it's like i've fallen out of bed

[aestivation]

WHO: Casimir, Kostos, Myr
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.

Comments

[faithlikeaseed]

It's the small gestures--the touch at his brow; the sleeve blotting up his blood with the same meticulous care always shown--that disconcert the most; Myr knows the usual line on the Tranquil, that feeling might die but habits are far harder to kill, and yet-- He can't but take it as evidence of something more, and cling to it with the same fervor he does his religion. (Always searching for signs in the smallest things, and finding them; always seeing the Maker's mercies in the least turn of events. The Maker is there, beyond the Veil: Casimir is there, beyond the brand.)

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.

[aestivation]

It’s familiar as it’s foreign — if any mage might call a ritual, few are answered so readily —

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.

[exequy]

Kostos would not be able to say what he expected. Panic, perhaps. Uncontrolled magic. Nothing at all. But this, emotions like a wound, refracting like light in a mirror through the spirit, colored with compassionate concern—it makes enough terrible sense he might claim to have expected it, later, and not be sure that he's lying.

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.

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr knows.

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.