faderift | PLAYER PLOT: Enfenim

There is no warning. She just hasn't woken up.

Pel is not one to sleep in, and in fact hasn't had the luxury of doing so since Sina was born. Now, the baby is wailing and Pel is still asleep. Every so often, she squirms or tosses as if trying to wake from a nightmare, but always she goes back to sleep, and nothing will wake her.

Beleth stands in the woods at night. Clan Ashara stands around her in a semicircle, the faces of her loved ones illuminated by torches. All of them are stringing their bows or unsheathing their daggers, and all of them are looking at her. They don't look angry. They don't look sad. They look like they're preparing for a joint exercise, perhaps, or a mildly annoying chore.

You have until the count of five, Deheune says lightly. A grin flashes across her face. Five.

Run, whispers a disembodied voice. RUN. And yet Beleth's feet do not move. They cannot move.

Too scared, laughs Sorrel. She can't even be good prey.

She has crossed the line into complete pointlessness, agrees Merrick. We should kill her now.

Four, Deheune intones.

Run! Run! whispers the voice. And suddenly, Beleth's feet unstick from the ground, and she can move. RUN!

And whether she is willing or not, the ground begins to move under Beleth. No matter where she turns, she cannot escape the sight of Deheune, who always seems to be monitoring her progress up ahead, making notes of whether or not her only daughter is a good target for her hunters' arrows.

See-ril, calls a singsong voice, distorted and distant. Seeeerrrrrrillll? it tries again, like it has never spoken before and is testing out the sounds without quite knowing what they mean. The world is pitch black, with only the echoing voice. If Cyril tries to move, he will not know which direction he is going, or whether his feet are carrying him anywhere at all.

Suddenly the ground opens beneath him and he drops far, far, at a speed he can only feel but not see. When he jostles to a halt, he has been caught in the arms of...himself.

This version of Cyril grins back at him, lips stitched back so it bares all teeth and gums in doing so, one corner higher than the other giving it a familiar but distorted come-hither look. Its eyes are glassy and dead, with no soul behind them. Its chest cavity is hollowed out, and instead of lungs and a heart, there is a hand inside, and the hand belongs to a shadowy demon who puppets him from behind. Two fingers are crammed into the other-Cyril's arms in place of bones, while one controls the head.

Have you come to fill me up real nice? asks the puppet.

As soon as he touches the Fade pedestal in the waking world, Myr crashes into an ocean. But this isn't water. It hums around him, it moves without eddies or tides, it fills his mouth and his nose and his lungs and everywhere it touches, it stings viciously. The thrum of tiny wings can be felt against him, inside him, the crawl of millions of legs, as he swims and drowns in an ocean of bees.

If he kicks enough, he might be able to find purchase on a patch of ground, squashing the bees under his foot, but the rest only lift him up again, spinning him so there is no telling which was is up or down as his skin swells from the stings and he chokes on the creatures that used to be his wards.

Tear out your eyes and I'll make them stop, says a voice above the din.

The wind in the Starkhaven alienage shrieks hollowly, an almost mechanical sound. It is unnatural, that it should be so steady and uninterrupted. The sky is grey but rainless, and the weather feels oddly dry and warm. There is no sign nor sound of elf or animal. In the center of the alienage, the vhenadahl is leafless as in winter, wind screaming through its branches. Ashes are scattered across the ground. Inside her father's house, there is no one. Inside her neighbor's house, there is no one. Not a soul lives in this ghost town.

Coming outside again, it begins to rain. First a massive drop hits her shoulder, large enough to hurt, then another hits her head. Looking up at the sky, the clouds have become the corpses of the alienage residents, and it is they who are raining blood.

Clan Ashara's camp appears on an ordinary day, albeit with dark clouds overhead. There is no rain, and everyone goes about their daily chores. They talk to each other, they wash, mend, dry, whet, darn, knit, cure, tan, dye, butcher, and cook like on any other day. No one pays Sorrel any mind.

From thin air comes the whistle of a swinging sword. Pain explodes across hand and wrist as both are severed, the attacker and weapon nowhere to be seen. Nobody in the camp notices. The louder Sorrel screams, the less they hear him. The sound of the blade slashes again, this time severing the same arm just below the elbow.

No one hears. No one sees. No one bothers.

By the time the party going into the Fade is asleep, the six-month-old is screaming louder than ever. She will, when prompted, eat mashed-up solid food with a spoon, but only if it is shoveled swiftly from the bowl directly into her mouth, at which point she inhales it messily. She sleeps often and eats a lot, while the sleeping party appears not to stir.

