrifice]

I.

Although he’s no mage or rifter, Kain is a shardbearer, a fact which he keeps well-hidden under thick gloves. He stands apart from whoever else he’s exploring with, though, as the weird feeling overcomes him. He frowns, as he examines the area.

Then, something begins to manifest. It’s blurry at first, but soon enough the figure of a Grey Warden appears. He looks a lot like Kain, although perhaps a good ten years older, and a bit more grizzled. He looks Highly Disappointed, too.

Kain gasps, mouth agape. Something’s not right, he can feel it, but even so...

“Father…”

II.

Of course, getting out of there couldn’t be too easy. Kain goes wherever ordered as they struggle to leave, targeted by that massive, tentacled beast yet again. He’s had his fill of sea battles for a lifetime by now. Seriously.

He’s lucky enough to be out of range when the kraken spews that vile substance all over. That’s good.

But he’s not so lucky as he goes a bit too far and slips in it, sliding dangerously toward the side of the ship as it lists to the side… he cries out and tries to steady himself, but then goes flying right over the edge, grabbing a handhold as he tumbles over the side. One of the tentacles slaps against him roughly after that as he clings with all he has to the ship’s side.

III.

“...and you’ll really tell more of my future? Please.” Kain approaches the strange fortune-teller eagerly, wanting to hear more. He’d already enticed him with promises and vague whisperings, things which drew him in. After already hearing one terrible way his future might end, Kain is eager to hear otherwise. It's been a rough time during this whole venture, too, so he really needs some better news for once.

So he’s counting out a bunch of coin now, ready to find out what’s truly in store for him.

Fenris | OTA

[lyriumcarved]

I.

Fenris looks around the ruins for a bit, then over toward the person he’s with. “What do you think?”

He’s about to go on about his own initial impressions, when they’re interrupted. A tiny red-haired elf very suddenly comes wandering from behind one of the massive statues. She’s much younger than she should be, and certainly much younger than the last time Fenris saw her. In fact… she’s the same way she’d looked long ago in childhood, in a memory that was long buried deep down in Fenris’ mind until now. She looks… the way she had, the last time he’d seen her. He’s sure of this, somehow, even if he doesn’t have all of those memories intact.

“Varania… What are you doing here? What’s happened to you?”

III.

The various trinkets and relics are intriguing, though Fenris has a pretty skeptical eye toward most of it. He wanders anyway, taking a close look, looking to see what’s here. Pirates will try and scam you, sure, but sometimes they also come across some legitimately interesting material. Besides, he’s also casually asking after Isabela here and there, vaguely curious as to what she’s up to these days. And who would know better than fellow pirates?

He stops at the booth selling that red lyrium and listens to the merchant’s sales pitch.

“Meredith? Her, really? And were you there at the time?”

Oh he so doesn’t believe this… but the red lyrium looks all too authentic. So it’s… hard to tell.