player plot: who's a heretic now?

[thunderproof]

WHO: Adalia (thunderproof), Gwenaëlle (elegiaque), Iorveth (aensidhe), Kostos (exequy or exsecutus why do you and cee hate me, mj), Nari (nadasharillen), Solas (dirth)
WHAT: Temple of Falon'din
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Northern Orlais
NOTES: CW suicidal ideation, blood, general creepiness. If anything else comes up I'll edit, and if there's a CW you can think of while reading that I didn't include, lmk and I'll add it!

PLAYER PLOT: WHO'S A HERETIC NOW?

The ruins look, on the surface, much like any other Elven ruins might — crumbling stone structures overrun by plant life, chipped mosaics and tiled floors almost entirely hidden by centuries of overgrown underbrush. A quick investigation reveals nothing of note; this temple, it seems, had been picked over many times throughout the centuries, and anything of note has already been taken. The venture seems to have been pointless, at least for a few minutes.

Until someone stumbles upon a hidden stairwell, camouflaged in the underbrush and a secret to the original temple besides. It's a long journey down, lit only by magelight and the torches of the Inquisition, but as soon as the first foot steps down onto even ground, the Fade-green flickering of veilfire lights up a massive antechamber. The veil pricks at the skin, here, warping perception and sensation for those sensitive to its fluctuations, and embuing the whole room with a sense of foreboding solemnity for those who aren't. An eerie silence broken only by the sound of flowing water, and the musty scent of stale air make it clear: this place, whatever it is, hasn't been seen in centuries, if not millennia.

At the foot of the stairs is a landing butting up to a moat of dark liquid, fed by a pool set into a dais in the middle of the chamber. The pool itself burbles quietly, a waterfall spilling into it from the two cupped hands of a massive elven statue. The only way to reach the dais is to ford the river, but as soon as the party approaches, it becomes clear — the dark liquid within is not water, but blood, still fresh despite the millennia of abandonment.

On the journey to the temple, Solas told a story of Falon'Din, and the words seem more apt than they perhaps had at the time, given the weight of myth rather than truth:

It is said Falon'Din's appetite for adulation was so great, he began wars to amass more worshippers. The blood of those who wouldn't bow low filled lakes as wide as oceans.

Comments

THE ROAD AND THE RUINS.

[thunderproof]

❰ this toplevel is for any threads set before entering the temple, including the trip to the site and the search for anything of worth in the aboveground ruins. ❱

[elegiaque]

( an unexpected last minute addition to the party setting out, somewhat inexplicably (still not a member of the inquisition, rather well known for not having the remotest interest in elven ruins), gwenaëlle has been ... reserved. or reserved is a word for it, anyway; polite enough but short in conversation, moody in a distant, distracted way. rather less complaining than might have been expected of her,

in that there's none,

but there's no evident enthusiasm for a trip she's obviously not obliged to be on, briskly businesslike but evincing little to no real interest in their destination. the journey, a little more - quietly attentive to the things she learns about traveling in this way and to this purpose, taking to it in a way that suggests she'd do all the better if that lingering tension weren't quite so pronounced.

but it lingers. she volunteers no particular explanation for being along; perhaps it's the notes she's taking, writing studiously at every opportunity. )

[thunderproof]

❰ for her part, adalia is possibly the most excited she has ever been in thedas. she's aware that that is, in some ways, deeply disrespectful, and she isn't oblivious to the upset of gwenaëlle and solas, so she's been trying not to be quite as obvious about it as she'd like to be, but it's hard not to notice her energy as they travel. she spends a few hours each day making alchemical preparations in the back of the cart they were granted for transporting artifacts, and she hums and smiles as she does, unconsciously displaying her excitement.

it's after one such period of crafting that she approaches gwenaëlle, a corked glass pot held gingerly in her hand. a good segue, she thinks, into maybe discussing what's bothering her. ❱

Gwenaëlle, I made something for you!

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle looks up -

pauses, as she folds her notes away, one eyebrow rising. )

I'm not sure how to feel about that, ( slightly dryly, ) considering the way you're holding it.

[nadasharillen]

[ The woman looks familiar, and it's been itching at the edge of Nari's mind for the majority of the overland trip. It isn't due to simply frequenting the same spaces. In fact, she isn't sure she's ever seen Gwenaëlle... but that's just it, she isn't sure.

