( closed ) PLAYER PLOT: STILL WATERS

[dashing]

WHO: Alistair, Herian, Myr, Nell, Prompto, Saoirse, Wren.
WHAT: ( Plot post ) Shady rumours concerning the Tranquil lead to a remote Circle in the Northern Anderfels. Its relative isolation from the rest of Thedas has prevented news from reaching the Inquisition sooner. Our crack team investigates.
WHEN: forward dated, around 21st-ish Cloudreach
WHERE: Salzklippe, the Anderfels.
NOTES: Content Warning for violence, murder, and other grim Dragon Age things. The grief demon threads in particular include themes of death, suicide, and gore. Please add additional warnings to subject lines where necessary.

— Making the approach (group thread) — Into the catacombs (individual starters) — Discovering the lake (group thread) — Into the tower (individual starters) — Bossfight (multiple group-ish) — Later Stuff (individual starters) FOR GROUP THREADS: in order to keep threads moving, I will be aiming to do a GM tag once every 24 hours. Don't worry about a strict tagging order, but please don't tag more than three times every 24 hours, just to make sure no one gets left behind.

Comments

THE APPROACH, aka surprise!!! catacombs.

[dashing]

The Anderfels are not kind terrain, nor the people pleasant. Outsiders are viewed with suspicion, and perhaps rightly so. They have had to be careful, discrete; making their way across barren dunes scattered with scant, gnarled plantlife. Severe black rocks jut up, treacherous, some cleaved and sculpted by exposure. Shining, sharp things that catch the light enough to blind.

At least now the towering black mass of Salzklippe is clear. The salt cliffs are legendary, the Circle taking the place of a fortress that carved into them long before Tevinter’s grasp receded from the Anderfels.

One problem: Behind them, a mass of dust swelling up into the sky, swallowing the horizon. The sand storm advances rapidly, devours light.

“Run!”

The air sears, whips grit brutally over any exposed skin. They need to find shelter, an escape —

The high gates of the Circle are far too far above them, yet a hike up the sprawling cliffside. But ahead lie piles of rubble, broken rock. Huge and heavy, they might give cover.

( ooc: Please keep this to one thread! Once they get into the catacombs, you can reply to the next top level with individual starters for some exploration, if you like. )

[sulena]

Throughout all her traveling after the fall of the Circles, the Anderfels was not a location she had visited often or ventured into beyond the main capital city and for good reason. The harsh cracked and arid landscape was always the biggest concern especially when traveling by herself with the heat a close second.

But how could Saoirse forget the sand storms? She admiring the sight of the salt cliffs before them one moment, eyes fixated on the Circle when a whistle of wind and sudden swell gets her attention behind them. With the Circle still a dangerous hike up a the cliffside there were not many choices left to them.

"We can't risk trying to get to the Circle," she says. Already she has to raise her voice above the whistling wind growing around them. "We might find a cave to take shelter in for the meantime."

[dashing]

Herian nods her agreement, squinting a little against the lash of how air and dirt over her skin.

"Enchanter Ceallach is correct." The shadow of the rocks ahead of them have some promise, even if they are not particularly reassuring. She shoulders the pack she's carrying, and extends her hand to help steady the person behind her up a steep and slippery stretch of rocks. Well, equal parts steady, and just outright pull them up if necessary.

"We must move quickly."

INTO THE CATACOMBS

[dashing]

The tunnel they have made their way into is impossibly dark. Once their eyes have adjusted a little, they might find that it is not so dark as first thought, save for faint suggestions of light offered by the odd glow of small clusters of deep mushrooms. If they allow enough quiet to listen, they might hear the quiet echoes of water dripping far off.

Advancing further in, they may be able to hear moments of what sounds like a whisper or a song, but too far off to make out the words. To those familiar, it might be identifiable as lyrium's hum.

