Casimir Lyov (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aestivation) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2018-03-18 12:34 pm
aestivation) wrote in faderift2018-03-18 12:34 pm
it's like i've fallen out of bed
WHO: Casimir, Kostos, Myr
WHAT: Having one (1) whole feeling
WHEN: Vaguely this month
WHERE: The Southeastern Fuckoff Murderforest
NOTES: Probably ~drama~
WHAT: Having one (1) whole feeling
WHEN: Vaguely this month
WHERE: The Southeastern Fuckoff Murderforest
NOTES: Probably ~drama~
The Brecillian Forest is full of life.
It’s full of death, too, and little of that restful. The Veil here isn’t so much thin as it’s flimsy, a fragility familiar to Kirkwall, but shifted for it. Where civilization might have grown against its drape, there are only scattered villages, thick trees; the occasional sign of more transient habitation.
(And ruin, always ruin. Civilization grew here once too.)
They have excuses, they have intelligence to consider. The Southern scouts report the usual dangers — possessed branches, bandits, roving wildlife — but no sign of hostile Dalish. Small blessings.
The Rift is rippling, and persistent. All manner of minor spirits press at its edges, and the occasional greater horror climbs through. As they draw closer, there are scorch marks in trees, there’s a silence in the birds. Sometimes, there are bones.
The Inquisition knows it’s here, but there are too many Rifts, and too few able to close them. Remote and spirit-stricken as these woods are, they’ll need to wait. A boon for those who’d study it,
That they’re not here to study is a matter to be kept between them.
no subject
He puts himself back together as quickly as a cat. It never happened. But his increased attention to his footing means he only steals glances at Casimir, fleeting sideways things, feeling his own silence like a weight. Maybe this is what possession feels like from the outside, too. Some new presence behind a known face.
He feels a swell of anger before he sees anything, and it's—no, it's not his. It dies with the demon, and for the moment and a fraction they have to observe, Kostos stops and stands still and inclines his head at the hunger demon, curiosity mixed with distaste.
When it charges his expression doesn't change, but he does stop breathing. Swinging the long side of his staff at its head is instinct, poorly aimed. The arc of lightning that jets from the end to explode a strip of bark off a nearby tree, then two more besides, isn't even intentional.
But Myr's barrier is still lingering, and the the wisps direct their attention—limited, but sufficient to fling bursts of ice—toward the demon.
\9_6/ burningelmo.gif
It is reluctant to go, presented with so much living flesh, so much food; it reaches with spindly fingers to grab at Myr’s staff, drag him stumbling into range of its jaws. Easy to end a fight this way in the Fade—snap off a limb or head, swallow the rest at leisure—but spirits seldom have barriers to block that hideous maw; teeth scrape against coalesced magic as Myr wrenches back, lashing out open-handed to leave a fragment of an ice glyph behind. A moment later it erupts, driving razor shards deep into the demon's arm, weakening its hold.
A sighted knight-enchanter would make shorter work of the demon, with spell and spirit blade to hand, not limited to direct contact with the target to strike a meaningful blow. But Myr does well enough in the battle of attrition—he's a second mage as fire support, to say nothing of the wisps—keeping his adversary within arm's length and punishing every touch against his barrier with a stinging cut or flash of magic. (He is mindful of his footing, can't move too far, too fast or risk disaster—it comes close in one heart-stopping moment when a root catches at his foot and he drops heavily to one knee.)
They both wear down—but the demon goes faster, until it's an instant too slow in retreat and Myr drives his blade through it once, twice for surety, and steps back without flourish or fanfare.
Not unscathed—a bite out of his sleeve here, an acid-rash there, a cut along his hairline trickling blood to stain his blindfold—but fit enough still to fend off another demon should it appear. Maker grant it won't be two at once again. He leans heavily on his staff a moment, catching his breath until his pulse slows enough not to distract from focused casting. They'll need glyphs down—paralysis, repulsion; the next fight won't take so long if he's given his choice of how to conduct it.
"Kostos." He jerks his head toward the rift by way of indication. It's a medium's show now, while they have a moment's respite.
a+ use of atavistic
Casimir sees none of it, eyes fixed, grip on the stick grown knuckle-tight. This close to spell and demon, instinct flares, and it takes focus enough to stand his ground. The need to fight hasn't been imagined for years, but it's a struggle to connect the faces he knows to this chaos. Like dolls up-ended from a child's basket, set to their roles askew. This isn't happening; isn't Kostos, can't be Myr. He blinks. It still is. They still are.
Surreal is the word he thinks to use. Thinks a moment later, how little that fits.
When he moves forward at last — still wary of that sickly rent of light — it’s to offer an arm in support. In context, an anchor for the sleeve that he blots at Myr’s cut. No eyes to sting, and no reason to itch the socket.
"Wherever you need me,"
To Kostos. There's something almost familiar in the strain of it, in the new furrow of his stare; the closest he comes now to stress. Viridian gleams against black.
no subject
To what extent a spirit is alive, and to what extent it can die, are academic questions without established answers. The practical response to that uncertainty is to focus on what is established. The sound the sword makes sliding in, not quite fleshy. The scent of ozone and rotting leaves and moss. His own breathing, while he lowers his staff and the wisps go quiet again and a body that was only ever held together by will and magic dissipates.
His eyes turn to Myr next for a head to toe sweep, to make sure the blind mage who did the fighting for all of them (he does not feel ashamed of himself, exactly, so much as defensive against imagined accusations) isn't in immediate danger of keeling over; then glance off of Casimir's face, then focus on the rift. The light is blinding, but at the moment it's still instead of churning, and when his eyes adjust he can see the shape of a landscape beyond it.
