faderift | PLAYER PLOT: Enfenim

The look on her face--the abject hopelessness as she begins to cry--it catches in Myr's chest and he swallows against the pain. "Oh, Pel."

He edges over as Cyril draws near, leaving the other man room to approach Pel even as he reaches out to rest a hand gently on her shoulder. (Touch is dangerous; touch is a risk if this is a demon wearing her shape, but he can't not respond, whatever the wary rational part of him says.) "Pel, dearling--"

A careful breath; the words that would come easiest here--the words of the Chant--aren't the right ones. They won't console. Instead: "We're more than the clay we wear--he," he rests his hand gently on Merrick's chest, "is more than this; what you loved in him still remains and waits for you across the Fade and all the stars in the sky. What's loved lives, Pel; it lives forever."

Faith? Pel wants to spit at Myr's feet for the suggestion. How can a person have faith when surrounded by all of this? No god protected these people, and no god protects her. She loathes herself for failing them all; how can a loving god await her beyond the Beyond? But she does not spit. Cold and empty as it is, it is the first comfort she has been given since...

Since...

What was she doing before this?

The weeping ceases suddenly. The tears go cold on her cheeks. Something is very strange. This is a place of torment. How is it that Myr can look on this and see something completely different from what she sees? It has almost come to her, but looking at it again begins to chase it away. She feels she is on the cusp of something, and Myr and Cy are the key. She turns her head to look at Cy full on, finally capable of meeting his eyes.

"You put no faith in gods or afterlife," she says. "What say you?"

Cyril returns her gaze. He looks worried and a little broken, but determined as ever to help her. He still isn't sure how he can drag her up from the corpses but he realizes that what's more important is that she stands and walks out of it on her own.

"I say that I have faith in you," he replies, his voice stronger now. It's easier to speak solidly when she's looking at him, when he can focus on her rather than the scene around them.

"And I have faith that you know what he would want of you. Would it be to break or crumble? If this were true, would Merrick want us both to stay here forever?"

It wouldn't be the first time; it won't be the last. Myr's faith is not a raw, unchallenged thing. (The Circles sheltered but they couldn't wall out every harm; it still remained to ask why the Maker would allow evil to stalk His children unhindered.)

But there are times to say all of that and times to remain silent--and now's one of the latter. Myr gives Cyril a sidelong thoughtful glance (don't look too hard at the bodies just beyond the other man's shoulder; don't look at their faces, the hints of familiarity--the bright green eyes grown cold in death, the sunburst brand--) before returning his attention full to Pel.

Now seems the crucial moment--

This isn't real. There isn't total relief in that, but at once, though the corpses remain, they suddenly mean nothing. This isn't real, none of it has been real, she is in the Fade and this will go away soon. Sort of.

Pel's gaze falls. She studies Merrick's face. She touches his cheek and feels the same desperate love she has always felt for him. If he is only a sack of meat, why does she still feel this way?

And swiftly, suddenly, the body in her lap changes. It's Sina now, gone at long last, lips bloodless, the shard in her chest snuffed out at last.

"This is real," Pel says thickly, tears threatening again. "Even if this is the Fade, this is real. I'm losing her. I can't even hear her voice one more time before she's gone because she can't speak. I want to be there for her, I want to comfort her, but I don't think she hears me. And I don't want her to be afraid. I would do anything to keep her from being afraid. Anything. But I can't."

Her breath shudders for a moment, then she leans down to kiss Sina's forehead. Then, carefully, she rolls the body off her lap and to the ground before standing up and taking a deep breath. She has to get back. She has to be with Sina, both the grown-up and the little one.

"All right," she says, sounding rather a lot more like her normal self, "we need to get out of here before the demon comes back. I think I understand what's going on now, and I'll explain everything as we walk. First off, are you two real, or spirits?"

Edited 2017-11-28 14:57 (UTC)

Cyril feels relief when Pel seems to come back to herself, though it doesn't stop the grief and pain of loss. He honestly has no idea how to help her through this but he knows that no matter what he'll be there for her. Maybe that is the only thing he can do.

When she asks the question though, he makes a small noise that sounds a bit like a laugh or a sigh - a little more bitter than he would like. "Honestly, I haven no idea how to convince you of that, all of this Fade stuff... I have no idea how you mages handle this every time you sleep."

