faderift | ( closed ) PLAYER PLOT: STILL WATERS

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( closed ) PLAYER PLOT: STILL WATERS

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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The Anderfels are not kind terrain, nor the people pleasant. Outsiders are viewed with suspicion, and perhaps rightly so. They have had to be careful, discrete; making their way across barren dunes scattered with scant, gnarled plantlife. Severe black rocks jut up, treacherous, some cleaved and sculpted by exposure. Shining, sharp things that catch the light enough to blind.

At least now the towering black mass of Salzklippe is clear. The salt cliffs are legendary, the Circle taking the place of a fortress that carved into them long before Tevinter’s grasp receded from the Anderfels.

One problem: Behind them, a mass of dust swelling up into the sky, swallowing the horizon. The sand storm advances rapidly, devours light.

“Run!”

The air sears, whips grit brutally over any exposed skin. They need to find shelter, an escape —

The high gates of the Circle are far too far above them, yet a hike up the sprawling cliffside. But ahead lie piles of rubble, broken rock. Huge and heavy, they might give cover.

( ooc: Please keep this to one thread! Once they get into the catacombs, you can reply to the next top level with individual starters for some exploration, if you like. )

The tunnel they have made their way into is impossibly dark. Once their eyes have adjusted a little, they might find that it is not so dark as first thought, save for faint suggestions of light offered by the odd glow of small clusters of deep mushrooms. If they allow enough quiet to listen, they might hear the quiet echoes of water dripping far off.

Advancing further in, they may be able to hear moments of what sounds like a whisper or a song, but too far off to make out the words. To those familiar, it might be identifiable as lyrium's hum.

These are the lost catacombs of Salzklippe, an extensive natural network of underground caves and tunnels. There may, at times, be crunching sounds underfoot, and a shimmering black mass on the walls - beetles. There's a lot of beetles. And, sometimes, there will even be markers on the wall to suggest what is the right path to follow - but only sometimes.

The thing is, darkspawn start to come up through the tunnels to meet them. It might be a good idea to find out where they're coming up and seal it, so they can't churn out into the countryside through that new pathway that was just discovered for them. (Thank the Maker there's a Warden with them.)

( ooc: Individual starter this nonsense up! I will GM some potential items of interest and maybe adversaries into threads at random - if you would prefer no GMing, please add a note to your toplevel in the subject line.)

The sacred pools of Salzklippe are deep, clear, and entirely saline.

Spires of rock drip from above, frozen in the same spirals that jut from the rocky walls behind. The waters themselves provide sole illumination, gleaming silver-blue in the gloom.

A glance within reveals a vast mosaic below: Tens of thousands of brilliantly-coloured tiles picture scenes from the life and death of Andraste. Rendered in meticulous (gruesome) detail, their symbols strain toward the arcane. Beneath the shifting depths, a few almost resemble glyphs.

There's a boat, tied to a tiny, crusted dock. Its hull is carved with lines of musical notes, and verses of the Chant in Ander. It begins,

By cruel magic taken, ice, lightning, and flame —

There are no oars.

( ooc: Please keep this to one thread! I will be doing some GMing here and there. Once they get into the tower, you can reply to the next top level with individual starters for some exploration, if you like. )

Beyond the lake's edge stands a heavy, unused door. Glowing seams of lyrium marble its great stone circle. As the boat approaches, the slab rolls aside, and exposes a place for the boat to dock. Long neglected, dust-laden steps lead upwards into the tower.

Finally, the true search begins: For phylacteries, for signs of the Tranquil, for any evidence of what happened here. Abandoned, but on what grounds? Are whispers of Venatori defection true?

As they ascend (dungeons unto basements, living areas, libraries, and studies, and offices, and classrooms) they might encounter any number of foes. Despair, Rage, and Fear hold sway here, and fearlings skitter in the shape of the beholder's own frights.

The higher they go, the greater the signs of violence. The bodies here were never given rites, robed, and armored, and unrestful for it. Some skeletons don't seem to fit either category, not knights or mages at all.

( ooc: Individual starter this nonsense up! I will GM some potential items of interest into threads at random — if you would prefer no GMing, please add a note to your top-level in the subject line.)

In the chamber sits a woman. Her skin seems ivory pale, though it is hard to tell when her face is all but obscured by sheer silk that tumbles past her shoulders and she holds wrapped about herself. Even so, her smile is easy enough to make out, as she looks towards the arriving party.

