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

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. ]

[thunderproof]

❰ it's been difficult to miss solas' melancholy as they move through the temple. he explained on the road how falon'din's reality was different than the myths the dalish throw around, but other than that he's been largely quiet, and as much attention as adalia pays him, she can't help but notice the way that the further they get into the temple, the lower his shoulders droop, as though under an immense weight. he enters the utheneran and for a moment, he is alone, and adalia catches up to him quickly, before anyone else can follow them. this isn't really the time or place for in-depth talks, but she can't just not check on him. ❱

Solas? What's weighing on you so hard, lethallin?

❰ the word is not as practiced on her tongue as the feminine was on his, but she's done her best to recreate the pronunciations as best she can. ❱

[dirth]

[ The depth of pain and sadness that Solas is feeling weighs down on him in ways that he cannot even begin to express. He knows that he shortened the lives of the People, that he tore their immortality from them and left them to rot and crumble in his wake, but to see the reality of it so freshly, to see it burn so bitterly in front of him? That is not something he had expected to witness, and his fingers shake a little around the wood of his staff. It hurts, mixing in with that ever-present guilt and sadness and pain, twisting inside of him and making him feel hollow and broken.

He deserves this, all the same. He deserves to witness the pain that he's caused, the damage he did.

It takes him a few moments to muster the strength to reply to Adalia, barely reacting when she approaches, but he manages, turning to glance over at her. He's hurting, it's obvious, but he cannot express why. He's already desperate to go back to Galadriel and Thranduil to bury his head in the sand. ]

This room is filled with my people. All of them are dead and gone from this world. I do not think it is something to celebrate.

[aenseidhe]

It is not. [ Iorveth speaks up as he passes by Solas's side, assuming Adalia and he will handle the corpse in the water, making his way to one of the coffins against the wall instead. ] But we've little choice, and mourning does nothing for them now.

[ Prying a coffin lid open, Iorveth's tugged some fabric of his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth as dust circles up, looking over the skeleton, or mummy, inside carefully, almost cautiously, blade in hand. this place is full of tricks, but he imagines they'll have to trigger whatever traps live in this room to find their key. ]

These are not your people, Solas. [ he continues, somewhat muffled behind the fabric. ] These are bones.

[ Harsh, yes, but he's camped in elven ruins, in burial grounds, unearthed journals and stories carved into the walls of their last days. found skeletons curled together, mothers and children, left to die in horrid ways. trudged past mounds of burning elven bodies, strangers and comrades both. the dead are gone, the living are hungry. ]

[dirth]

[ Solas' distaste is clear in the way he turns his attention to look at Iorveth, eyes narrowed and attention focussed. He doesn't like the lack of respect, the brutal honesty in the words - but how can he expect Iorveth to understand? How can he expect anyone to recognise the depth of his pain and uncertainties when the truth of it is buried behind years and years of sleep and decades of distance?

As soon as Iorveth goes to the coffin Solas is striding after him. It does not do well to disturb the dead, no matter how long it has been, and his quick strides show his frustration and his anger. He is furious, feeling the weight of dread and panic that settles around his shoulders. ]

Death does not make them any less my people, [ his voice is lower, now, dangerous, edged with something that speaks of the hurt in his heart. ] and you would do well not to disturb their rest.

[ But disturbed they are and they shift and move; Solas can hear the creak of their bodies and he hisses. He draws his staff forward, summoning magic to press a barrier around them. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ iorveth's always held a certain distaste for people so stuck in the past they neglect the present, even if he respects the notion. Like Yaevinn, so obsessed with the way things were, with the idea of returning to them, with the blind belief that the scoia'tael and their skirmishes alone could save their people from a continent awash with their conqueror that he'd lead the last of their able bodied people into slaughter for it. A poetic, righteous belief, yes, and noble in it's core, but ultimately useless.