He still feels the tinge of fear and trauma over what he's experienced here, but he's holding that back in effort to focus on her.

Though he's accustomed to how swiftly things change in dreams--mages who weren't often died--Myr's still taken briefly aback as it's suddenly Sina's corpse in Pel's lap. (A half-seen, corner-of-the-eye glimpse confirmed, though to see her so still and silent instead of bright and laughing...) He blinks against a sudden sting of tears. "She hears," he says, with quiet conviction. "She knows." She's here, too, but that feels like too fragile a miracle to put into words right now, and--maybe that's Sina's to reveal.

He gets back to his feet as Pel regains hers, shooting Cyril a sidelong glance--and a flash of a smile--for his answer to her question. "He's got a point," he says, wryly. But: "You never knew me like this," as he was to his Circle, once upon a time, hale and whole and sighted, "so a spirit would show up as blind as you'd expect. We're real."

Real and capable of real suffering. Pel's their objective, of course, but as Myr falls in beside her he gives Cyril another considering look. I have no idea how you mages handle this every time you sleep. They've not the time Myr would like to ask and ascertain he's all right to continue--but he can reach out, and does, laying his hand on the other man's shoulder. "It gets easier," he says, kindly. "And there's good dreams as well as nightmares."

He gives Cyril's shoulder a brief squeeze before taking his hand back, attention back on Pel. "Where to?"

Perhaps no one sees it, perhaps it happens too quickly to be noticed. The corpse blinks once, its eyes glowing, and its pale, sickly form melts away in favor of the same creature Myr saw before, with its floating hair and tattered shift.
Unspeaking, it pads barefoot behind them, seeming to be in no hurry to catch up but nonetheless following.

Pel does not see. She thinks Myr is being metaphorical. Her attention is elsewhere.

"Cy," she says crisply, "do you remember--first off, you know it's me because I can tell you anything you want to know about the clan before the plague. The plague was when the demon...came about. Do you remember the sickness that hit Skyhold some time ago, and you were ill?"

Cyril nodded at that, though most of his memories of that time were so hazy. He could remember a strong presence with Sam, and then a darkness around Pel. He frowned at the thought. "That thing I saw... it was real?" Suddenly he wishes he had made a bigger deal of the whole thing.

Perhaps Myr's got an inkling they're being followed--but he doesn't look back, his eyes trained ahead as he keeps pace with Pel and Cyril. The discussion doesn't involve him (yet), but he's got one ear turned to it anyway; the rest of his attention is on their surroundings. No telling what the demon might try next.

After a short time, the apparition behind them dematerializes with the silence and swiftness of sand being blown across a desert. "Beware," whispers a female voice in each ear, "it nears."
The wind gently stirs the light hair on each elf present as a small form emerges beside Pel, a little hand already in hers, the shape of a small girl with shifting features like the passing of clouds. She's perhaps a year older than baby Sina, big enough to walk but still so tiny, her hand gripping Pel's fingers with the familiar touch of a child to a trusted family member. Contrary to the demon's games, the specter exudes warmth and protection, grounding strength, and it looks expectantly up to Pel with its curious green glowing eyes.

Pel gasps and stiffens, afraid the demon is about to do the very worst trick it can do and use her daughter against her. But seconds pass and nothing happens. She gazes into those green eyes and slowly, her muscles unwind again. Her hand closes around that of the tiny girl.

"You're a..." She doesn't have to say that it's a benevolent spirit. Something about its nearness and form causes her to get a better hold on herself. She knows who she is around this child. It's the other one that weakens her. She knows what she has to do, and there isn't much time.

She bends down and hoists the spirit-child up into her arms, balancing her on her hip, and keeps walking toward the Gallows.

"It was real," she continues. "I think it's preyed on me since the plague. In my mind, I blamed all the death on some greedy, petulant force of the universe that liked to kill elves. That gave the demon its identity. It's followed me ever since. Feeding. Now it's getting less food and wants to sow more seeds."