As Gwen isn't overly interested in conversation, and Nari not the type to engage in an excess of speech herself, the mystery goes staunchly unsolved until Gwen briefly sits up from her writing and turns to look a certain way, and then suddenly there it is. She's that Gwenaëlle Baudin. From the slim anthology of poems Nari had happened upon in her only slightly fevered search through the Inquisition library of poem, play, song, story, for what the name of the monster was that sometimes woke so brightly in her. The work had been thoroughly horrifying in the way that it can only be if one sees some unwanted fragment of oneself in it. Nari had wanted to demand explanation from the poet, had been unable.

Was now suddenly able.

But not really. Nothing about the impetus behind that demand was something the Dalish woman wanted anyone to know. Perhaps something that would hopefully go uncaught, like casually guiding her mount within the range of low conversation and asking, of the studious writing, ]

Poetry?

[elegiaque]

( despite so long now spent in the inquisition—in skyhold and in kirkwall, where dalish elves have been unusually plentiful—gwenaëlle's direct exposure to the dalish has been little. the interactions have been brief and few, and in large part has not significantly added to her limited knowledge of them as a people.

so her first thought is mostly just a dim surprise at the implication this one can read. )

No, ( after a moment's pause, swallowing that before it comes rudely out of her mouth in a situation where they may at some point be obliged to rely on one another to live. ) Not today, at any rate, I've been making notes on our travels.

( thranduil had suggested it, once. a long time ago. she had refused, then, and she is relatively certain he's since changed his mind. still: it wasn't a terrible idea. the opportunity is before her, now, and she might as well make the most of it. get something out of this endeavor other than his ire. )

You're familiar with my work?

[exequy]

[ It takes some time for Kostos to realize what he doesn't have in common with everyone else here, primarily because it takes him time to match Baudin's face and name to gossip he'd barely noted in the first place. About halfway there—this time delayed because the Circles, if they did little else right, did a decent job removing racial inequality from the equation—it also occurs to him that he might be crashing some sort of exclusive party, or perhaps he's been invited because someone's superior said he had to be. And once they've arrived and are combing over the outer ruins, Kostos with three wisps wandering loosely and curiously in his vicinity, looking beneath the stones and drifting over the surface of murals, he says, to whomever is around, (or just to himself, that's fine,) ]

What is the elven phrase for human sacrifice?

[ Because if he hears it, he's leaving—

and that's a joke, for the record, but there's nothing in his tone or expression that says so. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ flat, deadpan humor that doesn't sound like humor at all is not only a preferred state of being for iorveth, but something he's used to, after wandering around with geralt of rivia, the emotionless wonder grandpa. enough so that there's a smirk on iorveth's lips, if anyone happens to glance to him at the right time to spot it, though no sound accompanies it to mark it. for anyone else, this might sound troubling, but iorveth answers kostos from the other side of the mural they're inspecting, with the same lack of humorous inflection. ]

'D'hoine abethau.'

[ a beat, and he raises his head, seeming to ponder something. ]

You wouldn't happen to be a virgin as well, would you?

[ har har har, he thinks he's hilarious. ]

closed to iorveth + adalia.

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle and iorveth share a tent. much like her presence on this mission at all, it doesn't merit discussion, but simply happens: the first night they make camp, in a most matter of fact fashion, they arrange themselves in a pair and continue to do so, each subsequent night. nothing terribly exciting is happening behind canvas, in this most unromantic scenario, but it's comforting to be near and gwenaëlle prefers it—attempts, somewhat clumsily in the bleak mood she's been carrying around with her, to express in small ways how she appreciates it.

by being near, mostly. returning the favor of her braids, and setting iorveth's to rights underneath his bandana. and unbending, a little, enough, to speak on what she hadn't spoken of at all, low-voiced, quietly furious still— )

—and he just had one. In his hand. He'd had the fucking thing made.

( this is easier to say to the back of his head than it would have been to the front of it. )

'I knew you were going to be angry so I did it behind your back and now I'm telling you I've already done it now it's too late for you to do anything about it', and if I didn't leave I was going to choke him with his own hair.