These are the lost catacombs of Salzklippe, an extensive natural network of underground caves and tunnels. There may, at times, be crunching sounds underfoot, and a shimmering black mass on the walls - beetles. There's a lot of beetles. And, sometimes, there will even be markers on the wall to suggest what is the right path to follow - but only sometimes.

The thing is, darkspawn start to come up through the tunnels to meet them. It might be a good idea to find out where they're coming up and seal it, so they can't churn out into the countryside through that new pathway that was just discovered for them. (Thank the Maker there's a Warden with them.)


( ooc: Individual starter this nonsense up! I will GM some potential items of interest and maybe adversaries into threads at random - if you would prefer no GMing, please add a note to your toplevel in the subject line.)

[crowncitizen]

Mark this place done as officially Godsdamn Creepy.

Prompto's already a bit ruffled from running from the sandstorm, and now they're in an underground cave system. It reminds him of the places they had to trek through back in Eos, either searching for one of the royal tombs or... well, whatever Noctis insisted on going in there for. At least no daemons to come out and surprise them? Not the Eos kind, anyway.

It all goes from bad to worst when he steps on something and hears a "crunch". Grimacing, he looks down. That's a beetle. Yep. Surrounded by dozens of others crawling their way up the wall.

"Eugh. Look at all of 'em. As if this place wasn't already creepy and dirty enough." Guess who absolutely hates bugs?

[sulena]

"Yet still it better to be beetles at our feet rather than losing ourselves in a sandstorm, hmm?"

A flicker of fire appears in Saoirse's hand, offering a warm glow and clearing a space around them out as the beetles scurry away from the sudden appearance of light. It was a shame they had not brought torches with them but she doubts cave exploration had been on the docket when planning for this mission. It was helpful that there was a few mages present to help curb away the darkness (and the bugs) while they continued their trek.

cw: eventual eye scream (one thread, if you could!)

[faithlikeaseed]

They've made it in out of the wind.

That much, Myr can pause and thank the Maker for as the others file past. They've made it in out of the howling storm and the sand and the dust--though they're not quite quit of it, are they, with how saturated their clothing's become with grit. Ordinarily, not much more than an annoyance, to be shaken out as they explore the catacombs. In Myr's case--

It posed certain problems. He lingers near the back of the group, idling from a walk to a stall. Reaches out to whoever's last to pass him with a quiet word-- "Stay with me a moment?"

They're in a cave, that much he can tell. It's likely dark enough no one would notice if he did pull off the blindfold while walking alongside them (maybe), but shameful instinct dies hard. Though not so hard he'd do anything so foolish as let himself be separated from the entire group.

[limier]

She's lingered to let the others pass. Half stubbornness — Amsel's aid will not be necessary twice — and half practicality: Easier to keep eyes on them before her.

Eyes. It's not what her mind first leaps to, when pausing beside.

"What is it?"

DISCOVERING THE LAKE

[dashing]

The sacred pools of Salzklippe are deep, clear, and entirely saline.

Spires of rock drip from above, frozen in the same spirals that jut from the rocky walls behind. The waters themselves provide sole illumination, gleaming silver-blue in the gloom.

A glance within reveals a vast mosaic below: Tens of thousands of brilliantly-coloured tiles picture scenes from the life and death of Andraste. Rendered in meticulous (gruesome) detail, their symbols strain toward the arcane. Beneath the shifting depths, a few almost resemble glyphs.

There's a boat, tied to a tiny, crusted dock. Its hull is carved with lines of musical notes, and verses of the Chant in Ander. It begins,

By cruel magic taken, ice, lightning, and flame —

There are no oars.

( ooc: Please keep this to one thread! I will be doing some GMing here and there. Once they get into the tower, you can reply to the next top level with individual starters for some exploration, if you like. )

[crowncitizen]

Prompto glances down, eyes wide as he takes in the mosaics at the bottom of the lake. They're beautiful, and he can't help but admire them, despite the setting (and what they depict).

"Wow. Those are incredible. How'd they get them down there?"

