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

[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. ]

fuck elvhen for real who needs accurate translation anyway

[thunderproof]

❰ the spirits in front of the three elves allow a moment for those in the alcove to come to terms with their appearance, watching their faces impassively. as one, then, they each step forward, reaching to cup their hands against cheeks — gwenaëlle's sisters each put a hand on her shoulders. ❱

You have been so lost, ❰ the spirits say as one, their voices soft and kind. ❱

And I have been so helpless without you, ❰ says sina, crouched in front of nari, brushing away her tears with a gardener's calloused thumbs. ❱

We never had the chance to be a real family, ❰ say the twins, each to an ear, leaning into gwenaëlle's side as guinievre smiles, proud, the tip of the arrowhead nearly piercing gwenaëlle's chest. ❱

Ya'ajuem'is, ma falon, ma harellan, ❰ says the woman in front of solas, her shifting face melancholic and proud by turns. ❱

Join us, ❰ say sina and the twins. ❱

Saltuathas i'em, ❰ says the woman.

adalia has been exploring other areas of the ruins, but the voices catch her attention — none of them are familiar, and unfamiliar voices seem dangerous at a time like this — so she rushes for the alcove, calling ahead — ❱

Hey, you all okay in there?

YEAH!

[nadasharillen]

[ the feel of Sina's ostensibly consoling fingertips on her cheeks makes it all the worse. rather than stemming the tide of tears, there are more, and Nari's hands raise shaking to clasp after her clansister's— the coldness there is all too strong a reminder that even kneeling here before her like this, Sina is gone.

She speaks of her helplessness, and the woodcrafter splits into parts like an old dry log. It's what her heart had always yearned after. Secretly. Guiltily sometimes. To be needed, like a turtle needs its shell. It's not that she wants— wanted— Sina to have to need her, but the First had been so precious and miraculous to the clan, and her big doe-like eyes so full of thought and kindness, and the world had been so rough and raw and full of horrors. Is still.

There is a small part, though, that rebels. That knows, and had known as Sina had grown into a First in her own right, that this isn't right. Sina was hardly helpless. She had never been. Nari had never been needed. Wanted, yes, but she had long come to terms with that difference.

The overwhelming full-body wave of yearning to be of service again, however, has an undertow strong enough to make that small set of thoughts so very difficult to grasp. Sina is here, it says. Sina needs help. Sina needs help from me.

This is who you are. ]

[dirth]

[ Solas is struck by the image she makes.

He can remember what she had been before, before all of it had been taken from him. Tall, regal, ethereal, something much like this but greater, somehow. Better, more than he could put into words and more than art and tapestry and word could portray. He had adored her with an admiration that had bordered on something he dares not speak of and to see her stand before him now leaves an ache somewhere deep inside of him, a twist in his gut.

She had never wanted this and he knows it. Justice, warmth, motherhood, all borne on her shoulders, beyond anything that mortals could ever comprehend now. Solas wants to reach for her, wants to touch her, wants to bring her close, but it feels like too much. It feels as though there is something pushing in the back of his mind, telling him to turn and leave, to abandon her.

But what happened last time? When he turned from her before, what had become of her? Death, only death, and his heart shrieks in his chest. ]

Ma melava halani. [ His voice is a whisper. He doesn't reach for her, but he's tiptoeing the edge of the line, his eyes wide and his attention focussed on her and nothing else. ] Ar lasa mala ma sulevin

[elegiaque]

( the acrid smell of smoke and burned flesh has haunted gwenaëlle for months and years, memories of her overturned carriage and the rage demon's claws ruining her own flesh mingling with the hundred different imagined horrors that would never do justice, entirely, to what magalie's last hours might have been; she can taste it in the back of her throat now, counterpoint to the weight that her mind tells her isn't there, but what does that matter, the smell never has been either, and

they want her, and she'd never let herself even dream it. always apart from this; guenievre and her true daughters, and this cuckoo who'd never belonged to anyone. they reach cold hands and she should turn, when she hears adalia's voice, but it's hard, even through the tangle of her own nightmares and the illusion woven by falon'din's spirits.

it's so automatic, she says, ) We're fine,

( which cannot possibly be true. )

[thunderproof]

NARI

❰ it's impossible to tell whether the figure that leans into nari, blanketing her back with their own body and wrapping their arms around her, is truly solid. corporeal. perhaps it's her mind telling her she's there because it wants her to be; perhaps the magic of this temple can give the formless form again.

either way, sina runs her hand over nari's spine, and nari can feel it. the anchor burns in sina's chest, and she can feel that too. ❱

I know you tried as hard as you could, lethallan. You did your best. But now you're there, and I'm here, and I can't make it through the Beyond without you. I need your help, Nari.

❰ sina leans away from nari only enough to look her in the eyes, brushing away her tears again. ❱

I need you to join me, lethallan. It's the only thing you can do to make it right.

