( 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]

Her knuckles slam into the wall.

The wagon creaks on its wheels, resettles; she shakes loose torn skin, splinters. Stupid. This whole affair, her handling of it — to rush in so soon after, as though they might claim some small, uncomplicated victory —

"Are you to speak as a demon, now?" Listless. Bitter. Bare bones, as though she intends one or the other, "To tempt others toward this?"

She stoops up to stand, forces herself to face her again.

[dashing]

Control yourself, Commander. It flares, and she resists the speaking of it.

“I would never force another to such a conclusion, not encourage it.”

That, she knows, would be terrible. This is something she has come to of her own accord, her own inquiries.

“Why are you so concerned with this? Why are you so outraged by it?”

[limier]

"Yet you would press my own hand."

Her fists shut again and stay. She makes no effort now to moderate the loom of her shoulders, the weight of herself in the doorway. A thoughtless breed of threat, unintended; bred in some thirty years and more commonly covered by consciousness. By conscience.

"You would have me wound you, or stand aside that you might do it yourself." How heavy the weight of hot iron. "You speak of this as though it is selflessness — as though that same spirit would not spred, not fucking spawn itself from the act. Leap between those who love you. Sicken us for it."

She's far too deep into it to notice the slip, to grant it any ground.

cw: suicide stuff

[dashing]

Herian stares, wordlessly. First it's a defiant, stubborn silence, and then more of a slack-jawed, shocked one. She's shakes her head a little, as though trying to dismiss some relentless ringing, and her arms cross. Or, they cross, but her hands grip into her upper arms painfully hard.

"That—" An uncomfortable exhale. "Sickness can be recovered from. It would be better than seeing— any of you scorched by my hand."

There are other ways to ensure she is not a thread, but she will not given them voice, not lay that weight on Wren's shoulders. It would be a sickening tactic to push Wren if it were not a possibility she would truly consider, and she would truly, if she did not consider duty and service so essential. That it might be redeeming, in some fashion. She does not speak it because she truly doesn't know, and because she's not sure it would be anything side from cruel.