( 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

[dashing]

"No one," he agrees, and his hands slide from Myr's shoulders, one cupping the back of Myr's neck as he tries to navigate what to say and just tries to anchor his friend in place, instead.

(He seemed the sort, Lupeo thought, the sort to want to steady, even as he himself was shaken.)

"But just because it happened to me doesn't mean you have to lose someone else for the same reason." Kit's exhale could almost be amused. "Just say yes. Just say you want to be able to help."

[faithlikeaseed]

How much do the dead change, when they cross the Veil? How much did the pain of transition, of hopes thwarted or love of the world denied--how much did that weigh on them, distort them, make them into other people? Some of this is aching familiar: the steady comfort of Kit's presence balm to wounds left untended for months, the implicit invitation to lay those burdens down a moment, given over to broader shoulders than his own.

Some of it-- "No one," Kit says, and it jars off Myr's own grief-saturated memory of that night. No one, but the Medicine Seller was there before Kit's corpse was even cold, and Maker knew there were rumors. Whatever Myr's own ingrown guilt might say (in the voice of a friend, of near-family), Kit hadn't been alone for want of him. It just hadn't been enough.

But would Kit hold that against him? Demand something of him he couldn't give any longer? How much do the dead change?

("And I'm old enough to know that some shit is just broken, and salroka--you don't get to fix everything you do wrong."

"So what's the point in piling more wrongs on top of it? Fine--some things can't be fixed; Maker knows I'm not getting my eyes back--but isn't that a reason to hold to what you've got?")

It's not him.

"When haven't I," Myr replies, the shadow of a sad smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "You know I'd help to distraction, Kit. I'd meddle in anything to fix it if I could. But we don't get to fix everything we do wrong."

It doesn't make it hurt any less to reach back, take "Kit's" hand from his neck and--gently, fondly, as if it were his friend still--push it back against the dwarf's chest. It doesn't hurt any less, yet something heavy in his heart falls away and shivers to dust with the gesture.