As he looks back up, he finally notices the rickety boat off to the side. Well, that seems to be what they need, albeit it's lacking a few necessary items. (Also, he's not sure how seaworthy, per se, that boat is but that's for later). "Anyone bring a paddle?"

[limier]

Wren stoops to her feet, fingers trailing from the song-encrusted bow. An ancient thing, but sturdily-built. Half-covered in a shamble of refuse, a water-stained page and the melted remains of a devotional candle mark the dock.

She spares a glance for the tiles, and little more (she's never been accused of an artistic eye). No warning signs. No bones at the bottom of the lake. No predators, nothing to lurk and leap free — nothing that they wouldn't see coming.

Still, the mages with them would be wise not to swim. The air tangs sharp with ozone.

"This place may not have always been so. It is an old country."

INTO THE TOWER

[dashing]

Beyond the lake's edge stands a heavy, unused door. Glowing seams of lyrium marble its great stone circle. As the boat approaches, the slab rolls aside, and exposes a place for the boat to dock. Long neglected, dust-laden steps lead upwards into the tower.

Finally, the true search begins: For phylacteries, for signs of the Tranquil, for any evidence of what happened here. Abandoned, but on what grounds? Are whispers of Venatori defection true?

As they ascend (dungeons unto basements, living areas, libraries, and studies, and offices, and classrooms) they might encounter any number of foes. Despair, Rage, and Fear hold sway here, and fearlings skitter in the shape of the beholder's own frights.

The higher they go, the greater the signs of violence. The bodies here were never given rites, robed, and armored, and unrestful for it. Some skeletons don't seem to fit either category, not knights or mages at all.


( ooc: Individual starter this nonsense up! I will GM some potential items of interest into threads at random — if you would prefer no GMing, please add a note to your top-level in the subject line.)

[dashing]

Herian steps over the demon ichor splattered across the floor, giving a swift swipe of her ice blade to shake the excess blood off. She pauses for a moment, frowning as she leans in to inspect a stag carved into the wall, parts worn smooth by time and curious hands, before looking to to others. Dried blood smears the walls, and she looks to one of the others.

"Whatever happened here, we must find it out."

For the sake of the people who died - and perhaps for the sake of the people who survived.

[byblow]

This might be the first time all day Alistair doesn't have something funny (or "funny") to say, whatever line he refuses to cross apparently lying somewhere to the other side of an apparent massacre. He echoes Herian's sentiment with a grim nod, exhales, and says, "It reminds me of Kinloch Hold, but—worse."

Maybe it's what Kinloch Hold would have been if no one had been saved and the Tower had been abandoned for years. If there hadn't been anyone left to ask for Annulment anyway.

He turns his sword in his hand—it's a simple thing, the same one issued Inquisition recruits, and he doesn't like the balance of it in a way he knows he won't get used to anytime soon, but his other, better option has Theirin all over it and is wrapped and hidden beneath his bed—and uses the blade to reach out and push at a nearby door, to see if perhaps that's all it needs to open.

THE BOSSFIGHT.

[dashing]

In the chamber sits a woman. Her skin seems ivory pale, though it is hard to tell when her face is all but obscured by sheer silk that tumbles past her shoulders and she holds wrapped about herself. Even so, her smile is easy enough to make out, as she looks towards the arriving party.

She has been preceded by her fellows; Fear, Rage, Despair, Desire. There is a hunger that exists within each of them, and some spirits feed off one another, heightening their own need. She, by comparison, almost seems like a light in the oppressive darkness of the chamber, that seems to envelope them as they walk in.

"I'm so happy to meet you all," she says, bowing her head respectfully. Her voice is strange, the tumbling of leaves in an autumn breeze, the rustle of reeds at the side of a lake. "My name is Lupeó. It is a great relief to have company after all this time."


( ooc: I'm doing individual starters for each character in this, so that everyone can make progress in their character being bargained with and all the other characters can observe, without us getting stuck anywhere. As with all threads, order doesn't matter but please don't tag more than two times between each tag done by the character who the thread revolves around. If it's your character's focus thread, tag as often as you like.