( disclaimer: there is no way she could do that.

she starts unwinding and loosening the braid she's been working on, or he's going to have a headache from how tightly she's pulled it—and then her fingers pause. she's going to guess she doesn't need to ask if iorveth heard the footsteps before she did, and instead holds the braid against his head and offers him his bandana back. )

[thunderproof]

❰ it's not that adalia isn't curious as fuck why married gwenaëlle is sharing a tent with iorveth, it's just that with gwen there are some things you ask and some things you don't and adalia is reasonably certain that this is one of the things you don't ask about. at least not when you've already pissed her off by talking about what a piece of shit her husband is.

all that to say, when she approaches the tent and hears gwen's voice, low and furious and indistinct, and sees what appears to be the silhouette of her — braiding iorveth's hair? — she doesn't say anything. she doesn't even attempt to enter the tent, conscious of how both the people inside it value their space, and that gwenaëlle in particular would probably prefer the opportunity to tell her to fuck off before she had to deal with her again. ❱

Gwenaëlle, I've come to apologize, can I come in?

THE RIVER.

[thunderproof]

❰ the only way to get any further into the temple is to cross the river of blood separating the stairs from the rest of the antechamber. the gap is too far to jump, and upon dipping a staff into the blood, it becomes clear that it is at least deep enough to reach the chests of the tallest members of their cohort, if not to submerge them all entirely. the temple clearly has secrets yet untold, but do you really want to swim through a river of blood to discover them? surely there must be some other way to get across. ❱

[exequy]

No.

[ —immediately, and directed to no one in particular; directed partially, really, to the temple itself, just so it's aware that it's being ridiculous. Kostos glares at the expanse of blood for only a moment before looking at the walls, which surely have some kind of lever or button, and then just as quickly turning his attention forward again.

No. Absolutely not.

(He'll give in if he has to. But for now:)

He pulls a wisp through the Veil without ceremony or flourish, and after a silent exchange of pleasantries and direction, it drifts over the river (or attempts it) in search of anything helpful on the other side. Perhaps those within the temple had to lower a bridge for those outside. Perhaps it can be drained. Perhaps there are possessed undead flying nugs waiting to be woken to ferry people back and forth. Something. Anything. These are new clothes. ]

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle is not the tallest present. she is, in fact, the shortest person in their cohort, and something that comes up to iorveth's chest is almost certain to submerge her, so she is more or less on board with no when kostos expresses it. because what the fuck, elves, no.

if there are possessed undead flying nugs, she's -

well, it's late to try and leave. 'try and catch one for morrigan' is more likely. still. while kostos's wisp moves forward, she investigates the walls; not for levers but for leverage. grip. how high they are, and how likely to be inconveniently smooth. )

THE ANTECHAMBER.

[thunderproof]

❰ once everyone has crossed the river, it's a short walk to the middle of the dais. what wasn't clear from across the river becomes like crystal upon climbing those few steps: a terrible battle took place here, leaving massive gouges into the ground and along the walls. the trenches in the floor are pooled with blood, as though it has seeped up from the very earth, and the walls bleed sluggishly, the blood having nowhere to pool. some of the gouges are spaced almost like the claws of a massive creature raked through the floor.

it is difficult to tear one's eyes away from the disturbing scene. they can be forgiven for not noticing the fade seeping through the massive door at the back of the antechamber until it flashes brilliant white.

when their eyes adjust, the antechamber has changed.

or rather, it has stayed the same, but there is a sickly green overlay to it now. walls have filled in and holes are paved over with glittering golden tile, vaguely elven shapes as indistinct as smoke marching through the river behind them. the blood reaches their chins, but the elves don't hesitate or falter, pressing inexorably forward, following four shapes further to the front.

these four are more distinct than the rest, their shapes distinct though their features are not. a feminine figure stands to the front, dragon-like horns raising from her head into the sky. flanking her are a massive wolf as tall as she and another feminine figure, even taller than either the dragon woman or the wolf, who carries a bow in her hands and bleeds red smoke. the last figure is the least distinct of all, a shadowed void paused at the river, watching over the elven soldiers leaving it. the dragon woman stops at the pool and the wolf and archer stop next to her, while the soldiers press on, towards the door. there's the sensation of a massive earthquake as they reach the door and throw themselves at it —

the fade flashes a brilliant white again, and the scene disperses. ❱

SEARCH FOR THE KEY.