The past is gone, no amount of avenging, satisfying as it is, will bring it back. A truth he doesn't often voice to others, and one many are surprised to hear from him after all he does in the name of revenge and equality. But he won't let the pride he has for his people end their chance at survival. Nor will he let Solas's mourning for bodies long dead stop them from resources they may win from this place to make it through this war.

The body, as Iorveth partly expected, twitches and lurches up, met immedately with his blade stabbed through the eye socket. When it still writhes after that, the torch he'd been carrying in the opposite hand is dropped onto the thing's chest, and the lid of the coffin shoved closed, his foot planted on top of it. ]

Really? [ iorveth whips his chin around to question Solas, readying his bow nocking an arrow as a few of the other coffins start to rumble. ] These are your people? Decayed and rotted and ready to devour the living?

[thunderproof]

❰ before adalia can even respond to solas, all that happens, and it's all too fast for her to do much but look wide-eyed between iorveth and solas like she's watching a game of badminton. the corpse in the coffin shifts, and there are noises from others further into the room, so adalia shakes herself from her surprise and moves forward, sparks beginning to dance across her shoulders. ❱

Now is not the fucking time, both of you! Fight about who the dead belong to once we're sure we won't be joining them.

❰ it's still too dark too see further into the utheneran, so adalia calls a ball of sparks to her hand and throws it into the darkness. as it flies, it all too briefly illuminates the coffins around them, momentarily revealing the whole room — and all of the coffins beginning to be pushed open. the illumination is too brief to really count, but there are at least a dozen coffins opening. from the sounds of it once the spark dies, probably more. ❱

[dirth]

[ Solas' heart breaks.

These People should not have been awoken. They should not have disturbed their rest; they should have left them to their deaths, to their eternal sleep. That is what they deserved after so many years, after what he had done to them, after he had ripped their lives from them. He can feel it gnaw at his stomach, the uncertainty and pain prickling at him before he hears Adalia's shout.

She has a point, loathe as he might be to admit it.

His staff slams into the ground as he casts a barrier around them before summoning the power of the Rift into his hands. It's easy to cast a Veilstrike forward to one of the zombies, even if it hurts somewhere deep inside. ]

Enough!

[aenseidhe]

[ It's lucky Solas has turned his attention to the fight, so he doesn't witness Iorveth roll his eye. So bloody dramatic over magically possessed husks. Would any dead loved ones truly wish to murder the living left behind? And if they did, are they any more worth respecting than the living murderers?

Also, Iorveth is an asshole, and a soldier, and a commander of elite commando squadrons. He has very little exposure to people without the same experience sharing a battlefield with him, where any distraction from victory is just offensive. Solas, your feelings are offensive. As such, Iorveth's quick to get his attention back to the battle, pushing the lid of the coffin he's slammed closed open again, once the creature inside stops writhing, the flames there roaring back to like with renewed oxygen, and this is now his fire pit. Because who doesn't love flaming arrows?

Zombies, apparently. An arrow tip dips into the flames as he nocks it, the time between reload and fire a minuscule thing that comes with ages of muscle memory, it can be missed with a blink. The closest handful of zombies get fire lodged into their chests, before he turns his sights on the coffins starting to writhe and rumble, thudding an arrow in a few to get the bonfire going before the sleeper wakes. Crowd control, my dudes. ]

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?]

[thunderproof]

❰ the alcove seems to welcome nari in, somehow — she is mourning, and this is where the mourners come. the small room curls above and around her like an embrace, like it wants to keep her. she belongs here. she feels it too, doesn't she? this temple, the solemnity of it, the loss — it is part of her. it wants her to stay.

sina would want her to stay.

there is an altar of some kind set against the far wall of the alcove. on that altar is a hand-shaped divot. the very air seems to urge her toward it, drawing her toward the altar and pricking over her hand. ❱

[elegiaque]

( this experience, so far, has been—about what she might have imagined it would be, if she'd previously had occasion to imagine herself creeping through ancient elvhen ruins. probably roughly the company she'd imagined keeping, too, averesch aside. in the midst of it, even with her well-known disinterest, it's hard for her curiosity not to be stirred at all; she would have to be something much colder than she truly is to be wholly unmoved. the deeper they get into the temple, the more curious she is about its purpose, the people who built it, the legacy it's not left behind but hoarded in silence and blood.