Please note: these threads aren't meant to narratively flow on from one another, but have more of a sense of "Fade time-fuckery." Basically they are sort of going on simultaneously, and yet all the characters are aware and able to interact with each others threads in a hazy, confusing dream timeline sort of way. It's mostly just a device so we don't need to worry about continuity or why they don't all rush into battle sooner, so just have fun with it. )

SAOIRSE

[dashing]

The darkness is oppressive, and then it begins to bleed, as ink falling into water. First it expands and contorts, and then it is— gone. Diluted.

They stand in the Gallows. Not the Gallows of current days, but the Gallows of years past, and the sunlight breaking through the windows above dapples the floors and desk of the classroom. Lupeo looks the part of a gentle old woman, and yet entirely herself, wearing the face of a kindly Senior Enchanter.

Before them, at the desk, sit some of Saoirse's pupils. Some may have been amongst those who survived the Gallows, but most are not. She looks to Saoirse, as though curious. The scene is not a horror— yet. Not yet, not yet, oh but it could become so.

"You must have been an excellent teacher, Enchanter. The students are very fond of you."

MYR

[dashing]

It is the Fade. "Wondrous, isn't it, what can be done?"

This moment, all the other moments, are a colourful landscapes, complex if not always vibrant. Myr can see the texture of them, just as all the others can. She knows his grief and the guilt that runs through it as surely as blood flows through veins.

As of this moment, they stand on a mountaintop, overlooking a glorious sunrise over rolling fields of golden wheat, and others with waves of white cottage yarrow blooms that sway in the breeze and catch the yellow and pinks and oranges of the rising sun.

She smiles to Myr, very kindly. "When was the last time you beheld something like this? When you could see the glorious creations of the Maker?"

NELL

[dashing]

The town they are walking through - because they are walking, now - is beautiful. Houses stand each side of the cobblestone walkway, the exterior walls rendered in a range of colours from delicate cream to a summery yellow, to warm, vibrant reds, and every tone and variation between. There is a fountain in town, a vast one, with three tiers and stone horses standing to mark north, south, east and west. Children clamber over the stone, two of them doing their utmost to get onto one of the horse's backs. Another sits reading at the edge with her feet in the water. The fourth and fifth stand in the water, one of them guiding the water into icy shapes with her hands, tongue poked between her lips in concentration, as the other watches in a sort of enthralled silence, trying to follow suit and only managing to make little misshapen blobs of ice that fall into the water with little dignity or ceremony.

The town moves about them, as though it is no concern. A baker's assistant looks harried as he scurries past with trays of bread for delivery, and a woman with knitting in her lap looks at the children fondly, before calling out to one of them in Ander to make sure he doesn't tear his shirt, because it would be the second one this week.

Lupeó picks up an apple from a merchant's cart and bites into it, so the sweet scent of it carries on the air. "What comes next, Nell?"

ALISTAIR

[dashing]

A battle rages, one that they are both in the midst of, and watching from a distance. The strange disconnect that comes with dreams, where the combatants can step right through them, and they can make no difference. They might as well be watching from far off, as Loghain had at Ostagar.

It is not a recent battle, perhaps not one even recognisable as something particular and distinct. The Wardens stand gloriously, fighting side by side, holding a line against the onslaught of darkspawn.

Even as the ground smokes, the Wardens rise again, as the caverns about them sing.

"How do you think the Wardens will be remembered, Alistair?"

WREN

[dashing]

A boat, in the middle of the sea, or perhaps simply in a great like. It is hard to see, though the weather is not hazy. It is simply shifting and uncertain, in the way dreams so often are. Wood creaks beneath their feet, as water sloshes against the side of the boat. There is a strange sense of weightlessness, as if they were floating in the water itself, rather than standing in the boat. (Are they standing? Surely they must be.)

