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Traveling to Seheron is no daytrip. There are mountains to cross, then forest, then plains, then desert, then desert mountains, then journey on a slow fishing boat across a choppy sea. Plenty of time for team bonding exercises and road games and campfire songs along the way.
[ ooc | Make your own adventure/small talk, if you want. ]
Sneaking around isn't Alistair's usual style, but he's not a king, he doesn't have a fleet of ships or small army of Qunari at his disposal, and he would prefer not to get anyone else killed. (Except maybe Loghain.) (No, not really.)(Not today.) So today, they're sneaking in—and for once, it isn't actually that difficult.
The fortress is poorly guarded, relying on its view of the open sea ahead and the protection of rocky island cliffs at the rear for security rather than a full staff. Whoever is there isn't worried about fishing boats slipping in unseen or a small party coming through the grates at the fortress' base, and the Tevinter cultists who do patrol the hallways do it in no more than pairs that are easily taken out by such a large invading force.
After the first two cultists have been killed (or incapacitated, that's fine too, whatever), Alistair whispers, helpfully, "I don't actually know what we're looking for or where it is."
[ ooc | One thread! No tag order but please don't tag more than twice a day, to make sure nobody is left out because they aren't boomeranging. ]
How you got where you are now is not important—or it won't feel important—but if you must know, there was a magister with fire pouring from his eyes; there was the Magrallen, a massive ring with a withered old man at its center and an orb of blood beneath it; then there was some sort of explosion, and now—
Now you're somewhere else. It might be somewhere pleasant. It might be somewhere horrific. If you're a mage, it's clearly the Fade; if you're not, you may be able to figure it out, or you may have to wait for assistance breaking out of the spirits' grasps. In the meantime the world around you shifts and alters, making it all too easy to take a wrong turn, walk through the wrong door, and find yourself isolated again, perhaps even convinced anew that you've found your way out of the dream and into your childhood home or your personal hell.
[ ooc | Make your own Fade comments, tag around at will. I was going to make us go in an established order but there are too many people and too many crisscrossing wishes for specific witnesses, so it's a free-for-all. Have fun. ]
"So it's a game, see?" The donkey snorts for punctuation. They're somewhere between interminable plains, and interminable mountains, and if anyone actually uses the word interminable it'll only make it that much worse — "How long can you only talk in questions?"
Well, that was a fucked up dream.
Blood, and flame, and — there'd been something in her hand, hadn't there? A glance down finds them both whole, unblemished. She flexes one experimentally, regards the wide old table around her, scarred by the work of idle knives and years.
It's a simple home, sparse in a manner that speaks to lack (time, money) rather than much true preference. The spread before them is out of place within: A rich feast, plates heaped high with meat, with delicacies; fine glass decanters slowly tumbling a glossy red.
The faces of most guests are indistinct, though in flashes of clarity a few bear passing resemblance to Melys. Others, clearly dwarven, else clearly,
Something else, and very still.
She turns to you: "You gonna eat that?" The jerk of an impossible pinky to your plate.
Blood, and flame, and — there'd been something in her hand, hadn't there? A glance down finds them both whole, unblemished. She flexes one experimentally, regards the wide old table around her, scarred by the work of idle knives and years.
It's a simple home, sparse in a manner that speaks to lack (time, money) rather than much true preference. The spread before them is out of place within: A rich feast, plates heaped high with meat, with delicacies; fine glass decanters slowly tumbling a glossy red.
The faces of most guests are indistinct, though in flashes of clarity a few bear passing resemblance to Melys. Others, clearly dwarven, else clearly,
Something else, and very still.
She turns to you: "You gonna eat that?" The jerk of an impossible pinky to your plate.
Edited 2018-01-13 21:08 (UTC)
Herian, traditionally, communicates best with statements and severe looks. That would depend, is her automatic mental response, and she immediately realises how much of a problem this game is going to be.
"You are an enthusiast of games, then?"
Congration, Herian.
"You are an enthusiast of games, then?"
Congration, Herian.
Edited (AN ENTHUSIASTIC christ) 2018-01-13 21:09 (UTC)
I must help Alistair, she had said to herself, because he is dear to Sabine. She counts Sabine as one of her best friends, and Alistair stood at her side against a dragon, and because family is important.
In this moment, however, Herian would be hard pressed to deny that the look she fixes Alistair with could be compared to something withering.
"What?"
Quiet, but she manages to hold back the better part of her incredulity. She actually is struggling with how to verbally proceed which won't be potentially harsh, or deeply unhelpful. "Better we move quickly, then."
