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

[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. ]