She prepares to shove the door to the mage tower open, but it opens first. Standing in the doorway is an animated corpse, a bloody hole in its chest. He is a Dalish wearing Keeper robes and garish vallaslin. He raises a staff and instead of attacking, Pel screams. She knows that face. She watched that face die. She was the one who made it happen. She did the Childe's work.

"No, no, no, no," she begs, shrinking back, arms wrapping protectively around the child in her arms. "Don't make me do it again, please!"

Sounds come from behind. Other corpses rise and begin to shuffle toward the party. All Pel can think of is that she must protect Sina, though she knows it's only a memory from more than a year ago. And yet it had been similar, standing up after so much torture, driving a spike of ice through the man trying to kill her Sina. And there was another Sina to protect as well, although Pel had not known her name, or that she would be a girl. But she can't protect either of them if she is mad or dead.

Cyril tenses at the appearance of the child, but when Pel relaxes around her, so does he. He really only can take the mages' guidance here. He's still too new with the Fade and it's workings know what to do on his own.

Then they find another dead body, Pel screams, and the ones around them start to move. Cyril reaches for his bow again, ready to fight.

"Pel?" he asks, speaking loudly in an effort to make her focus on how best to protect them all. He knows she does better when she has others to look out for. "Pel," he repeats, more strongly. "The corpses..."

"Beware, it nears."

Ample warning to be alert--whoever their guardian spirit is, Myr breathes a word of thanks to the Maker for her even as the first of the walking corpses appears. The air around the four living elves shimmers and thickens into a defensive barrier as he lags a step--then rounds on the dead behind them with staff and blade already in-hand. (Don't look at their faces. Don't look--) Not many--yet--but with how thickly they're piled on the ground, how quickly they're waking, he doesn't like their odds. Maybe a greasefire...

He shakes his head once, aborting the thought; this isn't his to solve. (Break the shell of someone else's nightmare, deny her the victory in his haste to leap to her defense--as much help as assisting a butterfly from its cocoon too early.) "Pel," he echoes Cyril. "It wants you running." So don't, he doesn't say. He trusts her further than that.

But even so he locks eyes with the nearest of the shambling dead and lifts his chin in silent challenge. Come for him, first.

If anything, all the evidence one needs against the child being a spirit comes to light when the apparition of Pryderi lurches into view and the little one recoils, curling against Pel's shoulder and gripping the fabric around her neck as a living child would when confronted with a nightmare. Or, in this case, simply a nightmarish memory, one she hadn't expected to see.

But in truth, it can't hurt her. Not anymore. And Pel is quailing, backing away, when she must step forward and fight.
The voice is disembodied as it begins to sing, a child's voice merging in and out of a young woman's, with the simple clarity of a nursery rhyme intended both to soothe and distract:

"Mar lahn elas tarosa su Mythal,
Sul'emalan or tunan,
amelan or vun i alas aron..."

Edited (HTML >:C) 2017-12-06 08:36 (UTC)

Pel looks down at the child in her arms when she recoils and knows who she is. She is the woman who reminds Pel that the Creators are merciful as well as vengeful, kind as well as fierce, tempered as well as wild, furious as well as wise. She shows Pel how the sword and the olive branch can both be wielded at once, and that there is no weakness in humility and gentleness. The path navigated well is as important as the battle won, and mercy can only come from those with the power to mete out justice. She believes in Pel, proving Pel can be believed in, so there is no excuse for not believing in herself. Mythal must have given her this last chance to protect her, to save her from fear in a literal sense.

"There is no Mythal," says the voice of a different child. Behind the group, one of the corpses carries it. The corpse herself is beautiful, with long white hair and a striking resemblance to her son. The child she carries is white as paper, with enormous white eyes and two antennae--or are they antlers? Some peculiar humanoid offspring of both insect and halla, clinging to the woman in a cruel mockery of Sina.

"It was always me," the Childe continues. "Always, always. You prayed for strength and I gave it to you. I took away your fear."

"You," Pel says, voice shaking, "you gave it to me in the first place."

"I was hungry!" the Childe argues petulantly.

Pel is done conversing with a demon. She is done with corpses. She is done with this torture of staring at the vacant faces of her loved ones. Whether Mythal exists or not, Deheune was right--strength comes when you need it and not a moment before. If she cannot be fearless, then she will turn her fear into a weapon.