It's not the first time he's seen someone caught in the Fade, though it's the first time someone he cares about has been. That doesn't make any difference in what needs to be done. It just means he's more stressed as people who are willing to help make themselves known.

"She's trapped in the Fade," he says, point blank, baby Sina in one arm and Purrelden in the other so at least the baby is entertained tapping the familiar kitty. "And someone gets trapped in there by a demon who doesn't want to let them go. To get them out, people have to go in and kill the demon. Or demons. So. We'll need lyrium, we'll need willing volunteers, and we'll need to do this quickly. Any questions?"

"Have you spoken with Sabine about kids? Adoption, obviously. And after the war." It's not the best topic, but as far as he knows Alistair is still involved with the woman and they have a hungry child on their hands, available to teach advanced lessons in babycare.

It also keeps him from sitting down and poking at people for the umpteenth time when he can already feel that they're stable.

"What?" Alistair says, looking up sharply from where he's shoveling food into the baby's mouth. "No."

He could elaborate. He could say he doesn't currently plan to retire—he's still very young, he can keep fighting until his Calling—and he could say that Sabine isn't going to give up her fight anytime soon, either. He could point out that unless there is some miracle cure and Alistair is actually willing to use it, any kid he has now will lose at least one parent by the age of fifteen, at the absolute latest, and maybe both if Sabine aggravates the wrong people. He could say that Orlais isn't very kind to children with elven parents, whether they're elves or not, and neither of them will leave Orlais anytime soon

But that's where things still aren't entirely all right, after their spat about Loghain. He keeps the cards he actually cares about, like Sabine, close to his chest, unless he trusts someone to be careful with them. Plus he's a little stressed out at the moment. Pel is in danger. Beleth, too. And all these random elves he doesn't know or care about, whatever.

So he continues shoveling mash into the baby. "I'm definitely not taking this little monster," he says—affectionately, if a little strained by the aforementioned stress. "How does she fit that much air in her lungs? She's tiny."

"I'll go." Beleth doesn't hesitate, arms crossed and a scowl on her face. As...complicated as her relationship with Pel has been for the past few months (years) (her entire life), that doesn't mean she's going to stand idly by while Pel is at risk. Not if there's something she can do about it. "I'm not a mage, but. I've faced down demons in the Fade before."

She pauses, as she tries to think of any questions. "Will it be different than doing it when I was physically in the Fade?"

She doesn't understand.

Or maybe she does. Maybe deep down, it's always been there, that quiet voice that always has hateful words to whisper to her. Not good enough, never good enough, annoying and a burden, they just pity you, they don't really care. Whispers that she ignores. But in the end, she's always known.

She tries to call out to them. Merrick, Sorrel, people that she's loved, as long as she knew how to. It doesn't matter. It's never mattered.

There's a brief moment where she contemplates not running. Pettily deny them their chase, while giving in to the desire for her death. Why not? But she's not given a choice (and really, when has she ever?) and the next thing Beleth knows, she's dashing through the forest. Where is she going--where can she go? The Inquisition? Would she be safe there? If she can even get there.

She's overthinking. Right now, she has to run.

Her Harrowing is ingrained deep inside her heart. Of all her memories it is one of the most vivid and detailed of her long list of memories from her time in this world. It had been a fight then, and it'll be a fight now as she takes a deep breath and fights the urge to feels herself shudder as the wind whips around through the houses that make up her home.

This isn't real, she repeats in her head. It has become something of a mantra as it repeats over and over again as Saoirse makes her way through the empty streets. It was such an unnatural sound for everything to be so... dead. No chatter of the people going about their day, no children playing and no songs being sung.

She peeks into houses as she passes, finding each empty until she comes to her home and almost expects to find her father waiting for at his desk surrounded by papers and books of elven history. Instead there is an unnatural silence here as well and an emptiness that seems to scream at her...

Returning the streets, she is briefly stunned by the pain of something hitting her. When another sharp pain erupts on her shoulder, she stumbles back under the safety of her home's roof when it becomes clear just what is falling from the sky.

This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't...

Over and over, she had to remind herself of this.

Anders nods, gratitude showing for a moment before his expression is serious again. They're agreeing to a lot of danger, and this time he's not going to be one of the people going in because he needs to keep Pel stable.

