( 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

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.

LEEEEROOOOOOY

[faithlikeaseed]

With three knight-enchanters among them, it'll be a race to see who's first into the fray (or Wren might get there before they do)--

Myr is certainly game for it, slow-growing anger stoked to fury by the demon's depredations (by glimpses of past injustices, past griefs dredged up for a monster's delectation); he's his staff down off his back already, spiraling hand over hand in a casting form meant to send a bolt of ice right between the demon's jaws. Frost crackles, condenses--

Sublimates into thin air as Myr checks like he's hit a wall, eyes blown wide at the feel of a hex in the Fade. At least it isn't sleep, at least it isn't horror, but even if the spell-shape's not quite the same to trigger instinctive terror it still oozes and drips like putrid flesh and sends him recoiling. He stumbles a step forward, stops, fingers white-knuckled on his staff and breath sucked in through clenched teeth.

Someone else, then, might get the first blow while he struggles to collect himself.