She has been preceded by her fellows; Fear, Rage, Despair, Desire. There is a hunger that exists within each of them, and some spirits feed off one another, heightening their own need. She, by comparison, almost seems like a light in the oppressive darkness of the chamber, that seems to envelope them as they walk in.

"I'm so happy to meet you all," she says, bowing her head respectfully. Her voice is strange, the tumbling of leaves in an autumn breeze, the rustle of reeds at the side of a lake. "My name is Lupeó. It is a great relief to have company after all this time."

( ooc: I'm doing individual starters for each character in this, so that everyone can make progress in their character being bargained with and all the other characters can observe, without us getting stuck anywhere. As with all threads, order doesn't matter but please don't tag more than two times between each tag done by the character who the thread revolves around. If it's your character's focus thread, tag as often as you like.

Please note: these threads aren't meant to narratively flow on from one another, but have more of a sense of "Fade time-fuckery." Basically they are sort of going on simultaneously, and yet all the characters are aware and able to interact with each others threads in a hazy, confusing dream timeline sort of way. It's mostly just a device so we don't need to worry about continuity or why they don't all rush into battle sooner, so just have fun with it. )

Edited 2018-04-02 01:45 (UTC)

The darkness is oppressive, and then it begins to bleed, as ink falling into water. First it expands and contorts, and then it is— gone. Diluted.

They stand in the Gallows. Not the Gallows of current days, but the Gallows of years past, and the sunlight breaking through the windows above dapples the floors and desk of the classroom. Lupeo looks the part of a gentle old woman, and yet entirely herself, wearing the face of a kindly Senior Enchanter.

Before them, at the desk, sit some of Saoirse's pupils. Some may have been amongst those who survived the Gallows, but most are not. She looks to Saoirse, as though curious. The scene is not a horror— yet. Not yet, not yet, oh but it could become so.

"You must have been an excellent teacher, Enchanter. The students are very fond of you."

It is the Fade. "Wondrous, isn't it, what can be done?"

This moment, all the other moments, are a colourful landscapes, complex if not always vibrant. Myr can see the texture of them, just as all the others can. She knows his grief and the guilt that runs through it as surely as blood flows through veins.

As of this moment, they stand on a mountaintop, overlooking a glorious sunrise over rolling fields of golden wheat, and others with waves of white cottage yarrow blooms that sway in the breeze and catch the yellow and pinks and oranges of the rising sun.

She smiles to Myr, very kindly. "When was the last time you beheld something like this? When you could see the glorious creations of the Maker?"

The town they are walking through - because they are walking, now - is beautiful. Houses stand each side of the cobblestone walkway, the exterior walls rendered in a range of colours from delicate cream to a summery yellow, to warm, vibrant reds, and every tone and variation between. There is a fountain in town, a vast one, with three tiers and stone horses standing to mark north, south, east and west. Children clamber over the stone, two of them doing their utmost to get onto one of the horse's backs. Another sits reading at the edge with her feet in the water. The fourth and fifth stand in the water, one of them guiding the water into icy shapes with her hands, tongue poked between her lips in concentration, as the other watches in a sort of enthralled silence, trying to follow suit and only managing to make little misshapen blobs of ice that fall into the water with little dignity or ceremony.

The town moves about them, as though it is no concern. A baker's assistant looks harried as he scurries past with trays of bread for delivery, and a woman with knitting in her lap looks at the children fondly, before calling out to one of them in Ander to make sure he doesn't tear his shirt, because it would be the second one this week.

Lupeó picks up an apple from a merchant's cart and bites into it, so the sweet scent of it carries on the air. "What comes next, Nell?"

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?"

A boat, in the middle of the sea, or perhaps simply in a great like. It is hard to see, though the weather is not hazy. It is simply shifting and uncertain, in the way dreams so often are. Wood creaks beneath their feet, as water sloshes against the side of the boat. There is a strange sense of weightlessness, as if they were floating in the water itself, rather than standing in the boat. (Are they standing? Surely they must be.)

"It must be a relief to get away, for a while." She sits on the edges of the boat, looking across the horizon, her fingers trailing in the water, before looking back to Wren. "More room to breathe."

Now, this is interesting. They stand in the darkness, still, but a light seems to shine from above them. If more of them knew about the technology, the effect might remind them of an overhead projector, the sort endlessly popular with relatives wanting to show off hundreds upon hundreds of holiday photos that weren't very interesting and never seemed to end. Here is us with a chicken, here is us with another chicken, and so on.