In this moment, however, Herian would be hard pressed to deny that the look she fixes Alistair with could be compared to something withering.
"What?"
Quiet, but she manages to hold back the better part of her incredulity. She actually is struggling with how to verbally proceed which won't be potentially harsh, or deeply unhelpful. "Better we move quickly, then."
A: forests and mazes.
Far enough away from Herian, the forest that she stands in is made up not of trees, but marble pillars. Some are straight and upright, others twisted and gnarled as the oldest parts of the forest. Draw closer to her, though, and it becomes wholly forest.
Her staff and sword and armour are gone; more accurate to say they never were, here, not in this memory warped into a dream. She is instead standing with just a ragged shirt of coarse cloth. Her legs are bound up in leather leggings, nails driven in through the leather, and her hands are bound. Around her neck hangs a rope, she can remember the coarseness of it on her skin more than she can feel it, and two severed elven ears hang from it.
In one moment she's bloody, grass and dirt marking her skin, shirt soaked with sweat and mud, and in the next the scene is pristine. The Fade is so unreliable, in how it shifts and shudders. The forest is oppressive and mazelike, and in the distance there are shouts distorted by dreaming. Sometimes close, sometimes far.
She has dreamed this dream many times, countless repetitions and countless little changes; she inhales slowly, pushing herself up to her feet. It doesn't hurt, this time. More an itch, the memory of past aches, though she looks down at her feet and cautiously wiggles her toes. This is a symbol of what was done, not the event itself.
"It's not happening again," she tells herself, very calmly. "This is an echo. They aren't here."
She knows it, but speaking it aloud makes it more real, for a given value of real when it's the Fade. Even being a mage, knowing what this all is, she cannot shape it all, and the ropes around her wrists don't fall away, and the clothes do not simply replace themselves with something to her preference. Herian leans against a tree, and starts to pull at the rope with her teeth. Sure, she has magic, but also she doesn't want to accidentally set herself on fire in the Fade. That doesn't seem fun.
B: the White Spire.
It is strange, in dreams, how things warp. The forest has changed to marble pillars, labyrinthine, until eventually it changed to polished hallways.
She knows what she is walking through; she knows it is not real. The smell of smoke and blood (and piss and panic) do not hang in the air as they did, that day. She is in an enchanter's robes, or maybe she is back in those leather leggings and ragged shirt - it seems to shudder between them, at times, the way things can change inexplicably in dreams. What it lacks in smell, the scene has in haunting echoes, splintered doorways.
Herian exhales, as a woman comes into view. She's in her seventies, perhaps, a human women with an air that could be condescending or distinguished or grandmotherly, depending on how well one responds to old ladies. In this moment, the older enchanter smiles, folding her hands against her lap.
"Ah, bonjour, Enchanter. You are looking a little grim, today. What is making you so glum?"
It is not Modestine, she knows, and the sight of her is painful, even if Herian had found her insufferable when they were in the Spire together. She deserved better than this.
C: for Concerning Honour
There is garden, or a meadow, too well kept to look entirely natural. The wonders of the Fade, it seems. Ivy spills across the floor, but it is in all strange colours - autumnal seeming at first, but then some leaves seem gold and others purple. Piles of rocks rise from the ground, but some also are arranged in gravity defying spirals, and some are stacked sideways and equally improbably.
"Honour is the meeting place of justice, truth, and compassion. What is morally right and what is legally right are not one and the same. Mortal law alone cannot be trusted to be right."
As it notices someone approaching, the spirit continues to move around Herian. The spirit shimmers a little, and leans closer to Herian, inspecting.
"You know this, just as you know that necessity and the greater good and what is right are not always the same, or clearly divided."
D: or wildcard me.
Far enough away from Herian, the forest that she stands in is made up not of trees, but marble pillars. Some are straight and upright, others twisted and gnarled as the oldest parts of the forest. Draw closer to her, though, and it becomes wholly forest.
Her staff and sword and armour are gone; more accurate to say they never were, here, not in this memory warped into a dream. She is instead standing with just a ragged shirt of coarse cloth. Her legs are bound up in leather leggings, nails driven in through the leather, and her hands are bound. Around her neck hangs a rope, she can remember the coarseness of it on her skin more than she can feel it, and two severed elven ears hang from it.