the stillness of it appeals to her even as the brutality of its history becomes ever more confronting. she's not far behind nari, investigating the first of the rooms, though she doesn't go so far as to sit in the alcove.

it's all so alien. she wonders how much any of it would mean to elves today; could ask, but suspects it impolitic to do so. particularly in this moment, if the expression on the elf ahead of her is anything to go by. she touches the alcove's curved edge instead, exploring the way she has always been inclined to: directly, and with her hands. )

[nadasharillen]

[ The feeling of being held by the space is like the feeling of being held by arms that are both gentle and implacable. It is bigger than she is by far, and stronger, and that, in and of itself, is a comfort. So too, if she were being honest, is the feeling that this space will not be denied. That the kind of struggle she had given Korrin, the weak kicking and screeching and writhing in the Vashoth's arms as her friend had held her clamped to her chest, pulling her bodily from where she'd sat on the docks slowly freezing in the wind off the sea, would be ultimately just as useless. And the promise from the very air around her that just like then, being made to let go would bring peace in its wake.

Like Gwen, quiet and unnoticed behind her, Nari has always preferred to touch things, and the altar here in this alcove wants to be touched.

How many others, she wonders, her hand slowly sliding over the stone. How many others have come here, with the same heavy heart? The same ripped space in themselves, its edges ragged and raw, flaring to life with the smallest of touches?

She reaches the divot in the space, lets her hand settle heavily into the cold stone, tests the shape of that imprinted hand against it. How many hands is she holding, now? How many are holding hers? ]

[dirth]

[ Solas feels somewhat suffocated by the room.

He's well aware of the dangers of his own hubris, what he had done to the People; he revisits it often, plagued by it, feeling the weight and the pain and the uncertainty in a way that makes him feel somewhat suffocated and on edge. He walks through the room and knows it for what it is immediately, drinking in the shapes and the tools. He could speak the rites himself, he thinks, were it appropriate, were his tongue not thick and heavy in his mouth.

It does not take much for him to ignore Gwen and Nari either, lost in his own world and the myriad feelings of sadness and anger that swirl up inside of him. He walks through and ignores them as if they're a blank spot in his vision, bare-wrapped feet almost silent an echo on the stone. He should not have come, he thinks to himself, he should not be here, but who better? Who else would understand the mantle of this pain better than he?

It's when he hears Nari shift and move, reaching to touch the altar that he pauses, eyes narrowing. It does not do to disturb the dead and he moves, stepping around to her side, careful and cautious. ]

Be wary. It would not do to upset spirits that rest here.

[nadasharillen]

[ Nari barely hears him, lost as she is in thought and memory. The stone is so smooth under her hand. Was it carved to be so? Or had hundreds (thousands?) of years of hands placed just as hers is now worn it away like wind smoothing mountains; like water turning the sharp of stones to the flat soft surface of pebbles. She does hear him, though, and so quietly: ]

What upset could it be to them to mourn in a place meant for mourning. To touch what is meant to be touched. Say what is meant to be said. Wouldn't it be worse to simply pass through like this is nothing? Like this is over?

[ It doesn't sound in her breath, or in the sound of her voice. It's hardly even visible in the low-light, but there are tears tracking down her cheeks. Enough, collected at her chin, to let go of her skin and fall to make a near-perfect circle on the edge of the altar's surface. ]

Like they are gone?