[thunderproof]

❰ in order to get to the rift it must be assumed lies behind the door in the antechamber, they must find the keys to the door. there are a number of chambers connected to the antechamber, each waiting to be explored. ❱

UTHENERAN.

[thunderproof]

❰ this chamber's purpose is easy to guess for anyone familiar with ancient elven practices — it is a room for preparing and interring elvhen entering uthenera, the long sleep. the room extends beyond the illuminating capacity of magelight and torches, and the walls are all lined with coffins. in the middle of the room is a pool of water, within which a skeleton lies, half-submerged andd half-clothed. disturbing the coffins on the walls, or the body in the pool, doesn't seem like a great idea... but the key must be found. ❱

[dirth]

[ As soon as they're informed of what they need to do Solas separates from the others, moving forward to the Utheneran. He recognises it - of course he does, how can he not? - moving through with a sense of sadness hanging around his shoulders, pain on his features. He thinks of his background, of the People, of the ones that are long gone and he misses, and it weighs on him in a way he cannot express in words.

He doesn't hesitate, at least, as he begins to move around. The coffins are enough to make him feel a sadness that he has felt constantly since he awoke, his own hurt pressing down on him, overbearing and hurting, his hands shaking as he rests his fingers around his staff.

Turning his attention to the pool, he pauses. It seems wrong, to simply stride up and reach for the body, to investigate the coffins, the bodies, the dead, but who better than him? Who would be better to do this, to investigate the People and their live, than him? The person that had lived it, had loved them, had cherished them and remembers them even now?

For a long moment he does no more than stand, staring forward and looking around the room, sad and haunted. ]

BELLANA'DIN'AN.

[thunderproof]

❰ while the ancient elves were immortal, they were not impervious to damage. though it was more likely for an elf to simply enter uthenera at the end of a long life, war and tragedy were not unknown to them, and it appears this chamber is dedicated to the service of those elves who truly died. the room is not as large as the one dedicated to uthenera, and it is filled with the specialized tools of elvhen funerary rites. while those are largely inscrutable on so rushed a pass-through, there is one alcove which draws the attention, set apart from the rest of the chamber as if to give the visiting elf privacy. ❱

[nadasharillen]

[It hurt; but she didn't know what else she'd expected from a temple dedicated to Falon'Din. Her desire to know more of her People had been strong, and she'd been... happy. There had been friends, there had been work, there had been whatever small, pale, fragile thing, its petals like thin Seraultine glass, that had begun to bloom where her hands touched Cade's.

There had been other things, of course. Times she woke with tears stinging her eyes because sometimes her dreams could not furnish the full sound of Sina's laughter. The way the elfroot grew in the garden. When she had turned after a win at the tournament games to jokingly gift the young First whatever small trinket she'd held, only to remember halfway through the turn that there would be no-one there when it finished.

But she'd been happy, even if it was only after a fashion. And it had made her cocky.

Here, under the earth, surrounded by relics that whispered that death had always come for them, though. Here where the walls and the arches spoke of the People's hands loud enough to make her ache, where her feet perhaps belonged rather than being tolerated, there was only reminder after reminder that while she had always breathed the air in this world for eight years longer than Siuona Dahlasanor, it was now eight and a half. And that, breath by breath, that space would only ever grow.

It's all right to move to sit for a moment, isn't it? In an alcove set aside? Isn't this what this space was made for?]

DRU'AN NADAS.

[thunderproof]

❰ the stench of death is almost overwhelming in this chamber. where the pools of blood in the antechamber had seemed somehow pristine, the large pit in the middle of this room — whose bottom cannot be reached, even when a staff is dipped inside — seems somehow unclean, despite being visually no different from the others. it feels wrong, somehow, or maybe wronged —

there is no time to investigate the room before corpses begin dragging themselves out of the pit. a demon of rage seeps slowly upward, made more from blood than fire, and it roars as it lunges forward for the nearest living creature: ❱

Lethanavir, betrayer! We will not be forgotten! We will not be cast aside!

PRIESTS' QUARTERS.