SOLAS

❰ mythal leans down, taller than solas where once they had been of a height, and leans her forehead against his. her form has settled now, the regal matriarch softened by solas' memories into something more simple, less royal. her hand drops from his cheek down to hold his, and she lets out a long sigh. ❱

Ya'ajuem'is, ❰ she repeats, grave and certain. ❱ Tel'sulevin, Elvhen tela'vera na. Hamina, harellan. Hamina.

❰ for a long moment she says nothing more, but presses her free hand to solas' chest, right over his heart. quietly, then, after a long silence, ❱ Saltuathas i'em.

GWENAËLLE

❰ gwenaëlle is the only one to acknowledge that there is a world outside the spirits in front of her, and they react accordingly. the twins crowd closer and guenievre moves to block her view of the rest of the room, and none of them stop smiling soft, proud smiles. ❱

We have missed you so very much, Nelle, ❰ says magalie, brushing burnt fingers through gwenaëlle's hair. ❱

You were stolen from us, our little lovely Nelle, and we have always wanted you back. We've always wanted a little sister, ❰ says alix, resting her cheek against gwenaëlle's shoulder. with her pressed so close, it's all too easy to forget the way the flesh of her back is rent open. ❱

If you come with us, we can be a real family. You can belong to us, the way you always should have. Join us, Nelle.

❰ the twins speak the last in concert, eyes boring into gwenaëlle's. guenievre watches her daughter, eyes full of yearning, and presses a hand to her heart. ❱

❰ as far as adalia's concerned, it's hard to choose what to pay attention to once she gets to the alcove. there's solas with some woman-spirit calling him harellan, and then there's nari almost overtaken by what looks like it might be a wisp for how green it is, and gwenaëlle nearly entirely walled off by a group of three spirits —

it doesn't look like anything is fine. not even a little. ❱

What in the world... Iorveth, Kostos! I think we may have a situation!

❰ none of this is good and adalia cannot take five spirits on all by herself. iorveth will take care of gwen, which leaves solas and nari for kostos and adalia — after a moment of indecision, adalia takes two quick, long steps toward nari, kneeling to join her on the ground. solas is at least still standing, even if he looks stricken. nari seems almost incoherent. ❱

Nari, it's Adalia! Can you tell me what happened?

[aenseidhe]

[ Clearly we do have a situation, because Gwenaelle's in some kind of magic haze, and she's walking towards who even fucking knows what like someone mind-controlled, wispy, ethereal figures hovering around her.

Iorveth is not a Witcher. He does not know how to fight wraiths, unless Geralt is somewhere nearby neutralizing their... wraithness. So, that's not an option. It takes some simple and quick logical deduction to come to a solution, and Iorveth dashes forward.

Adalia seems to be working on Nari, and Iorveth's clearly too stiff a person to reach Solas, and besides, he likes Gwenaelle more. So that's the one he goes for. As she's zombie walking her way down the room, he dips a shoulder, pushing it into her hips before straightening his spine, carrying her like a sack of potatoes.

Aaaaand, off he goes. No matter how much Gwenaelle might be punching or stabbing or clawing at him, he's getting out of this bullshit ghost room. later, mates. ]

[exequy]

[ Whatever complaint Kostos was going to make about not being able to examine any part of this Maker-foresaken ruin in peace dies in his throat before he even rounds the corner he'd wandered around, replaced by a wave of unease, which is not the least fucking bit alleviated by the attention-grabbing sight of Iorveth trying to kidnap the Orlesian.

His attention shifts beyond that before he makes any off-the-cuff accusations. Fortunately. Rather, he consolidates all of his unease and confusion and irritation into, ] For fuck's sake, [ a little too hushed to achieve the disgruntled-but-unaffected effect he was aiming for, and steps forward. ]

Solas.

[ Solas what. He doesn't know. He's no good at talking to people even when they aren't clearly going through some emotional bullshit he doesn't understand. Spirits, though—his attention shits to the woman, searching for understanding there instead, for a thread of narrower purpose behind whatever hunger they're trying to sate. Kostos can't always make them obey, but he can usually make them understand. ]

You cannot have them.

[dirth]

[ Solas, above anything else, seems completely ignorant of anything around him. His attention is focussed solely on the spirit in front of him, the gentle touch that he is almost certain he can feel against his chest. His heart feels raw, too heavy and too thick with emotion, and his eyes are unblinking. There's no ability to turn away, no strength in his bones; there's nothing he can do other than stare.

When he speaks, his voice is soft and low, almost dangerously, his hands reaching to rest over hers against his chest. He barely notes if they touch or not. ]

Ir abelas, lanalinda. Ma melana sahlin, malas suledin nadas. [ He shakes his head, not shaking but not completely still either. He is entranced, but pulling himself away with words if not his actions.

He doesn't note his name, anyone coming closer, only the spirit before him, grand and beautiful. ]