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

[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.