"It must be a relief to get away, for a while." She sits on the edges of the boat, looking across the horizon, her fingers trailing in the water, before looking back to Wren. "More room to breathe."

PROMPTO

[dashing]

Now, this is interesting. They stand in the darkness, still, but a light seems to shine from above them. If more of them knew about the technology, the effect might remind them of an overhead projector, the sort endlessly popular with relatives wanting to show off hundreds upon hundreds of holiday photos that weren't very interesting and never seemed to end. Here is us with a chicken, here is us with another chicken, and so on.

It would seem familiar, because that is almost exactly what is happening. They stand in the dark, and beyond a screen, beyond some barrier, there lies a city at night. It is like no city any of the others will have seen before. The buildings are sprawling, the road smooth and hard, with lines of white paint on it. There is bright, unnatural light breaking up the darkness, and strange metal and glass vaults line the road.

Lupeo clicks the device in her hand, an the angle shifts slightly, and then slightly more, until the fourth frame has a collection of people that may only be recognisable to Prompto.

"Insomnia. What an interesting name for home." Another click. The pictures are strange, seem to reach out, as though one could just step into them. "What do you call it, when you all take a photograph together, but one of you is holding the camera?"

HERIAN CW: GORE. (this will eventually lead into the fight part)

[dashing]

It is not the first time she has looked upon this scene. For years it has tormented her in variations, warped with each of her failings. Woods and stone wound together, a forest with statues and columns amongst the trees. Not all the columns stand straight and tall, but are as gnarled and doubled over as one might expect to find in the most ancient, secret regions of the forest.

She does not need to look to know. A bloody loop of rope settles around her neck, a pair of elven ears hanging from it. The shirt she wears is threadbare, skin grubby with dirt and blood, her legs are wrapped in leather leggings, nails and metal drove in, some twisted and rusty. Blood runs down her legs, but it is an old hurt, now. One she can bear up under, the way one must always keep moving. We survive our injuries.

“Perhaps that is the greatest betrayal we can allow,” Lupeó says, echoing through the maze of leaves and marble. “To survive when we fail so many.”

The spirit shifts as she moves, until she stands before them, an elven man. Kind, with blonde hair that is messily wavy in much the same way as Herian’s own, bound back. His skin is the kind of pale that has been overwhelmed by work in the sun, heavily-freckled. The spatter of freckles is interrupted by the smear and clotting of blood.

“Oh, a bhobain. What have you gone and done, my mischief girl?”

The gash in his throat bubbles when he speaks.

FINAL THROWDOWN - CW BODY HORROR

[dashing]

Not all push back, but enough try.

Lupeó smiles. It’s wide, visible even beneath the veil. It pulls the cloth taut against her lips, mouth falling open in empty laughter.

With the wet snap of bone, her skull begins to split in two. The seam splinters down her chin, her neck, her breast. Ribs crack past viscera, tearing the gauze that drapes her.

Not ribs at all. They snare upwards into the jagged points of a stag. Her body twists, unfurls into massive jaws lined with teeth. At each side sway five long, human arms, thin and distorted. There’s one joint too many, palms raw.

Lupeo stretches herself, rattling sickle-talons, a long, arched tail.

Her breath carries the sweet scent of rot:

“You do not yet know the meaning of grief.”

She casts affliction hex on Nell, and begins to scale the wall.

LATER STUFF.

[dashing]

If you'd like to do any closed or open starters set after the boss battle or during the travel back to Kirkwall, knock thyselves out. THANK GOODNESS THAT MISSION WENT SUPER SMOOTHLY AND EVERYONE HAD SUCH A GREAT TIME.

closed to Wren

[dashing]

The trip back feels endless. As they sit in the wagon requisitioned for the return, Herian gazes blankly at the wooden boards between her feet, arms propped up by her knees. There is too much to think on, and not enough to distract herself with. Parted from the staff for the first time in months, she feels free, and condemns herself for that feeling even in the same breath.