( 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.

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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?"

[byblow]

It's not the first time today that Alistair hasn't had a quip ready. There are only so many ways to make light of the dead before you're both kinds of bastard. But in this case, he really wishes he did, because he knows better. He really does. He's had training, he's dealt with demons, and he shouldn't be buying in, shouldn't be staring at the scene with rapt attention and something like hunger pangs.

But this is something he doesn't remember himself. He's never seen anything like it. No one alive has, and likely no one alive ever will. They'll only see the schemers, the murderers and blood mages. Tyrants and thralls. Whole generations will pass before there's a reason for a fight like this, and by then—who knows what will be left.

He inhales a breath that he fully intends to use to mouth off, but what he says with the exhale is, "Not like this."

[dashing]

"Why do you suppose that is?"

Her voice is very gentle, from slightly behind Alistair, as her hand finds his shoulder.

Before them, three ogres begin to run towards the Wardens, pushing up from a lower cave, the last of them armoured and bigger than the other two. Six wardens start to run to them, fearless and without hesitation. One carries a bow, and he hangs back only slightly, for a few moments, to send three arrows flying at once. Another, an elven woman, leaps into the fray seemingly with no weapon, only to carve through the leg of the ogres with a spirit blade that comes into being.

"What changed?"

[byblow]

Assigning blame would be easy, except for how long it would take. There are so many names. Vidal, Clarel. Cousland on his throne. Loghain. Bregan. Dryden. And that's only recent events, or Fereldan events. He could go on for a while—with his own name thrown in, too, because he couldn't do anything as poetic as feel the fire on his back when they walked away from Kirkwall, but it would have been fitting if he had, and that isn't even really the worst of it—and find out, maybe, if it's possible to bore a demon into leaving you alone.

It'd be easy.

But he says, "Nothing," which hurts more, like an arrow, because it's more true. "This is never what we were."

The things he wishes the Wardens hadn't done, held up in the light, aren't all worse than the things he knows they had to do. The things they might still do. They've always been whatever was necessary, and that's not always heroes, whatever stupid things stupid boys wish. And it's easier for everyone else to see, when there's no horde in the way.

He turns, trying to pull his shoulder loose and look his company in the eye.

"What do you want?"

[dashing]

"To help you."

It could be honest. It certainly sounds that way, as Lupeo's own form gives way in the moment before Alistair looks to her - it is Duncan that stands at Alistair's side, offering him a slight smile. Tired, worn, but a smile nonetheless.

"I don't know if you really believe that, Alistair. You were such a good recruit."

[byblow]

Alistair isn't surprised to see him, can barely remember that his voice might not have sounded that way a moment before. And Duncan has been dead for so long now that the face, built out of Alistair's memories, may no longer be accurate. It might be kinder and less exasperated, and a little too old, because when he was twenty Duncan's forty seemed ancient. And Alistair knows better, he knows better, he knows better—

"I lost your sword," he says. His voice wavers.

[dashing]

"Oh." Duncan's mouth twinges very slightly, just a little sideways jerk, before he smoothes over his beard. For long moments he is quiet, considering before speaking, though that silence seems more reflective than unhappy.

"Tangible reminders of the people we have lost have value, but they are not the only thing." Gently, he lays a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "The Wardens themselves should give you memory enough. That was how we met, and the brotherhood through which we are still bound. As the Wardens endure, so too shall we."