It would seem familiar, because that is almost exactly what is happening. They stand in the dark, and beyond a screen, beyond some barrier, there lies a city at night. It is like no city any of the others will have seen before. The buildings are sprawling, the road smooth and hard, with lines of white paint on it. There is bright, unnatural light breaking up the darkness, and strange metal and glass vaults line the road.

Lupeo clicks the device in her hand, an the angle shifts slightly, and then slightly more, until the fourth frame has a collection of people that may only be recognisable to Prompto.

"Insomnia. What an interesting name for home." Another click. The pictures are strange, seem to reach out, as though one could just step into them. "What do you call it, when you all take a photograph together, but one of you is holding the camera?"

It is not the first time she has looked upon this scene. For years it has tormented her in variations, warped with each of her failings. Woods and stone wound together, a forest with statues and columns amongst the trees. Not all the columns stand straight and tall, but are as gnarled and doubled over as one might expect to find in the most ancient, secret regions of the forest.

She does not need to look to know. A bloody loop of rope settles around her neck, a pair of elven ears hanging from it. The shirt she wears is threadbare, skin grubby with dirt and blood, her legs are wrapped in leather leggings, nails and metal drove in, some twisted and rusty. Blood runs down her legs, but it is an old hurt, now. One she can bear up under, the way one must always keep moving. We survive our injuries.

“Perhaps that is the greatest betrayal we can allow,” Lupeó says, echoing through the maze of leaves and marble. “To survive when we fail so many.”

The spirit shifts as she moves, until she stands before them, an elven man. Kind, with blonde hair that is messily wavy in much the same way as Herian’s own, bound back. His skin is the kind of pale that has been overwhelmed by work in the sun, heavily-freckled. The spatter of freckles is interrupted by the smear and clotting of blood.

“Oh, a bhobain. What have you gone and done, my mischief girl?”

The gash in his throat bubbles when he speaks.

Edited 2018-04-02 22:25 (UTC)

Throughout all her traveling after the fall of the Circles, the Anderfels was not a location she had visited often or ventured into beyond the main capital city and for good reason. The harsh cracked and arid landscape was always the biggest concern especially when traveling by herself with the heat a close second.

But how could Saoirse forget the sand storms? She admiring the sight of the salt cliffs before them one moment, eyes fixated on the Circle when a whistle of wind and sudden swell gets her attention behind them. With the Circle still a dangerous hike up a the cliffside there were not many choices left to them.

"We can't risk trying to get to the Circle," she says. Already she has to raise her voice above the whistling wind growing around them. "We might find a cave to take shelter in for the meantime."

Disturbing hardly covers what's going on here, and yet, the familiarity of it leaves Prompto reeling. Pictures, actual pictures. Well, maybe. They're the illusion of actual pictures, but close enough. And they're all packed with hauntingly familiar places and people. The city he calls home, likely out of reach for years more, and even if they do take it back, it'll never be the same. But here, in front of him, it's just like before the empire rolled in.

Then his friends look back at him from the screen, and his heart leaps into his throat. Noctis... Gladio... Iggy, before he lost his eyesight. Before the awful events of Altissia and everything that followed. He swallows thickly, finally glancing at Lupeo when she asks her question.

"It's... it's called a selfie." But wait- "How do you know what a photo is? Or that that city's Insomnia? How do you know any of this?"

Mark this place done as officially Godsdamn Creepy.

Prompto's already a bit ruffled from running from the sandstorm, and now they're in an underground cave system. It reminds him of the places they had to trek through back in Eos, either searching for one of the royal tombs or... well, whatever Noctis insisted on going in there for. At least no daemons to come out and surprise them? Not the Eos kind, anyway.

It all goes from bad to worst when he steps on something and hears a "crunch". Grimacing, he looks down. That's a beetle. Yep. Surrounded by dozens of others crawling their way up the wall.

"Eugh. Look at all of 'em. As if this place wasn't already creepy and dirty enough." Guess who absolutely hates bugs?

Prompto glances down, eyes wide as he takes in the mosaics at the bottom of the lake. They're beautiful, and he can't help but admire them, despite the setting (and what they depict).

"Wow. Those are incredible. How'd they get them down there?"

As he looks back up, he finally notices the rickety boat off to the side. Well, that seems to be what they need, albeit it's lacking a few necessary items. (Also, he's not sure how seaworthy, per se, that boat is but that's for later). "Anyone bring a paddle?"