In one moment she's bloody, grass and dirt marking her skin, shirt soaked with sweat and mud, and in the next the scene is pristine. The Fade is so unreliable, in how it shifts and shudders. The forest is oppressive and mazelike, and in the distance there are shouts distorted by dreaming. Sometimes close, sometimes far.
She has dreamed this dream many times, countless repetitions and countless little changes; she inhales slowly, pushing herself up to her feet. It doesn't hurt, this time. More an itch, the memory of past aches, though she looks down at her feet and cautiously wiggles her toes. This is a symbol of what was done, not the event itself.
"It's not happening again," she tells herself, very calmly. "This is an echo. They aren't here."
She knows it, but speaking it aloud makes it more real, for a given value of real when it's the Fade. Even being a mage, knowing what this all is, she cannot shape it all, and the ropes around her wrists don't fall away, and the clothes do not simply replace themselves with something to her preference. Herian leans against a tree, and starts to pull at the rope with her teeth. Sure, she has magic, but also she doesn't want to accidentally set herself on fire in the Fade. That doesn't seem fun.
B: the White Spire.
It is strange, in dreams, how things warp. The forest has changed to marble pillars, labyrinthine, until eventually it changed to polished hallways.
She knows what she is walking through; she knows it is not real. The smell of smoke and blood (and piss and panic) do not hang in the air as they did, that day. She is in an enchanter's robes, or maybe she is back in those leather leggings and ragged shirt - it seems to shudder between them, at times, the way things can change inexplicably in dreams. What it lacks in smell, the scene has in haunting echoes, splintered doorways.
Herian exhales, as a woman comes into view. She's in her seventies, perhaps, a human women with an air that could be condescending or distinguished or grandmotherly, depending on how well one responds to old ladies. In this moment, the older enchanter smiles, folding her hands against her lap.
"Ah, bonjour, Enchanter. You are looking a little grim, today. What is making you so glum?"
It is not Modestine, she knows, and the sight of her is painful, even if Herian had found her insufferable when they were in the Spire together. She deserved better than this.
C: for Concerning Honour
There is garden, or a meadow, too well kept to look entirely natural. The wonders of the Fade, it seems. Ivy spills across the floor, but it is in all strange colours - autumnal seeming at first, but then some leaves seem gold and others purple. Piles of rocks rise from the ground, but some also are arranged in gravity defying spirals, and some are stacked sideways and equally improbably.
"Honour is the meeting place of justice, truth, and compassion. What is morally right and what is legally right are not one and the same. Mortal law alone cannot be trusted to be right."
As it notices someone approaching, the spirit continues to move around Herian. The spirit shimmers a little, and leans closer to Herian, inspecting.
"You know this, just as you know that necessity and the greater good and what is right are not always the same, or clearly divided."
D: or wildcard me.
Edited 2018-01-14 12:59 (UTC)
"Probably either a laboratory or a dungeon," a voice replies, whisper incapable of disguising the Orlesian accent. Yes, Freddie is here, complete with shining rapier unsheathed in one hand.
It takes a liberal dose of elbowing for her to make her way from the center of the group to pop her head into view around Herian's shoulder, but when she does she smiles helpfully at Alistair. "Magisters are hardly known for their subtlety, after all. We should look for stairs down, or perhaps a large space at the top of a tower, something like that, no? Or, an alternative approach, perhaps we simply go wherever the most guards can be seen to go. Surely there can be no prize here more precious?"
It takes a liberal dose of elbowing for her to make her way from the center of the group to pop her head into view around Herian's shoulder, but when she does she smiles helpfully at Alistair. "Magisters are hardly known for their subtlety, after all. We should look for stairs down, or perhaps a large space at the top of a tower, something like that, no? Or, an alternative approach, perhaps we simply go wherever the most guards can be seen to go. Surely there can be no prize here more precious?"
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The voice is not Nathaniel's, which feels just wrong to Nathaniel himself, that it's the young man in his arms begging his forgiveness instead of vice versa. He clings tightly, and all that's visible is short black hair, pale skin, and an athletic build.
"It doesn't matter," Nathaniel tells him. "None of it matters. Nothing we said to each other, none of the fighting. All that matters is you're alive, and we can start over."
The voice is not Nathaniel's, which feels just wrong to Nathaniel himself, that it's the young man in his arms begging his forgiveness instead of vice versa. He clings tightly, and all that's visible is short black hair, pale skin, and an athletic build.
"It doesn't matter," Nathaniel tells him. "None of it matters. Nothing we said to each other, none of the fighting. All that matters is you're alive, and we can start over."