The mechanics of summoning rituals are flexible—as with spells, designed to focus the mind, create boundaries, give definition and shape to the thing willed to occur. How much fire, in what shape, moving in which direction, an answer to every question necessary to keep the flames from burning the library down rotely memorized and encoded in gestures and words. Steps can be skipped or modified, but when he was seventeen Sotiria interrupted him mid-summoning with an anecdote about spiders, and he brushed her off and moved impatiently onward, and the creature pulled through the Veil had eight legs and pincers beneath its gentle eyes. She made him watch it shudder and fall apart, to remember.
He skips nothing. Alterations only: a tree for a pillar, a gesture in empty air rather than beneath water, everything centered on the tear in the Veil rather than a binding circle. The words are Nevarran and supplicating. He'd chosen compassion, weeks ago, and if he's sense doubted whether it will be strong enough, especially one found here, he doesn't change course.
When there's a form in the light, ill-defined and slight, he holds a hand out to Casimir and gestures for him to come closer while he says, "Hello," and, "Don't cross. You can help us from there."
It listens, hovering, a smudge of humanoid orange against the green, and its voice is a quiet, mournful thing from somewhere far away. "I will not be alone for very long."
no subject
He's still as a man might be who seeks not to startle something wild and wary, until Casimir's done ministering to him, until Kostos begins the ritual in earnest. Only then does he straighten from his lean, breath caught at last, and reach out (long familiar with just how far, and how high) to touch his friend's shoulder: thank you, as always. Words he won't say right now, cautious not to make any spare noise--never much of a summoner himself, but overcautious about what might come of a summoning disturbed.
It keeps him rooted in one spot, prickles at the back of his neck with unease, when he should be about his own spells to ward the little clearing against whatever else might be lurking beyond the rift. Yet it's not until Compassion appears and offers its warning that Myr stirs, not to set down glyphs but to shift a step closer to Casimir. Support, or a need for it; spirits unnerve him, always have, but there's no other solution to this that they've yet hit on and so--
And so. He recognizes quick enough what he's doing, letting out a held breath in brief sigh and giving a sharp shake of his head. "Go on," he breathes, to no one but himself. Go on, get over it, get about what you're here to do while the vital part--the frightening part, the part they're pinning all their hopes on, who can still hope--happens without you.
It's not convincing enough to get him moving. He remains where he is, wholly unaware of the fear and desperate yearning writ large in his expression. Maker, let this work.
no subject
When he steps beside Kostos it’s with the tilt of his head; cheap, unconscious mimickry of Talas’ own curiousity. The focus of many years, but he’s never drawn upon anything quite like this. There would have been jealousy of that, once. Wonder, too.
Instead when he reaches out it’s for instinct, some primal piece of spine that urges the lungs to fill, and the heart to beat. His palm clasps fire,
And nothing very much seems to happen. His hand lingers, half across a world and entwined with light. He turns back to them, expressionless in question: Is that all? Then the stick clatters away, forgotten. He staggers. Knees fold to clumsy earth.
Compassion. Empathy. Foreign; sensation strikes terribly pure, and he smiles, face twinges with unfamiliar exertion. A ripple swallowed by the flood: Six years of memory, and another time he might wonder what it does to the spirit — and it will need to be another time because it isn't compassion that's shot his eyes this wide.
"I'm here," He chokes out, sounds foreign to his own ears. (Hurt. It sounds like hurt.) "I'm here."
His sides heave; he presses at his guts in some feeble effort to hold them in. Can't yet make himself look up to find their faces, their history, their own private hopes and dramas. It’s at once the worst thing in the world to know —
"I'm here."
For now.
no subject
But he's here. Where he was not before.
"I have hurt him," the spirit says. It's a disheartened whisper, distant, but accompanied by forward movement toward them, focus on Casimir, who is suddenly as bright a beacon as the other two. "I have—"
"No," Kostos says. Out loud, and silently, with a forward press of his own thoughts for the spirit to rifle through as it may. The plan. The necessity. Stay there. Emerging, especially now, freezing its worry and self-blame alongside its concern, may solidify the spirit into something that cannot easily be corrected. He says, "No," again, and reaches out toward Myrobalan before remembering he can't see the gesture. "Shivana."
See to Casimir, he doesn't specifically instruct, because he assumes the elf knows.
no subject
He's in motion before Kostos calls for him; six years since he's heard Casimir sound anything like hurt--sound like anything at all--and it pulls at him like a hook threaded through the caul of his heart. It draws him nearer the rift, draws him down to one knee at Casimir's side. (Is he more solid in the Fade than he was a moment ago? Difficult to be analytical at a moment like this--even if, Maker knows, they need remember all of this.) "You're here," six years of practice keep his voice calm, "and so are we; we have you," you aren't alone.
There's a gap of silence following the words; Myr had hoped so far as to believe they'd succeed but not to rehearse this. Not in detail. Not without knowing how much time they'd have. ("Minutes" encompassed so much, too much.) There are words he would say--words he's already said in the past, that may bear repeating--and none of them fit, none of them are right, with so little space to say them in; he presses fingers against his friend's shoulder in lieu of them, brief and fleeting.
"Cas," worry makes him careless with affection, "Casimir--we're here to help. To cure this." To free you. "Do you want us to?"
It aches, not to ask more than that. Not to ask what else they might do--but this is what they came for. This is what they need to know.