Herian nods her agreement, squinting a little against the lash of how air and dirt over her skin.

"Enchanter Ceallach is correct." The shadow of the rocks ahead of them have some promise, even if they are not particularly reassuring. She shoulders the pack she's carrying, and extends her hand to help steady the person behind her up a steep and slippery stretch of rocks. Well, equal parts steady, and just outright pull them up if necessary.

"We must move quickly."

The spirit smiles, lips curved behind her veil. She speaks with a softness to her voice that could be kindness.

"I know because you know. I feel because you feel. I grieve with your grief."

She approaches the frame, though her body does not seem to move the same way that others do. "Even those who are with you are not the same as you wish them to be. Is that correct?"

She knows this scene before the faces of her pupils catch her eye. In the nearby window she spies one of the pieces she brought with her from Starkhaven, a small wind chime made from river glass, that sends splashes of color around the dull-colored room. Saoirse cannot even help the way she glances back to look beyond the group as if she expects a Templar to be standing guard near her classroom's door.

And the children... oh, Maker, her heart aches to see their faces. Faces she never expected to see again... faces she would never see again and she can't help the stiffness that falls over her form. She won't let this demon get the better of her, she won't it use her own memories to break and bury her in bad memories.

"I gave them all that I could despite our arrangements in the Gallows," she says tiredly. Yet the look she gives the faces is still warm but so very tired, carefully her fingers skim over the surface of a desk and her gaze flickers toward Lupeo. "But you will not win me over by showing me these reflections and twisting them in your favor."

"Yet still it better to be beetles at our feet rather than losing ourselves in a sandstorm, hmm?"

A flicker of fire appears in Saoirse's hand, offering a warm glow and clearing a space around them out as the beetles scurry away from the sudden appearance of light. It was a shame they had not brought torches with them but she doubts cave exploration had been on the docket when planning for this mission. It was helpful that there was a few mages present to help curb away the darkness (and the bugs) while they continued their trek.

"Twisting? Oh, no." You could almost imagine her setting a hand over her heart. "No, Saoirse. I don't want to twist them. I want to give you an opportunity."

On one of the children, a brand flickers into place across his forehead.

"Do you not mourn what happened to them?"

Steady. Mostly steady. Thanks. He'd like to see Herian pull him up anything.

Actually, he would really like that, it'd be something to see—

"Are you sure?" he says, as he turns around to offer the same hand to whoever is behind him. Alistair has never really liked the Anderfels. There was something to be said for feeling necessary, with the constant threat of darkspawn here, and revered, with the Wardens protecting every village because the king wouldn't, but those things were drowned out by all the things to be said about sand. And horrible death. Surrounded by sand. But he's making the best of it now! "I was planning on a mosey. Maybe a saunter."

Maybe his goal is to make Herian regret giving him a hand. Maybe that.

"Take it all the way down to an amble on a lark?" Myr quips, not shy about clutching at Alistair's forearm to steady himself as he finds his footing on the slope. Windblown sand--and wind, and gravity--makes it all a mite bit perilous for a long teetering moment--but he makes it, and bestows a grateful pat on his impromptu support.

"Tell me you've got something in sight up there." He's got to raise his voice to a near-shout as he turns back into the wind, hand stretched out for the next in the line to take. (No stranger to sandstorms, he, though they'd had the luxury in Hasmal's Circle of riding them out behind solid walls. Could they button down among the surrounding rocks if there wasn't a cave? Maybe, with two and a half knight-enchanters between them, they could keep barriers going long enough...)

"Where—" Alistair says, and pauses, because he's just crunched several beetles underfoot and he needs a moment to be some combination of sorry and disgusted; "where would you rank darkspawn in there? Worse than the beetles, I assume. But better than the sandstorm? Right?"

They don't have to be close for him to sense them, and sensing them doesn't mean avoiding them. They can sense him, too. It's a matter of time. But on the up side, they can't sense anyone else. They won't know he isn't alone until they're here.

"Juuuust wondering," he says, though of course he's not.

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."

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( closed ) PLAYER PLOT: STILL WATERS

THE APPROACH, aka surprise!!! catacombs.

INTO THE CATACOMBS

DISCOVERING THE LAKE

INTO THE TOWER

THE BOSSFIGHT.

SAOIRSE

MYR

NELL

ALISTAIR

WREN

PROMPTO

HERIAN CW: GORE. (this will eventually lead into the fight part)

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