Loghain may be in the minority of preferring a rough sea voyage to a calm one, if only because it gives him plenty of opportunities to make himself useful. He moves with purpose around the deck seeing to various tasks that need doing, careful never to give any instruction or suggestion that may give the appearance of contravening the authority of the ship's captain.
Now it's late afternoon, and he's standing near the prow of the boat watching the horizon. To call his expression inscrutable would be an understatement.
Now it's late afternoon, and he's standing near the prow of the boat watching the horizon. To call his expression inscrutable would be an understatement.
The Tevinter patrollers are complicit by association in keeping Maric in chains, and are therefore most assuredly dead where Loghain leaves them. He has the decency to ensure they die quickly and quietly, at least, their bodies hidden. No sense in prolonging their suffering, or drawing undue attention.
Yet at Alistair's words, he stops short and turns to give him a look that might be incensed, were he looking at anyone else. (If he'd known that, maybe he'd've held off stabbing the last guard in the back--until after he'd been interrogated, anyway.)
The spike of his temper is short-lived. He takes a breath, masters himself, and nods in somewhat reluctant agreement with the Orlesian scholar. "I suspect that we will know we are headed in the right direction, once we are met with heavier resistance."
Yet at Alistair's words, he stops short and turns to give him a look that might be incensed, were he looking at anyone else. (If he'd known that, maybe he'd've held off stabbing the last guard in the back--until after he'd been interrogated, anyway.)
The spike of his temper is short-lived. He takes a breath, masters himself, and nods in somewhat reluctant agreement with the Orlesian scholar. "I suspect that we will know we are headed in the right direction, once we are met with heavier resistance."
The Medicine Seller was not a stranger to the workings of the Fade. He was familiar with its twists and turns, and he was at ease in its peculiar geometries and unsettling absence of physics.
His own dreamscape is a burst of colour. It's so bright that nothing feels quite real even if one were to disregard the strangeness that was the Fade. The sky is a soft hue of pastel oranges and yellows. Plum trees are in full bloom in too-bright shades of pink and blue and red and green and lavender. Petals fall, turning into a flurry of metallic confetti, disappearing into a floor that is like a mirror.
Or perhaps some reflective pool. Water from it rains upwards, the droplets changing into spinning purple flowers.
His reflection is strange. It moves at the same time and all the same ways he does, but it looks like another man. Same height, same build, but the clothes are different - still colourful but somehow more muted. The other's skin is dark, and hair almost white, and he wears a yellow mask of some kind of canine. Maybe a dog, maybe a wolf, maybe a fox - whatever it is, its teeth are bared, and its eyes are like hot coals set in black pits.
Beyond the reflection of the orchard, where the yellow and orange sky should have been, was a bird's eye view of the scene they left behind. Maric, strung up like a pig to roast, the great bubble of blood below him.
The Medicine Seller took a drag of his pipe, as did his strange reflection, and exhaled a plume of smoke.
"Goodness," he said, halfway between exasperated and amused, "what a predicament."
His own dreamscape is a burst of colour. It's so bright that nothing feels quite real even if one were to disregard the strangeness that was the Fade. The sky is a soft hue of pastel oranges and yellows. Plum trees are in full bloom in too-bright shades of pink and blue and red and green and lavender. Petals fall, turning into a flurry of metallic confetti, disappearing into a floor that is like a mirror.
Or perhaps some reflective pool. Water from it rains upwards, the droplets changing into spinning purple flowers.
His reflection is strange. It moves at the same time and all the same ways he does, but it looks like another man. Same height, same build, but the clothes are different - still colourful but somehow more muted. The other's skin is dark, and hair almost white, and he wears a yellow mask of some kind of canine. Maybe a dog, maybe a wolf, maybe a fox - whatever it is, its teeth are bared, and its eyes are like hot coals set in black pits.
Beyond the reflection of the orchard, where the yellow and orange sky should have been, was a bird's eye view of the scene they left behind. Maric, strung up like a pig to roast, the great bubble of blood below him.
The Medicine Seller took a drag of his pipe, as did his strange reflection, and exhaled a plume of smoke.
"Goodness," he said, halfway between exasperated and amused, "what a predicament."
For a man in wooden sandals and carrying at least an extra forty pounds, the Medicine Seller moved with almost unsettling quiet.
He seemed perfectly inclined to ignore the bickering, his head tilt upwards and expression focused like an animal trying to catch a scent.
