( 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

[limier]

His skin is too soft. Not an archer’s hands, not a knight's. The bones press close if she allows herself to imagine it.

Join me, it’s absurd. This thing, calling out to her with such blunt — such, what? Such an authentic imitation? She steps, means to step back; draws closer. Knows where to break the hold, finds her hand clasped tight about his, as it must have a hundred times before. A brother,

"No one deserves anything."

Maybe it’s meant to be a last word, before they separate, before she tears this flimsy Veil aside. Maybe,

But by then it’s too much too late.

[dashing]

"Can't we at least deserve each other?" There is something aching, begging in his tone, forehead almost pressed to hers. "I've missed, Luwenna. More than I miss my own breath. More than I have missed the sun or the fucking sky. I've missed you."

There is something raw in his voice, desperation. "I love you."

He steps out onto the water.

[limier]

He’s taken it wrong. He’s taken it wrong, the way he’s always taken it wrong, picked at the underside of words and scraped them for some imagined meaning. And —

And it doesn’t matter, does it? Because her leg plunges in to the knee, and gravity carries the rest of her, fists scrabbling for purchase against the sudden liquid dark. Fumbling for his shape in it, and Maker, the way that fear floods her lungs.

You pull your arms in, She recalls telling Anders, can’t yet make herself listen. You pull your arms in and you go,

There’s no dignity in instinct. Perhaps when her legs tire, when the thrashing slows.

CW MURDER/SUICIDE

[dashing]

You can't call the dead wrong, Luwenna. Don't you remember? Don't you recall how its an insult to their memory? How when harrowings went wrong and missions to find runaways went wrong it never felt good, it felt like a fucking tragedy? Because they were always kids, or people hurting. They were always people, and no amount of education and training could change the fact they were fucking people. Pointed or round ears or whatever other fucking detail you wanted to focus on, they were breathing and feeling, and always feeling so damn much.

Some of them were funny. Some of them did whatever they could to get a smile from the people they lived alongside every day, and it fucking hurt. It hurt, every single fucking time they had to cut them down.

But they did it. They did it every time, because that was their duty.

Fuck duty. Fuck living, when all it brought was death, anyway. He wraps his arms around Wren - Lupeo wraps her arms around Wren - and kisses her.

This is it. This is embracing fate.