[thunderproof]

❰ as nari speaks, a low whisper begins to echo through the room. it begins quietly, building in volume slowly until nari falls silent and a droning, unintelligible whisper hisses throughout the alcove, growing louder and louder until it becomes nearly unbearable —

until the hand-shaped divot flashes beneath nari's palm, and when the sudden light clears, five figures occupy the room alongside the three of them.

three elf women stand in front of gwenaëlle: an older brunette with an arrow sticking through her throat, and two younger, identical brunettes — or at least they probably were identical at one point. now one is almost unrecognizable, covered in burns with smokestains around her nose and mouth. the other's dress droops forward off her shoulders, a wide gash in the back leaving it loose and exposing the wound that killed her.

one elf woman stands in front of nari: a small, mousy brunette, with deep bruises under her eyes. the skin of her chest is tinged a crystalline green, the colour crawling up her throat.

another elf woman stands in front of solas, though she is less distinct than the others. there is no obvious wound on her, nor any other identifying features. her appearance seems to shift from moment to moment, suggesting at turns a regal matriarch, a vengeful warrior, and a hollow corpse.

none of the women speak. they don't acknowledge each other, nor anyone in the room but the ones who stand in front of them. they just stare, unblinking, into the eyes of the loved ones they left behind. ❱

[elegiaque]

( it was never difficult to tell the twins apart, but now—

for a moment she's in the doorway of her grandfather's library (her library, her house), listening to what thranduil had told her mother. had told her mother, mere days before the arrow buried in guenievre's throat had been loosed from the bow. magalie had died in the fires, he said. alix had been killed by chevaliers while she tried to get to her sister. they would never know who had wielded the sword.

it was one thing to know that they must have died. it was one thing to hear thranduil describe their deaths, what he'd learned in halamshiral. it is another—

it is another thing entirely, to see them before her—

if she had been a moment faster. if she had been a little easier.

the unsteady step she takes lurches towards, not away. )

[dirth]

[ Not for the first time on this journey, there's an edge of something akin to an I told you- on the tip of Solas' tongue, ready for him to say it with all the bitterness and ire that he can muster in the depths of his mind. He knows better about these places than any human or Dalish could ever hope for and he's well aware of it, but no one ever deems him worth listening to. It's frustrating enough when it's someone that he doesn't know, but when it is someone he recognises...

Best not to dwell.

The spirits come and Solas expects something like it, but what he prepares himself for is nothing compared to the weight of it in a moment. He barely acknowledges the shapes that stand before the other women - one he recognises, three he does not - and instead stares at the ever changing body of a woman he knows more intimately than he would ever be able to admit. His heart seizes in his chest and he breathes out, sharply, his fingers suddenly lax on his staff.

She was the mother, protective and fierce.

No. It is impossible. He knows it and, yet, he stares, desperate as he looks upon her, for any memory of who she had been. Anything to give him comfort, to ease the burden of his heart, to make him feel better - stronger. Warmer.

Nothing is enough, and Solas cracks, face falling. ]

[nadasharillen]

[ Maybe she'd wanted Solas to have been right. Maybe she'd wanted this. Maybe she would have disturbed a hundred spirits. Maybe she would have disturbed Falon'Din himself.

Maybe every reckless thing she'd done in the past six and a half months had been somehow born from the knowledge that no failure could ever be as deep and great and whole and complete as her failure to protect Siuona Dahlasanor, who was now standing above her— how had she gotten to the floor?— looking just as she had on the infirmary cot the moment before she'd stopped, that fucking thing still crawling through her body and no, Nari had wanted this but she hadn't wanted this.

This wasn't supposed to be how it was. This wasn't the agreement. Sina was supposed to be well again. Whole. Hale. She was supposed to be with their ancestors. Supposed to have been with Dhavihal, with the rest of Dahlasanor who had never gotten to meet her. Had the staff not been enough to replace Falon'Din's severed guidance? Had Sina just... been... here? Alone?

Nari had been so angry— when she could be angry— that she'd been left behind.

There is only horror now. Horror that she'd not only failed, but that she had somehow been the one who had done the leaving, and how dare she. How dare she have ever drawn breath to laugh again. How dare she have smiled. How dare her heart have begun again to beat the small quick skips of springtime hope, the slow regular beat of any solace.

In her mind it's "ir abelas, da'halla", but in her mouth it's only a choking helpless sob. ]

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. ]