It was like trying to discern what the hottest part of a bonfire was while standing in the middle of the blaze. It was, for lack of a better word, overwhelming to every sense he had.
"...Strange," he remarked, astute as ever.
He seemed perfectly inclined to ignore the bickering, his head tilt upwards and expression focused like an animal trying to catch a scent.
It was like trying to discern what the hottest part of a bonfire was while standing in the middle of the blaze. It was, for lack of a better word, overwhelming to every sense he had.
"...Strange," he remarked, astute as ever.
Alistair endures the what and Maker's Breath and incensed looks with relative good cheer, holding up both hands in mock surrender—his fault, very sorry, left the secret fortress map back home in his secret fortress map cabinet, you know how it goes—and then turns one of those hands to snap and point approvingly at Freddie.
"Knew we brought an Orlesian for a reason," he whispers back.
The Medicine Seller he claps on the shoulder, as if they're friends. He manages not to say yes you are. This is serious.
"Anyway, no real direction to go right now except up and inward," he goes on, gesturing ahead.
Ahead is a staircase only wide enough to allow walking up two by two. At the top—currently unseen—there's another set of guards in the corridor, posted outside of opposing doorways and whispering back and forth about what's for dinner. (Chowder, they hope.)
"Knew we brought an Orlesian for a reason," he whispers back.
The Medicine Seller he claps on the shoulder, as if they're friends. He manages not to say yes you are. This is serious.
"Anyway, no real direction to go right now except up and inward," he goes on, gesturing ahead.
Ahead is a staircase only wide enough to allow walking up two by two. At the top—currently unseen—there's another set of guards in the corridor, posted outside of opposing doorways and whispering back and forth about what's for dinner. (Chowder, they hope.)
While Alistair's easygoing manner might not alleviate her concerns on its own, the sense offered by others is reassuring. Granted an Orlesian noble and a man whose honour was set permanently in question during the Fifth Blight, but now is not the time to begin a debate on such things.
Herian starts moving with the rest, starting to quietly cast barriers over whoever is leading the group, and trying to gradually keep casting over each of them. (Unless, of course, they've previously expressed that they don't want any of that gross mage stuff near them, in which case she will spare them.)
Herian starts moving with the rest, starting to quietly cast barriers over whoever is leading the group, and trying to gradually keep casting over each of them. (Unless, of course, they've previously expressed that they don't want any of that gross mage stuff near them, in which case she will spare them.)
Here's the terrible thing about the Fade - it can be so temptingly real. So alluring, so... full of promise. They were dreams that could break your heart upon waking, because so much that you had longed for had been restored to you, and then it was lost all over again in the starkness of reality.
Herian stands, watches, and doesn't want to disrupt the Warden's relief, this reconciliation, even though she knows it must be done. It feels unkind to do it, but the worse thing would surely be to allow him to become endangered.
"Warden Howe," she says, speaking softly. She is, herself, looking less together than she might normally, wearing an Enchanter's robes. She feels that she is intruding on an important moment. "Consider the situation carefully."
Herian stands, watches, and doesn't want to disrupt the Warden's relief, this reconciliation, even though she knows it must be done. It feels unkind to do it, but the worse thing would surely be to allow him to become endangered.
"Warden Howe," she says, speaking softly. She is, herself, looking less together than she might normally, wearing an Enchanter's robes. She feels that she is intruding on an important moment. "Consider the situation carefully."
for Alistair
Teren has never been a hoverer, but the time to hover has, perhaps, come. Wherever Alistair is at whatever point, she's nearby, if not interacting with him directly then keeping him in her periphery, scouting out possible problems, noting his mood. She's known him long enough to understand the importance of this mission, and how, even with him being ten years older and all the wiser (which she'll never admit to him), he can still fall victim to his own sensitivity.
He's almost died for her, and she for him, and she'd do it again. But she won't smother him. He has much to think about.
open
Prickly and serious as ever, Teren is nonetheless not entirely unfriendly and can be engaged while making camp, cooking, and so forth. She's nice to have along on journeys like this for her capable survival skills, and though not much of a conversationalist, she does her best to make everyone comfortable.
Teren has never been a hoverer, but the time to hover has, perhaps, come. Wherever Alistair is at whatever point, she's nearby, if not interacting with him directly then keeping him in her periphery, scouting out possible problems, noting his mood. She's known him long enough to understand the importance of this mission, and how, even with him being ten years older and all the wiser (which she'll never admit to him), he can still fall victim to his own sensitivity.