"There aren't a lot of differences between physically being in the Fade and deliberately going there like this except for one. Appearances. A demon can only shape the physical Fade so much around itself, depending on its strength, but it has far more resources at its disposal when you're dreaming. Trust what you see even less, rely on your instincts more. And..."

He swallows. Of this group, he doesn't know one, he doesn't really trust another, but the information may be crucial if they don't have it already and he truly hopes Sorrel and Myrobalan won't use it against anyone.

"If you see Pel in there, do absolutely everything you can to avoid harming her. If you kill her in there, you might actually kill her... but you also might make her Tranquil." One is worse than the other, in his opinion, but they're both pretty awful possibilities.

"Mm." It's a neutral reply to the first bit. Unless he finds a cure for the Taint in four-ish years, there aren't kids in his future. If he does... It's selfish to want to go away and retire and hide from the world but Anders is tired. He doesn't have the energy to be trying to save everyone all the time for too many more years.

"I didn't mean little Sina. Pel will be back." Because he refuses to think about the alternatives. "And infant's internal organs are actually 45% lung and 45% stomach when they're this small. The other organs are present, but they only really start growing when she does."

It's 100% lie, but due to the shared stress of the situation there isn't a teasing undertone giving the joke away.

"It means she can scream and eat more, vital things to being a baby. That may be related to why Wardens eat so much; we're reverting." Maybe that will give it away. Maybe not. If it doesn't at least he'll have a little fun teasing Alistair.

Cyril feels disoriented enough over the lack of direction and a creepy voice calling out that when the thing touches him all he can really do is yelp and jump back, scrambling in a hurry to get away.

It was perhaps not the bravest action to take, but at the sight of this hideous puppet all he feels is a threat of panic that leaps into his throat and threatens to overtake his senses.

The only thing that fully stops him from giving into it is that he can't abandon his cousin to the demon that would conjure such horror.

"Stay away from me, demon!" he says, his voice wavers just a bit though, still affected by the terror in his throat.

The idea of making Pel Tranquil makes Cyril feel like he's going to loose his lunch. He was already sick with worry to start with, and now knowing that they could do such a thing to her makes him feel even more queasy.

"Why would he harm her? Will she attack us while we're in there?" He hates the idea of having to fight Pel for any reason.

He also doesn't feel the need to verbally confirm that he's going to. Of course he's going, Pel is family.

"A demon's motivation is generally power. If it thinks it can gain more by hurting her..." Anders trails off and shakes his head. "As far as the other, I don't know. I'd lean toward no, but it's possible the demon is distorting her perceptions and she wouldn't see you as you."

It would be really nice to have good news to give to them, but where demons and the Fade are concerned there's rarely any to be found.

Cyril sighs in a shaky way and nods. He will prepare himself to do this for Pel. She needs to be protected.

"What else do we need to know?"

He takes a slow breath, going over the mental checklist: don't trust what you see, don't kill Pel, oh.

"Accept no deals. I've seen a couple of non-mages accept deals in the Fade and they did not wake up damaged, but I've also seen possessed templars. There is no guarantee that someone who isn't a mage can walk away without being harmed. Some of you have never endured demons before; remember that even if they could give you whatever they're promising, would it be worth your twisted form attacking the people you care about here? Because you will likely die and considering how many people will be asleep in this room and vulnerable..."

He figures they can all finish that thought by themselves, and that it will have more impact like that as well.

"If something seems too easy, it likely is. Be wary at all times." He presses his lips together, trying to think of anything else. "And don't die. Nothing else comes to mind."

All of this is nothing new to a mage--but one part, which Myr files quietly away along with all the sick dread it brings with it. Make her Tranquil. Maker forfend.

But better not to ask about it. "Don't think there's anything we could add to that," which is a gentle half-truth, but now's not the time for theology, "unless Saoirse and Sorrel have something else. If you've the lyrium ready, Warden Anders--"

Best to get this done.

He nods, face a little paler than usual as he gathers the vials up and starts handing them out one by one to each person.

"You'll want to be in position before taking this. It's fast-acting." The nervousness he feels, sending a group into the Fade that has friends in it, to try to save another friend, makes him wish there was so much more to say. "I know some of you already know that."

Of course, saying more edges into babbling territory, and Anders takes a breath and stops himself from saying anything else obvious.

"Good luck." Bring her back goes unsaid; that's what they're here to do.

There's a certain sound a furious hive has to it--an awful throbbing buzz that every beekeeper learns early to ignore at his peril.