[thunderproof]

❰ the living quarters of falon'din's priests are largely ascetic, with very little of value kept in the room, and only enough furniture to provide beds and a single chest for clothes and other linens. there is only one corpse in this room, draped in the time-worn robes of an acolyte, a leather-bound book clutched in his grasp. mercifully, he seems to be the only corpse uninterested in attacking the inquisition members as they investigate. ❱

[dirth]

[ Solas has to turn away from the death and the sadness that the rest of the temple has left him with and he moves forward, pushing away from the others and walking forward. He abandons the rest of the group and slips into the Priest's quarters, taking it all in as he looks around. There's nothing worth a great amount in here - he doubts that anyone came and looted the place, given the entrance. It's more likely that they kept very little for themselves in here, especially in worship for Falon'din.

He doesn't let go of his staff or his pack, but he does immediately head over towards the corpse in the room. He's prepared for it to attack but, when he decides not to, he drops down to one knee and reaches out, fingers brushing over the worn book. ]

Ir abelas, lethallin. Garas quenathra...

[ His voice is soft and low and smooth as he presses his hands over the cover of the leather, breathing out a sad noise. He doesn't know if he has the strength to investigate it yet - not when there is so much they need to do, so much they need to work through as a group. ]

THE THRONE ROOM.

[thunderproof]

❰ with all the keys, the inquisition can finally open the door in the back of the antechamber, though as soon as it settles open there is another flash of white light, and suddenly everyone's vision is tinged with green.

a massive rift sits in the middle of the throne room, though it is almost obscured by the large elven figures walking into the room. soldiers line the walls, weapons pointed at the priests and guards of the temple. a giant crater fills the middle of the room, though it is paved over with the green of the fade. where the fourth figure in the antechamber was indistinct, shadowed, and difficult to focus on directly, the figure sitting on the throne in this room is equally shadowed, and his blackness draws the eye, compelling forward motion.

the dragon-woman stops in the middle of the room, staring up at the throne. there seems to be some kind of silent exchange, and then the room bursts into a flurry of motion, the soldier spirits clashing and the dragon-woman launching herself forward, toward the throne.

some spirits, not immediately engaged in action, notice the inquisition and turn on them. the massive wolf shape bounds straight for solas. ❱

[dirth]

[ Walking into the throne room is like walking into the past, stepping through into a world he thought had died a death and shrivelled into nothing. He almost doesn't register the fact that his eyes are coloured with green and there is a rift burning in the middle, drawing him in and making his heart feel light and heavy at once. The Rift - the Fade, the Veil, all of it - is something he is so used to, so familiar with, in an intimate way that no one else can quite understand. All he can do is step forward, tense and sure, gripping at his staff as he looks around.

Tall elves, the kind of People he recognises, his eyes widening and his hand shaking just a little. He stares at the figure on the throne, feeling a tightness in his throat, a chill running down his spine and making him feel as though he might lose all the nausea that's been building in his stomach since he first arrived. It's dangerous, so dangerous, for him to be here, knowing what he does, being what he is, but there's no way he can turn his back. He cannot abandon the People now, no more than he could in the past.

The room begins to move and, at the same time, so does Solas. He casts his barrier immediately, swirling the magic around his party before he is entangled with the shape that charges towards him. It's a wolf, of course it's a wolf, and he says nothing as he draws his magic around him and begins to cast a strike towards it. ]

Protect yourselves!

[exequy]

[ Kostos takes several step back, but not because he's taking orders from Solas. And not because he's a coward.

It's mainly instinct: he can feel the spirits like a churning sea, and there are so many of them, and they're so strong, and it's all so impossible to make any sense of, that for a moment it's akin to being expectedly washed over by a wave just when he was trying to inhale. A throat full of death and arrogance and righteous anger. But once his head is back above water, he stays where he is, because it's the best place for him to be to do what he does.

And what he does, first, is extend an arm and a twisting gesture to open a channel to Solas—the only other native mage, the only one he's certain will work for—to lend his magic to the elf's spells, whether he wants it or not, while he grapples with the wolf. (It's not unlike the swell of power the mages and Templars provided to the Herald when she closed the Breach, only narrower, more concentrated, less voluntary, and ideally not ending in anybody's tragic premature death.)

Second, he cuts a hand through the air like he's spreading a deck of cards, leaving four wisps in its wake. But he waits, and so do they, to see who looks most likely to die without help. ]