He's almost died for her, and she for him, and she'd do it again. But she won't smother him. He has much to think about.
open
Prickly and serious as ever, Teren is nonetheless not entirely unfriendly and can be engaged while making camp, cooking, and so forth. She's nice to have along on journeys like this for her capable survival skills, and though not much of a conversationalist, she does her best to make everyone comfortable.
"Must one be an enthusiast?" Teren asks, on horseback a few feet away.
It's impossible to forget how the last voyage went, and Teren has been making herself as useful as possible while also trying not to panic every time the boat pitches or she spots a disturbance in the water. She's kept it under wraps for the most part, but it's a stressed Senior Warden who appears at Loghain's side while he stands at the prow, her arms clasped tightly over each other to ward off the cold and overall misery.
"Mac Tir," she greets in a low voice, almost as though she's ashamed to.
"Mac Tir," she greets in a low voice, almost as though she's ashamed to.
Edited 2018-01-14 22:41 (UTC)
Teren, as usual in these situations, is silent and everywhere, often appearing at the last and most opportune moment to deliver the killing blow to any more difficult combatants. She walks along the walls as well, carefully, ball-of-foot first, testing for pressure plates and tripwires ahead of the others.
When they reach the stairs, she holds out a hand and tilts her head, listening. Then, glancing around to all the mages, she nudges her head upward. They can do some kind of area effect, right? Without anyone having to aim? Magic???
When they reach the stairs, she holds out a hand and tilts her head, listening. Then, glancing around to all the mages, she nudges her head upward. They can do some kind of area effect, right? Without anyone having to aim? Magic???
mages
At first there's anger, frustration, but it dies away within seconds as Teren becomes aware of her surroundings. Everything was a fantasy; the life she's made, the friends she's come to trust, all of it an elaborate ruse devised to torture her while she serves her time. A cruel mindgame.
She's wearing a filthy muslin shift and reclining on a filthier stone floor, the only light provided by the weak flame of a wall sconce in the hall. She can see it filtering through the bars up at the top of the door, but not the sconce itself, and only knows it to be fire because of how it flickers.
Her long, long hair is lank and knotted, crusted blood on her scalp and on her fingertips, her knees and elbows, her cheekbone. Periodically she receives a visitor, but all the information she could have given them was already spilled years ago. Now she's just rotting, languishing, waiting for an execution that won't come unless someone remembers that she's here.
Alone.
It's cruel how real the memories feel: a strong, reassuring hand on her shoulder in a warm tavern; the velvet of a druffalo's muzzle; a childlike giggle from a grown man, a woman with wheeled shoes, a mage with a kind face easing the pain in her joints.
But it wasn't real. She never left.
She curls her knees into herself and covers her face with her arms, becoming a bony scrap of stillness in the corner, too desolate to even weep.
At first there's anger, frustration, but it dies away within seconds as Teren becomes aware of her surroundings. Everything was a fantasy; the life she's made, the friends she's come to trust, all of it an elaborate ruse devised to torture her while she serves her time. A cruel mindgame.
She's wearing a filthy muslin shift and reclining on a filthier stone floor, the only light provided by the weak flame of a wall sconce in the hall. She can see it filtering through the bars up at the top of the door, but not the sconce itself, and only knows it to be fire because of how it flickers.
Her long, long hair is lank and knotted, crusted blood on her scalp and on her fingertips, her knees and elbows, her cheekbone. Periodically she receives a visitor, but all the information she could have given them was already spilled years ago. Now she's just rotting, languishing, waiting for an execution that won't come unless someone remembers that she's here.
Alone.
It's cruel how real the memories feel: a strong, reassuring hand on her shoulder in a warm tavern; the velvet of a druffalo's muzzle; a childlike giggle from a grown man, a woman with wheeled shoes, a mage with a kind face easing the pain in her joints.
But it wasn't real. She never left.
She curls her knees into herself and covers her face with her arms, becoming a bony scrap of stillness in the corner, too desolate to even weep.
He turns his head at her greeting and returns it with a wordless nod. There's a softness in his eyes when he looks at her now, but today it's overshadowed by grim preoccupation with the task that they've undertaken together. He exhales and chafes a hand against his weathered face, turning his eyes back out across the water.
"I pray this does not turn out to be a fool's errand," he admits to her quietly. (He hears the note of shame in her voice, but knows better than to draw attention to it.)
"I pray this does not turn out to be a fool's errand," he admits to her quietly. (He hears the note of shame in her voice, but knows better than to draw attention to it.)
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