It's been a long time since Myr's heard that noise, a long time since he learned the subtle art of soothing a fractious colony with magic instead of smoke-- A long time since he's been stung, though it's a pain one doesn't soon forget. (He has heard of men stung to death by feral swarms, how they swelled and blackened and died in agony as their organs shut down--but they died. In a dream under the thumb of a demon seeking to feed from his fear, he knows--dimly--he won't get such a mercy.)

I'll make them stop, the demon promises, and Myr snarls soundlessly as he struggles for footing. Fuck you, he thinks, forcing rage past his own terror (drowning again, too disoriented and voiceless to cast and this ocean won't respond to his magic anyway, no more than one of water would, he knows with the awful certainty of dreams-- a mage without control is a danger to himself) and (it could work, it's in control of this, it could work--except if he gives up his eyes in the Fade will he ever again be able to see in his dreams?)

No swimmer, he, but a sea of insects is a different beast from one of water and for one brief blessed moment he makes contact with solid ground--a second of stillness in the pain and tumult is all he needs to cast. Grease is a fast spell, one he can force without words if he doesn't have to think to target or reduce it, wrenching gallons of the slippery stuff from the raw Fade around him to drench himself and the nearest bees alike. Then he's swept from his feet in a press of tiny bodies now gluey and wingbound with oil--now flammable.

I won't give you the satisfaction-- Half-threat, half-madness; don't die, Anders had said, and he's got to win through this and find Pel, and burning's a hell of a way to go, but if he can somehow call the demon's bluff enough to force it into the open--

Edited 2017-11-10 06:40 (UTC)

Always on the beach, always waiting, Sina's dream is the same as ever with only a few details changed. One, the tide has risen to where it sloshes around her nose and mouth, choking and freeing her in turn, never an easy breath or a moment to relax. She's on the balls of her feet, and in theory all she'd need to do is rest down on her heels, let it happen. For whatever reason, she hasn't yet, and continues to gulp the air. Once, long ago, there was something she looked at across the wavy expanse, something she hoped to reach. Now, there is only the sea and the moment itself.

And two... Myr.

Myr in distress. Thrashing around, radiating terror and anger, causing a fracas about twenty feet from what used to be the coast, the green of the sky illuminating his restless silhouette. Sina hesitates for the time it takes to realize he's really here, then takes a deep breath and submerges her head to swim to him.
The water around her friend is cloudy, but the ever-present green glow of the shard lights Sina's way. It pierces through the blackness to reveal him, struggling mindlessly, and Sina extends her hand to touch his arm, to break him out of it.

Even if Myr knew what she looked like outside the Fade, he wouldn't recognize her now. A phantasm of glowing green magic, Sina's hair floats around her head in an eerie, rim-lit halo, gently carried every which way by the shifting water. And it is water, now, the buzzing in Myr's ears entirely to do with the pressure of it and not the collective shrieking of angry bees.
"Come out," she suggests, her voice unmistakeable despite her fearsome appearance. Bubbles spill gently from her mouth as she exhales the words, extending her hand with a sweet smile.

Edited 2017-11-10 07:01 (UTC)

Between one moment and the next--(he can't find footing any longer in the tide of insect bodies, not so much as would let him center himself, let him call a spark into life)--Myr's world changes to water and the actinic green glow of the Fade. He nearly sucks in a lungful of ocean in surprise; coughs bubbles, wincing at the sting of seawater in his eyes and injuries. (The bees are gone but their handiwork remains, venom seeping slow through muscle, blood, and skin.)

Has he forced the demon's hand? The vision hovering before him doesn't look like any demon he's ever seen, but it's fearsome all the same--strikes echoes of another dream of the sea, another unknown entity--and he reaches back for his spirit blade as it opens its mouth to speak--

He knows that voice, knows it and thought never to hear it again. Sina? he mouths, wide-eyed. His fingers slip from the hilt of his blade and he reaches for her outstretched hand without hesitation. Come out, she said, but-- How? He can't swim; it's only the shock of her presence that's kept him from panicking in the crush of the current, but the white-knuckled way he grips at her fingers speaks his fear louder than words.

PLAYER PLOT: Enfenim

Quest Get | No tag order, start with Anders

Beleth | TW: blood

Cyril | TW: body horror

Myr | TW: bees and drowning

Saoirse | TW: blood and corpses

Sorrel | TW: dismemberment

Alistair and Anders | Throughout

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let's add some TW for potential death by fire

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