"You," she growls, "can have it all back, then."

One massive surge of mana brings a hundred roots from the ground. One pierces Pryderi in the throat while the others cause havoc among the other corpses. Cyril's mother is slammed to the ground, and the Childe vanishes.

"Run!" Pel barks to the others. "Up the stairs, sixth floor, go, go, go!" She tears off a piece of root from nearby and summons an ice blade from it, a makeshift magical sword. To Sina, she whispers, "Hold on tight, da'len. I've got you."

Edited 2017-12-06 16:49 (UTC)

A kiss on the cheek in response, and the child is gone, but the three are now riding a halla sprinting effortlessly up the stairs. If impeded by a corpse, it lowers its head to ram the creature away, not even slowing as it races to their destination.

The moment his mother appears Cyril has decided he's honestly had enough of this place. Before this moment, if asked he would have stated he didn't fully remember what the woman looked like, but when she appears here he knows exactly who she is meant to be. Unlike the demon's puppet creature or the corpse of Merrick though, he just manages to feel annoyed and tired.

Only the thought that Pel needs to be in control stops him from trying to shoot the vision of his mother with an arrow. He's more angry that the demon would use her to taunt Pel than anything else. Perhaps he should feel shocked or hurt over it, but honestly she's such a long forgotten dream to him that he doesn't know how to grieve for her.

Then Pel does take control and the creature disappears. The body that is shaped like his mother falls and for some reason he can't get his legs to work right away. It's only when Pel has made herself a sword and spoken to the child version of Sina that he's able to pull his gaze away from the empty shell that looks like the woman from his faintest memories and move.

There's something almost pathetic about the demon when it finally appears, something that Myr'd be inclined to pity, had he not met its like before. (Save all of that academic sadness over the Maker's first children for later, when it's safe.) As it is, his expression goes flat and fixed at the demon's pleading, eyes shifting from it back to the encroaching undead. Pel needs to do this but they're running out of time...

And then the roots erupt like a sprouting miracle and put paid to the Childe's handiwork, provoking a quiet oath out of Myr. There's so much they never learn in the Circles, so much that was only hinted at in rumor and vituperation against the heathen. Actually seeing it gives a reason why and it's hard not to watch.

Yet: "Run!"

After a display like that, he's not one to argue with an order to run. Yet still he lingers a moment--faintly envious of Pel's handiwork--before turning back toward the tower as ordered. The expression on Cyril's face catches him mid-stride; he can't know what it is about any of this that's troubling the other man, but that dull look hardly needs an explanation. "You're all right?" he starts to ask--

And the dream shifts, landing them on halla-back. Myr makes a startled noise and grabs for whoever's nearest.

Edited (s2m i need like eight different fade-myr icons for this thread) 2017-12-07 05:32 (UTC)

Something snaps at their heels as they are carried up the stairs--something shaped like a werewolf, running on all fours after them. Pel swings the ice-sword and takes off its head. It seems to be the only follower--until they arrive at Pel's room, where the Childe stands alone, guarding the door.

"Please," it wails. "Please, Pel. You--you're my mother. You gave me form. You gave me a name. I loved you the only way I knew how, that's all I did!"

Pel dismounts from the halla and gives it a pat. Sword in hand, she approaches the demon. She is not afraid. She is angry. Deep down, there is a little pity for this trembling being, but not very much. This thing, this parasite tormented her for years, whispering in her ear. It kept her from people, it made her play her entire life safe, it hobbled her ability to make new attachments. She has lived alone, dealt with trials alone, trembled at worst-case scenarios that never came to pass alone. Because of this demon.

"You were probably a benevolent spirit once," she says quietly. "You probably did love me, if you're capable of love. I used to think you were some kind of petty god of death, but you're just a pathetic little leech. Taking away my fear is my job."

"But it's not--" The demon doesn't have the chance to finish. Pel's sword arcs out, opening its chest. Then she thrusts forward, ending it. The demon dies impaled on ice, and seconds later, its body dissipates into the Fade. Pel tosses the sword aside and pushes open the door to her room, and halts at what she sees.

Edited 2017-12-07 14:52 (UTC)

PLAYER PLOT: Enfenim

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